VI
Quintus could smell the horse stables long before they came into view over the rise. Up to that point, the perfumed morning air with its scent of jasmine was a refreshing change to the stuffy slave quarters where he had spent the night. The fresh air also helped ease the headache that continued to pound, though with less intensity than the previous day. As he walked the manicured pathway, he looked across the rolling hills of the estate dotted with beech trees. The symmetrical and orderly vegetable gardens, wheat fields, and livestock pens stood like geometric patterns on an emerald carpet.
But the stables were a different story. As he approached, he understood why the animals were housed well away from the open-air villa.
The tall slave foreman who accompanied Quintus finally said his first words of the morning. They came with unmistakable loathing. “Listen, boy. I’ve been assigned as overseer of the Viators’s new horse-breeding venture. It’s not a job I love, and training new slaves to clean stables is my least favorite responsibility of all. So shut up and listen.”
They entered the open breezeway that ran down the middle of the first stable building. The stench was overpowering to Quintus. The foreman smiled.
“I can tell by your wrinkled nose that you have no experience with this job whatsoever. Well, kid, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
Horses’ heads emerged from the stalls to investigate the voices. Two grooms arrived and began setting up to shoe some of the horses.
“Hasn’t anyone cleaned this place lately?” Quintus asked, trying to breathe through his mouth.
The tall foreman looked down at him. “Nah. The last stable boy got kicked in the head by one of the stallions. He’s dead now.”
Quintus’s jaw dropped. The foreman and grooms broke out into loud laughter. Quintus couldn’t decide if the story was true or if the man was just tormenting him. The foreman tossed him a heavy wooden bucket.
“I’m only going to say this once, Lucius, so pay attention.”
“I’m not Lucius. Don’t call me that.”
The irritation was clear on the foreman’s face. “Fine. Start at the far end. Lead each horse out of its stall. Tie it to the hitching post. Take the bucket and fork into the stall. Load the shit and dirty straw into the bucket. Dump the bucket loads into that cart. When it’s full, pull the cart over that hill to the dung heap and empty it. Then put down fresh straw. I want this entire stable smelling like roses by the time I get back. Now get to work.”
Quintus’s exasperation grew with every word. He looked down the long row of stalls. He estimated twenty to twenty-five horse heads hanging over the low doors on each side of the building.
“But that’s impossible! How can I get all this done in a day?” Quintus tossed the bucket against a stall door. The bang made the horses jump and begin to stir. The grooms stopped setting up their bench to see what was happening. “I shouldn’t even be doing this. Just because that little bastard convinced my uncle that he’s me, I’m out here cleaning stables. Well I won’t do it. A Romanus does not clean horseshit!”
The foreman stood with his arms folded, nodding as Quintus raged. When the boy was finally done, he continued nodding. Then, in the blink of an eye, his right hand flew from under his left arm and cracked Quintus across the face, knocking him to the ground. He grabbed the dazed boy by the front of his olive tunic and pulled him right to his face. The rotten smell of fish on the tall man’s breath overpowered even the stench of horse manure.
“Look, you little prick, I don’t care who you think you are. Neither does anybody else around here. But guess what? Now you’re a fucking slave just like the rest of us. And I don’t want to hear another word about what you think you should and shouldn’t be doing. I’ll tell you one last time. Clean up this stinking stable.”
He dropped Quintus back into the dirt like a sack of spoiled vegetables.
“Now get to work!” He kicked the bucket back at Quintus on his way out of the stable building.
Quintus looked to the grooms for some sign of support, but they ignored him and went back to work. He wiped the blood dripping from his nose and picked up the bucket. As ordered, he started in the farthest stall.
The foreman returned at nightfall. Quintus was only halfway done, but the right side of the stable building looked noticeably improved.
“You’ve given me one of the Twelve Labors of Hercules to complete here.” Quintus was physically and emotionally exhausted. “There’s no way to finish this job in one day,” he said, the words panted out slowly one at a time.
