The Death of Kings Read online

  They were given wooden bowls filled with a slop of cooked vegetables and bread, and Tubruk was digging his fingers into his when the door opened again and three soldiers entered with Fercus. Tubruk kept his face down with the others, not daring to meet an eye, even by accident. A murmur of interest swept the room, but Tubruk did not add to it. He guessed why they were there and his belly seemed cold with tension. They would have spoken to all Sulla's kitchen staff by now and found that one called Dalcius was missing. Fercus had said he would be examined at the gates of the city before leaving, but had not expected them to be so thorough as to search his slave rooms even before setting off.

  In the gray light of morning, Tubruk felt he would be spotted immediately, but the soldiers moved without hurry amongst the slaves as they ate, clearly intending to be thorough with the task they had been given. As well they might be, Tubruk thought sourly. If they missed him here and then he was identified at the gate, they would be severely punished. He wondered if Sulla had eaten the poison, and knew that he might not be sure for days or even weeks, if the Senate chose to delay the news. The people of Rome hardly ever saw the Dictator except from a distance over a crowd. They would continue with their lives unknowing, and if Sulla survived they might never learn of the attempt at all.

  A rough hand reached under his chin as he chewed his food slowly. Tubruk allowed his head to be raised and found himself looking into the hard eyes of a young legionary. He swallowed the mouthful and tried to look unconcerned.

  The soldier whistled softly. “This one's had a kicking,” he said softly.

  Tubruk blinked through his swollen eyes, nervously.

  “He insulted my wife, officer,” Fercus said. “I administered the punishment myself.”

  “Did you now?” the legionary continued.

  Tubruk felt his heart pump powerfully in him as he looked away, remembering too late that he had been meeting the gaze where he should not.

  “I'd have ripped his stomach out if he insulted mine,” the legionary said, letting Tubruk's chin fall.

  “And lose my profit?” Fercus replied quickly.

  The officer sneered and spat one word: “Merchants.”

  He moved on to the next with Fercus, and Tubruk cleaned his bowl, gripping it hard to hide hands that shook with anger. Minutes later, the soldiers were gone and the guards entered to kick them to their feet, ready to be fastened into the cart that would carry them out of Rome and to their new homes and lives.

  * * *

  Julius pressed his head up to the bars of the little cell below the trireme deck, closing his left eye to see what was going on more clearly. With it open, the blur brought on his headaches and he wanted to delay that as long as possible each day. He pulled a deep breath into his lungs and turned back to the others.

  “Definitely a port. Warm air, and I can smell fruit or spices. I'd say Africa.”

  After a month in the cramped semidarkness, the words caused a stir of interest in the Romans, who sat or lay against the wooden sides of their prison. He looked at them and sighed before shuffling back to his place, levering himself down carefully to avoid putting weight on the splinted arm.

  The month had been hard on all of them. Denied razors and water to wash with, the usually fastidious soldiers were a ragged crew, filthy and dark-bearded. The bucket they had been given as their toilet was filled to overflowing and buzzed with flies. It had a corner to itself, but excrement had slimed the floor around it and they had no cloths to wipe themselves. In the heat of the day, the air had the stench of disease and two of the men had developed fevers that Cabera could barely control.

  The old healer did what he could for them, but he was searched thoroughly every time he brought their food or tended their sick. The pirates still kept him busy with their own ailments, and Cabera said it was clear they had not had a healer on board for years.

  Julius felt a headache beginning and stifled a groan. Ever since recovering consciousness the pains had been with him, sapping at his will and strength and making him snap at the others. They were all irritable and what discipline they had once had was being eroded in the darkness day by day, with Gaditicus having to step in more than once to stop blows as tempers frayed.

