Authors: Rosemary Sutcliff
Outcast (9 page)
‘You are not afraid that the time may come when you will feel the pull of civilization?’ said the old Senator gently.
‘No. I have enjoyed my leave in Rome, but I have lived over long in the wilds to settle into the life of cities. Civilization is too tight a fit for me now, so that I find it hard to breathe.’ His harsh face softened a little. ‘I want my wide marsh skies, and my small outland farm, and the wild geese flighting down from the north with the autumn gales.’
His words struck home to the young slave standing against the wall. ‘I also, my own skies—my own hills!’ he could have cried it out; for a moment the crowded, lamplit room lost reality, and he was a thousand miles and two long years away, and free. Only for a moment, and then the room clamped down on him again, and he became aware that Glaucus, now very flushed and bright of eye, had just set down his wine-cup empty, and was crooking an impatient finger for a slave to refill it.
Automedan, who had also been pressed into service, was pouring for someone else at the moment, and Beric was nearest to his master. He stepped forward, and bent to fill the cup which the other held, from the slender jug of Falernian in his hand.
He had been trained to pour from a distance, so that the wine fell curving in a slender stream into the cup below; but as he tipped the jug, a slight, abrupt movement caught at the tail of his eye, and his glance flicked up for an instant—to meet the eyes of the Centurion, fixed on his face with a startled intensity, an eager searching look, that was almost painful. For the merest breath of time their gaze met, so strongly that it was like an actual touch, before Beric’s flicked down again to the wine-cup in his master’s hand, but the mischief was done. His hand, checking at the wrong instant, had broken the perfect arc of the falling wine, so that it spattered a few drops, bright as blood, on to Glaucus’s wrist, and up across the jewel-clasped sleeve of his tunic.
Glaucus broke off midway in some remark to his neighbour, and with a sharp exclamation of annoyance, glanced up to see
who the clumsy slave might be, and seeing—struck him full in the face.
who the clumsy slave might be, and seeing—struck him full in the face.
It was not a particularly hard blow, and certainly it was not the first that his slave had had from him, but the heavy signet ring which he wore cut Beric’s mouth, and at the taste of blood between his teeth, salt and sweet together, some hard-held control snapped in him. Perhaps it was because of that moment, scarcely passed, when his freedom and his own world had returned to him so vividly … . Suddenly he could bear no more.
He was not conscious of shifting his grip on the wine-jug and dashing the whole contents into the handsome, hated face before him. He did not realize that he had done it, until he saw Glaucus gasping, with the red Falernian trickling off his chin and the crimson stain of it spreading over his breast and shoulders.
The sudden hush seemed to become a bubble of utter stillness, swelling and swelling, until it burst, and uproar rushed in from all sides, as Publius Piso let out a bellow of fury, and the outraged guests shot up on their couches, and Beric’s fellow slaves flung themselves upon him as upon a dog suddenly gone wild. Within a few moments it was all over and he had been dragged back and was standing helpless in the grip of many hands, his arms twisted behind him.
The uproar ended as swiftly as it had begun. Only Publius Piso, damson-coloured with fury, his wreath of violets slipping wildly over one eye, was spluttering out barely intelligible exclamations, orders to his slaves, and apologies, that seemed to be as much for his son’s disgraceful behaviour as anything else, to his guests. Glaucus shook himself clear of the slaves who had sprung to mop him down and turned to look at Beric, where he stood panting in the grip of his captors. Once again his eyes narrowed like those of a cat before it spits.
‘You must be mad,’ he said very softly. ‘That is the kindest thing to think about you. There is only one place for a mad slave, and that is the salt-mines. We must arrange for you to go there, Hyacinthus.’
Distaste showed on the faces of the guests; one or two of them shrugged, and glanced at each other with raised brows, but only one cut across the laws of custom and good manners to speak out in defence of the wretched slave, and that was Justinius, who had grown unused to the ways of civilization.
‘Don’t be a fool, Glaucus; it was my doing that he spilled the wine in the first place, for I moved quickly and the movement caught his eye. There was no just cause for a blow, and if you are in the habit of striking without cause, you should not be surprised if the blows rebound.’
‘And must we all freeze, like so many deer who scent danger, every time a slave pours wine, lest we distract his attention?’ Glaucus flung back at his father’s guest, and then, belatedly recovering his manners, added more quietly: ‘I beg your forgiveness, sir, but I know this particular slave and his deserts.’ His narrowed, glittering gaze lingered on Beric’s face, moved to the slaves who held him, and back again. ‘Thirty strokes, I think, for a mad dog. That can wait until the morning, however. It will be something for him to look forward to, through the night. Take him away and chain him up, lest he bite somebody.’
ESCAPE!
