Chapter 14

As Marcus rode into Calleva, the air was oppressively hot and sticky. The sun had long since been covered by a blanket of grey, and now in the west, he could see an army of black clouds advancing towards the town, occasional flickers of light visible between their serried ranks. Distant, low rumbles of thunder punctuated the everyday bustle of life in the town, and the weight of expectation hung heavy in the air.

In the forum, the advancing storm had not gone unnoticed, and, although it was still only the middle of the afternoon, many stall-holders were packing up, anticipating the inevitable deluge, and anxious to protect their goods from it. Women and slaves were hastily finishing their errands for the day, and children were scampering to the safety of home. Even the animals brought to market - chickens, pigs and horses - were restless and making more noise than usual. No-one wanted to be caught out in the approaching storm.

Marcus rode through the market stalls to the narrow street beyond where he knew Esca would have taken Vipsania. Here the leather craftsmen lived and worked, but although he easily found the man who had repaired the bridle, he was not able to tell Marcus what had happened to Esca.

'He stayed with me while I did the job, sir,' the craftsman explained. 'We talked a little about the harvest, and whether the hot summer we have had would mean a bitter winter. When I had finished, we walked together to the forum – he insisted on doing so, so he could check my work in good light – and then he paid me and left. Is the work not to your satisfaction, sir?'

'The work is fine,' Marcus replied. 'It is the slave I am looking for. Did he seem in good spirits to you?'

The craftsman shrugged. 'As much as one from the Brigantes tribe can ever be,' he said dismissively. He was a native Briton, but from the southern Atrebates tribe. Marcus had long since learnt that to be a Briton did not make you a member of a homogeneous group. The different tribes regarded each other with as much suspicion as they all regarded the Romans, although, of course, the Romans were the common enemy. The southern tribes thought the northern people were an especially dour lot, and the northern tribes … well, Esca anyway - Marcus did not have much experience of any other northerners - considered the southern tribes to be soft and weak.

Marcus acknowledged the craftsman's answer despondently. He did not know what he had hoped he would say, but his first thought had been to check with him to ensure that Vipsania had not escaped from his grasp instead of Esca's. If his account was true, and Marcus had no reason to doubt it, it sounded as though Esca had kept close guard on his master's horse, not relaxing his duty of care and leaving her alone with the craftsman for even a moment to browse through the market. He had even checked the workmanship before paying. Such dedication and conscientiousness was characteristic of Esca and was all that Marcus had grown to expect of him.

'Which way did he go when he left you? Did you see?'

The craftsman shrugged, and his movement became a jump as a loud crack of thunder sounded hard on the heels of a flash of lightning. Vipsania whinnied and pulled on her reins. The storm was nearly overhead, although the clouds had still not released their load of rain and the air felt stickier and hotter than ever.

'I did not see, sir.' He was not interested in Marcus' problem and wanted only to bring the shutter down on his workshop and escape the storm. As he turned to do just that, the first big splats of rain began to fall, bouncing off the wooden boards of the shutter and making small craters in the dusty ground. Marcus could see he was not going to learn anything further from this man.

Reluctantly, he turned with Vipsania and began to retrace his steps back into the forum. The rain came slowly at first, and then suddenly, in a rush, pouring down in long straight lines like a hail of javelins thrown in the opening attack of a battle. Anyone still left in the forum gathered up whatever they could manage of their belongings and ran, some to the nearby shelter of the bath-house walls, but most to their homes. A few children, native boys on the verge of manhood in the main, decided to stay and danced around in abandon as the rain soaked their clothing and made streaks through the dust of their unwashed bodies. Marcus felt a stab of longing and realised that their behaviour reminded him of Esca. He felt sure this would have been something Esca would have done when he was a boy, running and laughing in the rain, opening his mouth to let the water fall in, feeling its cooling effects on his face and body.

He trudged on, indifferent to the soaking he was getting, thinking only of how to find Esca. Once out of the forum and in the deserted streets, he tried calling his name once or twice, but the rain was falling harder still and the noise it made on the paved roads and buildings was tumultuous. Every so often, lightning flashed and thunder cracked, but the noise of the water falling was louder. Vipsania was agitated and difficult to manage, and Marcus found it hard to see through the rain driving into his face. He was heading for the north gate, thinking to shelter there until the storm had passed, when he saw it: a flash of gold in the ground in a gap between two grain stores. Reaching down, he picked up the object and knew it in an instant. It was the cloak brooch he had given Esca in the spring!

