Outcast (8 page)
Authors: Rosemary Sutcliff
Long after the other slaves were asleep that night, Beric lay wakeful in his blanket in the long dormitory, staring into the darkness, sick and battered with longing for his own people. His own people, he thought, bitterly; but he had no people. He had thought of the Tribe as his own people, and the Tribe had cast him out; he had thought of the Romans as his own people, and the Romans had made him a slave; a thing to be bought and sold like a chariot pony but with less fellow feeling than most men had for their chariot ponies. He had no people, no belonging place. It had been so little that he had hoped for; only that he might be the Lady Lucilla’s slave in a kinder household than this, and get away from Glaucus, whom he hated, and who hated him. And instead, he was become Glaucus’s slave. Out of the darkness he seemed to see Glaucus’s face with the pleasant mask fallen from it, the eyes narrowing like an angry cat’s as they looked at him.
On the next pallet, Hippias began to mutter in his sleep, as he did sometimes, and a new uneasiness was stirred in Beric, on the old groom’s account … .
All next day, and all the day after, Beric looked out for a chance to speak with the Lady Lucilla alone, but it was not until the third morning that he found it. That morning Glaucus went out early, with Automedan his body-slave in attendance, to meet a friend at the gymnasium, and a little later Beric learned by overhearing the loud complaints of the Lady Poppaea, who it seemed had wanted to speak to her daughter about something, that the Lady Lucilla had gone down to the temple of Sylvan Pan, without asking leave, and taking only Aglæa, her old nurse, with her.
Beric knew the little temple of Sylvan Pan in the vale between the Viminal and the Esquiline. It was a temple that few people visited nowadays, for the gods of Greece and Rome were falling into disuse, and the gods of Egypt and Persia taking their places. Jupiter and Mars and the like were safe, of course, because they were a national habit, and so the people still sacrificed to them even when they no longer believed in them; but the lesser gods were suffering. People had almost forgotten Pan, and the little temple was fading and falling into ill repair, and the garden in which it stood becoming a flowering wilderness. But for some reason, perhaps for that very reason, the Lady Lucilla liked it, and would sometimes slip down there to talk to the one old saffron-robed attendant priest, and put a sesterce in his bowl, and watch the goldcrests that nested in the osiers and overgrown arbutus of the garden. Beric had been her escort on several such visits, for though the place was quite near her home, it was also near to the Suburra, the teeming slums of Rome, that thrust up the vale towards it in a long tongue, and so she was not really supposed to go unattended.
Hearing that she had gone there now, Beric knew that he would never get a better chance of speaking with her alone, in the few days that were left before her wedding; and laying down Glaucus’s fine leather tunic, which he was supposed to
be cleaning, he set out there and then. He would have to think of an excuse to get him out, for though the gates stood open, slaves going out had to give their reasons to Agathos the porter; his brain felt woolly with lack of sleep, so that it was hard to think at all, but as he crossed the inner court, he saw a cyclamen-coloured cloak of the Lady Lucilla’s flung across the marble bench. A year of the arm-ring had taught Beric a certain amount of guile, and he caught up the cloak in passing, and reached the gate carrying it.
be cleaning, he set out there and then. He would have to think of an excuse to get him out, for though the gates stood open, slaves going out had to give their reasons to Agathos the porter; his brain felt woolly with lack of sleep, so that it was hard to think at all, but as he crossed the inner court, he saw a cyclamen-coloured cloak of the Lady Lucilla’s flung across the marble bench. A year of the arm-ring had taught Beric a certain amount of guile, and he caught up the cloak in passing, and reached the gate carrying it.
‘My Lady has forgotten her mantle,’ he told Agathos, ‘and the wind is cold to-day.’ And without waiting for Agathos to point out that there was not a breath of wind stirring, he strode out into the road. He went down by a narrow back way that zig-zagged among the high walls of houses, until he reached the arched entrance to the temple garden, and turned in under low-hanging scented branches of lemon and myrtle and arbutus. He found the Lady Lucilla almost at once. She was sitting on a bench of weathered marble close beside the temple itself, sitting perfectly still, her head bent to watch a lizard, green as a living emerald, basking spread-fingered on the sun-hot stones at her feet; while Aglæa stood just behind her, her magenta veil making a patch of crude colour against the faded frieze of nymphs and satyrs.