B
ERIC was hustled from the room and along familiar colonnades and corridors, and thrust at last down several steps into a small disused storeroom below ground level. It was ice cold, and quite empty in the light of a torch somebody had brought in after him, save for a jumble of derelict gardening tools and such like, stacked in a corner. He made no resistance when he was thrust over to a big staple projecting from the rough tufa wall—the place had been used as a makeshift prison before—nor when somebody brought an iron shackle with a strong though slender chain attached to it, and snapped it on to his wrist. They padlocked the other end of the chain through the staple; then they thronged out, taking the lamp with them, and the door swung to behind them, and he heard the heavy key turn in the lock. A needless precaution, he thought dully.
ERIC was hustled from the room and along familiar colonnades and corridors, and thrust at last down several steps into a small disused storeroom below ground level. It was ice cold, and quite empty in the light of a torch somebody had brought in after him, save for a jumble of derelict gardening tools and such like, stacked in a corner. He made no resistance when he was thrust over to a big staple projecting from the rough tufa wall—the place had been used as a makeshift prison before—nor when somebody brought an iron shackle with a strong though slender chain attached to it, and snapped it on to his wrist. They padlocked the other end of the chain through the staple; then they thronged out, taking the lamp with them, and the door swung to behind them, and he heard the heavy key turn in the lock. A needless precaution, he thought dully.
But almost at once the key turned again, and the door opened, and Nigellus appeared in the opening, with a distant light behind him. ‘Here—you will want a cloak,’ he said, not unkindly, and tossed something towards Beric that fell in heavy folds across his feet. Then he shut the door again, and relocked it, and again Beric was left standing in the dark.
He made no move to pick up the cloak, no move at all, for a long time. He was completely dazed. Then, very slowly and painfully, the power to think returned to his numbed brain, like feeling returning to a numbed limb, and he began to realize what had happened, and what was going to happen. Still standing, staring straight before him into darkness that was like a black pad over his eyes, he thought about what was going to happen; not the scourging that he was to suffer in the morning, but the horror that loomed beyond that. The salt-mines.
It had been no idle threat of Glaucus’s; he knew that all too surely. A man sent to the salt-mines might take years to die, but his toes and fingers dropped off first, much as though he were a leper, and he usually went mad.
It had been no idle threat of Glaucus’s; he knew that all too surely. A man sent to the salt-mines might take years to die, but his toes and fingers dropped off first, much as though he were a leper, and he usually went mad.
His brain was still working slowly and confusedly, but one thought leapt up clear out of the confusion. Escape! Whatever he did now, nothing that happened to him could be worse than the salt-mines. He had nothing to lose. The old reasons that had kept him from attempting to escape before, as they kept so many of his kind, returned to him, but he put them away. No use, yet, to think of what he was to do afterwards. The first thing was to get out. To get out!
Turning his head, he could make out the paler square of the small window high in the wall. It was a very small window, but he reckoned that if he could get free of the staple to which he was chained he might be able to wriggle through it. He put back a hand in the dark, found the staple, and shook it experimentally. It felt hopelessly firm, as though one would have to pull down the whole wall to get it out; but it was his one hope, since there would obviously be no breaking the chain. He twisted his hands in the chain, and wedged his feet against the wall, and heaved back, straining with every muscle he possessed, shifted a little, and tried again, tried until the sweat pricked out on him and his heart was drubbing against his ribs, and his hands were cut and bleeding. But the staple was as firm as ever.
He must have a tool of some sort, something to act as a lever. Maybe there was something in the pile of rubbish in the corner, if only he could reach it. Straining to the full length of his chain, he tried to reach it with his free hand. No good. He crouched down, and going all out along the floor, felt about with one outstretched foot. His toes found something in the dark, and he hooked it towards him. Various bits of the pile collapsed with a crash that sounded to him like the whole of Rome falling; and for a long moment he lay rigid with his breath caught in his throat, listening for any sound of raised voices or hurrying feet. But the walls of the
storeroom were thick, and it seemed that no hint of the clatter had reached the outer world. He pulled towards him the clutter of objects that had fallen on his foot, and found among them a broken pruning-hook with which he was able to catch and drag more of the pile towards him. Almost at once he found what he wanted: the remains of an iron rake used for tending the hypocaust fires. The head of it was badly corroded, but the lower end of the shaft was sound enough. Catching it up, he turned back with it to the staple, hesitated, and then, laying it down, felt about for the broken pruning-hook, and with the jagged end of it began to scrape and dig at the mortar in which the staple was bedded.
storeroom were thick, and it seemed that no hint of the clatter had reached the outer world. He pulled towards him the clutter of objects that had fallen on his foot, and found among them a broken pruning-hook with which he was able to catch and drag more of the pile towards him. Almost at once he found what he wanted: the remains of an iron rake used for tending the hypocaust fires. The head of it was badly corroded, but the lower end of the shaft was sound enough. Catching it up, he turned back with it to the staple, hesitated, and then, laying it down, felt about for the broken pruning-hook, and with the jagged end of it began to scrape and dig at the mortar in which the staple was bedded.
