Looking back on it later, Gabrielle was never able to clearly remember the time she spent in Salmoneus's slaver caravan. There was merely a jumbled chaos of sights, sounds, feelings. A bowl of the bland, tasteless slop the guards distributed among the slaves for food; the snap of the whip, cracking against a slave's back; the cold, biting air in the mornings as they crossed over the mountains, so cold she could see her breath, could see frost forming on the manacles at her wrists; Caesar leaning heavily on her and cursing her steadily and viciously as they staggered together over the uneven trail. These impressions and a thousand others swam at her out of the vague, dreamlike haze that surrounded her, but they never came together into a whole. There were only two constants—two things that were always with her—that stood out clearly in her mind.
The first was the chains. They lay heavy on her neck and wrists, clinking at every movement. She had never been chained before, not even when she had been captured by Xena's men; she had been herded before the Dark Conqueror, with the other young girls in Athens, but she had not been chained. Now she was, and she loathed it. They were always there. She could not forget about them for an instant; even should she manage it, they would intrude their way into her consciousness again when she felt their weight, heard their dismal clanking. Always reminding her of what she was: a slave.
The chains hurt. Caesar bore them easily enough—the thick, ugly scarring on his throat and wrists seemed to protect him from the irons' bite—but Gabrielle's tender flesh had no defense. She was raw and bleeding from them at the end of the first day, and her skin only grew more chafed and torn as the days went on. After a while, every movement hurt, and dried blood crusted around the edges of the shackles; the throbbing was so bad it kept her awake at night, when the guards allowed the slaves to drop off to sleep. If she had had rags, she would have wrapped them around the irons—she saw some of the slaves had done so—but she didn't. All she could do was suffer.
The second constant was the shame. Like the chains, the shame, was always with her. The shame of slavery, of having been so thoroughly depersonalized, reduced to nothing more than an object. She could see it in the eyes of the guards; they looked on the slaves as if they were no more than cattle or goats. She could see it in the eyes of the few villages they passed through—the first time the caravan had passed before the eyes of villagers at a rest stop, Gabrielle had wanted to curl up and die of humiliation. In the eyes of Salmoneus himself: whenever that jolly, cheerful little man would ride up and down his column of moving property, and his merry eyes fell on Gabrielle, she would see again that look, the one that said she wasn't there, that she was nothing more than a pile of dinars to him, with no worth or value other than that. Every time she saw that, she felt herself die a little more.
The words Tara had said in Najara's camp were in her thoughts: Being a slave is the worst thing in the world. It kills you from the inside. Now she knew exactly what Tara had meant. She knew, and wished to the gods who did not hear that she didn't. She tried to hope that maybe Najara would come and find her, set her free as she had Tara, but she couldn't make herself believe it. For all she knew, Najara was back in Africa by this time, and unless her djinn had told her, there was no way for the Crusader to know that she had been taken as a slave, let alone where she was or who had her. She had no hope of escape.
Oddly enough, it was Caesar who kept her going during this time. Chained next to her in line, leaning heavily on her during the march, it was he who drove her onward, showering her with insults and abuse when she faltered. It was he who forced her to get up off the ground in the morning, he who made her continue on, step after painful, slow step on the march, he who demanded her attention when her mind started to wander in the face of the guards' orders and indifference. He hated her only slightly less than she hated him, of that she was sure. His motives for forcing her to go on were entirely selfish; he made no attempt to disguise them, and if he had, it would not have fooled Gabrielle for an instant, not after what he had said to her in the ruins of Potedaia. And yet, despite his utter self-absorption, if it were not for him, she might have simply succumbed to the despair and died.
"You have to eat," he told her that first day, as Gabrielle pushed aside the bowl of slop the guard had handed her.
"I can't." The words were barely a whisper. She felt cold and dead inside; there seemed to be a heavy, cold rock in the pit of her stomach. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, and when she woke, all this would be gone. The idea of food made her want to be sick. She slumped on the ground, huddled into a ball. "I can't," she repeated numbly.
"You have to." He shoved the bowl at her roughly. His voice was thin with frustration. "You have to keep up your strength."
