The day was hot again and the flies buzzed about Marcus in a black swarm. He could do nothing to send them away. His bound wrists were lashed above his head. His feet scarcely touched the ground. The stake they had tied him to was of rough pine that tormented his bare back with its bark and knots. But this was not as bad as the flies. They walked across his wet face and explored his nostrils. He had not strength enough to snort them away now. The arrow-wound in his shoulder felt as hot as fire, and there was a deep ache in his chest from the spear blow.
A rough-coated dog came sniffing towards him, then saw that he was alive and stopped, snarling, his hair bristling. Marcus said in a whisper, “Wait a little while longer, comrade. I shall not go away, I promise you.”
Four boys came with stones and drove the dog away. Then they sat under the tall pine stake and gazed up at Marcus, not cruelly, but with curiosity. They spoke a very fair Latin, but from his half-shut eyes, Marcus saw that they were British of one sort or another—probably from among the woodland Cantii, he thought, judging by the iron-work of their belt buckles.
The oldest of them, a red-haired boy with freckles under his blue eyes, said, “I will bet that he will die before tomorrow. I will lay my iron dagger on it.”
The other boys laughed. One of them said, “Tomorrow! Why, this one is strong enough to last till Suetonius gets here—and that could be the day after. They are very strong, these Romans. My father says that you can stick a spear through them, and they will not die. He knows, he has done it many times.”
The red-haired boy scoffed. “Your father,” he said, “he has never even seen a Roman, that old man. He has never put a spear to anything bigger than a wild dog. He has never even faced a wolf, much less a Roman.”
They lost interest in Marcus then and began to play at dice in the dust. Marcus tried to call out to them, to ask them for a cup of water, but his throat was too dry and at last he gave up trying.
Then the red-haired boy got up from the ground and strolled over to him, whistling and not looking into his face. He said to the others, “Hey, he has a little pouch behind his belt. There might be something in it. If we took what was in it, no one would know, and he will not want it any longer.”
Marcus made a great effort as the boy’s fingers searched in the pouch and he groaned out, “Behave yourself, fellow. You speak like a Roman, behave like one. Get away from me.”
The boy stared up at him in astonishment. Then he turned to the others and said, “He is still alive. He can talk. Listen to him, he can still say words.”
But Marcus had not the force left in him to speak again. He shut his eyes and heard the boys moving round him, slapping the pine stake and even trying to rock it in the ground. One of them said, “He is a Greek slave from Verulam. You can tell by his face and the marks on his body. He has had a harsh master and has run away to find work on a ship here. They often do. You can tell that. He must be a thief for them to hang him up like this. Greeks are great thieves, and they always tell people to behave.”
The red-haired boy said, “Greeks are the biggest liars in the world. Not even Romans can tell as many lies as Greeks can, though they try hard enough.”
Marcus was wishing that at least the boys would whisk the flies away from him, but they didn’t. Then he felt their hands dragging at his belt, and one of them feeling into the small deerskin pouch at his back. He tried to draw his body away from their fingers, but only swung on the hide-thongs. He heard them laugh at this, then one of them cry out, “Look what was in the pouch. It is a brooch. See, it is a bronze brooch shaped like a stag leaping. This is worth something. The Greek must have stolen it. Now it is mine.”
Suddenly he saw himself as a little boy, sitting on a horse in the sunken lane and the fierce queen handing this brooch to him. He had lost everything but this brooch, and now these boys were taking it away from him. In a strange way, he felt that once the brooch had been taken, he would have lost everything in his life, he would be ready to die. With a great effort he opened his eyes and growled, “That is mine. A queen gave it to me. It is mine.”
The three boys turned towards him and began to laugh, pointing at him. “A queen! A queen!” the red-haired one mocked. “What queen, slave? Why should a queen give her brooch to a slave?”
And all at once Marcus felt salt tears running down his cheeks. This was the final fall, he thought. This was what a man could come to, a soldier even, a Tribune of the Ninth. And now he wished that he could be dead, so that he could forget all the things that troubled him, all the pride and strength he had lost, all the friends he had lost.
One of the boys said, “See, the Greek is weeping! He is a grown man, but he is weeping. We British do not weep like these cowardly outlanders.”
Then suddenly from behind him, Marcus heard swift footsteps running, and a sharp voice calling out, “Leave the man alone, you little rogues. What have you taken from him, you alley robbers! Give it back!”