The foreman smiled. “I know that. And now you do, too. But I got a good first day’s work out of you, didn’t I? Come along.”
Quintus slept well that night. Even the scratchy straw in his thin mattress didn’t keep him awake as it had the first night. Morning came much too soon and he was back in the stables again. When he finished the first building there were others to clean. He worked mostly alone, but sometimes others were nearby, shoeing and saddling the horses, training the animals for various duties, or repairing the tack used by the horses to pull the carts and carriages. He spoke to the other slaves at every opportunity, trying to convince them he did not belong there and he was not who they said he was. All turned a deaf ear. They had their own work to do. He began to believe what the slave foreman had told him earlier. Nobody cared.
One week into his new life as a slave, Quintus began settling into a routine, although he took every opportunity to let those around him know he was unhappy about it. As he worked, his mind raced, attempting to make sense of his plight in Britannia. It appeared he was not going to convince the Viators that he was the real Quintus. While he lay unconscious those first few critical days, Lucius had had plenty of time to worm his way into the hearts of the family through sympathy and compassion. By now, Quintus was sure the fiend had cast a spell on them that was unbreakable. And his own hot temper and stubbornness in completing his slave chores were alienating the household staff, who were growing tired of his complaining and his constant insistence that Lucius had stolen his identity. Since he refused to allow anyone to call him “Lucius,” the slave staff concocted a new name for him. They called him “Grumbles.”
Although keeping the stables clean continued to be Quintus’s main responsibility, he was soon assigned to work as an assistant to the grooms. He spent his first morning at the new job preparing the Viator family coach for a trip to town. Quintus had seen the carriage on the grounds before but had not been able to appreciate its workmanship from afar. Growing up in the city, Quintus had rarely ridden in a coach, as the laws of Rome prohibited most horse-drawn vehicles on city streets during daylight hours. But here in the country, he could see the necessity of owning such a vehicle.
He helped push the carriage out of its shed and onto the bridle path, which led from the main house to the regional road about a half mile away. The morning sunshine lit up the vermilion sides of the coach and glinted off the gold trim that edged the roof and outlined the geometric X pattern on the two sides. The carriage could hold six comfortably, though only Sextus, Julia, and perhaps a close friend or two ever occupied it. Quintus imagined that Lucius would now also be seated upon the soft couches in the luxurious interior.
“Where is the family off to so early this morning?” Quintus asked the grooms as he helped steer the coach backward.
“Master Viator has expanded his mercantile shop at the baths,” answered one of the junior workers. “He and the family are attending the opening this morning.”
“Grumbles! Watch what you’re doing!” The voice came from Dida, the head groom. “You’re going to run the coach into the garden.”
Two of the larger horses were led from their stalls. One set of grooms maneuvered the matched pair into place while another began hitching them to the carriage. The mare on the left shifted forward and back to shake off the groom’s hand. Quintus held tight to the bridle.
“Hold her, Grumbles,” Dida said. “I need to cinch her backstrap.”
“‘Grumbles’! That’s great.” The words were followed by a forced laugh. The voice came from behind the carriage. Quintus leaned out to see around the horse’s flank, though he knew by the voice who it was.
Lucius peered back with his perpetual smirk. Sextus and Julia stood behind him next to the rear wheel. Julia moved her hand to Lucius’s shoulder, preparing to restrain him. Their wardrobe was dazzling, backlit by the low sun. Sextus wore a beige tunic and dark brown pallium, which blended beautifully with the rich green tones of Julia’s stola and palla, the small cloak that covered her shoulders. But it was the sight of Lucius dressed in a long white tunic and red pallium that took Quintus by surprise. It was the first time he had seen the slave boy dressed in formal garments of the patrician class, and the sight left him speechless. Lucius looked at least three years beyond his age of fifteen.
“Let’s be off,” said Sextus. “There are still some preparations that need to be made before the customers arrive.” Sextus prodded Julia and Lucius toward the step at the carriage doorway. Lucius gloated as he stepped into the sumptuous coach while his former master held the horses steady. Quintus had to look away. The sight made him physically ill.