  With his eyes closed, the headache remained quiescent, but Cabera had told him he must not stop using the blurred eye and to spend hours of each day focusing on the near and far or it would be lost to him when they were finally back in the sun. He had to believe it would end. He would return to Rome and Cornelia, and the misery would become memories. It helped a little to imagine it had already happened, that he was sitting in the sun on the estate wall, with his arm around Cornelia's slim waist and cool, clean air off the hills ruffling their hair. She would ask him how it had been in the filth and the stench of the cell, and he would make light of all of it. He wished he could remember her face more clearly.

  Julius held his hand up and squinted at it, then the barred door, over and over until the headache began to throb in his left temple. He let his hand fall and closed his eyes to its wasted condition after a month on rations that kept them from death but did little more. What he wouldn't give for a cold oyster to slip down his throat! He knew it was stupid to torture himself, but his mind produced bright visions of the shells, as real as if they hung before him and as sharp as his sight had been before the fight on Accipiter.

  He remembered nothing of that day. As far as his memory told the tale, he had gone from healthy and strong to broken and in pain in a moment, and for the first few days of consciousness he had been filled with rage at what had been taken from him. He had been blind in his left eye for long enough to believe he would never see again, and never be able to use a sword with any degree of skill.

  Suetonius had told him that one-eyed men couldn't be good fighters, and he had already found he was missing things as he reached for them, his hand swiping the air as he failed to judge the distance properly. At least that had come back with his sight, though the shimmering outlines he could see with his left eye infuriated him, making him want to rub the eye clear. His hand rose to do just that again in habit, and he caught himself, knowing it would do no good.

  The headache seemed to find another channel in his brain and worked its way into it until that spot throbbed in sympathy with the first. He hoped it would stay there and not go on. The thought of what had begun happening to him was a fear he had barely started to explore, but three times now the pain had swelled into flashing lights that consumed him and he had woken with his lips bitter from yellow bile, lying in his own filth, with Gaditicus holding him down grimly. In the first fit, he had bitten his tongue badly enough that his mouth filled with blood and choked him, but now they had a strip of grimy cloth torn from his tunic to shove between his teeth as he convulsed, blind.

  All the red-eyed, stinking soldiers raised their heads at the tread of steps on the narrow rungs from the deck above. Anything unusual was seized upon to break the endless boredom, and even the two who were feverish tried to see, though one fell back, exhausted.

  It was the captain, who seemed almost to glow with clean skin and health compared to the men of the Accipiter. He was tall enough to have to duck his head as he entered the cell, accompanied by another man, who carried a sword and a dagger ready to repel a sudden attack.

  If his head hadn't been pulsing its sullen sickness, Julius might have laughed at the precaution. The Romans had lost their strength, unable to exercise. It still amazed him how fast the muscles became weak without use. Cabera had shown them how to keep themselves strong by pulling against each other, but it didn't seem to make much difference.

  The captain breathed shallowly, his eyes taking in the full slop bucket. His face was tanned and creased from years of squinting against the glare of the sea. Even his clothes carried a fresh smell in with him, and Julius ached to be out in the air and the open spaces, so powerfully that his heart hammered with the need.

  “We have reached a safe port. In six months, perhap
s, you will be put down some lonely night, free and paid for.” He paused to enjoy the effect of his words. Just the mention of an ending to their imprisonment had every man's gaze fastened to him.

  “The amounts to ask for, now that is a delicate problem,” he continued, his voice as pleasant as if he addressed a group of men he knew well instead of soldiers who would tear him apart with their teeth if they had the strength.

  “It must not be so much that your loved ones cannot pay. We have no use for those. Yet somehow I don't believe you will be truthful if I ask you to tell me how much your families will bear for you. Do you understand?”

  “We understand you well enough,” Gaditicus said.

  “It is best if we reach a compromise, I think. You will each tell me your name, rank, and wealth, and I will decide you are lying and add whatever I think would be right. It is like a game, perhaps.”

  No one answered him, but silent vows were made to their gods and the hatred was clear enough in their expressions.

  “Good. Let us start, then.” He pointed to Suetonius, his gaze drawn as the young man scratched at the lice that left red sores on all their bodies.