It was old mortar, and almost at once he felt the tool bite, and heard the soft rustle of falling mortar dust, then a spatter as some larger fragments broke away. He worked on steadily; there was an odd calm on him, and he felt no frantic haste. Presently, having done all he could with the pruning-hook, he laid it by, and taking up the iron rake, dropped a finger-length of the shaft down through the staple, and began to use his lever. For what seemed an eternity he fought the thing as though it were a living enemy. He was streaming with sweat, sobbing for breath, deaf with the drumming of his own heart, when at last there was a crack, and a grating sound followed by a sharp rattle of falling plaster, and the staple came out into his hands.
For a few moments he stood gasping, straining to listen for outside sounds through the surge of the blood in his ears. Then carefully and deliberately he slipped the staple free of his chain and laid it down with the iron rake, wound the chain round his shackled wrist, taking the padlock into the palm of his hand, and began to feel about for the cloak which Nigellus had brought him, and which he had kicked into a corner. He found it at last, and crossing to the high window, reached up and bundled it through, hearing it slither softly on to the pavement outside. Then he got his hands on to the stone sill to draw himself up. It was not easy; he had to let go the padlock before he could get a grip with his left hand, and heard it
ring and rasp against the stone as he dragged himself up. The window was very small—so small that if he had been a year or two older he would not have been able to get through at all; but although he was as tall as he would ever be, his shoulders had not yet fully broadened into a man’s, and he was as supple as an otter. Even so, it was a horribly tight fit. But he managed it somehow, and once his shoulders were through, the rest was easy enough, for the window, which was so high above the storeroom floor, was almost on ground level on the outside, and he had only to pull himself forward on his hands, across the tumbled cloak lying there. He drew his legs out after him, and stood up. He was in the narrow slip-way that ran from the slaves’ quarters to the outer court.
ring and rasp against the stone as he dragged himself up. The window was very small—so small that if he had been a year or two older he would not have been able to get through at all; but although he was as tall as he would ever be, his shoulders had not yet fully broadened into a man’s, and he was as supple as an otter. Even so, it was a horribly tight fit. But he managed it somehow, and once his shoulders were through, the rest was easy enough, for the window, which was so high above the storeroom floor, was almost on ground level on the outside, and he had only to pull himself forward on his hands, across the tumbled cloak lying there. He drew his legs out after him, and stood up. He was in the narrow slip-way that ran from the slaves’ quarters to the outer court.
He stooped for the cloak and flung it round his shoulders, suddenly aware that the touch of the February night was icy on his skin through his sweat-soaked tunic; and had just started down the slip-way, when a gleam of torchlight and the sound of voices beyond the mouth of it sent him flattening back against the wall, frozen like a wild thing that smells the hunter. Clearly, the disturbed dinner-party had been patched up, and the guests were only now leaving. Praying that the light would not reach him, praying that no one would pass this way from the slaves’ quarters, he waited while the torches came and went and voices and footsteps crossed the court. Someone made a joke, and someone laughed, and the laughter sounded very loud and near. But at last the outer court was dark and silent again. Beric waited while he counted fifty, after the last reflection of the torchlight died from the wall opposite, but he dared wait no longer, for at any moment a slave might come this way as the shortest cut to his bed. He darted down to the alley-mouth, paused an instant, listening, and then walked boldly across. The bolder the better, for anyone catching sight of him would be the less likely to suspect anything.
He had always known that the outer court was a wide one, but to-night it seemed to stretch out like a vast plain in a nightmare, and when he came to the middle of it, it was all
that he could do not to break into a run. He reached the far side at last, slipped between two buildings, turned a corner, mounted a couple of shallow steps, and an instant later was crouching under a dense mass of ilex and oleander in the garden. There he waited, watching and listening from his cold cover, until the lamps were quenched in the colonnade, and then in the rooms beyond; until at last all was quiet, and the great house slept, save for Priscus the watchman, who would not sleep all night, except perhaps a little, between his rounds. Beric got up, stiff and half frozen, and stole out to the shed where the garden and odd-job tools were kept.
that he could do not to break into a run. He reached the far side at last, slipped between two buildings, turned a corner, mounted a couple of shallow steps, and an instant later was crouching under a dense mass of ilex and oleander in the garden. There he waited, watching and listening from his cold cover, until the lamps were quenched in the colonnade, and then in the rooms beyond; until at last all was quiet, and the great house slept, save for Priscus the watchman, who would not sleep all night, except perhaps a little, between his rounds. Beric got up, stiff and half frozen, and stole out to the shed where the garden and odd-job tools were kept.