A girl of perhaps sixteen came rushing at them, her light golden hair flying, a stick in her hand. She had her blue gown tucked up above her knees and could move faster than any of the boys.
The red-haired one cried out, “It is the Saxon, look out, comrades.”
Another one said, “Do not hit us, Gerd, we were only looking at the brooch. We did not mean to steal it. He said we could look at it.”
But she did not listen to them. Her stick flailed about and landed many times on backs and legs and shoulders. They flung down the brooch and ran away, threatening that they would bring their brothers or fathers, and that she would be sorry for what she had done before the day was out. But she called certain things after them that made even Marcus start with shock.
Then she turned to him, the brooch in her hand, and said in quite a different voice, “Shall I put the brooch inside your tunic, what is left of it? It might be safer there.”
He looked down on her and tried to smile. She reminded him more of his sister, Livia, than anyone he had seen. Then, in another light, she was like Aranrhod, only older. Her eyes were deep blue and set wide apart. Her nose was straight and thin. Her mouth was quite broad and turned up at the corners as though she would rather laugh than cry. Marcus thought that she was very pretty. Wryly he thought that if only she were scrubbed and put into fine clothes instead of this ragged-hemmed gown of dirty blue wool, she might even be beautiful. With rings on her fingers and a gold collar about her neck, she could pass for the daughter of a Senator.
He said to her, “I have no further use for the brooch, girl. Take it as a gift from me for driving the boys away.”
The girl looked at the bronze stag in her narrow palm, then back at him with puzzled wide eyes. She said hoarsely, “You do not mean it. No one would give away such a brooch. I cannot take such a fine thing, what would I do with it? Someone would kill me for it. I own only what I stand up in, and this distaff. They would know and would kill me, the night-robbers.”
Marcus said, “Very well, put it into my tunic. But I would like you to have it when they take my body down from this stake.”
She wafted the flies from him, then began to scratch her head and bite her lip. Gazing up at him she said, “I am of the Saxones, and my village is by the river Albis. My name is Gerd and I have warriors for my father and brothers. Not one of my kinsmen has died in his bed for ten generations. We trace our family back to Woden.”
Marcus almost smiled then, but thought better of it. He nodded gravely and said, “That is a fine record, Gerd. Tell me, are you a slave here in Londinium?”
She shook her tangled head and said proudly, “We of the Saxones have never been slaves. If they tried to make slaves of us, we should cut our throats with a piece of flint, or should make ourselves starve to death rather than serve them. I came on a ship to this place when my village died in the drought last year. My cousin, Brand, brought me and set me on the shore. He is a good man and a pirate. His ship lies off the island of Vectis through the summer. He gets good pickings from the Roman ships that pass back and forth. They are very stupid, the Romans.”
Marcus said, “I am a Roman, believe it or not.”
Gerd stared at him and said without smiling, “I thought you were a British warrior from the way you speak. But now I think you must be a Roman, to be so stupid and hang up like this. You have many cuts and bruises on you, but they will not kill you. I have seen worse wounds on my father and my brothers, and they always lived, until the drought came and killed them. Always they brought their wounds to the women of the village. My mother knew all the cures, and gathered herbs for various wounds. No, you will not die, unless they starve you to death on this stake.”
She tore a length from the hem of her robe and wiped the sweat from his face. Then she looked round to where the three merchants were having their stalls set up, just by the wooden gates of the city.
Suddenly she began to walk away. “Do not be afraid,” she said, “I am not leaving you. I will come back.”
After a while the three merchants left their stalls in charge of slaves and came walking towards the stake, led by Gerd who tried to hurry them along. Marcus even thought she would strike at them with her distaff.
Orosius came to him first, smiling, and said, “I wondered what had happened to you, Spaniard. I have looked for you in the streets. They seem to have taken a dislike to you. Well, at least I can fetch you a cup of wine and some honey-cakes that I had thought to eat myself at midday.”
Ochter the Balt said gruffly, “This fellow would do better eating a piece of beef and drinking a horn of northern ale. That would put the heart back in him.”
Gerd pushed him aside. “He is too weak to eat and drink like you fat folk,” she said sharply. “Stand aside and let the Armenian put salves on his wounds.”
Ochter smiled at her and said, “You speak like a true woman of the northlands. If I had a daughter such as you, I would be a proud man. Does your master want to sell you? How much does he want for you?”
But she was not listening to him. She was almost dragging Ula Buriash forward by the sleeve of his robe.