  “Suetonius Prandus. I am a watch officer, the lowest rank. My family have nothing to sell,” Suetonius replied, his voice thick and hoarse with lack of use.

  The captain squinted at him, weighing him up. Like the others, there was nothing to inspire dreams of wealth in his thin frame. Julius realized the captain was simply enjoying himself at their expense. Taking pleasure from having the arrogant officers of Rome reduced to bargaining with an enemy. Yet what choice did they have? If the pirate demanded too much and their families could not borrow the money, or worse, refused to, then a quick death would follow. It was hard not to play the game.

  “I think, for the lowest rank, I will ask for two talents—five hundred in gold.”

  Suetonius spluttered, though Julius knew his family could pay that easily, or ten times that amount.

  “Gods, man. They do not have the money!” Suetonius said, his unkempt body lending the feel of truth to the words.

  The captain shrugged. “Pray to those gods that they can raise it, or over the side you go, with a bit of chain to hold you down.”

  Suetonius sank back in apparent despair, though Julius knew he would consider himself to have outwitted the pirate.

  “You, Centurion? Are you from a rich family?” the captain asked.

  Gaditicus glared at him for a moment before speaking. “I am not, but nothing I say will make any difference to you,” he growled before looking away.

  The captain frowned in thought. “I think . . . yes, for a centurion, a captain no less, like myself . . . it would be an insult if I asked less than twenty talents. That would be about five thousand in gold, I think. Yes.”

  Gaditicus ignored him, though he seemed to sag slightly in despair.

  “What is your name?” the captain asked Julius.

  For a moment, he too considered ignoring the man, but then his headache throbbed and a spike of anger rose in him.

  “My name is Julius Caesar. I command a twenty. I am also the head of a wealthy house.”

  The captain's eyebrows rose and the others muttered amongst themselves in disbelief. Julius exchanged a glance with Gaditicus, who shook his head in a clear message.

  “Head of a house! I am honored to meet you,” the captain said with a sneer. “Perhaps twenty talents would be right for you as well.”

  “Fifty,” Julius said, straightening his back as he spoke. The captain blinked, his easy manner vanishing.

  “That is twelve thousand pieces of gold,” he said, awed out of complacency.

  “Make it fifty,” Julius replied firmly. “When I have found you and killed you, I will need funds. I am far from home, after all.” Despite the pain in his head, he mustered a savage grin.

  The captain recovered quickly from his surprise. “You are the one that had his head broken. You must have left your wits on my decks. I will ask for fifty, but if it does not come, the sea is deep enough to hold you.”

  “It is not wide enough to hide you from me, whoreson,” Julius replied. “I will nail your men to a line of crosses all along the coast. Your officers I may have strangled out of mercy. You have my word on it.”

  The soldiers erupted into a shout of cheers and laughter at the captain, who paled with anger. For a moment, it looked as if he would step farther into the cell to strike Julius, but he mastered himself and looked around scornfully at the baying men.

  “I will set high prices on all of you. See if you cheer then!” he shouted over the jeers as he left with his crewman, who locked the door securely behind him, shaking his head in disbelief at Julius through the bars.

  When they were sure there was no one to hear, Suetonius rounded on Julius.

  “What did you do that for, you fool? He'll beggar our families for your stupid pride!”

  Julius shrugged. “He'll set the prices at what he thinks he can get, just as he would have before coming down here, though he might ask fifty for me, out of spite.”

  “Caesar's right,” Gaditicus said, “he was just playing with us.” He chuckled suddenly. “Fifty! Did you see his face? That was Rome in you, lad.” His laughter broke off into coughing, but he still smiled.

  “I think you were wrong to bait him,” Suetonius continued, and one or two of the others muttered agreement.

  “He killed Romans and sank Accipiter and you think we should play his little games? I'd spit on you if I had any,” Julius snapped. “I meant it too. Once I'm free, I will find him and cut him down. Even if it takes years, he will see my face before he dies.”