Gabrielle pushed him away and turned her back on him. Only to have him grab her by the shoulder and pull her back. He forced the bowl into her hands, glaring at her darkly. "You have to, or you won't be able to keep up with the column. And if you can't keep up with the column, then what will happen to me?" he demanded furiously. They had taken his staff from him; she had been half-carrying him through the whole long first day. They had tried to stay in pace with the other slaves, but even so she'd felt the end of the guard's crop more than once. "Eat it," he had ordered her, his voice as hard as iron, and had hounded her with curses until she'd finished the entire bowl.
Unlike her, Caesar did not seem to be debilitated by slavery. Physically, he was clearly suffering a great deal—often at the end of a day's march, he would simply collapse to the ground, his crooked legs no longer able to support him. They were swollen a great deal of the time, and he spent most of their evenings and rest periods tending to them as best he could—rubbing them gently, trying to soothe them with a scrap of damp rag. Gabrielle wondered how bad they would get. She also wondered how long he would be able to keep up, even with her support. Caesar had difficulty sleeping at night; she would often wake in the middle of the night as he lay chained in the line beside her, to hear him cursing under his breath at the pain. It was clear that the pain he was in fueled some of his anger and hostility; Gabrielle understood this, even if it did not make her more sympathetic. However, despite everything, Caesar did not seem to sink into despair. If anything, he seemed almost to have come back to himself—not, perhaps, delusional as he had been during the earliest part of their acquaintance, but no longer the trembling, cowering, indecisive thing he had been since the battle of Laurel. His brittle hauteur was back, along with fractured flashes of his arrogant, overconfident manner. He bore the chains almost as if they were marks of distinction, and met the eyes of the guards with a coldly superior stare that earned him far more than his share of blows. He showed not the slightest sign of shame at being chained, before villagers or anyone else, and in fact the people they passed on the march tended to shy away from his icy glare. He even directed that arrogant gaze at Salmoneus when the Slaver Lord rode past them on the march or came by to look them over at rest stops—though that stare, which ruffled the guards' feathers so, affected Salmoneus not at all.
Gabrielle guessed that this strange transformation was due to Caesar's previous experiences with Xena; his mannerisms and demeanor now were very similar to those he had displayed when she had first seen him, chained to the base of the Dark Conqueror's throne. It made sense that after five years as Xena's trophy, he would have learned how to deal with slavery. But Gabrielle did not have much energy to spare contemplating Caesar's transformation. All her energy was needed to focus on the task of survival—the next step in the line, the next bowl of food, the next rest stop.
The days were always the same. The guards woke them with kicks and curses in the early hours of the morning, when the sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, to hand out water and bowls of tasteless slop. Gabrielle could barely choke it down, but Caesar always forced her to finish it all. After breakfast, the lines would be brought to their feet, to stand shivering in the cold morning air while the captains of the guards met with Salmoneus to discuss their travel route for the day. Gabrielle waited with the rest, her breath pluming before her in the early chill, feeling the irons icily cold against her neck and wrists. Caesar could not stand alone, so he leaned on her for support; she did her best to stand straight as he clutched at her shoulder. She stood, chained in line with the rest of the captives, until the conference broke up and the guards came riding toward them to lash the slaves into motion. Once they were moving, they stayed moving. They walked the entire day, in a long line, chains clinking, step by step over the cracked pavement of the main highways, over uneven surfaces of lesser, secondary roads, all day long, staring at the ground in front of them. Gabrielle could see them at night, long lines of feet moving up and down in front of her closed eyelids; sometimes she thought this would be what Tartarus was like. They never spoke on the march; any conversation was sure to bring the guards down on them, lashing with the thin crops they all carried. The quirts didn't do much damage, but they stung fiercely. There would usually be a break at midday, where more food was handed out; then they would walk till after sundown. After a brief break for the evening meal the guards would allow them to collapse into exhausted sleep, only to wake them again at dawn to begin all over again.
