Calgaich the Swordsman (32 page)

The prisoners stood chained on the deck of the
Neptunus
as a bireme towed her into the harbor at Ostia. Even Calgaich was awed at the sight of the great port city of fifty thousand inhabitants, which was situated at the mouth of the Tiber River. The bright sun shone on the white red-roofed buildings that spread up the slopes behind the harbor. It reflected from the blue waters of the sea. Everywhere there were ships and smaller water craft. There were naval biremes and triremes, as well as smaller, single-banked galleys, and sturdy, round-hulled merchant ships. A huge grain ship, in from Egypt, was all of one hundred and eighty feet long.

Lutorius pointed out the small island, surmounted by a tower, that lay off the twin harbor moles. “Manmade, Calgaich. Nobody builds like the Romans. If they need water and there is no river or lake, they bring it to the city on aqueducts. If there are no roads, they build them. Here they needed an island, so they built it. They steeped great stones in cement and dumped them into the sea until they had an island. They couldn't get ships up the Tiber, so they built a city. There wasn't much of a harbor here, so they made one. That was in the time of Claudius. The harbor was exposed too much to the open sea, so they built two great moles on either hand. Some say they are over two thousand feet long.

“The new harbor brought great prosperity to the city of Rome. Ostia is called the ‘lung' of Rome. Ships come here from all over the known world, laden with cargoes of many kinds. That big merchantman you see there is probably loaded with Gaulish wheat. Those two smaller ones may be loaded with sand from Egypt."

“For building purposes,
calo?”

Lutorius shook his head. “For the arena, barbarian."

“Don't they have enough sand in Rome?"

“They do, but it's not as absorbent as that from Egypt."

The sluggish
Neptunus
was eased between the ends of the huge curved moles and into the outer harbor. Slowly she moved into one of the inner harbors and was moored to a stone quay. The thick and acrid stench of animal droppings drifted on the fresh wind. The sound of animals could be heard.

“That's where they unload the animals for the Games," Lutorius explained. “Elephants, lions, leopards, wild boars, crocodiles, wolves, wild dogs and bears come in by the shiploads."

“And men," Calgaich added quietly.

Lutorius looked into Calgaich's eyes. “There is always the chance that a man might please the mob and be given his freedom."

“How much of a chance,
calo?
You're a gambler. Tell me."

There was no answer from Lutorius.

Cunori came to them after the ship was moored. “I'll not be going with you," he said quietly. “I've saved my own life. The Romans seem to be short of good seamen. It seems as though I'm more valuable here than I would be in the arena."

Fomoire approached the Venetus. “Will you stay in this area?" he asked in a low voice.

“I think so. There is always work to be done on these Roman tubs, setting up their rigging, mending sails, or caring for the small private vessels of the influential people of Ostia and Rome. Look, there is one such vessel there, so the Greek told me. It is owned by a senator who loves the sea; a strange feeling for a Roman."

The small craft was strange looking, at least for a Roman port. She was low in the wafer and very long for her beam. She had a single mast set amidships and a small cabin at her stem. She had a beautiful sheer line along which was a row of oar ports to be used from the deck.

Calgaich narrowed his eyes. She had some resemblance to a
birlinn
such as he had often sailed himself at home in Albu.

“No Roman ever built that craft," Guidd said.

“She's Greek-built," the sailing master of the trireme put in from behind them. “I ordered her built for a senator two years ago. She's called the
Lydia
and belongs to Rufus Arrius Niger."

Calgaich showed no emotion on his face.

“He needs a skipper for her,” Aulus added. “Not long ago, before the senator left here for Britannia, he asked me to look around for a good man. A northern barbarian seaman, he insisted.” Aulus placed a hand on Cunori's shoulder. “You saved my ship, Venetus. As a seafaring man, you'll know what that means to me. I’ll put in a good word to the senator for you, if you like.”

Cunori looked strangely at Calgaich. There was something going on about which he was not aware. Calgaich nodded slightly.

“Well, Venetus?” the Greek asked.

Cunori nodded. “I’d like that.”

The Greek smiled. “Consider it done.” He walked aft to bid goodbye to Quaestor Lucius Sextillius.

“Well?” Cunori asked Calgaich.