The head groom stepped up to the driver’s seat. Quintus released his grip on the straps. He dared not look up for fear of what he might say or do. Another beating at the hands of the tall foreman was not something he wished upon himself. The whip cracked and hooves clattered on the crushed stone path. As the wooden wheels began to roll, he heard Lucius’s voice.
“Back to work, Grumbles.” The laugh that followed trailed off as the carriage rode down the bridle path. The servants dispersed and Quintus stood alone.
That laugh lingered in Quintus’s ears for the rest of the day. When night came he could not sleep, for each time he closed his eyes he saw Lucius in his red pallium standing before him, laughing. Although three other slaves slept only a few feet from his bedside, he could not have felt more alone. His frustration began to give way to hopelessness. He wallowed in self-pity as he lay there with tears running down his face. Reality was beginning to set in. No longer were his strong father and compassionate mother there for him. Nor was Aulus. He was now truly alone, for the only family members still alive had forsaken him. His loneliness grew to desolation.
The more he tried to ignore his sorrows through sleep, the more his brain refused to allow it. His father’s warning kept floating back to him. Be wary of those who do not have. For they would rather take from those who have, than earn the spoils themselves. He spent the late-night hours considering what he could have done differently to heed the warning and prevent this repulsive situation. How did this happen? Was it his fault? After hours of self-judgment and deliberation, he finally came to a conclusion that allowed him some welcome moments of peace. He decided that, under the bizarre circumstances, he could have done nothing to ward off his dilemma.
The relief was almost physical. He felt as though a mental fever had broken. The hours of self-analysis and painful catharsis had finally cleansed him of the guilt he felt at letting Lucius win. Now his father’s second piece of advice came to him. Never let your opponent see you upset, either from fear or emotion. His thoughts were becoming much clearer now. He set a course for himself. It did not take long to determine that two things had to be done. First, he must confront Lucius alone. He must let him know this new life for both of them was only temporary. Second, he must begin plotting his escape. Being a stranger in a strange land, he needed to bide his time. But when the opportunity arose, whether in a week, a month, or a year, he would make good his escape and pursue a new survival plan. It was time for him to choose his own life rather than have others choose it for him.
His mind was finally at ease. Sleep came with only a few hours of darkness left.
Quintus dedicated the next few weeks to changing his attitude. He found solace in the thought that life sometimes takes strange paths and this was his current avenue, albeit a temporary diversion. With a more positive outlook, he noticed the servant staff began treating him better. He was the first up every morning and did his best to appear anxious to get on with his chores. He never again mentioned the identity theft and ceased all whining and complaining. Unfortunately, much to his chagrin, the nickname “Grumbles” was there to stay.
The weeks passed quickly for Quintus as he threw himself into his work, even offering to help others when his daily tasks were completed. The first of the new duties for which he volunteered was well-calculated. Being in and around the stables got him more comfortable with the horses. He watched some of the younger grooms exercise the animals each morning, riding them through the pastures and along the bridle paths. With the villa in its remote countryside location, he would need some form of transportation to get anywhere an escape plan would eventually take him. He had to learn how to ride.
The head groom welcomed his request and was more than happy to train him, since they barely had enough stableboys to exercise the dozens of horses on a regular schedule. Quintus’s first few outings were tenuous at best, but he caught on quickly. Having spent little time atop a horse before coming to Britannia, he marveled at the feeling of power he got being on horseback. Virtually everyone in Rome walked within the city, so occasional romps through a country field on a family outing had been the extent of his horsemanship in Italia. But here at the villa, he was handling the mares with ease in just a few weeks. The feisty stallions took a while longer.
As he had hoped, with his new duties and better attitude, his freedom at the villa increased. This allowed more access to areas and materials that might help with his new objective. He learned the layout of the family’s winged corridor house, although under Sextus’s order, he was still kept away from Lucius whenever possible.