He got the door open without a sound, and slipped inside, but it was no easy task to find what he wanted in the dark, and every moment he was terrified of bringing down a fall of tools which would wake the household and fetch Priscus with his lantern and his cudgel on to the scene. At last his delicately questing fingers found what he wanted—a heavy file—and carrying it, he slipped out, closed the door with agonising care behind him, and set off for the terrace at the foot of the garden.
He climbed on to the parapet just beside the fig tree whose fruit he and Lucilla had gathered last summer. It was leafless now, gaunt and twisted against the star-powdered sky, as he looked upward; but he could see the little dark blobs that were next summer’s figs, and already, on the branch under his hand, he could feel the promise of the thickening leaf-buds. Far below him a few lights still burned like scattered jewels in the black bowl of the hills.
‘Be careful!’ Lucilla had said. ‘If you slip you will be in the Forum in a score of pieces before you stop rolling.’ But that would be better than the salt-mines. He dropped over, found a narrow foothold at the base of the wall, and a few moments later had reached the corner and was scrambling up the few feet of rocky turf that rose almost sheer behind the slaves’ bath-house. He came to another wall, swung himself over, and was standing in a narrow gap between the Piso house and its neighbour. He gained the street, and crossing
it, dived into the familiar track that sniped downhill between the walls of other houses.
it, dived into the familiar track that sniped downhill between the walls of other houses.
His most pressing need now was a quiet place where he could rid himself of his shackle without fear of interruption, and instinctively he turned to the one such place that he knew of in all Rome. ‘No one comes here; even the Watch only pokes its nose in at the gate once a night, and then goes on,’ Lucilla had said. He came to the crumbling archway, and turned in under the low-hanging branches of lemon and arbutus. The garden of Sylvan Pan seemed less friendly in the starlight, more remote. The temple looked almost a ruin—the ruin of a temple in a lost world. The gloom under the tangled masses of ilex and lemon and oleander seemed darker and more mysterious than the shadows in the Piso garden had done, and for an instant, as he went forward, fear brushed him by, rustling like a night wind through the grass—not the fear of discovery, but of something that he could give no name to, beautiful and terrible, and smelling of goat. ‘He says that people have forgotten Sylvan Pan when it is the time for offerings, but they still fear to catch the smell of goat, here in his garden.’
The thing passed almost before it came, and Beric went on, making for the part of the garden farthest from the cell where the old attendant priest lived. And there, in the black shadows under a tangled mass of evergreens, he settled down with the stolen file. It was maddeningly slow work, and at any moment Glaucus might be going down to gloat over his prisoner, and find him gone. A score of times Beric was on the edge of catching up his file and running while the way was still open, with the shackle still on his wrist, but he could not get out of Rome except by one of the gates, and at the gates there was always the chance of being searched. So, setting his teeth, he went on patiently driving the file back and forth along the scratch that gradually widened and deepened to a furrow on the surface of his shackle; pausing sometimes to feel how the furrow was getting on, and then returning to the ceaseless movement, to and fro, to and fro.
Once the fear came back, whispering with the night wind through the ilex leaves, and left him shivering as it passed on; once he thought he caught the distant notes of a shepherd’s pipe, but when he checked the rasp of his file to listen with a thumping heart and prickling skin, all he could hear above the distant surf-roar of the city was a bird calling across the valley from the pomegranate gardens of the Esquiline.
He had been maybe an hour at his task, maybe two, when the mailed footsteps of the Watch patrol came ringing down the lane; and he froze under the evergreens, as they halted at the gateway, and peering through the leaves saw the glint of the lantern-light on steel caps and corselets. But after a few moments there was a sharp order, and the lantern flickered out of sight, and he heard the mailed footsteps ringing away down the lane. The Lady Lucilla had been right.
With a gasp of relief, Beric set to work again. And not long after, the file broke through the last filament of metal, and he was able to force the shackle open and drag it from his wrist. Now for the silver arm-ring that marked him for a slave of the Piso house. It had been tight enough over his elbow on the night that Nigellus had issued it to him, and his arm had thickened since then, but by spitting on his hand and smearing the spittle again and again over the thickest part of his elbow, to make it slippery, he got it off eventually.
Now at last he could go! He thrust the file into the soft earth, having no further use for it, and got up. Again, as he went back through the garden to the gate, he seemed to catch the faint piping under the leaves; but again, as he checked to listen, it was gone. He checked once more, to break a switch of rosemary from a bush by the gate. Then he was out in the narrow lane, out in the world of men again.
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