Eventually they would get to Ch'in. Gabrielle knew that; Salmoneus had said so that first day. It made sense. The rest of the world was in chaos from Xena's and Callisto's actions, and Ch'in was far enough away from Africa that Najara's forces wouldn't be able to find Salmoneus and force him to convert. She had always dreamed of visiting that far-off, mysterious land; she had eagerly soaked up the tales around the Academy from the few bards who had been to Ch'in and returned. Gabrielle had thought to go as a bard. She had never thought to be sold there into bondage, and the prospect filled her with dread and fear. Caesar never spoke of it.
Sometimes incidents would stand out in that dull silence that surrounded them:
There was the morning a drunk guard beat a slave to death, a scrawny, underfed young boy who had dared to ask for a second bowl of food; as the other guards restrained him, Salmoneus had come riding over, appearing not at all distressed by the incident, and said cheerfully, "Larinius? Well, boys, you know the deal. Lock him in line." And they had, taking the irons off the limp, sad form of the boy's scrawny body and fitting them roughly to the shouting, thrashing Larinius. "Cut out his tongue," Salmoneus had commanded genially, and it had been done. None of the guards had protested or sought to protect their comrade. And why should they? Gabrielle could see it in their eyes. They had the prospect of more wealth now as one of Salmoneus's guards than they ever had in their lives, some of them, and if they protested, they could lose it all. Besides…if they argued too hard, they could easily be next to be chained to the line. What was Larinius to them that he was worth that risk? It surprised Gabrielle a little how well she understood. She hadn't even glanced back as the column marched off, to see the small, still form of the boy lying unburied by the side of the road. She'd seen enough bodies by then to know what they looked like.
There was the morning Salmoneus had called the caravan to a sudden halt, standing among the pine trees at the edge of a river ford and listening sharply. A moment later, painted, feathered and furred men and women had come pouring out of the surrounding forest, grunting and snarling in a language Gabrielle didn't understand. She might not have understood the words, but as a bard she knew the people, and cold fear almost struck her to the ground: while their reach and numbers had been seriously reduced by the titanic forces of Xena and Callisto and Najara, the Horde still lived on in bedtime stories as a menace of evil.
Standing in line—what else could she do? could any of them do?—she waited for the Horde to fall upon them and slaughter them all, thinking perhaps it would be for the best. The guards had all immediately tensed up, their hands going to their weapons, but Salmoneus had issued a harsh command to them. Smiling and with no sign of fear, the dapper, silver-haired little man had approached the biggest warrior and spoken to him in his own tongue. The big man had replied in monosyllables, and Salmoneus had smiled again, then gestured to his second in command, a human mountain who matched the Horde warrior for size. The captain had brought forward a large ornate trunk, which the Slaver Lord had opened to reveal a wealth of valuables within—jewels, silks, oil vials, perfumes. Two of the Horde came to take it as the leader spoke again; he drew his dagger and cut his palm, then took Salmoneus's hand and did the same, pressed the bleeding cuts together, and raised their joined hands high, shouting to his warriors.
As they faded back into the woods, carrying the trunk of valuables with them, she had heard Salmoneus say sagely to his captain, "They granted safe passage. I told you."
"How'd you know?" the guard had asked, and indeed, Gabrielle had wondered the same thing. "They're barbarians."
"I know the Horde," Salmoneus said with a shrug. "Underneath the paint and feathers, they're as human as you or I. Of course they're barbarians, but that doesn't mean we can't do business," he had replied blithely. "Listen well, Virgilius: whatever the philosophers of old may have said, greed is universal. It's the only thing that is." And he had carelessly wrapped a silken handkerchief around his bleeding hand.
As they walked, the terrain around them changed, from the rolling hills and valleys of the countryside around Potedaia, to thick woods and undergrowth, to wide open grassy meadows and then again to hills and valleys. The terrain grew rougher and more rugged, and bare rock began to show through the thin soil. The weather grew colder, the mornings chillier, the afternoons losing their languid, humid heat. As they walked, they began to climb; they were going uphill, leaving the lower lands around Potedaia behind. The light, open forests of beech and birch, of tangled oak and hickory, began to give way to darker evergreen—firs, spruce, pine trees, and as they reached higher, strong-scented cedars. They were coming into mountain country.