His first real opportunity to put his new plans into action came with an errand to the equipment shed. Alone in the dim, hazy shack, he was able to pocket a sharp blade and a broken handle from an old gardening tool. These he buried inside the third stable building. His grooming work with Saturnia, his favorite mare, allowed him enough time each day to slowly fashion the pieces into a formidable knife. Tough strands of horsehair from Saturnia’s mane helped hold the blade securely to the handle. He considered smuggling the weapon into his quarters, but with only the small box at the foot of his bed as a hiding place, the knife could be too easily discovered. He decided to leave it buried in the corner of Saturnia’s stall.
His second opportunity came a few weeks later.
“Grumbles! You’re needed at the house this morning,” one of Julia’s handmaidens yelled down the narrow corridor of the slave quarters. Quintus was just finishing his breakfast of bread and cheese. He jogged out of the cramped room and ran to the servant’s entrance at the rear of the villa home. The tall foreman met him just inside the kitchen.
“Master Quintus did not feel well last evening. His chamber pots are more than full.”
Quintus tried his best to hide the smile of guilty pleasure that was growing on his lips. The effort did not escape the tall man. He broke into a smile of his own as he continued.
“He has personally requested that you clean it up.”
For an instant, Quintus felt his hatred for Lucius swelling. But he was determined to keep his temper in check.
“But, sir. I have been told to remain clear of Master ... Quintus.” It was the first time he had used his own name when referring to Lucius. The effort was painful.
“Master Quintus is outside the villa getting some much needed fresh air.”
Quintus wanted to punch the wall, but kept calm. He decided to look at this unpleasant duty as an unexpected opportunity. He relaxed and bowed slightly. “Then I am at his service.”
The foreman almost looked disappointed at Quintus’s eagerness. “His room is the second door on the left in the east wing corridor. Get to it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quintus grabbed a handful of cleaning rags from the wash basin and walked from the kitchen. He passed a few servants in the wide hallway going about their household chores. He remembered his last time in this hallway, he had been dragged kicking and screaming by two large servants back to the slave barracks.
He came to Lucius’s room. He could tell it was the correct room from the stench of waste that reached him before he opened the door. He pulled at the handle, and the foul odor that assaulted his nose was worse than his first day in the stables. He walked quickly to the window and threw open the shutters, remaining there to catch a few breaths of fresh air. In the distance, by the banks of the river Avon, he could see Lucius and Julia sitting under a tall tree, the leaves beginning to turn shades of autumn gold. It could have been such a beautiful scene, he thought, if it weren’t for the rubbish seated next to his aunt.
He tore himself from the freshness of the outdoors, back to the reek of Lucius’s room. Three large pots were filled with a vile combination of vomit and human waste. What wasn’t in the bowls was splattered on the white mosaic tiles.
Quintus began by tying one of the rags around his lower face. He preferred the musty smell of the damp rag to what was in the pots. One by one, he walked the pots down the hall, through the kitchen and out to the waste trough that was dug behind the villa walls. He rinsed the pots at the well, then returned to the room to clean the floors. He worked quickly in order to leave himself enough time to explore Lucius’s quarters. He casually pushed the door closed as he wiped the floors near the entranceway. He took the cloth from his face and tossed it on the pile of used rags in the corner.
The room was large, almost the size of Sextus’s office. Quintus assumed that his aunt and uncle had given Lucius their biggest guest room as his own. The bed was placed near the window. It was moderate in size with a low headboard and footboard decorated with tortoise shell. He sat on the violet blanket and sank into the wool-stuffed mattress. He hadn’t realized how much he missed a bed that was not stuffed with straw. He ran his hand over the small pillow. It had taken him many weeks with a stiff neck to get used to sleeping without one.
Above the headboard was a polished marble shelf bearing a statuette of Neptune. The water god looked down on the bed like a sentinel, his trident raised in glory. Quintus wondered if the effigy had been in the room before Lucius’s arrival—or did Lucius seek to honor the deity who had given him his new life? The thought rekindled Quintus’s rage over the loss of his parents at sea as this god looked on indifferently. He lifted the hefty bronze figure, spat in its face, then replaced it on the shelf.