  Suetonius scrambled at him, raging, but was held by Pelitas as he tried to get past.

  “Sit down, you idiot,” Pelitas growled, shoving him back. “There's no point fighting amongst ourselves and he's barely recovered as it is.”

  Suetonius subsided with a scowl that Julius ignored, scratching idly under his splint as he thought. His eyes took in the sick men lying in damp, stinking straw.

  “This place will kill us,” he said.

  Pelitas nodded. “We know they guard the top of the steps with two men. We'd have to get past them. Now we're docked, it might be worth a go?”

  “Maybe,” Julius said, “but they're careful. Even if we could dig the hinges out of the door, the deck hatch is bolted from above every time someone comes in here, even Cabera. I don't see how we could break it fast enough to get out before there's a crowd waiting for us.”

  “We could use Suetonius's head,” Pelitas said. “A few sharp blows and one of them would give way. Either way, we win.” Julius chuckled with him.

  The following night, one of the sick men died. The captain allowed Cabera to drag out the body and dump it over the side without ceremony. The mood of those left sank toward complete despair.

  CHAPTER 8

  I am surrounded by women,” Tubruk said cheerfully as they entered, bringing life and energy into the quiet triclinium. In the weeks that had followed Fercus's bringing him inside the gates and passing the bill of sale into his untied hands, Tubruk had regained much of the peace he had lost in the city. Coming together each morning to eat had become a ritual for them, and Tubruk had begun to look forward to the light breakfast. Aurelia was always at her best in the mornings, and if he was any judge, there was true friendship between Cornelia, Clodia, and herself. The house had not seen laughter since before the slave riots, and they lifted Tubruk's spirits.

  His face had healed with time, thought he bore a new scar over his left eye to remember the ordeal. He recalled the relief he'd felt when he first saw the legionaries dressed in black on the city streets, a uniform the city would see for a full year of mourning at the Dictator's death. Even then, the dark cloth had seemed inappropriate to the mood of Rome. Fercus had told him there was a fresh breeze blowing through the Senate, with Cinna and Pompey working to restore the old Republic and once again lay the ghosts of kings that Sulla had br
ought back to the streets.

  The estate manager traveled only rarely into the city now, and always with caution. He thought the chances were good that he would never be linked with the poisoning of Rome's leader, but it took only one accusation and the Senate would tear the estate apart looking for evidence. If they found Fercus and tortured him, the broker would give Tubruk to them, he was sure. The man had a family he loved, and honor and friendship crumbled in the face of that. Still, it had been the right thing to do and they had won, even though he would never know a day of complete peace again while Sulla's friends and supporters searched for the assassin.

  A month after his return to the estate, Tubruk had put on a heavy cloak and ridden to the city to make offerings at the temples of Mars and Vesta in thanks for the life of Cornelia. He had also prayed for the souls of Casaverius and the guard he had killed at the gate.

  Cornelia had her daughter sitting on her lap, and Clodia was reaching out at intervals to tickle the baby under her armpits and make her laugh. Even Aurelia smiled at the childish giggles that came from Julia, and Tubruk spread honey on his bread with a mixture of emotions churning in him. It was good that Aurelia had found a little of the old happiness. She had been too long surrounded by stern men. When she had first held her granddaughter, she had cried without sobbing, tears falling from her.

  Yet he was sure she was failing, and the thought brought him pain as he saw she had not eaten with the others. Gently, Tubruk pushed a plate of fresh, crusty bread over to her side of the low table, and their eyes met for a second. She took a piece and tore a sliver from it, chewing it slowly as he watched. She had said that eating brought on her fits and left her sick and vomiting. There was no appetite, and before he had watched her closely she had been losing weight alarmingly and hardly taking anything in.

  She was wasting before him, and no matter what he said when they were alone, she would only weep and say she could not eat. There was no space in her for food.