Rome in Flames (4 page)

– chapter vii –

A way of escape

 

It wasn't an ordinary day. At breakfast time, the other slaves were excited. The women were all dressed up, with fancy hairstyles. The men were talking loudly. Even the cook seemed to be in a good temper. What was happening?

It must be some kind of feast day. No one was doing much work. Everyone was getting ready to go out somewhere. One of the slaves said something to the cook, who looked at me doubtfully and then nodded.

It seemed that I was to be included in the trip. Although I had no idea where we were going, I began to feel excited too. I hadn't been outside the front door since the day the master bought me.

One of the women found me a cloak to wear. Someone else gave me a small coin. I looked at it carefully – the first money I had ever owned – and the others laughed. They obviously thought I didn't know what money was.

We went out into the busy street, where everyone was hurrying in the same direction. How easy it would be to hide in this crowd, if only I could get away from the other slaves! But that might be tricky. The cook was walking right next to me, keeping an eye on me.

Soon, I saw an enormous building with many entrances. People were streaming into it from all sides. Was this the house of some god? We went in and climbed dozens of stone steps. At last we reached the top – and I gasped in amazement.

We were high up in an immense, roofless building. It was shaped like a long, narrow ship. Around the sloping sides were rows of seats which held hundreds – no, thousands – of people. Down at the bottom was an open space, long and narrow like the building, with a wall along the centre.

When we sat down, I managed to get myself next to Theon. Maybe I could ask him what was going on.

‘What is this place?' I whispered to him.

‘Shut up,' he muttered angrily.

‘I will, if you'll only tell me what's happening.'

‘Chariot racing,' he said. Or that was what it sounded like. But how could chariots race in a place like this? There wasn't room. I must have misheard him.

I stared around at the huge crowd. Was Conan somewhere among them? It was pointless trying to look for him – like seeking out one leaf in a forest. Yet I couldn't help looking and hoping.

Something was about to happen. The voices of the crowd died to a murmur. Suddenly, at the end of the open space, four great doors opened wide. Four horse-drawn chariots came charging out to race along the track.

I held my breath as they sped towards the far end. Instead of stopping, they made a tight turn and raced back along the opposite side. The drivers were incredibly skilful. I'd seen chariots race before, of course, but always in open country. This narrow track, with a sharp turn at each end, was far more dangerous.

On the third time around, the leader took the corner too close. The chariot overturned and the driver was dragged along behind the horses, frantically trying to cut himself free from the reins tied around his waist. The other chariots careered past, missing him by a cat's whisker.

The crowd loved it. They roared louder than a storm at sea, as two drivers battled for first place. The winner was the one dressed in green. This made the cook very happy, and another slave had to pay him some money.

After a pause there was another race – then another. I was starting to feel hungry now. The cook, who had won some more money, was in a very good mood. He let Theon take me to a food stall, where we bought some bread and spicy-tasting meat.

In the next race, the cook's favourite team, Green, was leading again. Then a driver in red caught up and tried to cut in on the final turn. Too close – the chariots collided. They ended up in a tangled heap of wreckage, and the White team won.

The cook was furious. He flung some money at the other slave, and then got up and stormed out. He'd forgotten all about me.

I looked around cautiously. Would anyone notice if I slipped away? Would anyone care?

When the next race began, I waited until it got really exciting. Then I slid out of my seat and made for the stairs. No one called me back, or if they did, the roar of the crowd drowned them out.

I hurried down the long stairway into the street, which was almost deserted. The whole of Rome seemed to be at the races. I'd done it! I had escaped!

Yes, great. But now what was I going to do?

The most important thing was to get well away from anyone who knew me. I chose a street at random and hurried along it. Then I ducked down an alley, crossed another street, and zigzagged through a maze of narrow lanes between high buildings. The shops were closed; the streets were almost empty.

I had to force myself not to rush things. It would only make people notice me. If I kept calm, there was nothing to mark me out as a runaway slave. I was wearing the kind of clothes any boy might wear, slave or free. With my pale skin and fair hair I was obviously foreign, but then Rome was full of foreigners.

