Authors: Paul Waters
Our eyes met. I said, ‘We could try climbing over.’
He peered up at the dangerous-looking spikes at the top and shook his head. ‘No, Drusus,’ he said, ‘it’s better to face them.’ He always had a hatred of being furtive.
So we turned, and stepped out into the torchlight.
Whatever troubles had beset the city, they had clearly not touched Scapula and his friends. He looked as if he had been to a party. There was a lily-garland on his head, and he had two women in tow. They squealed when they saw us, and scuttled back behind the others.
Marcellus, making the best of it, said, ‘Scapula, forgive me, I need to borrow two horses. There was no time to find you. I am sorry if I have startled you.’
Scapula’s eyes widened. He stared, first at Marcellus, then at me. His face was damp and flushed from wine. Then he let out a laugh that echoed round the yard, and behind him the two girls began to giggle and snort.
‘Shut up!’ he snapped at them. Then, in the snide drawl I knew so well, ‘Why, if it isn’t my old friend Marcellus and his little bosom-buddy! Horse-thieving now, is it?’
‘It’s just for a few days,’ said Marcellus patiently.
Scapula laughed unpleasantly, and his friends laughed with him. From the direction of the house running footsteps sounded, and a clutch of slaves appeared with the watchman. ‘Where were you?’ cried Scapula, rounding on them. They would be in for a beating later. But now he returned his attention to us.
‘Something tells me,’ he said, frowning and putting a mocking finger to his brow, ‘that your friend here is a wanted man. And who knows? Maybe you are too.’
Marcellus sighed. ‘There is no need for this. It’s only two horses, and you have a stable-full. You won’t miss them, you know you won’t.’
‘I am sorry, Marcellus. There are no horses here.’
Marcellus glanced to the stables and started to reply, but stopped himself.
‘I see,’ he said flatly. ‘In that case we shall not trouble you further.’ He took a step forward.
‘Oh, but wait. Where are you going? I don’t think I can let you leave, not quite yet.’
‘By heaven, Scapula, this is no time for games! They will kill us. Is that what you want?’
He folded his arms and considered, as if this were a question requiring careful thought. Even from where I stood I could smell the reek of wine on him.
‘Very well,’ he said eventually. ‘
You
may go . . . but your violent friend stays. We shall see what the notary wants with him. He needs to be taught a lesson.’
I leapt forward, but the slaves grabbed me: they were not going to be caught napping a second time. They pinned my arms and legs; another gripped my neck; and the watchman stood over me with a dangerous iron club poised above my head.
‘Well?’ Scapula said to Marcellus. ‘Are you going, or staying?’
Marcellus glared at him. ‘I stay. I belong with my friend.’
Scapula laughed with delight. Then suddenly his face changed. Stepping up he raised his arm, and with a great side-swipe struck me hard across the face. I tasted blood in my mouth. He had used every ounce of his strength. Then he stood smiling at me, dusting off his hands one against the other, as if somehow he had regained his dignity, rather than lost it.
Presently the notary’s guards came. We were taken to the governor’s palace, to the ancient warren of underground cells, where countless others had been taken before us.
We were manhandled and shoved by barbarian German-speaking guards who forced us down a narrow brick-lined tunnel. The air reeked of acrid smoke from spluttering cressets, and of unwashed flesh, and human waste, and some underlying charnel-house smell I averted my mind from.
We went for some time, following the tunnel far under the palace. Eventually the guards jerked us to a halt beside a tiny low-roofed cell. They manacled us together, shoved us roughly forward, and slammed the gate shut behind us. Then they left, their footsteps receding up the passageway.
There was no room to stand. We sat awkwardly on the ground. Damp moss grew on the walls. Filthy grey straw lay about, and an old pile of human excrement, half consumed by rats.
