The small milling operation had been abandoned almost two decades earlier, the brothers told Antony. In the larger cities, hardly anyone ground wheat for flour anymore; most people relied on large commercial bakeries for their bread. Those too poor to afford baked goods ate wheat porridge.
Decrepit
was the word that came to Antony's mind when they reached the mill. The two round, flat millstones and the tall hourglass-shaped hoppers that sat on top of them were mostly intact, although badly cracked. The long wooden handles, which powered the mill when pushed by slaves or drawn by mules, now dangled uselessly from the sides of the stone hoppers. And as Sergius had said, the building where the grain had been stored was crumbling; one side of it, in fact, was nothing but rubble.
There was no sign of life as they approached the ruins. No sounds of life, either. The place appeared not only abandoned but uninhabitable. Suddenly Antony caught a flutter of movement at the far edge of his vision. He turned in the saddle and stared at the half of the building that was still standing, and he saw it again. He couldn't see the animal, but the motion he'd seen was the quick flick of a horse's tail.
Gesturing for the others to follow, Antony slowly led his horse around the side of the building. There they found a horse grazing in the weeds, and beyond the horse was a carriage. The horse was unyoked but loosely tethered to the vehicle's axle.
From the description Marcellus had given, this could be the carriage Damian had taken when he left Ephesus. The large four-wheeled coach would have to be drawn by two horses, however, and Antony could see only the one horse. But the animal was solid black, like the pair of stallions that had driven Damian's carriage. And who else would park a fancy coach behind an abandoned mill? It had to be Damian.
Antony's heart began to pound as he realized they had found the hiding place, and his keen mind began to race. Was Victor inside the crumbling granary? Was Damian inside as well? Or had he ridden off on the second horse? Perhaps the other animal had gotten loose and was wandering nearby. Antony looked around but still did not see another horse.
He told the men who had accompanied him what he was thinking. “We have to go inside,” Antony said quietly. “But we could be ambushed.”
Plautius nodded somberly. “God will go with us.”
Antony hoped the blacksmith was right. “I'll go first,” he said. “I have a weapon.” He dismounted and quickly removed his dagger. It felt solidly reassuring in his hand, yet he knew that if Damian wielded a sword, the three of them would have a hard time overpowering him.
The would-be rescuers stole back around to the front of the building and approached the entrance. The door had rotted off its hinges years ago and lay broken on the ground, apparently kicked to one side.
Antony felt an acid wave of fear rise up in him as he stepped through the doorway into the darkened shell of a building. A single shaft of light penetrated the ruins. It came from a small window near the ceiling along the side wall to their left, the one complete wall that was still standing.
He waited a long, breathless moment just inside the door, the two brothers close behind him. Gradually their eyes adjusted to the dim interior and they took a few steps forward, cautiously looking around.
Surely if Damian were there he would have attacked them by now, Antony thought. It would have been the perfect opportunity to catch them off guard, while they were still unable to see enough to defend themselves adequately.
Their progress was slow. Antony couldn't see or hear anything that would lead him to believe Victor was hidden here in the ruins.
But he
has
to be here,
Antony's mind screamed.
We have to find him.
“Over there,” Sergius finally whispered. “Against the back wall.” He made a slight motion with his hand.
As Antony looked in that direction, he saw what appeared to be a small heap of rags in the farthest corner of the building. He approached with his dagger drawn and poised to strike. When he crouched beside the rag pile, it moved.
“Please don't hurt me,” a tremulous voice said. “Don't hurt the baby. PleaseâI'll do whatever you want.”
“Victor!” Antony cried.
“We don't want to hurt you,” Plautius reassured the petrified woman. “We just want the baby.”
“Who are you?” she asked, clutching the child to her bosom.
“We're friends of the child's mother,” Antony replied. “We're going to take him back to her.”
“Take me with you,” she begged. “Please.” She looked imploringly at Sergius as he reached down and took the child from her arms. “Heâhe'll kill me if he comes back here and finds the baby gone.”