And after a while, when the Armenian had put ointment into the shoulder wound and had bound Marcus about the chest with tight strips of linen, Ula Buriash said, “Such cures ask for payment. Has he anything to give in return?”
Gerd swung on him in fury. “What,” she said, her eyes and nostrils wide, “you dare to ask such a thing from one who cannot help himself? Are you a true man or another sort of thief?”
The Armenian held out his hands and raised his shoulders in protest. The other merchants smiled and nodded at her in agreement. Orosius said, “Ula is only teasing, girl. He is always the same. Bargaining is in his blood, but he means no harm.”
Then Gerd turned on him and said, “And you, what will you do for this man? Will you buy him and set him free?”
Orosius said gravely, “I would, if he was for sale, little one. But I think that he is being punished for something, and if I interfered, I would lose my licence to trade here. You understand, a merchant is at the mercy of the city authorities. He cannot do as he would wish always.”
Gerd spat in the dust. “Licences, mercy!” she said. “City authorities! They are just words, merchant. Show that you are a man, and buy him. Then you can set him free again.”
The Spaniard’s face was troubled. He said slowly, “I cannot break the law, little one. How can you ask me to break the law of the land I trade in?”
Gerd almost struck him with the stick, but suddenly the big Balt Ochter took her by the wrist and said, “There, war-maiden, you are too ready with that distaff of yours. Try to learn that you can get your own way without beating out the brains of all who hold another opinion.”
Then he passed by her and taking a sharp knife from his robe, bent and cut the thongs that held Marcus by the ankles. So, holding his arm about the Roman to support him, he reached up and slashed away the wrist thongs, then let Marcus slide gently to the ground.
They all looked at Ochter in surprise, but he only smiled, wiped the blade of his knife and put it away again.
“I shall sail out of Londinium on the afternoon tide,” he said thickly. “I do not think there is any more trade to be done now. There are other markets a man may trade in. Britain is not the only place in the world, thanks be to Woden. I think I shall pack up straightway and, if I can find a comfortable boat, set up my stall somewhere in Gaul.”
He said no more but walked back slowly towards the striped awnings.
Orosius said then, “Well, we have broken the law, and we cannot mend what we have broken. If you two would care to take ship with me, we will sail down to Gades. I do not think anyone will molest us. The seas are very quiet, I hear, at the moment.”
Gerd looked at Marcus, but he shook his head. “I must stay,” he answered. “I would like to see Gades, but I must stay.”
Then Gerd said, “I must stay too. This man needs someone to look after him. Besides, I have promised to meet my cousin, Brand, later in the year. He has a business off the island of Vectis.”
Orosius smiled thinly. “I have heard of his business,” he said. “It is something to do with shipping, I understand.”
Gerd gave him a stern glance. “Yes, it is,” she said. “And on your way down to Gades he might even do business with you, merchant.”
The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. “He will find that I drive a hard bargain,” he said. “I do not travel without protection. Your cousin Brand might find himself sailing back to Germany without his shirt.”
Then suddenly another thought seemed to strike him. He said gently to the girl, “Come with me to my stall. I have a shirt and a few other things that would fit this man. If he is to stay in the city, he had better be dressed so that Geir and his watchdogs do not recognise him again.”
And when Gerd had helped Marcus on with the grey shirt and green woollen cloak and hood, he looked a different man. But Ula Buriash shook his head and smiled. “No,” he said. “It is good but not good enough. A sharp-eyed rogue like Geir would pick him out. Come, lead him to my stall. I will show you how it should be done.”
There Marcus sat under the awning while Ula dyed his hair a chestnut colour and then wiped walnut stain on his face and limbs. And when the Armenian had finished, Gerd stood back and laughed. “Why, he looks like an African,” she said. “He has just come up from the deserts, I am sure. Tell me, African, where are your camels then?”
But Ula Buriash had no more time for jesting. Quickly he made his servants pack up the stall and put it on a handcart. As the merchants went down towards the river, they waved at Marcus and Gerd.
“Come with us, if you wish,” said Ochter. “There are better places to be in than this midden-heap, you know. I could show you cities where even the slaves wear silver and silk. You would never believe it.”
Once more Gerd looked up at Marcus, as though she wished to go with the merchants, but his face was as set as it ever had been. So she shook her head and waved farewell to the traders.
Then, taking Marcus by the hand, she led him from that place before the militia made their morning tour of duty. She knew every lane and alley-way in the city, and they met no one but market-porters and masons carrying their toolbags to the new sites they were working on.