She looked up quickly as Beric drew near, startling the lizard, so that it darted off like a flicker of green flame. ‘Why, Beric——’ she began: then she turned to the other woman, holding out something in her hand. ‘Aglæa, do you go to the priest, and give him this from me, and ask him to remember me when he makes the harvest offering.’
There was a chink as the money changed hands, and then her nurse scuttled off towards the glint of a saffron robe which showed afar off, where the old attendant priest was busy among his overgrown lemon trees. The Lady Lucilla turned back to Beric. ‘Is it that you want me to ask Father again? It would not be any use, Beric. I have tried, but it is as Glaucus says. Father takes such a dreadful pride in being a man of his word.’
Beric shook his head. ‘It is not for myself, my Lady, I—I——’
‘You what?’ asked Lucilla, after an unhappy pause.
‘My Lady, I had to come, to ask you if you would ask your father to give you Hippias instead of me.’
She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘Hippias? But Beric, I don’t want Hippias, and Valarius has all the stable slaves he needs.’
Beric came a step nearer in his eagerness. ‘Please, my Lady! Hippias is getting old; he’s getting past hard work since he broke his leg, but he is a master with horses! No stable could be the worse for having him in it. Only if you leave him here, I think—I am afraid—you see, he is my friend, the only friend I have in the household, and your brother ——’ He could not go on. The fear that had come to him in the night seemed so fantastic now in the daylight.
But the Lady Lucilla seemed to find nothing fantastic in it. ‘You are afraid that Glaucus may try to hurt you by hurting him?’
Beric gulped. ‘It——Oh, I know it is craziness to think such a thing; I am of too little account in his eyes for him to trouble himself; but it would be so easily done, to put the idea into the master’s head that he needs a younger groom. Hippias is so afraid of being sold. He was very afraid when he broke his leg.’
‘Did he tell you to ask me?’
Again Beric shook his head. ‘No, oh no. It was just my own idea. I am sorry if it was not a good one.’
The Lady Lucilla got up. ‘But it was a very good one,’ she said. ‘I will ask Father for Hippias to-night, and if he gives him to me, nobody shall sell him again; I promise you that.’
‘Thank you, my Lady.’ Beric took the two hands she held out to him, and so realized that he was still carrying her cloak across his arm. ‘My Lady, your mantle. I brought it as an excuse to come here after you. Will you take it?’
‘Give it to me. There. Now you must go back quickly.’
Beric hesitated. ‘You should not be here alone, my Lady.’
‘I am not alone. I have Aglæa and the priest yonder. Besides, no one ever comes here, save sometimes a farmer or herdsman in Rome for the day.’ She glanced round her at the overgrown garden. ‘That shows plainly enough, too.’
‘Not worshippers, no,’ Beric insisted. ‘But the Suburra is very near.’
‘It will not invade this place. Do you know, the old priest told me once that even at night, when all the odd corners of Rome are filled with beggars and cutpurses and poor homeless people, no one comes here, and even the Watch only pokes its nose in at the gate once in the night, and then goes on. He says that people no longer believe in Sylvan Pan when it is the time for offerings, but they are still afraid to catch the smell of goat, here in his garden.’ Her voice, which had sunk very low, became practical again. ‘You must go now. It is better that Glaucus should not know we have been together, not until after I have asked Father, so you must be back before he is.’
And that was true. Beric touched palm to forehead, and turning, went quickly back the way he had come.
Three days later he stood among the slaves who crowded the doorways of the guest-filled atrium, to see the Lady Lucilla brought down in all the glory of her bridal tunic, crowned with myrtle and rosemary and with her flame-coloured veil drawn close around her, to be married.
Valarius and his friends arrived, and the ceremony began. There was the sharp-sweet smoke of incense rising in blue spirals from the altars of the household gods, and vows taken, and offerings made of corn and wine and milk; and the Lady Lucilla moving through it all, looking small and rather forlorn in her wedding finery.