After a while I came to a standstill. I had to make a plan. Where was I going?

Of course, what I really wanted was to find Conan. He was older and wiser than me. He might know how we could make the long journey back home.

But in my heart I knew there was no chance of finding him. That huge crowd at the races had reminded me just how many people lived in Rome. It would take years to search the whole city – and he might not even be there. His master might live in another town, or on a distant farm.

No. I would have to make my own way home. Maybe Conan would do the same, and we would meet on the way. Together, we would race up the hill to the village. Mother and the girls would run to meet us. ‘Conan! Bryn! We thought you were dead!'

Stop daydreaming, I told myself sharply. You're still a long, long way from home. What you need is to go back the way you came. Go to the big harbour and look for a ship bound for Britain.

This was easier said than done. I remembered the long walk from the harbour to Rome, but I had no idea whether we had travelled north, south, east or west. If I simply made a guess and started walking, I might head in completely the wrong direction. And I couldn't ask anyone. The few words of Latin I'd learned in the kitchen were no help at all.

At last, I decided to find the edge of the city and work my way around it, hoping to recognize the road we had walked along. I knew this plan wasn't brilliant, but it was all I could think of.

If I did manage to reach the harbour – what then? How would I know which ship was going back home? Would I have to pay the captain to take me? Would people realize I was running away?

I had managed to escape from my master's house – that was the easy bit. It would be far harder to escape from Rome itself.

– chapter viii –

Beware of the dog

 

I walked through the silent streets until my feet grew tired. The city seemed never-ending. Broad squares lined with statues . . . narrow streets full of shuttered shops . . . palace-like houses of rich people . . . grubby blocks of flats for the poor . . . and always stone pavements underfoot, stone walls on either side, and not a tree or a blade of grass to be seen.

Something else was starting to worry me – money. My one small coin, given to me to gamble at the races, would not buy much food for the long journey. The only ways to get money were by begging or stealing. I knew I would be useless as a beggar, since I wasn't blind, crippled or crazy. That left me with just one choice.

I was passing a row of shops, all closed. Maybe some of them had money or valuable things inside. But they all had heavy wooden shutters fixed to the pavement with locks and chains.

Then I glanced down a side alley, and spotted a small window, quite high up. It had no shutters, just iron bars in front of it. I thought I might be slim enough to squeeze between the bars and get into the building.

It wasn't easy, but I did it. As I wriggled through the gap, I thought what a fool the shop owner must be. Quietly, I climbed down into the shadowy room. I could just make out a stone counter with rows of shoes on it.

Suddenly I heard a menacing growl and the rattle of a heavy chain. I stepped backwards – too late. A huge dog had launched itself from underneath the counter. It sank its teeth into my leg, and I screamed in agony.

The dog began shaking my leg as if it were a captured rat. Desperately, I looked around for a weapon. The only things within reach were shoes. I snatched one up and whacked the dog round the head with it.

The dog let go of my leg for a moment, just long enough for me to leap towards the window. I scrabbled my way out. The dog was barking furiously as I limped down the alley, leaving a trail of blood.

When I'd gone far enough to be sure no one was chasing me, I sank down onto a step. I looked at my mangled leg and felt faint. I had nothing to bind it up with, no way to stop the bleeding. This was stupid. After living through a battle, would I bleed to death from a dog bite?

An old woman came slowly down the street. ‘Help me!' I cried. Although she couldn't understand my language, surely she would see how much I needed help.

But this was not my home village. This was the big city, where strangers were easy to ignore. After one glance at me, she walked past on the other side of the road. Then she turned a corner and was gone.

I was starting to feel dizzy. Hearing footsteps, I looked up and saw two men approaching. One was a black man who looked rather like Tiro.

‘Bryn!' the man cried, sounding very surprised. It was Tiro himself. I remembered that he hadn't been at the races with everyone else. My heart filled with relief – for if anyone could help me, Tiro would.