He rose and walked across the room to the large upright chest. A tug on the hand-carved walnut doors revealed a colorful assortment of clothing, including the bright red pallium Lucius had worn to the Aquae Sulis shop opening. Sextus and Julia had filled the cabinet with an incredible assortment of garments, perhaps twice the number Quintus had hanging in his Rome villa. There were certainly advantages to owning your own mercantile business, he thought.
Quintus quietly closed the cabinet and glanced out the window to be sure Lucius was still by the river. He was. He turned his attention to the small trunk next to the bed. As he approached it a glint of recognition crossed his mind. He knew this trunk with its distinctive twin silver handles. This was his storage box from the Vesta! But how could it be here? Some of the wreckage must have been salvaged by the fishermen, he concluded. He grasped the twin handles and slowly raised the lid. The once-full box was now only half filled with clutter. His neatly folded tunics had been removed, probably ruined after sitting for days in the seawater. What remained were two pairs of sandals, a drinking horn in the shape of a small deer head, a game of bones, the small flute he had never learned to play, wax writing tablets, a stylus, and a small bronze urn in which he kept his mementos. Each item brought a flood of memories. He knew exactly the last time he had used each article. But the bronze urn struck the deepest chord inside him, for he remembered the last keepsake he had placed inside. His hand began to shake as his fingers slowly tipped back the lid and entered the narrow neck of the container. They stretched deep, probing the few small trinkets within. He touched leather and his heart jumped.
“Yes!” he whispered out loud.
Snagging the small strap, he slowly lifted his hand from the urn. His eyes welled with tears as he stared at the small leather pouch that hung from his hand. Although stiff and crusted by salt water, it was the loveliest thing Quintus had seen in weeks. He pulled at the top rim and unveiled the precious relic inside. He gazed at the miniature terra-cotta ship captain that lay in the palm of his hand. It was like rediscovering a long-lost friend. In this tiny figure he saw his father enjoying the naumachia again. He saw his mother admiring the craftsmanship of his boat in their garden. And he saw Aulus rescuing the captain and his beautiful ship from the hands of an infidel. He closed his fingers around the figurine and clutched it to his chest. He vowed that this token, the symbol of those he had loved so much and then lost, would never again leave his possession.
Voices in the hallway broke his trance. Two servants passed by without opening the door. But Quintus realized he was spending too much time in the room. Someone might soon be looking for him. He placed the captain back into the pouch, reached up under his olive tunic, and tucked the pouch inside the band of his undergarment. Then he silently closed the trunk and rose to the window. Lucius and Julia were walking along the riverbank. He pulled the shutters closed and threw the latch to secure them. He froze a moment, studying the simple latch and the slight gap between the two wooden shutters. He slowly raised the metal hook on the right screen out of the small eyelet on the opposite screen. Slowly and carefully, he released the hook and noticed how it remained pointing upward. He tapped lightly on the shutter and the hook immediately fell sideways, its point seating into the eyelet.
“Grumbles! Are you finished yet?”
Quintus jumped. The voice came from the slave foreman who was standing in the now open doorway. Quintus wondered how long he had been standing there.
“Yes, sir. I aired out the room. I was just closing up.”
The foreman made a face. Quintus was unsure if it reflected a sense of disbelief or a sense of unhappiness about something in the room.
“The stench still lingers. Bring in one of the floral displays from the hallway and put it on the cabinet. Perhaps the scent of flowers will work some magic in here.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.” Quintus was relieved. He scurried past the tall man and sought the fresh flowers.
When he finished inside, Quintus left through the kitchen servant’s entrance and walked the long way back toward the slave barracks. He carefully counted the windows as he passed the outside of the east wing.