For some time we hardly spoke, listening, waiting for the approach of the executioner, or, more likely, the assassin. I thought of dying and how it would be, held down in a stinking dungeon while some cowardly butcher wielded the knife. Would I be tortured first? The notary was capable of every kind of terror, of that I was sure. I recalled his eyes, staring at me across the Council chamber. He would remember me; and he would make me pay. I shivered, and felt the beginnings of terror like something cold and sharp, gnawing in my gut. I stole a glance at Marcellus, but he was taken up with his own thoughts.
Right up to the end I had pleaded with him to run, to leave me before the guards came. It had been a great amusement to Scapula to hear me begging him to go, and he had mocked and parodied my cries.
But Marcellus had refused, and in the end, when the guards’ boots rang in the street outside and it was too late, I had fallen silent. Now I was glad he was with me, for without him I was not sure I could face such a death like a man.
Time passed. I must have dozed, for I awoke with a start, half slumped on Marcellus’s shoulder. He was gently shaking me.
‘Listen,’ he whispered.
I strained to hear. From somewhere far along the passage came the tap of footsteps, uncertain and hesitant, picking their way through the gloom. I crept forward and pressed my face to the rusting bars. But I could see nothing except the opposite wall with its mouldering plaster, and beyond that darkness.
‘Do you hear?’ whispered Marcellus. ‘It is just one person.’
An assassin then, I thought. Yet even an assassin would not come alone.
Marcellus edged up to the bars beside me. It was hard to tell how distant the footfalls were. They sounded, then stopped, advancing and pausing, as if the walker had lost his way. But each time they were closer. A shadow crossed the opposite wall; and then, silhouetted against the light of a torch, stooping in the passage, a figure appeared in a hooded winter cloak.
He paused and turned; then seeing me he jumped back startled. His hood was pulled tightly up, but his white hands showed, and his fingers bitten down to the quick. I cried out, ‘Show your face, Albinus, for I know you!’
‘Quiet! Be quiet!’ He snatched down his hood and stared wildly back along the passageway. There was a growth of black stubble on his chin, and heavy blue lines beneath his eyes. ‘Listen, will you: the city is in turmoil; the bishop and the notary cannot control the people. Martinus is dead, and there is a rumour that barbarians have overrun Gaul.’ He paused and looked at me, and I saw his lip was trembling. Then, in a plaintive voice he asked, ‘Is it true the notary killed the governor?’
‘Yes. I was there.’
‘He blames the Council.’
‘It is a lie. It was the notary.’
He swallowed and looked helplessly at me.
Impatiently I said, ‘Are you here to tell me this? They have handed the city over to the mob. Did they really think the mob would return it?’
He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and I saw he was crying.
‘I did not want it like this,’ he whined, ‘he promised me all would be well. That’s what the bishop said. He said he controlled everything, and I had nothing to fear. But now everything is broken.’ He began snivelling, and in between his catching sobs he said, ‘I will go away, far away; I shall find some desolate place, apart from other men, a monastery . . . There is a place across the sea, in Hibernia, a secret place where I shall be alone, alone with God.’
‘You should stay and fix what you have destroyed,’ said Marcellus with contempt.
Albinus sniffed and snorted, and a flash of his old anger returned. ‘I have taken a great risk,’ he snapped back. ‘You have been condemned; you would not be alive even now, but for the confusion.’ And then, returning to his plaintive tone, ‘I have done many bad things, Drusus. I am ashamed. I want to show you I can do something good.’
He paused, looking at me with entreaty, as if by some magic word I could wipe clean the soiled slate of his memory. But it was Marcellus who answered him. ‘Every man can do good,’ he said, ‘if he chooses.’
Albinus stared at him, as if such a thought had never before come to him.
‘There is a ship sailing with the tide,’ he said, pulling himself together. ‘It is taking prisoners to Gaul. I can get you to the holding cell, it’s not far. But you must hurry, and act the part of prisoners.’
‘Why not just release us? You found your way in. Let us out the same way.’
‘I can’t. Listen, please. I cannot get you out of here; it cannot be done. The guards require a permit for everyone who leaves.’
