Sometimes, back in Pietas Julia, he had been put in a cell on the exterior of the arena. Capito – the organiser of games – often did this before a big fight. He called it ‘advertising’. Indavara sat at the back, in the shadows, and spoke not a word to those who came to see him. There were children, women, gangs of youths, soldiers, gentlemen. They all looked at him, talked about him as if he wasn’t there. The closest he’d ever got to speaking was when a young lad of no more than six walked up to the bars. He wanted to tell Indavara about his day.
‘My father took me to the beach. I made a river in the sand and I watched the fishermen. The water was lovely and for lunch we had melon. You can go to the beach one day – when you get out. My father says you will win your freedom. My father is always right.’
Before Indavara could reply, the lad’s mother had pulled him away. From the cell he could see nothing but the street. But the arena was on a hill; and almost every day he would look out through the arches at the glittering sea and the ships sailing by – free people going wherever they wanted. The ships gave him hope; just like the figurine thrown to him, just like the little boy who told him he’d win his freedom. Hope was all he’d had. Mahalie needed it too.
He wiped his sore eyes and plodded on. The sun had not yet risen above the city’s buildings but the square was already filling up. Around him, carts were being unloaded and stalls stocked with produce. There were plenty of customers too; mostly women carrying baskets in their hands or on their heads. Indavara had been looking for so long that he’d seen some of the faces two or three times. He was starting to attract some strange looks from the stall-owners.
Suddenly feeling thirsty, he bought some watered wine from a stall, drank it, then handed the mug back to the vendor for a refill. As she dunked it into the amphora, he asked her if she knew Mahalie.
‘Don’t know the name.’
‘She’s a maid. Thin. Doesn’t say much. About my age.’
‘Sorry.’
He emptied the mug again, paid, then walked on. Looking at the nearby streets, he realised he didn’t know the way back to the tower (he’d had to ask directions four times to get there). Perhaps this was Fortuna’s way of telling him he shouldn’t be doing this. Perhaps Mahalie would not come to the market today.
‘Get your berries here!’
‘Apples! Apples! Cheapest in Berytus. Apples here!’
‘Fresh from the fields! Only the best from Pansa.’
Indavara thought about talking to the other stall-owners but most were now busy with customers. The fruit market filled half the square and was laid out around a crossroads and a stone kiosk, where a city official had just arrived. Indavara decided he would do one more circuit.
Three times he thought he’d seen her. With their pale tunics and sandals, dark skin and black hair, many of the Syrian girls looked alike. Indavara had checked two of the four paths and was walking back past the official’s kiosk when he glimpsed someone abruptly change direction. He stopped and turned; she was already past him.
The woman was slight enough to be Mahalie but she was wearing a hooded cape. Despite the heavy basket of food in her hand, she was moving quickly. Indavara gave chase but his path was blocked by a quartet of burly men lugging amphoras full of dates. He dodged around them, then ran after her. Once he got in front he could see her face.
Mahalie stopped.
Indavara didn’t know what to say.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I …’
‘Leave me alone.’
She walked past him to another stall. He watched as she bought two red peppers. The female vendor seemed to know her and asked if she was all right. Indavara couldn’t hear her reply. Once she had paid, Mahalie made straight for the edge of the market. Indavara followed her slowly, unsure what to do. The girl was so determined to get away that when she stepped down from the pavement she lost some of the contents of her overloaded basket.
Indavara sprinted forward and beat her to the pair of onions rolling across the street. ‘Here.’
He put them in the basket, wedging them where they wouldn’t fall out. ‘Would you like me to carry that? Looks heavy.’
She put down the basket then covered her face with her hands and began to cry. A pair of women walked past, casting accusing looks at Indavara.
He looked around. On the other side of the street was a low wall shaded by a tree. Aside from an elderly man sweeping the pavement, there was no one else close by.
‘Perhaps you’d like to sit down. Just over there?’
Mahalie kept her hands clamped over her eyes but nodded.
‘I’ll take this.’ Indavara picked up the basket and walked across the street. He put the basket by the wall then sat down next to it.
Mahalie followed and sat with him, still sniffing. She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Indavara looked at the slender, hunched figure beside him. He could see her shoulder blades sticking out even through the tunic and the cape. After a while, Mahalie stopped crying and pushed the handkerchief into her tunic sleeve.
Indavara said, ‘I went to the church-house. Alfidia told me I might find you here. What’s wrong?’
Mahalie adjusted her tunic so that it covered her knees.
‘Is it your master?’
She picked at her bottom lip and gazed at the ground.
Indavara said, ‘I was a slave. For six years.’
‘You are free now?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have many scars.’
‘Yes, I …’
‘I too.’ She suddenly pulled down the collar of her tunic. The area of her chest above where her breasts met was laced with thin but deep cuts. Face trembling, she tore the hood from her head. Her hair had been cut short but unevenly, with longer patches all over.
Mahalie pushed her tunic back up and raised the hood.
Indavara felt his throat tighten. ‘Your master did this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s her. Mistress. She thinks he wants me. So she told him to make me ugly. She held me while he did it.’
‘What about running away?’
‘I tried once. But they sent a man after me. I didn’t even get out of the city. That’s when they really started hurting me.’
‘Your family? Alfidia said-’
‘My sister is in Antioch but I don’t know how to reach her. I don’t even know where she is.’
Mahalie looked across the street then turned her head away.
‘What is it?’
‘One of my master’s neighbours. I cannot be seen talking to you. I am not supposed to talk to anyone.’
‘I’d like to help.’
‘You cannot. If you try anything they will … they will hurt me again.’
Mahalie wiped her face, then stood and picked up the basket. ‘I must go. What is your name? I don’t remember.’
‘Indavara.’
She looked down at him. ‘Do you believe in the Kingdom? Where you can be with those you love and be for ever happy?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I wanted to. So much. Alfidia and the others, they believe they will go there. They really believe it. I tried to. I really did try.’
She walked away along the street.
Indavara watched her. As she struggled with the heavy basket, the hood slipped. She stopped and put it back then continued on.
Indavara took ten deep breaths as Corbulo sometimes told him to. At the end of it he felt less like following her, finding these people and hurting them. But only a little less.
An hour passed before they came out.
Indavara had let himself go with that soldier, and again in the cell; and it had felt good. The rage was like a fire burning within him.
But I control it. And I use it only against those that deserve it. With her master and mistress out of the way, Mahalie will be free.
The place where she worked was an average townhouse in an average street. He’d watched her go inside but seen and heard nothing more until now.
He was pressed up against the wall beside the gate. They were speaking in Greek. Their voices were soft and ‘respectable’ like Corbulo’s. The woman was telling Mahalie to water the plants, to make sure lunch was ready when they returned. She told her she liked her hair more this way. The man hadn’t said much.