“Damian?” Antony asked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Where is he?” Antony instinctively pivoted and looked around him.
“He brought the baby back to me to nurse, then he left to get food for the horses.”
Damian could be back any minute, Antony realized. They had to get out of there fast. “All right, we'll take you with us,” he said. He reached out to help the woman to her feet, but she didn't move.
“IâI can't walk,” she said. “My leg is fastened to the wall.”
Antony swore. The barbaric tribune had chained the wet nurse who was keeping his own son alive. Antony knelt down and vigorously yanked on the large hook that fettered her ankle to the wall; nothing happened. The hook was firmly imbedded in the mortar and wouldn't budge.
He looked down at his dagger and wondered if he could pry open her shackles without slicing the woman.
Plautius realized what he was thinking and stopped him. “Even if it fits, the dagger might break,” he said. “Use something else.”
“But what?” Antony asked in frustration.
“We'll find something.” Plautius looked around until he discovered some rusty implements. The blacksmith took a long, slender tool of some kind and placed it into the space between the woman's ankle and the circle of iron. The shackles had been designed for a large man, so there was space to work. He wedged a second tool in the circle and began to use the two iron implements as levers.
The woman grimaced but kept quiet as Plautius tried to pry the shackles open. The iron circle finally bent but did not break.
It's not going to work,
Antony thought,
and Damian could be back any moment.
“Hurry,” Antony urged the blacksmith, a note of desperation in his voice.
Sergius held out the baby. “Take him and leave,” Sergius told Antony. “We'll follow as soon as we free the woman.”
Antony hesitated, but not for long. As he reached for Victor, he offered his dagger to Sergius. “Take this,” Antony said. “You may need it.”
“You may need it more,” Sergius said, refusing the weapon. “Go now.”
Plautius said nothing but kept working intently on the iron fetters.
Antony hated to leave the others behind, but Sergius was right. Rescuing Victor came first.
Replacing the dagger in his belt, Antony took the child from Sergius and said, “God be with you.” The benediction, which once would have sounded strange coming from the lawyer's lips, felt almost natural as he spoke it. The brothers would need divine aid if Damian returned and found the baby gone while they were still trying to help the woman escape.
As he turned to leave, Antony heard Plautius grunt. “Loosen, in Jesus' name,” the blacksmith ordered.
Later, Antony would wonder what had prompted Plautius to issue a command to an inanimate object, but at that moment the only thing that struck Antony was the sound of the iron chain as it suddenly snapped open.
“Got it!” Plautius shouted.
Sergius helped the woman up, Plautius dropped the rusty tools to the floor, and before Antony knew what was happening, all of them were scrambling through the door and running toward the horses.
When they made it outside, Antony quickly handed the baby to the nurse, lifted her onto his horse, then jumped on behind her. He made sure she had a firm hold on Victor, then he goaded the horse into a run.
Plautius and Sergius caught up with them and the animals galloped, three abreast, toward the heart of the city.
As the road started to climb, they allowed the horses to slow a bit, then they merged into a single file in order to pass some travelers who were partially blocking the road ahead. Antony cautiously watched the roadside as they neared the scene. Surely it couldn't be Damian; he would be riding in the other direction. Besides, there were three travelers: two men were struggling to help a third man climb onto a horse.
As Antony and the others drew alongside, they heard the large man groan as the other two finally heaved him over the saddle.
Plautius, who was in the lead, suddenly reined in his mount. “Verus?” he asked.
Antony stopped, now close enough to get a good look at the travelers. It was indeed Verus who stood by the horse and rider, along with Marcellus. The horse was the one they'd seen tied at the edge of the thicket earlier; the rider, who was covered in dirt from head to toe, was unrecognizable. Yet there was something familiar about him . . .
“J-Jacob?” Antony finally stuttered. “Is that you?”
The man who was supposed to be dead grunted in acknowledgment, then slumped over the saddle.