Was it well with her? Beric wondered, craning his neck to glimpse her little dumpy figure beside the tall, set, soldierly one of Valarius. But when the ceremony was over, and they turned together to face the throng, and Lucilla put back her flame-coloured veil, somehow he was reassured, not by anything
in her face, for she looked white and scared, but by the way Valarius took her hand and looked down at her. All would be well with the Lady Lucilla.
in her face, for she looked white and scared, but by the way Valarius took her hand and looked down at her. All would be well with the Lady Lucilla.
When the feasting that followed the ceremony was over and the dusk came, the guests, many of them holding torches, gathered in the outer courtyard; and the bride was led out to them, carrying three denarii in her hand, one for her husband, and one for the gods of her new household, and one for the gods of the nearest crossroads. Two of the girls who had been with her most often in the garden followed her, carrying her spindle and distaff; and Valarius and his friends closed round her, and swept her out through the gates and away into her new life. Many of the guests streamed after them, and right at the tail of the procession, with Aglæa, who carried the white kitten, walked old Hippias, still bewildered as to why he was going with the Lady Lucilla at all, and more than a little sad at leaving his own horses, but unutterably relieved to be going to a master who did not sell off his slaves when they grew old.
And standing in the shadows with the other slaves, Beric watched the little gay torchlit procession winding out through the gateway, carrying with it the only two friends he had in the world.
BREAKING-POINT
‘I
HAVE decided to change your name,’ Glaucus said, on the day after the wedding, lounging at ease on his sleeping couch, while Beric stood before him. ‘From now on, you will be called Hyacinthus.’
HAVE decided to change your name,’ Glaucus said, on the day after the wedding, lounging at ease on his sleeping couch, while Beric stood before him. ‘From now on, you will be called Hyacinthus.’
So even his name was to be taken from him, the one thing he had left, the thing that made him himself and nobody else. He had a sudden feeling of panic, as though the last fragile thread that still linked him to the life he knew was being snapped by the slender, ruthless hands of his new master. ‘My name is Beric,’ he said stubbornly.
‘Beric is not a name, it is a mere sound; good enough, doubtless, for the savages who called you by it, but not good enough for me,’ Glaucus said, almost idly, as though it were a fact so obvious as to be scarcely worth mentioning. ‘From now on, your name is Hyacinthus. You understand?’
‘I—understand.’
‘Oh, and another thing, while I remember it. I will not have you hanging round the stables. Now that my father has bought a decent slave in place of that old dotard Hippias, they have no need of your help with the horses. You are not to go into the stables at all, unless by my orders to bring round the chariot. The care of the team is no longer any concern of yours.’
‘It is always better that a team should know the man who drives them,’ Beric said urgently.
‘Doubtless that is the barbarian way, but it is not mine. You have your orders, and if you forget them, I will have you whipped to help you remember another time. Now get out.’
Beric turned on his heel without a word, and also without
the usual obeisance. It was a very futile gesture of defiance, he realized that, even as he made it. And almost in the same instant there was a quick movement behind him as Glaucus sprang from the couch, and he was caught by the shoulders and spun round to face his master. ‘Have you not forgotten something?’ Glaucus said softly, his fingers biting into Beric’s shoulders. Beric remained silent. ‘You should not leave my presence without saluting, because you are a slave, and I am your master; because you belong to me as my sandals belong to me. That is another thing for you to remember.’
the usual obeisance. It was a very futile gesture of defiance, he realized that, even as he made it. And almost in the same instant there was a quick movement behind him as Glaucus sprang from the couch, and he was caught by the shoulders and spun round to face his master. ‘Have you not forgotten something?’ Glaucus said softly, his fingers biting into Beric’s shoulders. Beric remained silent. ‘You should not leave my presence without saluting, because you are a slave, and I am your master; because you belong to me as my sandals belong to me. That is another thing for you to remember.’
Beric stood there tense and rigid under the gripping hands. If he had been a dog, the hackles would have risen on his neck; and something of that must have shown in his face, for Glaucus said quickly: ‘Do not you dare to show your teeth to me, you barbarian wolf’s whelp!’ and withdrawing one hand, struck him a sharp, deliberate blow across the cheek. ‘Now go, Hyacinthus.’