The find galvanised Marcus into renewed vigour. Vipsania, unsettled by the storm, ears flicking and hooves constantly shifting and stamping, was a hindrance to him, he realised. He hurried the horse onwards to the north gate and there found some legionaries sheltering from the rain in the guardhouse. He tied his mare up in the shelter of the gate and tried to persuade the legionaries to come with him to help him in his search, but when he mentioned it was a missing slave he was looking for, the men laughed in his face and told him he would be better of searching the surrounding countryside. Marcus felt a flash of anger and wished he was still a centurion and able to order these lazy men to do his bidding, but he knew he no longer had the authority to command them. Instead, he turned and ran back down the street, thankful that the noise of the storm did not allow him to hear the derisive comments they called after him. At the place where he had picked up the brooch, he shouted Esca's name again but there was no response, or worse, there was little chance of hearing any response. On one side of the street, the buildings were grain stores and opposite them was another warehouse, so Marcus did not have the option of knocking on doors to see if the inhabitants had heard or seen anything. It was a dismal part of town with little sign of habitation anywhere.

But Marcus knew that Esca would not have dropped the brooch and left it had he had the awareness to pick it up. He carried it with him everywhere. For a slave with nothing, it was both useful and also valuable. Even if Esca had been planning on running away – a ludicrous thought, Marcus told himself – he would have been a fool to throw the brooch away when he could have got good money for it.

Marcus stepped into the gap between the two grain stores to shelter a little from the rain, and examined the brooch more closely. He saw that it had been damaged: the pin had been loosened from its clasp and bent. It looked as though someone had exerted pressure on it, or stamped on it maybe. This confirmed Marcus' worst fears. Not only had Esca parted with the brooch against his will, there had also been violence involved. Marcus closed his eyes and prayed to all the gods.

'Let him be safe, please let him be safe.'

He could not think of anything else to ask for. A hot stinging pricked his eyes, and he knew that one rivulet running down his face was not cold and refreshing rain but a warm and salty tear. Although there was no-one there to see him, and even if there had been, the tear was indistinguishable from the rain water running down his face, he instinctively turned his back on the street and rubbed at his eyes to remove the guilty evidence. And it was then, as he lifted his hand away from his face, that he saw it: a sandalled foot, dirty and bruised but pale white beneath, sticking out from the edge of the grain store at the far end of the narrow alleyway.

Running to it, Marcus flung himself to the ground, oblivious to the dirt there, and peered into the murky depths of the space beneath the building. A man was lying there, filthy, bruised and bleeding. He was dressed only in a ripped tunic and, as Marcus gently pulled him into the light, he gradually distinguished, through the bruising, blue patterns on his upper arms, and, though it was matted with dried blood, and covered in cobwebs and filth, russet-brown hair on his head.

'Esca!' Marcus cried and he gathered the man into his arms, and turned his face towards the light. The rain fell even in this narrow space, and some drops splashed onto the Briton's face, hitting his eyelids and bouncing off his dry lips. For a moment, Marcus thought he was dead, but then his eyes flickered and his lips moved and Marcus could almost have sworn he saw a faint smile.

'Marcus,' was all the Briton said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it was all Marcus needed to hear.

'Esca, oh Esca,' Marcus gasped, shocked by the state he was in and hardly daring to believe that he had found him. He held him to his chest and silently thanked the gods for their providence. Although he did not know of a deity who took particular care of slaves, one surely had had Esca in his hand that day, or maybe one of the gods had a special regard for Marcus. Either way, he had found Esca despite the intentions of others that he should not be found, or at least, that he should not be found alive, for it was clear, from the way Esca had been beaten and then pushed under the grain store that he had been left for dead.

For a while, he was lost in his thoughts and it was simply enough for him to crouch on the ground, holding the Briton in his arms and savouring the unaccustomed contact. He felt remorse that it had been his determination to keep Esca at a distance that had led him to speak coldly to him that morning, and to send him out on this errand that had so nearly ended in tragedy. It did not matter to him what Uncle Aquila or all of Rome thought of him, he could not maintain that distance, not now, not when doing so had meant he had nearly lost the one who meant so much to him. But when his relief at finding him transmitted itself as a slight squeeze, and Esca cried out in pain, Marcus was abruptly wrenched from his thoughts, and he realised there was still much to do before he could relax. He gently laid the Briton down on the ground and used what he had learnt in his military training to examine him. He could not find any obvious knife wounds and concluded that his injuries came from blows from fists and cudgels. Most of the bleeding was from a cut to his head which was still oozing thickly, but there were also a large number of abrasions on his chest, back, arms and legs and the bruising was extensive. His tunic was ripped in several places and one sandal was missing, but he was alive and for now, that was all that mattered.