Guidd looked about quickly. “Rufus Arrius Niger is grandfather to Calgaich, on his mother's side.”

Cunori’s face fell for an instant, as though he had been betrayed. He smiled quickly. “You jest, eh, wolf?”

Calgaich shook his head. “My Roman blood means nothing to me, Cunori. If I could drain it from my veins I’d gladly do so.”

“Yes,” Cunori murmured, “I believe you would.”

“That craft,” Niall, the Selgovae, put in. “Could she outrun any Roman ship in these waters?”

Cunori eyed the vessel judiciously. “Aye, she could, with some changes in her rigging and perhaps another sail or two. If the mast were stepped farther forward, say, and given some rake, it might give her a few extra knots.”

“Beyond the Pillars of Hercules,” Calgaich murmured.

“Perhaps in time,” Fomoire said.

Calgaich gripped Cunori's hand just before the prisoners were marched off the ship and into the tender care of a
turma
of wild-looking Mauretanian auxiliary cavalry. Calgaich looked back once as they were marched off along the quay. Morar stood at the end of the quay, with Bronwyn close beside her. The sun shone on their golden hair. Morar was looking entranced toward the city. She did not see Calgaich. He turned his head, unaware that Cairenn had been watching him from behind Morar and Bronwyn. It was the first time that Cairenn had seen Calgaich since she had rescued him, and until now she had not known if he were alive or dead after his ordeal with the god of the sea.

Decrius Montanas met the group of captives from the trireme at the foot of the mole. One side of the road was lined for a long distance by files of prisoners chained together. Calgaich and his mates were chained to the end of the column. A whip cracked. The long column began to march to the east, on the last leg of the prisoners' march to Rome and the arena.

The hot sun beat down upon the land. Often the prisoners were pushed off the road by long lines of wagons and carts. The road followed the course of the yellow Tiber, and now and then the river itself could be seen, beyond the convolutions of the ground, with the sun bright upon the water.

The entourage of Quaestor Lucius Sextillius passed the column of prisoners. Calgaich looked up. Cairenn was riding in the last cart. Their eyes met as she passed. Calgaich strained to tell her with his eyes what his lips could not. His throat grew thick with emotion. She held out a slim hand toward him and had it slapped down by one of the servants. Calgaich watched the cart until it was out of sight. The gods be with her, he thought.

Guidd looked sideways at Calgaich. “She saved your life at sea. If she had hesitated an instant you would have been gone."

Calgaich nodded. “I know.”

“She should have been a man. By the gods, how she fought with the Spear of Evicatos at the
mansio
at Luguvalium! I could not believe it. Aye, she has the heart and soul of a man!"

“No," Calgaich said quietly. “She has the heart and soul of a woman. I thank the gods for that, old hound."

“Fortunate for you, Calgaich, to be loved by two such women."

“Cairenn? Morar? Morar loves no one but herself." Calgaich spat.

“I was thinking rather of Bronwyn."

Fomoire shook his head. “Unfortunate, the man who is loved by two such women."

"Listen to him!” Lutorius jeered.

Guidd shrugged. "Among our people a man can have more than one wife.”

Fomoire looked at him. "Does that solve the problem, woodsman?”

Guidd laughed. "Not for
me,
priest! I want nothing to do with them. The woods and hills are my women.”

Lutorius grinned. "How does one go about that?” he asked curiously.

"Your mind is always at waist level,
calo,”
Calgaich put in.

"What else is there in life?”

The prisoners could sense Rome, long before they neared the outskirts of the great city. Weary and dispirited as they were, they could raise their heads to see the late-afternoon sun shining on the marble of the buildings covering the fabled Seven Hills. The traffic became much heavier along the Ostian Road. Carts and drays, litters and chariots poured to and from the city. Little or no attention was paid to the column of trudging prisoners by passersby.

"We’ll be just a commodity in Rome,” Lutorius explained, "like olives, com, wine, hides or salt. Products for the blood market of the Flavian Amphitheatre or the Circus Maximus. This damned city, with all her beauty and pomp, thrives like a vampire on the blood of men and wild animals. Still, if a man shows up well in the arena, he might be given his freedom and possibly allowed to fight as a freedman gladiator.”

"And die anyway,” Chilo grunted.