For an instant longer Beric stood perfectly still, with the deepening marks of four fingers burning in his cheek. Then he made his obeisance, and, almost choking, turned and strode out.
He was Hyacinthus, Glaucus’s slave, and without hope.
The months that followed were evil ones for Beric, a black time of injustice and casual-seeming cruelties and humiliations that made him writhe. Friendless in the great household, forbidden even the company of the horses, without any hope for the future, he got somehow through day after dreary day. Occasionally Lucilla came to visit her mother, but he seldom caught more than a distant glimpse of her. Glaucus saw to that.
Publius Piso said he had been right, after all. That slave
was
sullen. A good worker, doubtless, a fine charioteer, but sullen. He was never mistaken.
was
sullen. A good worker, doubtless, a fine charioteer, but sullen. He was never mistaken.
So things dragged on until the evening when Publius Piso gave a dinner-party to celebrate his election as one of the city’s four Ædiles for the coming year.
It was a big dinner-party, and Beric had been brought in to swell the number of the table slaves, as had happened more
than once before. Earlier that evening he had paraded with the rest for Nigellus’s inspection, all in new tunics issued for the occasion, and now, with the first course of eggs and anchovies and sharp-tasting herbs already on the table, he stood against the frescoed wall and looked about him. The whole scene seemed to swim in honey-coloured light that fell from the high silver wall lamps and fountained upwards from those on the polished citron-wood table. Cedar logs were burning on the charcoal in the braziers, the scent of them mingling like incense with that of the flowers on the table: winter cyclamen and anemones and aromatic sprigs of rosemary scattered among the gleaming dishes and banked around the silver figures of the household gods. The guests reclining on the softly cushioned dining-couches were each wearing a flower wreath, too, in which, if the laughter had not been quenched in him long ago, Beric would have thought that most of them looked distinctly comic. His gaze wandered over the faces of the guests, all turned towards their host as he poured the first oblation to the household gods. They were all men (even the Lady Poppaea had been banished to dine in her own chamber), mostly fellow magistrates of Publius Piso’s. Valarius should have been there, of course, but he had had to go south on business. Glaucus, the only young one there, and the only one whose wreath somehow did not look ridiculous, was behaving beautifully in his part of a boy among his elders, turning from one to another with just the right touch of deference that made them feel senior without making them feel old.
than once before. Earlier that evening he had paraded with the rest for Nigellus’s inspection, all in new tunics issued for the occasion, and now, with the first course of eggs and anchovies and sharp-tasting herbs already on the table, he stood against the frescoed wall and looked about him. The whole scene seemed to swim in honey-coloured light that fell from the high silver wall lamps and fountained upwards from those on the polished citron-wood table. Cedar logs were burning on the charcoal in the braziers, the scent of them mingling like incense with that of the flowers on the table: winter cyclamen and anemones and aromatic sprigs of rosemary scattered among the gleaming dishes and banked around the silver figures of the household gods. The guests reclining on the softly cushioned dining-couches were each wearing a flower wreath, too, in which, if the laughter had not been quenched in him long ago, Beric would have thought that most of them looked distinctly comic. His gaze wandered over the faces of the guests, all turned towards their host as he poured the first oblation to the household gods. They were all men (even the Lady Poppaea had been banished to dine in her own chamber), mostly fellow magistrates of Publius Piso’s. Valarius should have been there, of course, but he had had to go south on business. Glaucus, the only young one there, and the only one whose wreath somehow did not look ridiculous, was behaving beautifully in his part of a boy among his elders, turning from one to another with just the right touch of deference that made them feel senior without making them feel old.
How well he did it, Beric thought, watching him from his place against the wall, with the quiet, long-biding hatred of his foster people.
