But he wasn’t a slave. He was a mercenary. One of four lined up against the wall where the copy of the acta diurna of Rome was displayed, giving the small portion of the literate public the opportunity to keep abreast of matters of public record in the capital. He was a mercenary: a citizen and a free man and being treated like human cattle.
He opened his mouth to the man’s probing fingers and gave serious consideration to biting them off. The fingers tasted of sour wine, which came as no surprise, given his breath.
The man in the green tunic turned to look at the three men behind him. The one who was in charge looked to the men at his shoulders and, as they nodded, he joined them.
‘You’ll do.’
Rufinus glanced over the man’s shoulder at his three companions. The old goat who had checked his teeth was clearly either a slave himself or a recent freedman, some sort of senior servant. The other three were equally obviously hired swords.
The one nominally in command, in the centre, had the swarthy look of a man of Bithynia or Pontus or some such eastern nation. He had, against the odds, an engaging smile and a pleasant manner, his voice friendly and welcoming. Rufinus was not fooled for a moment. There was a hint of steel in those deep brown eyes and the short beard and equally cropped hair barely covered a criss-crossed network of old scars. His arm had a patch of pink replacement skin in the position one would expect a gladiator’s mark, though whether a rare recipient of his freedom or an unrecovered escapee remained to be seen.
The ’thing’ at his left was pale enough as to almost appear green when he stood in the shade of the nearby stall. He stood a head taller than the tallest man Rufinus had ever seen, long, braided black locks hanging down one side of his head, the other side brutally shaved and scarred. His muscles were the size of small dogs and appeared to live an independent life, moving about their own business beneath his thick, scarred skin. The few times he’d opened his mouth, Rufinus had goggled at the needle teeth, filed down to jagged points. Unlike the leader, who bore a long blade slung on his back, this brute had what appeared to be two hunter’s skinning knives on his belt. The sight of him made Rufinus’ blood run cold, not least because the sight of the hunting gear brought sudden, unwelcome memories of Lucius on that last morning of his life.
But despite the naked brutality of the ‘thing’ and the snake-like charm of the leader, it was the third figure that, if pushed, Rufinus would say was the one to watch. He’d met them all in the ring from time to time. The brute was usually the easiest for all his size. Huge and strong was no excuse for slow and stupid. The snake was alright as long as you were always alert and watched every move, prepared for the unexpected. There were other types he could easily categorise too. But the rarest was the hollow man.
The third man, a Gaul, German or Briton by the look of him, was short and thin, dressed in plain grey tunic and breeches, with unremarkable short, naturally wavy hair and a beard of long stubble. An unremarkable legionary-pattern gladius was slung at his side and he stood casually. His eyes marked him, though. Rufinus had looked into them and immediately realised this third man would be deadly even unarmed. Those eyes were the eyes of the hollow man; the eyes of a man who had suffered so badly some time in his past, had lost everything in one turn of a knife. They were eyes that held no fear, no love, no warmth and no hope. A man like that would disembowel the world if it were possible.
‘Yes. You’ll do.’
‘Hold’ said ‘Hollow-Eyes’ quietly.
The others stopped in their tracks and the leader turned to look with amused interest at his friend. ‘Hollow-Eyes’ took a single step forward.
‘How did you come to leave the eagle?’
Rufinus baulked. It was a question he’d been pondering the answer to all the way here in the shallow-beamed merchant vessel and his story was convincing; water-tight even. It was a story played out many times in many parts of the empire and he’d repeated it to himself until he could have responded in his sleep.
Now, facing those dead, hollow eyes, he was entirely unconvinced of his ability to pull this off. ‘It’s… it’s not something I’m prepared to discuss.’
‘I can understand that’ grinned Snake-Man. ‘Come on, Dis. Let’s get back. Markets make me twitch and it’s time for a midday nap.’
‘Hollow-Eyes’ – Dis? – shook his head slightly. ‘Tell me.’
Rufinus tried not to look nervous, though he could feel the cold sweat seeping into his tunic and trickling down his neck and back. His palms had gone clammy. Damn it! He had faced a screaming horde of Marcomanni, stepping into the fray and fighting like a lion. He had taken down some of the Tenth Gemina’s most brutal fighters in the ring. He’d even faced the emperor and his officers without panic-vomit. Something about this ‘Dis’ made him shiver, but anger at his own fear began to rise and helped him push his nerves back down.
‘I looked after the supply trains coming into camp. Making quite a little nest-egg for myself until my partner got greedy. Wanted me to drop my share to grow his. Threatened to report me to the camp prefect. When I refused, he did just that.’
Dis shook his head. ‘That’s a few dozen lashes, not dismissal.’
Rufinus forced himself to grin. ‘Not when evidence can’t be given, ‘cause the only witness turns up without a head.’
Snake-Man laughed out loud.
‘Enterprising solution. They gave you discharge then?’
Rufinus nodded. ‘There wasn’t enough evidence against me on either count to bring punishment. Not without a witness, anyway. But the prefect told me he was ‘bollocksed if he would have a man he couldn’t trust in his army’.’
Dis, hollow eyes still expressionless, nodded his head faintly. ‘Perhaps. What’s your name, boy?’
Rufinus bridled. He was almost twenty-five and far from a boy. Likely of an age with the hollow man before him.
‘Gnaeus Marcius.’
‘Gnaeus Marcius what?’
Rufinus felt the nerves pushing their way back up. What the hell did this man know? ‘Just Gnaeus Marcius.’
Dis breathed out with a hiss. ‘Alright’ he said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.
Snake-Man laughed again. ‘Are we done? Good. Now let’s get back to the villa before the heat really hits.’
The servant in green, who had stood silent and deferential throughout the exchange, gestured to Rufinus and the other man they had selected earlier, a former auxiliary soldier named Fastus, and pointed to the cart behind them. ‘Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. The villa is not far.’
As Fastus stepped toward the cart, Rufinus frowned. ‘You have not made mention of pay?’
The servant shrugged as he looked Rufinus up and down. ‘More than you made in your flea-bitten legion. And more than anyone else who’s hiring. Get in the cart.’
Rufinus nodded and followed, aware of the hollow eyes of Dis watching his every move. As soon as he and Fastus had climbed aboard in the back, among the half dozen amphorae of wine and the sacks of goods, Snake-man and the servant clambered up in front to guide the cart, while Dis and the ‘beast’ joined them in the back. Rufinus felt a momentary confusion as he settled among the supplies. Surely Constans, the Praetorians’ pet merchant, should be doing this? If Constans was no longer dealing with supplies, Rufinus’ job would be near impossible.
‘You collect your own supplies? Can you not have them delivered to the villa?’
Snake turned round as the servant encouraged the horses. ‘The villa supplies are delivered, but we like a few extras of our own from time to time.’
Rufinus nodded, the worry subsiding once again. Not for the first time he wondered whether he was truly suitable for this task. He was a boxer and a soldier, not a spy or a sneak. The coming days or weeks would be nerve-wracking, and he could do without such doubts.