It was cold in the mountains, and the air was thin. It sapped Gabrielle's strength. Sometimes in the mornings there would be frost on the manacles and chains that bound the caravan together. As they climbed into the higher reaches, snow lay thick upon the ground; she still had her boots at least, but there were those in the caravan who were forced to wrap rags around their feet. With Caesar to carry, it became harder and harder for her to keep up the pace; the guards' lashes landed on her shoulders more and more frequently. Her shoulders burned, and her sore feet ached from days of walking. The cold hurt Caesar's legs as well, meaning that he leaned on her more and more heavily, something that was not pleasant for either of them. Finally, one day it was too much.
They had been walking since before morning, in heavy snow. The chains were so cold they burned against her neck and wrists. The guards rode up and down alongside the caravan, secure in thick cloaks, but the slaves shivered. For once, she was almost glad that she had to half-carry Caesar; he was, at least, warm. Warm as he was, though, he was heavy, and getting heavier. His legs had been so bad that morning that he had been unable to stand, and had had to spend almost a quarter of an hour rubbing them while they were supposed to be eating, to allow Gabrielle to haul him upright. It had taken two tries; she had been unable to support him on the first try, and he had collapsed to the ground, cursing her bitterly. The cold, the chill, the pain in his legs seemed to be taking its toll on him, whether he had regained his hauteur or no; the brittle stridency that had always been a part of his manner was coming more to the fore, and the vitriol of the curses he piled upon her when he had fallen were extreme even for him.
The snow was up to her ankles as she stumbled on, step by uneven step; she tried to step into the prints the slaves ahead of her had made, because that was easier than breaking her own trail. She had lost feeling in her toes, and wondered distantly if that meant frostbite. Caesar was too heavy for her; the muscles in her back were quivering with the strain of holding him up. Any moment now she was sure she was going to fall flat to the ground; she told herself to just keep going, just keep going, one more step at a time, trying not to think any further than the next one….
Then it happened. Her foot came down on a patch of ice under the snow, and slipped out from under her. She reeled, could not catch her balance, and fell forward into the snowdrifts on either side of her. She did not get up, but lay there, trying to summon the strength to move. Wondering if she even wanted to. She heard raised voices in the background, and knew the guards would be there in moments to find out what the hold-up was, that they would beat her, but she couldn't make herself care. She had no reason to get up, and no reason to go on. The chill of the snow didn't even hurt as she lay there; it felt….peaceful. It touched the numb, cold place inside herself, covering the edges of that sick, empty feeling. She was tired. If she could just rest….Slowly, her eyes drifted closed.
Only to snap open again. "Get up." It was Caesar's voice, exhausted and furious. There was a hard grip on her bruised shoulder; she was being violently shaken.
Gabrielle didn't move. She hadn't the strength, and it didn't matter anyway. Even the shaking was receding into the distance; it felt as if it were happening to someone else. She simply closed her eyes again, waiting for him to go away.
Caesar shook her again, harder. "Get up!" His voice was a snarl of anger. "Get on your feet, stupid woman! You have to go on—"
Gabrielle burrowed more deeply into the snow, sinking into the thick gray warmth around her. Let him shake her, if he wanted to. It wouldn't change anything.
"Leave me alone," she heard herself mumbling. "I can't…can't stand this suffering. Let me…." She lay there, waiting for him to go away.
"Get up!"
A sharp, stinging pain struck the side of her face. Her head rocked, and thudded against the ground, hard. The pain and the impact jolted her out of her stupor; she opened her eyes again. She looked up to see Caesar above her. What—
He looked on the ragged edge of collapse. His face was pale, roughhewn, almost gaunt with strain. His dark eyes were shadowed, set deeply back in their sockets; they glittered with fatigue and rage. He looked almost as he had in the village of Laurel, when he had screamed at Taurus and Androcles. Even as beaten down as she was, Gabrielle could see that Caesar had reached the end of his rope.