‘So you are sending us to Gaul to our deaths.’
He looked at me, biting his knuckles. Behind him a rat ambled across the faint pool of light, paused, and disappeared into the shadows. ‘Truly I did not know it would end like this,’ he pleaded.
I shook my head. Somewhere far off along the passage a voice sounded. Albinus leapt with fear, stared for a moment, then hurriedly poured out what we must do. When he had finished he paused.
I said, ‘What now?’
‘Remember, the guard knows none of this. When he comes, say nothing. Do not betray me, I beg you, or they will kill me.’ He looked at us pathetically, pressing his hands one on the other, unable to trust. Then he turned and fled into the darkness.
There was a long wait. I began to suppose he had changed his mind and left us. But eventually he returned, leading two blunt-featured barbarian guards.
‘This one,’ he said, pointing at our cell.
The nearest guard lifted a ring of keys from his belt and squinted at them, his tongue lolling with concentration as he selected the right one. He unlocked the gate and ordered us out.
We were led away along the tunnel, and presently we descended a flight of slime-wet steps. As we walked the foul air began to freshen, replaced by the dank dead smell of river mud, which was perfume after the stench behind us. Finally we halted at a low grilled wooden door. The guard unbolted it.
‘In there!’ ordered Albinus, attempting to put authority into his shaking voice.
I gave him a quick private look; but he averted his face. Then the guards shoved us inside and slammed the door, and I saw no more of him.
I turned. The room was dark after the glare of the torchlight. I took a step forward. Something yielding caught my foot and I stumbled. I stopped and gazed down, thinking at first I had walked on a corpse. But then, as my eyes adjusted, I saw we were not alone, and I had stepped on a living man’s leg. He raised his head for a moment, looked at me impassively, then looked down again.
Peering into the gloom, I saw there were others beside him, chained in a row against the wall. Beyond them, through a rusted gate, a landing pier showed in the grey dawn light; and moored there, shifting and creaking in the rising water, lay the prison-ship that was to take us to Gaul.
At sun-up the bolts sounded and the guards returned. They unchained us, talking heedlessly over our heads in their guttural barbarian tongue, as if we were no more than cattle. They opened the iron gate to the pier and herded us through, into the hold of the waiting barge.
We were bound once more – this time with mooring lanyard. When the guards had gone the bargemen came hurrying down from the deck, and felt us roughly for anything they could steal. But whatever was of value had already been taken by the guards. Finding nothing they kicked and cursed us, until the master shouted for them and they scurried back up the ladder to cast off.
I looked at the men around me. Their beards were growing, dark or grey or fair stubble on faces used to daily shaving; and though their clothes were soiled and torn, one could see they were of fine material and of a good cut. Such men as these had formed the backbone of the province: hard-working citizens who liked their comforts and wanted to build something for their own futures. But now not one of them spoke or met my gaze, nor had they resisted the guards or shown resentment at the violent bargemen who kicked and slapped them. They were broken men, waiting for death with bowed, accepting heads. I suppose the bargemen, who had been servile with the guards, had sensed this, and hurt them the worse for it. Marcellus and I, after an initial search of our clothes and a few careless kicks, they had left alone.
Outside I heard the rattle of the sail as it was hauled up. The barge began to move. There were no window-holes – the hold was not made for human cargo – but through the grilled hatch in the roof I could see a patch of leaden dawn sky. Marcellus questioned the others: who were they? What had happened to them? How long had they been held? But they merely cast their eyes down, shaking their heads, and did not answer.
In time the ship began to pitch, and I heard outside the screams of gulls. ‘We are near the open sea,’ I said to Marcellus, adding that no doubt the master had been paid a good fee to cross to Gaul, for the vessel was no more than a flat-bottomed coaster, good for little more than river work.
At this, the prisoner at my side, a middle-aged balding man in smart clothes, who looked as if he had been snatched from some well-heeled dinner party, looked nervously up at the hatch and mumbled, ‘I cannot swim.’