But to-night Beric’s chief attention, which until now had been focused upon his master in whatever company they might be, as though by the very strength of the hatred between them, was gradually caught and held by someone else: by a man with the distinctive carriage of the regular soldier, placed directly across the table from the son of the house, and deep
in quiet talk with an elderly senator beside him. This, Beric knew, for he had seen the man before, though never at close quarters, was Titus Drusus Justinius, a Senior Centurion of the Legions and a noted builder of roads and drainer of marshes to the outermost ends of the Empire. But it was something about the man himself, and not his reputation, that caught at the awareness of the slave against the wall, and indeed he was a figure to stand out in any company: a squat, barrel-chested man with immensely powerful shoulders, and arms whose length made him appear grotesque when one saw him standing. His dark, lean-cut face, with the great hooked nose and the black brows that almost met below the brand of Mithras on the forehead, might well have been a desert Arab’s, but when he raised his eyes from the wine-cup in his hand, instead of being, as one expected them to be, black with the sun behind them—they were the cold quiet grey of northern seas; the eyes of a man who might be merciless at times, but would never be unjust. It would be good to serve a man like that. ‘If I were his slave!’ Beric thought. ‘If only I were his slave!’
in quiet talk with an elderly senator beside him. This, Beric knew, for he had seen the man before, though never at close quarters, was Titus Drusus Justinius, a Senior Centurion of the Legions and a noted builder of roads and drainer of marshes to the outermost ends of the Empire. But it was something about the man himself, and not his reputation, that caught at the awareness of the slave against the wall, and indeed he was a figure to stand out in any company: a squat, barrel-chested man with immensely powerful shoulders, and arms whose length made him appear grotesque when one saw him standing. His dark, lean-cut face, with the great hooked nose and the black brows that almost met below the brand of Mithras on the forehead, might well have been a desert Arab’s, but when he raised his eyes from the wine-cup in his hand, instead of being, as one expected them to be, black with the sun behind them—they were the cold quiet grey of northern seas; the eyes of a man who might be merciless at times, but would never be unjust. It would be good to serve a man like that. ‘If I were his slave!’ Beric thought. ‘If only I were his slave!’
He found that the sharp hunger-making first course was over, and it was time to carry round the bowls of scented water, and soft linen towels for the guests to wash their fingers. The next course was brought in: giant turbot on dishes as broad as bucklers, kid boiled in milk with sweet herbs, roast flamingo coming to table in all their white-and-scarlet plumage. Crito, the head table slave, carved before his master, and for a while Beric and his fellows were kept busy carrying plates and dishes and keeping the wine-cups filled with red Falernian or golden Greek wine.
By the time the second course also was done with, the mood of the company, which had been somewhat reserved at first—Publius Piso’s dinner-parties were apt to have a faint frost on them—had warmed into cheerfulness. There was a general air of ungirding. Voices grew louder and eyes brighter; men began to laugh with each other, and their banquet wreaths slipped a little sideways.
‘To our new Ædile,’ somebody called out, holding up a freshly charged wine-cup. ‘Success to him, and may he have cause to give other celebration dinners, as good as this one, to his admiring friends!’
All round the table, cups were raised. ‘To the new Ædile!’ echoed from all sides, and Publius Piso was in his element as he bowed and beamed his acknowledgement, swelling and blossoming in the warmth of their friendly laughter.
The main business of dinner was over now, and Beric and his fellows had removed the empty chargers and set in their places dishes of little sweet cakes and silver baskets filled with honeyed apricots and green and purple bran-stored grapes. And Beric, standing watchful in his place, heard the laughter and the cheerful raillery rising all round him.
‘Four years from now.’ A little merry man cocked an eye like a blackbird’s towards his host. ‘That will be the day, eh, Publius?’
‘Publius Piso for Consul!’ someone joined in from the foot of the table.
‘Vote for Piso. More Games and fewer taxes!’ chanted a third, and there was a general laugh.
‘I’ll vote for you, if you will ask me to dinner again and give me some more of this vintage!’ promised the man with an eye like a blackbird.
Publius Piso looked down his nose, pleased, but at the same time slightly disapproving of so much levity on a serious subject. ‘If, when the time comes, my fellow citizens should do me the supreme honour to elect me to the Consulship,’ he said, ‘I trust, my friends, that you will each and every one of you give me the happiness—the very great happiness—of seeing you at my poor table on the third evening after my election.’
‘Accepted! accepted!’ cried the guests, and a man with a wreath of white cyclamen slipping over a bottle nose avowed with profound dignity, ‘Speaking as I trust I may for the whole of this assembled company—though come to think of it
I can’t see why I should—I say that failing the—er—in short, the shears of Atropos, we will each and every one of us be here upon that er—auspicious occasion. Each and every one of us. After you with the almond cakes, Clodias.’