Marcus reached to the hem of his own tunic and tore a strip off the bottom of it. Leaning forward, he carefully wrapped the makeshift bandage around the wound on Esca's head, tying it securely to one side. Esca winced noiselessly as he did this, his eyes tightly shut. In fact, his eyes had not yet opened since Marcus had found him, and he seemed to be on the edge of unconsciousness. The only word he had spoken had been his master's name. Marcus leaned over him, gently cradling his head in his hands and searching his face, hungry to see some reaction that would reassure him Esca knew he was there.

'Esca? Esca!' he whispered, close enough to feel the Briton's breath on his skin. 'I am going to get help, do you understand? Can you hear me?'

He continued to search Esca's face for a response and was on the point of speaking again, when he felt the lightest of touches on his leg. Glancing down, he saw Esca's hand stroke the side of his knee. It was the nearest he was going to get to an answer, he realised.

'Just lie still,' Marcus said unnecessarily. 'There are some legionaries at the north gate. I will go and ask them to help.'

He thought Esca looked momentarily pained at these words, and he said by way of reassurance, 'Don't worry, I will be back before you know I am gone.'

And then he was off, running through the pouring rain, still clutching the cloak brooch in his hand.

In the guardroom at the gate, the legionaries had settled down to a game of dice, in no hurry for the storm to end. They looked up amused when Marcus burst in, and one of them asked jokingly, 'Did you find your slave?' This question was greeted with a guffaw of laughter which Marcus ignored.

'I did,' he replied staunchly and enjoyed his own moment of vindication when the men all turned to look at him in astonishment. 'He has been badly beaten and left for dead. I want you to help me get him on to my horse so I may take him home with me.'

One of the legionaries, a hardened embittered looking man, scoffed. 'If he is dead, why would you want to cart his carcass back home with you?' he asked with derision.

None of the other legionaries looked likely to accede to Marcus' suggestion either. The dice were gathered up and thrown again and the men reacted with joy or despair at the throw depending on whose side of the game they were on.

'I did not say he was dead,' Marcus said in a measured tone. 'But he may well soon be if I do not get him home and attended to. Come! It will not need more than two of you to help me.'

The men exchanged glances between themselves and Marcus saw a number shrug their shoulders. It did not matter to them that they were not all being asked to go out into the rain; as far as they were concerned none of them would stir themselves to help.

Marcus swallowed down the anger he felt inside. He did not want to give these despicable rogues the satisfaction of seeing that they had annoyed him.

'Is this the way the legion responds to the request of a Roman citizen?' he asked desperately. 'It was not so when I was in the legion.'

'You were a legionary?' a younger man asked.

'I was the cohort centurion of the fourth Gaulish Auxiliaries of the Second Legion,' Marcus replied smartly, but, although some of the men eyed each other at this news, as a group, they remained unimpressed.

'Was?' the hardened, older man repeated. 'So you don't command us now?' he muttered as he took a swig of something from the skin he was holding. Marcus suspected it was not water.

'That is so, soldier,' he replied evenly. 'But my uncle is a close personal friend of the Legate, Claudius Hieronimianus, and if you do not come now and help me, I will ensure that he is informed that some of his men were gambling and drinking when I asked for their help.'

It wasn't much of a threat, but it seemed to do the trick. A couple of the younger men rose from the table wordlessly and looked with a new respect at the man who had interrupted their game. Marcus nodded his thanks to them and, turning to give the older man one last stare, led the way out of the guardhouse. He gathered Vipsania's reins, and the legionaries followed him back to the grain stores.

Esca was lying exactly as he had left him, but now he was unconscious and unresponsive. The legionaries helped him lift the slave and place him over the horse's withers, and Marcus mounted up behind. Thanking the soldiers again, he nudged Vipsania into a walk and began the journey home. The storm was easing now, the thunder had passed over and the rain was falling in a steady but lighter pattern. Cooler air was settling in and Marcus, who was soaked from head to toe and dressed only in his tunic, which was now ripped and muddy, began to feel cold. He hunched his shoulders against the elements, and held the horse's reins in one hand while the other rested on Esca's back. It was intended as a reassuring gesture, but, since the Briton was unconscious and oblivious to his surroundings, Marcus realised it was probably himself who was most reassured by the contact.