PETER STOOD AND STRETCHED, then walked around the large desk he shared with Quintus and out onto the dock. He had been distracted ever since Antony and Rebecca had left the previous morning in pursuit of Jacob, who had followed Damian away from Ephesus. After their carriage departed, Peter had come to the harbor office as usual, but he had found it difficult to work.
This morning it was no easier. A small mountain of paperwork demanded his attention, but Peter couldn't seem to concentrate. He alternated between worrying about his kidnapped nephew and stewing over his sister's involvement. Why couldn't Naomi have conceded gracefully and gone back to Rome? Why did she have to do something so diabolical?
And why, Peter wondered, did he have to suffer from the physical limitations of a deformed ankle? For a few minutes he watched the boats in the harbor and indulged the wish that he could have joined the others in the attempt to rescue Victor.
I feel so useless sometimes,
Peter thought.
After a while he reminded himself that there was something useful he could do, and that was to take care of business. With a reluctant sigh, Peter turned and limped back to the office. There was plenty to do, even though commercial shipping had ceased for the winter. Just two days ago, one of their ships, the
Valeria,
had made harbor with its final load. Its cargo, along with what remained in their warehouse, would be delivered over land. Quintus would oversee the inventory, while Peter's primary job was to handle the year-end accounting. Judging from the preliminary figures, it appeared his father's business had enjoyed another prosperous yearâan accomplishment Peter took pride in, although the credit for their success, he acknowledged, was due primarily to Quintus's careful stewardship.
An hour later Peter was still at the desk, matching shipping manifests with invoices and receipts, when Quintus interrupted him. “You have a visitor,” Quintus announced in his deep voice, his tone customarily serious. But when Peter looked up, he saw Quintus trying to stifle a smile.
The visitor was Helena's youngest child. Peter was fond of the precocious eight-year-old and was glad to see her now. As she breezed into the room, Peter couldn't help thinking that Priscilla was the exact image of her mother, a fast-moving blur of dark honey-colored curls, with the same hazel eyes and heart-shaped face as Helena. But the little girl had also inherited a quick, logical mind, and in that, Peter now realized, she resembled her oldest brother, Antony. There was another brother in between the two, but he'd left home several years earlier and Peter had never met him.
“Where's your mother?” Peter asked. He looked around, expecting another flurry of activity to announce Helena's arrival, but Quintus left and no one else appeared in the doorway.
“She's at home,” Priscilla said matter-of-factly. “She got sick yesterday, and she was still too sick to get out of bed today.”
“You came all this way by yourself? Where's . . .” Peter paused to think for a moment. “What's her name? Your housekeeper.”
“Calpurnia's daughter is having another baby, and Mama let her leave to help with the delivery.” Priscilla sounded slightly insulted as she added, “And it's not all that far from our house to the harbor.”
“Who's taking care of your mother while Calpurnia is gone?”
Priscilla looked puzzled. “I am. I always take care of her when she gets sick.”
“I'm glad you came to tell me,” Peter said. “I'll send someone to look after Helena right away.”
“That's not why I came,” she said. “It's just that with Rebecca gone, and now with Mama sick, there's no one to make their visits to the congregation. I'm worried some of the children will go hungry.”
“I'll see about finding someone else to take care of the relief work for a while.” Peter stopped to think who might be available to help, then he started to wonder what was wrong with Helena. “Is your mother very ill?” he asked.
Priscilla paused before answering. “She seems worse this time, I think.”
“This time? Does she get sick often?” He could remember a few times Helena had missed attending church, but he didn't know whether she had been ill or if family duties had kept her away.
The little girl nodded soberly. “Not often, but it happens sometimes. Especially when it's cold.”
Peter started to ask what was wrong with Helena but then decided it would be impolite to ask.
“I think Mama's working too hard,” Priscilla continued. “She's been getting sick more often since she took over your mother's work last year. But this is the first time she's been in bed for more than one day.”