The cool night air was a welcome relief after another long day with the horses. But on this night, adrenaline kept Quintus awake. He lay staring at the dark ceiling for hours until he heard the loud snoring and heavy breathing that told him the three other slaves in the room were fully asleep. He rose slowly, careful not to rustle the straw mattress, and tiptoed down the hall.
As with all trusted servants, there were no locks to keep him inside the slave barracks at night. Quintus was soon moving across the villa grounds, keeping to the shadows and out of the pale yellow light cast by the full moon. He made his way to the stables, where he dug in the corner of Saturnia’s stall for his knife. Despite the midnight intrusion, his favorite mare remained silent.
“Good girl,” he whispered in her twitching ear. “Go back to sleep now. I’ll be back shortly.” He tucked the dirty knife securely into the belt at his waist and left the stables.
He walked quickly along the whitewashed wall to the main house, then made his way along the east wing. He re-counted the windows, knowing that Lucius’s bedroom was behind the fourth set of shutters. He quietly approached his target, looking right and left for any late-night wanderers on the villa grounds. He was alone.
He slipped the knife from his belt, then hesitated. He thought for a moment about the prudence of this act. If he was caught breaking into his master’s chambers with a knife, his punishment would be far worse than a beating. Given his past encounters with Lucius, chances were good he would be arrested for attempted murder. But he knew he had to do this. It was part of the new decree he had written for himself. He thought of Julius Caesar’s words as he crossed the Rubicon to secure his own future a hundred years earlier: The die is cast.
He stood from his crouched position and the center of the window came to eye level. He carefully inserted the knife into the gap between the two red shutters. With steady hands he slid the blade upward until he heard the delicate metal clink as it struck the interior latch. He applied a bit more pressure and heard the hook uncouple from the eyelet. He guided the blade slowly higher until in his mind’s eye he could see the hook standing up on end. Cautiously he gripped the shutter frame and gave a gentle tug. It opened easily and quietly. He took one last look around the grounds then hoisted himself through the opening.
The full moon spilled just enough light into the room to allow Quintus limited vision. He checked the latch hook and saw it was still balanced straight up on its tiny hinge. He stood at the foot of the bed, savoring the moment. Lucius lay on his side, facing away from the window. His shallow, labored breathing told Quintus he was still feeling the effects of his illness. With the knife firmly in his grasp, Quintus approached the bed.
In a swift, carefully calculated move, he was on the mattress with his hand tight over Lucius’s mouth and the knife point aimed at the back of the boy’s neck. Lucius twitched violently and his eyes sprang open. Quintus pressed the cold metal tip of the blade against the nape of Lucius’s neck to let him know this was no dream. He heard Lucius whimper as he leaned close to his ear.
“I should kill you right now, you lying bastard.”
Quintus spit the words into Lucius’s ear and felt his captive shudder as he recognized the voice.
“But that’s not why I’m here. That would be too quick for you. I’m here to let you know that the tables will turn once again. Every day of your life, no matter where you are, you should be looking over your shoulder. For on one of those days, I will be there to avenge what you have done here. This I swear on the souls of my mother and father. Do you hear me? My mother and father!”
Quintus tightened his grip on the boy’s mouth to help make his point. Lucius was obviously having a hard time breathing and pulled at Quintus’s hand. Quintus enjoyed watching him squirm. He leaned closer to torment him further.
“On second thought, perhaps I should take my revenge right now by plunging this blade into your neck at the base of your skull.” He pressed the blade a bit firmer, but was careful not to break the skin. “Do you realize that’s the quickest way to die, Lucius? It’s the way a gladiator kills his foe in the arena.” Quintus smiled as he felt the tremors increase in Lucius’s body. “Or perhaps I should just slice your back wide open.” He removed the knife from the nape of Lucius’s neck, but instead of placing it at his back, he laid it aside and reached for the statue of Neptune on the shelf above the headboard. He positioned the water god’s trident firmly against Lucius’s spine halfway up his back, which sent a visible spasm through the boy’s trembling body.
“Now, you’re not going to scream like a baby, are you?”
Lucius shook his head in a short burst under Quintus’s hand.