"Get up," he snarled again. His voice was raw and ragged, furious. "Get up! I've had it with you. I'm sick of you. Sick of you, do you hear? Do you think anyone cares about you? You think you're suffering? What do you know about suffering? What on earth have you suffered?" he demanded viciously. "Well, I won't die a slave, and I refuse to die on your say-so, is that clear? I refuse! You hear me? So get up, damn you! Right now, do you hear, or else—" He hauled off with his chained hands and swung at her. The blow connected with her right cheek, rocking her head again.
He had struck her. For the first time since they had been traveling together, that son of a bitch had struck her.
In that moment, Gabrielle snapped.
Deep inside her, a monster raised its head and growled; a monster so strong that it frightened her in the split second before red rage flooded her being. This was not the slow, deliberate anger of the hatchet in Potedaia; this was an immediate and mindless burst of fury that swept aside her reason and left only a raving demon in its wake. She wanted to crush him, to pound him to death with her bare hands, and she would go on pounding him even after he was dead.
Caesar was drawing back to strike her again, his dark eyes smoldering. He didn't get the chance. Gabrielle rolled to her knees and launched herself at him, heedless of his strength, going directly for his throat. He caught her and shoved her away with contemptuous ease, but as she staggered back, Gabrielle lashed out with one booted foot. It caught him on his twisted, misshapen right shin, hard enough to make him cry out; his right leg buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, almost dragging her with him because of the chain that joined their collars. Gabrielle pounced, seeing weakness, sensing blood; she stomped on his damaged leg with her entire weight, grinding down on the bone with the heel of her boot. She had never heard him scream quite that loudly before; instead of appeasing her, somehow it fueled her rage. She wanted to hear it again. She wanted to make that bastard howl.
She drew back to kick him again, but he managed, somehow, to thrash away from her in the snow. They were at the very end of the line of slaves, but their fighting had managed to bring the entire line to a halt. Gabrielle lunged after him, snarling, only to have him get his hands around one of her ankles; he yanked, hard, and it was her turn to go crashing to the ground, hard enough to knock the wind out of her. As she lay there gasping like a landed fish, he locked his hands around her throat above the iron collar and squeezed. She could see the fury in his eyes. Choking, Gabrielle kicked out with her foot and caught him in the same leg she had stomped on earlier. He gave a cry and folded up on her; Gabrielle rolled away and drove her foot into his ribs. As he writhed on the ground, coughing helplessly, Gabrielle went for his throat. She had wrapped the chain joining her wrists around his neck and was drawing it tight by the time the guards caught up to them.
They were dragged apart by the guards, who separated them with blows, curses, and more than a few licks from the whip. Caesar could not stand on his own and had to be hauled to his feet by one of the guards. As the guards restrained them, Salmoneus came trotting up, his dainty white mare picking her way through the slush churned up by their fight; his brute of a second-in-command followed at his heels. "Is there some problem over here?" he asked pleasantly.
The guards holding them immediately paled, shifted and looked nervous. "No, not at all!" they hastened to assure him, speaking almost in chorus like a play.
Salmoneus nodded cheerily. "Excellent. Time is money, after all. So I expect we can start again in, say, five minutes?" It was not a question. He glanced at his captain.
"Yes, of course, Lord Salmoneus," one of the guards gulped.
"Wonderful. Carry on," he said blithely, and trotted off. Freed from his presence, the guards separated Gabrielle and Caesar, unlocking their chains and re-fastening them to the line at some distance from each other, cursing them all the while.
It was easier to march the rest of the day without Caesar leaning on her; Gabrielle was chained apart from him, but she saw him floundering in the snow, falling and having the guards beat him until he was able to get back to his feet. He was strongly favoring the leg she had stomped, limping heavily, and Gabrielle took a coldly vicious pleasure in this. Her throat was sore where he had choked her, and there was a pain in her side where she had bruised a rib falling to the ground, but it was worth it when she watched his struggles. From time to time their eyes met; Gabrielle could see the hate in his eyes. It matched her own. When they stopped for the night, he collapsed in the snow, too exhausted, Gabrielle saw, even to take his share of the food the guards doled out to them.
It was as they settled into camp for the night that the bounty hunters came.