I can’t see why I should—I say that failing the—er—in short, the shears of Atropos, we will each and every one of us be here upon that er—auspicious occasion. Each and every one of us. After you with the almond cakes, Clodias.’
‘Not quite every one of us,’ said the old Senator quietly. ‘There will, I think, be one member of our gathering here to-night who will be otherwise engaged, and at rather too great a distance from Rome.’ And he glanced at the Centurion beside him.
Other eyes were turned in the same direction. ‘Percol! I thought you were done with the outposts of Empire,’ said the bird-eyed man.
‘Did you?’ said the Centurion tranquilly, speaking almost for the first time to the company in general.
‘Where is it to be this time?’
‘Still Britain,’ said the Centurion. ‘Still my same marsh and my old job.’
The quietly spoken words seemed to leap out at Beric as a shout, and his gaze, which had been on his master, whipped back to the Centurion with a startled intensity.
‘When do you return?’ someone asked.
‘I sail from Ostia on the third day from now.’
A buzz of interest had broken out all round the table. ‘I had not realized that you were going north again,’ said a man at the foot of the table, reaching for a honeyed apricot. ‘Surely you are due for promotion?’
‘I am.’
They looked at him, puzzled, and Glaucus burst out: ‘But, sir, do you mean that you are going to let that slip for the sake of—of a few yokelands of
marsh
?’ He checked with a show of half-laughing dismay. ‘Oh, forgive me, sir; I had no business to say that.’
marsh
?’ He checked with a show of half-laughing dismay. ‘Oh, forgive me, sir; I had no business to say that.’
Centurion Justinius made a small gesture, as though dismissing the apology. ‘I mean precisely that,’ he said. ‘I have very few leanings towards the work of a camp commandant, even fewer towards the Praetorian Guard and life one long ceremonial parade. I have the gravest doubts of
my abilities as a Præfect, but I am a thoroughly good engineer.’ He glanced round the table, and his voice lost the faintly mocking note that had been in it until now. ‘I have had the draining of this marsh from the outset; from the first survey, four years ago. It is the last marsh that I shall reclaim, and I had lief see the thing completed, before my time comes to take my wooden foil and bid good-bye to the Eagles.’
my abilities as a Præfect, but I am a thoroughly good engineer.’ He glanced round the table, and his voice lost the faintly mocking note that had been in it until now. ‘I have had the draining of this marsh from the outset; from the first survey, four years ago. It is the last marsh that I shall reclaim, and I had lief see the thing completed, before my time comes to take my wooden foil and bid good-bye to the Eagles.’
‘I believe your marshes and your roads are more to you than flesh and blood!’ said Publius Piso, almost fretfully.
‘Wife and son at the very least,’ said the bird-eyed man, with a laugh. ‘A marsh for a wife and a straight paved road for a son; your born engineer needs no other.’
The Centurion was gently swirling the wine in his cup, and watching the swing of it. There was an odd half-smile on his mouth, but he said nothing.
‘Then we shall be seeing no more of you until this marsh of yours is finally safe from the sea?’ someone broke the small silence.
Justinius set down his wine-cup with delicate precision, and raised those bleak grey eyes of his. ‘I very much doubt, my dear Fulvius, if you will see anything more of me even then. I have a feeling that I shall strike my roots in the north. My mother was part British, after all.’
They stared at him blankly. ‘Zeus!’ said his host, and then added hastily: ‘Well, well. Durinum is a pleasant place to retire to, so I have heard—or Aquae Sulis.’
The Centurion shook his head. ‘Very pleasant, I believe, but not for me. When first I went out, I took over a derelict farmstead on the high fringe of the marsh, and put in an old Optio of mine and his wife to look after it. At the outset I only meant to use it for winter quarters while the job lasted, but I have grown to feel the place my home. Servius has already wrought wonders, and presently, when we have finished clearing the scrub, and brought the land back into good heart, we shall run a few horses on it. That is a good way to retire—better than drinking the waters at Aquæ Sulis.’
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