“Why don’t you tell me—quietly—how you managed this deceit so cleverly.”
Quintus slowly eased the pressure off Lucius’s mouth. There were long gasps of air as Lucius filled his starved lungs. Quintus glanced at the bronze statue and wedged the bottom firmly against the soft mattress, freeing his hand to once again grasp the knife. Lucius had gulped enough air to begin pleading for his life.
“Don’t kill me! What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything. Just don’t kill me.”
Imperceptibly, Quintus began slipping from the bed.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning? A false move or a loud cry and this knife will find the back side of your heart.” Quintus jostled Neptune’s trident to help make his point.
“It was on the beach ... near the shipwreck. After you were knocked out I changed our tunics. I just wanted to feel fine cotton for once in my life. But then some fishermen came. I was afraid ... Aulus ... He ... He was already dead. I panicked. I ... I didn’t know what to do. You can understand that ... Can’t you?”
There was silence.
“Can’t you understand how I was confused?”
There was silence again, then a slight tapping and the frail sound of a small piece of metal falling.
Lucius did not know what to do. Did Quintus want him to continue? Why wouldn’t he answer? Without moving his head, he strained his eyes to see Quintus crouching behind him. He feared the blade’s incision if he dared turn around. So he laid paralyzed with fear and waited. But still there was only silence.
“Look, what do you want of me?” He worked up enough courage to turn his head a bit. The point of pressure lessened against his back. He seized the moment and jumped from the bed.
“An intruder! Help me! He has a weapon!” His muffled cries echoed through the hallways of the east wing. The servants who lived in the main house were the first to be roused. Julia shook Sextus awake. Within seconds of his call, the heavy door to Lucius’s room was thrown open and in stepped two of the household slaves.
Lucius sat shivering in the corner, too frightened to move in the dark. “An intruder! In my room! He’s armed!”
A kitchen worker arrived with an oil lamp and they began searching the room. Julia and Sextus pushed past the small crowd of flustered servants gathered in the doorway.
“What is it, Quintus? What’s happened?”
“It was Lucius! That scheming slave boy! He held a knife to my neck as I slept!”
“What?” Sextus yelled.
Lucius rambled on as Julia led him back to the bed. She held him close to settle him down. “He grabbed my mouth. And then he put his knife to my back and said he’d kill me!”
Over Julia’s shoulder, Lucius saw the slave with the oil lamp look toward Sextus and shrug. “Master Viator, there is no place to hide in this room. No one is here.”
Lucius was outraged. “He’s here I tell you!” he screamed at the slave.
Sextus walked to the window shutters, paused, and then moved toward the foot of the bed. Lucius heard his voice from behind him.
“He had a knife like this against your back?”
Lucius felt the tip of the knife on his back once again and jumped with a holler. “Yes! Yes! Like that!” Lucius turned to see the statue of Neptune in Sextus’s hand.
Sextus smiled. He took the oil lamp from the kitchen servant and dismissed the staff.
“You’ve had a bad dream, Quintus. Probably from your illness last night. It’s nothing.”
“No, he was here, Uncle. I heard him.”
“Ah, you heard him, but did you see him?” Sextus smiled at Julia, who still held the boy tight.
“No. The room was dark. But I know his voice.”
“Look, the window shutters are still latched from the inside. If he had used the door, someone would have seen him running through the house, no? Where else could he have gone?”
Lucius could not answer. Sextus nodded to Julia and she laid the boy’s head back on the pillow.
“We’ll leave the lamp for you for the rest of the night,” she said gently. “Try to go back to sleep.”
They shut the door quietly as they left. Lucius watched the single flame flicker against the walls. The words were still clear in his head. Too clear to have been heard in a dream.
Every day of your life, no matter where you are, you should be looking over your shoulder.
They were said with an intensity he would never forget.
For on one of those days, I will be there to avenge what you have done here.
Lucius knew this was no dream. And he knew beyond any doubt that Quintus meant what he had said.