He didn't waste any time. Lifting me up as if I weighed no more than a baby, he carried me along the street. He knocked on a door. A woman opened it, giving a little gasp when she saw the state of my leg.

Tiro took me indoors and put me down gently on a couch. The woman washed my leg – I tried not to cry out in pain – and tied strips of cloth around it. But the bleeding didn't stop. The bloodstain on the cloth spread and grew like a bright red flame.

My head swam. Dark spots seemed to float in front of my eyes. Tiro saw how scared I was. He held my hand tightly and started speaking in a low voice. He was speaking in Latin – but somehow I could understand every word.

‘Father, please hear my prayer. Please let the bleeding stop. Let the wound be healed. I ask this in the name of Jesus.'

I didn't know who he was talking to. There were several people in the room, but none of them looked like Tiro's father. Then I realized he must be praying to one of his gods. What kind of god would let you call him ‘Father'?

All at once, it felt that my leg wasn't hurting so badly. The pain had died down to a dull ache. The bright red stain had stopped spreading outwards.

‘Thank you,' I whispered to Tiro and his god.

Tiro said something to me in Latin. My flash of understanding, sudden and bright as lightning, had vanished. I couldn't make out a word he said.

After some time, when we were certain the bleeding had stopped, Tiro took me back to the master's house. He carried me most of the way, stopping every now and then to rest. It was lucky he was so strong.

My escape bid had been a total failure. I was determined to try again – but not yet. I would have to wait until my leg was completely healed. Also, I would make sure I had some money next time, even if I had to steal it from the master himself.

As we went in, I began to feel frightened. I would be in bad trouble. The cook would probably beat me.

All the other slaves were back by now, eating their evening meal. When they saw me, everyone started talking at once. The cook looked relieved for an instant, then angry. He came towards me with his fists clenched.

But Tiro stood in front of me, blocking his path. Tiro was far bigger and stronger than the cook. He pointed to my injured leg, probably explaining about the dog bite. Fortunately, he didn't know the whole story.

The cook was still not happy. He started shouting. I guessed he wanted to know why I'd left the other slaves at the racetrack. If only I knew more Latin, I could have made up some excuse or other. As it was, I was helpless.

Somehow, though, Tiro managed to calm things down. I don't know what he said, but it made everyone laugh. Even the cook gave a wintry smile, and he decided not to punish me. But he watched me very closely from that day on.

* * *

I was allowed a few days in bed because of my leg. When no one else was around, Theon came to see me.

‘I know what you were doing,' he said. ‘You were trying to run away.'

‘I wasn't,' I said. There was something about Theon that I didn't trust.

‘Don't worry – you can tell me. I promise I won't tell anyone.'

If he had been a true Celt of my own tribe, I might have believed him. But he was only half Celtish – and he couldn't even remember the name of his mother's tribe. He didn't think it mattered! That showed how much of a Celt he was.

‘There's nothing to tell. I went outside to get a drink and then got lost,' I lied.

‘Oh yes?' His voice was mocking. ‘So badly lost that you ended up miles away?'

‘I was trying to find my way back.'

He laughed. ‘Back here? Or back to Britain?'

When I didn't answer, he got annoyed. ‘What's so wonderful about Britain? It rains all the time. The people are quarrelsome savages. The women are ugly and the food's lousy. That's what the soldiers say.'

‘Then why were the Romans so keen to conquer it?' I asked him.

That silenced him, but only for a moment. ‘I suppose we may eventually make it worth living in. We might even make a profit out of it.'

Yes – like Theon might make a profit out of me. If I confided in him, he might keep my secret, but only while it suited him. If he told the master about my plans to escape, then he might be rewarded.

On the other hand, if I did tell him, he could help me. He probably knew the answer to many of my questions. And I was desperate to talk to someone. My thoughts had been trapped inside my head for too long because I couldn't put them into words. Should I tell him?

In the end, I decided not to. At least, not yet.