I had feared a long weary march to reach our destination — wearier yet under the weight of chains — but it appeared that after all this was not to be. They tied us in ropes, not fetters, and put us in a cart — standing, it is true, but a considerable improvement on the heart-straining, foot-blistering trudge I had envisaged. Instead it was our guard that would have to march, four armed soldiers ahead and two behind. Fortunately, being soldiers, they were trained for it.
Junio, bizarrely, was permitted to return to Glevum with Marcus’s coach and driver, although without me he obviously could not ride inside the carriage. Instead he perched up on the seat beside the driver, carrying my patron’s warrant in case of being stopped and questioned.
I was being hoisted into the cart as they pulled away, and I stood there helpless, hands bound to my sides, and watched my servant go, until the carriage disappeared from sight and the rattle and the hoofbeats died away. Without slave, toga or warrant I was triply vulnerable: just an unknown ex-slave being hustled onto an open waggon. I had never felt so bereft since the day I was taken into servitude.
Then Zetso was hauled up after me, and it was our turn to set off. No swift horses for our cart, only a pair of plodding army mules, and as soon as they were urged into action we discovered the shortcomings of our position. We were loosely tied to rings high up on the front end of the cart but — though this kept us more or less upright — every rut and pebble meant a buffeting, since we had no hand free with which to steady ourselves. Almost before we were out of the fort Zetso and I were falling painfully against each other, exchanging looks of mutual hostility. I set myself the task of keeping silent, whatever the bruising, and found that the concentration helped me to bear the jolts.
An escort of soldiers has advantages. At the junction where the two roads crossed we met a convoy of waggons bound for Londinium, but since we were military traffic and they were civilians, despite their larger numbers they had to clear the road to let us pass. There was a brief respite as a score of carters, sweating and swearing, urged their heavy waggons onto the uneven verge.
‘Taking all this collection down to sell.’ The driver of the leading cart addressed one of our escort apologetically. ‘Belonged to a wealthy widow who died of the pox, and her son has ordered it. Better price in Verulanium Londinium, he says, though I cannot see it. Who would want to buy this load of junk? Older than the old lady herself, most of it, and more decrepit. And as for the slaves, there can hardly be one under thirty.’
The guard ignored him, and we rattled past. I saw the cart of slaves, at the end of the procession. They were roped as we were, though a little more secure since there were a dozen of them, all of them with faces of dull despair. All female, of course — any useful manservant would have found a home at once with the heirs — and all of them faded. Only one had a face which might once have been beautiful — might be so yet if that terrible weariness left it.
As we rumbled past she lifted her eyes, and looked towards us expressionlessly. Embarrassed, I averted mine. And then looked back. Something — the curve of the cheek, the shape of the brow — stirred recollection in me. I forgot my vow of silence.
‘Gwellia!’
I leaned forward, almost losing my balance as I called, and lurching into Zetso. The guard behind me muttered a curse and swiped at me with his baton. I did not care.
But it was too late. Our cart was lurching onwards. But she did turn, at the name, and for a moment our eyes met. She knew me. I saw it in her face. A fleeting moment only, and she was gone.
Gwellia. She was alive. On any other day I would have stopped the coach and offered everything I possessed to buy her from her owners. But today I was a captive, with no rights, and every lurch of the cart was carrying us further apart. My spirits, which had soared for an instant, sank lower than the dusty road and stayed there. I was almost glad when it began to rain.
Both Zetso and I still had our cloaks, and a kindly guard pulled up our hoods for us. We stood there, two shivering statues in a waterfall, as we ploughed on helplessly through the deluge. The weather made the cart-floor slippery and increased our misery all the way back to the halfway mansio.
But I did not cry out again, and any water coursing down my face could simply be mistaken for the rain.
Chapter Twenty-six
It took us two days to return to Glevum. Even then it was late afternoon before the cart drew up before the North Gate. From the nature of our arrival you would think us captured rebel generals at the least. Our escort stood in formal ranks around us, daggers drawn, while their leader went to interview the guard. I could hear the murmur of voices, and then hobnailed sandals crunched towards the cart. I sensed Zetso stiffen but I avoided his eyes. We had not exchanged a syllable since leaving Letocetum.
The footsteps stopped beside me. I continued to stare fixedly at the floor of the cart.
‘Great Hercules!’ exclaimed a voice. ‘I might have known that we would have trouble with that one. Hanging around here in a toga the other day, pretending to be a citizen and asking too many questions.’ I looked up and recognised the guard with the spear, whom I had spoken to after my visit to the thermopolium. He had the spear again, and he was looking none too friendly with it.
I said nothing. He would never believe I was entitled to that toga, and I was in enough trouble already. I could only wait until Marcus could be found to vouch for me.
The guard poked at the fringe of Zetso’s hood, lifting it back from his sodden cloak. ‘And here is another one. There has been a lookout for this fellow on the gates for days. Oh, dear Mars, our commander is going to be delighted with this little cargo.’ He nodded to our escort. ‘Get them down. We’ll get them locked up in the guardroom straight away.’
Our descent from the cart was just as humiliating as our entry into it. I was released from the restraining ring, a soldier grabbed the rope which bound my arms and I was hauled to the back of the cart and lifted unceremoniously down like a bundle of hay. Zetso followed shortly after and we were marched, though none too steady on our feet, through the gate and into a cell in the bowels of the watchtower.
It was merely a holding cell, but the Romans know how to construct a prison. It was calculated to instil despair. Dank floors, cold stone, damp bedding and bleak walls with only the smallest slit above our heads to permit the entry of reluctant daylight. The smells of human terror — sweat and urine — mingled with the sour odours of decay.
‘I appeal to the Governor of Britannia,’ I exclaimed, as I was shoved half staggering into the room. If Pertinax were here he would be lodging with Marcus. ‘I am a Roman citizen. .’
‘With traces of a slave-brand on your shoulder? Tell them all that at your trial,’ the guard said, jeeringly. ‘You will see the governor soon enough.’ He gave me a final push and tied my bonds loosely to a shackle on the wall. Zetso was propelled in after me.
I had expected Zetso to protest as well, to refer to his warrant and demand immunity or at least an audience with the commander of the garrison. He did neither. He gave a sneering laugh as the door swung to behind us, then as the key turned in the massive lock he shouted, ‘You will pay for this!’ Then he lapsed into silence again.
I marvelled that he could find anything to laugh and sneer at, although he was better placed than I was. Once that warrant was proved he would certainly be released. I might never see the outside world again, except perhaps when I was taken out to die.
I did not look at him, nor he at me. We had brought this misery on one another. We stood, each in his own stinking corner, leaning in fettered silence against the filthy wall. I do not know how long we stood there — perhaps an hour, though it might have been far more. Through the narrow slit in the wall we could see the sky grow darker, and the gloom of our prison grew more gloomy yet. I was hungry and thirsty, tired and bruised, but there was nothing to eat or drink, and nowhere to sit except the pile of damp and fetid straw on the floor.