"Sure! Sure! But a top-ranked gladiator gets the pick of the best foods, wines and women.”

"The pick of the whores, you mean,” Chilo said.

Lutorius leered. "You may be learned in the matter of letters and books, Greek, but you know nothing of the patrician women in Rome. Some of the best of them, in the highest of places, are not against having a hairy, big-balled gladiator in bed with them.”

"From what I’ve heard, patrician women consider it fashionable to be unfaithful to their husbands,” Fomoire added. "It is truly said—this is the city of blood and whores.”

The column turned off the road, within a mile of the Ostian Gate, and plodded across the dusty fields toward the Tiber.

“What the hell is this?” Lexus demanded.

Lutorius shrugged. “You saw the Perfumed Pig breaking his rounded little ass to get into the city ahead of us, didn't you? By now he's soaking in the baths, with his women safely tucked away in his villa. Tonight he'll probably dine like a Persian king, perhaps have a virgin boy for dessert, then get a good night's sleep. But he'll be up at dawn, be dressed in his official toga, and then ride out here to meet us, so that he can return into the city by morning light, leading us like a conqueror, so that all Rome may see his triumph.”

“But, we haven't had water or food,” the Gaul complained.

Lutorius jerked a thumb toward the yellow-hued river. “There's your water. You might find your food there, too, if you're unlucky enough,” he said mysteriously. He grinned.

The
calo
was right. The prisoners rushed toward the river when they were unchained from each other. Some of them stopped short as they saw the polluted waters. The great Cloaca Maxima of Rome, the main sewer, and many other sewers of the city emptied their wastes into the river to be carried down to the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Calgaich turned away from the water. He looked into the masklike face of Decrius Montanas. What the centurion saw on Calgaich's face, however, was a mask similar to his own, showing no emotions, although he knew his prisoner was just as thirsty as those others who now lay belly-flat beside the polluted river, drinking in the fouled waters as though they came from a clear mountain stream.

While Decrius Montanas rode into the city, the prisoners sat on the dusty ground, surrounded by the hard-faced Mauretanians. After dark a cart came out with water, wine and food for the escort. They built fires on the higher part of the bank, so that they might see the prisoners better. They began to cook their food. The firelight reflected from the many eyes of the captives as they watched the cavalrymen eat and drink.

Calgaich lay on the ground. He watched the Mauretanians. "A handful of Novantae, armed only with dirks, could creep up on them in the darkness, and wipe out every damned one of them,” he murmured.

“In Caledonia, or Britannia,” a young Pict said out of the darkness. “I know
...”

“You’re young to have had such an experience,” Calgaich suggested. “It has been many years since the Picts have raided south of the Great Wall.”

“But,
you
have, eh, Novantae?”

Calgaich nodded. “A few times.”

The Pict looked about himself. “Such modesty!”

Guidd, Lutorius, Fomoire and Niall eyed the young cockerel. He was treading on dangerous ground.

“How are you called?” Calgaich asked politely.

“Girich, son of Aengus, Novantae. And you?”

Calgaich narrowed his eyes. “Calgaich, son of Lellan.”

“Not Calgaich the Swordsman?” The Pict grinned. “How did they get
you
into the net?”

Calgaich shrugged. “We had a little disagreement.”

“Girich?” Guidd asked. “That’s a familiar name to me.”

The Pict nodded. “I was fostered by my uncle of that name. Girich the Good Striker, as he is known throughout my country.”

“And your father is Aengus of the Broad Spear?” Guidd persisted.

“That is so. The most famous of the war chiefs in my country.” The Pict spat dryly to one side, and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. He eyed Calgaich. “It is too bad that you can’t ever test your blade against that of my uncle. I am afraid you’d lose your famed reputation, Novantae.”

A picture formed slowly within the haze of Calgaich’s memory—an area of trampled snow, with gaunt ring stones standing sentinel about it, and the sudden down-flashing of the magnificent Sword of Evicatos as it sheared the head of Girich the Good Striker clean from its body. He saw again the head, resting on one of the bloodstained ring stones, with its sightless eyes looking toward the distant, misty hills.

"Is that not so, Novantae?” the cocky Pict asked.

"He fought well, and he died well,” Calgaich murmured, as though to himself. "What more can a warrior ask at the end?”