Chapter 11

The guard did not explain. He simply turned and started walking. A big man with broad shoulders, he didn’t seem the talkative type anyway. Grizzled with gray strands filtering through his brown hair, he marched in a steady cadence, oblivious to his surroundings. Rain cascaded down his helmet and across his red wool tunic. Cloth pulled up over a blue belt became soaked. The guard walked on. Longus figured the man must be nearing the end of his 25-year enlistment. Soon, he would be getting a plot of land to farm and raise a family. In the interim, he lorded over slaves, rain or shine.

Behind them, smelters busily poured the molten ore into molds. Steam arose as the rain struck the fiery metal.

The rain increased in intensity as Longus and the guard trudged down the path away from the mine. Longus was surprised by the strength of the storm. In his five weeks in the mine, the weather had been invariably mild. Light rain fell only a couple of times. Slaves who had been there longer said that the rain once inundated the mine, but that was very early when only a short shaft existed. The ground was not hard, they said. Too much rain could cause real problems. So far, though, the previous sprinklings had been only refreshing, not dangerous.

Glancing around, Longus tried to get his bearings. He really only knew the short route from the mine to the smelting and back. No one ever went much further south. To the east side, he could see the area designated as a sleeping area for slaves, which lay in a natural clearing amid some tall trees. The slaves would stumble there at night, trying to beat the dying sun to the pallets. They didn’t want to be caught out in the open after dark. Natives often lurked in the underbrush. They enjoyed picking off a guard or two and stealing uniforms and weapons. Slaves were for practice. After all, the slaves had nothing worth stealing. Still, they were occasionally found with their throats cut or nicely eviscerated.

Wild animals were the other threat. Sometimes, a wolf would sneak in to attack a slave. Several times, a bear wandered by. At least two slaves had been mauled in recent weeks. Both had simply been asleep and been awoken with a start by a cold nose. Their resulting yells caused the bear to rip with its claws. A guard finished off each slave. Longus had slept through both incidences and found out about them in the morning when he asked about bloodstains.

Mostly, though, rabbits would nibble at nearby grass. Spain supposedly got its name from the profuse critters. The slaves regularly tried to catch them, hoping to get something substantial to eat. One rabbit was caught and immediately torn to pieces, but, mostly, they were too quick and the slaves too exhausted.

At the moment, the forest was quiet save for the steady drumbeat of rain against the trees. Longus and his escort continued to head south. Longus concluded they were going toward the Roman encampment there.

He felt a cool breeze as they passed under a canopy of trees glistening with rain. He saw a few birds quietly flitting about amid the steady patter of drops. The guard remained silent, but marched on, his hand at his sword.

A sharp sound caught Longus’ attention. His companion did not flinch or turn, but Longus did. He heard another loud thwack and, across from him on a winding path through the trees, saw a guard slapping at a slave with the side of his sword. He recognized the slave, an older man who had tripped across a pile of stones inside the mine gallery two days previously. Longus couldn’t remember his name: Sylvan or something like that. The slave had pulled himself to his feet after falling down, but been unable to work much or even climb the ladder. Other slaves helped him ascend. The next day, when he could not climb down, he was sent to work on the latrine and then to repair the perimeter wall.

Now, his face grim, the slave was stumbling through the mud. He was biting his lower lip and staring straight ahead. His right leg dragged as he almost hopped. “Move it,” the guard was yelling at him.

In a moment, the two men had hurried beyond view, hidden by some of the large trees that surrounded the area.

Longus watched them for only a moment. He had to be vigilant. He eyed each bush warily and tried to spot anything in the dark trees. Nothing seemed suspicious, but he stayed close to the guard as they moved steadily along the muddy path. The guard did not avoid puddles forming in small holes dug into the road by passing oxen, hand-propelled carts or the tread of multiple soldiers. Longus didn’t either.

As they continued, a variety of thoughts crisscrossed Longus’ mind. The Romans didn’t usually act this way with slaves. They didn’t think of slaves as human. They ordered and expected complete obedience. They wouldn’t ask one to follow. Slaves always went first, so they could be controlled. Longus had never seen a slave follow a guard. That was an honor reserved for higher classes. The guards drove the slave, hitting him with impunity. Moreover, slaves were never addressed by names. As far as the Romans were concerned, names were irrelevant. Slaves were just that; they were not identified. They existed to be beaten, sexually abused and worked. Besides, using a name might make a slave seem familiar and weaken a Roman heart when only cold resolve would suffice.

As he wondered what was going on, Longus had no illusion what typically happened to slaves plucked from a group. As time passed, he became increasingly surprised by how the guard leading him was behaving. This was so different, so unusual, that Longus couldn’t help mentally exploring the situation. He was almost being treated with deference. True, the guard hardly acknowledged him, but even awareness of his existence counted for something. Could Hyperion have come up with something more sinister than being a slave in the mines? Longus doubted that. Even Hyperion would be hard pressed to devise a more devastating fate.

Could something be happening in the camp? That was possible. Perhaps he was being sent somewhere else. Someone might have noticed his friendly contact with Barnabas and wanted to separate them. Slaves who talked might be plotting something. Still, that wouldn’t explain why he had been identified by name.

Then, too, other camps needed slaves, too. Several slaves had been taken away not that long ago. Rumors said they were destined for a compound in Gaul where they would serve as human shields against barbarians. One, a comely youngster, was being groomed to be a catamite, a more-experienced slave said.

Then, again, a slave seen as rebellious could simply be executed. There would be no tribunal, Longus realized, but also no long walk from the mine to here. The guard could have unhesitantly cut his throat back in the woods and left his body. No one would have asked a single question or showed the slightest interest. The guard did keep his hand near his sword, but showed no malice. They were like two silent friends walking down a path. No, Longus decided, he was not being taken somewhere to be killed.

There had to be another reason he had been isolated and taken away. He trudged on. His bare feet, hardened by work in the mine, stepped on pebbles with impunity. If anything, the rainwater soothed irritated skin.

A few minutes later, he spotted a low stone wall rising up through the gloom. In front of it was a wide ditch. The wall itself featured a palisade of stakes. Two stone-throwing onagers loomed ominously behind the wall, as if peering over the top. Both were loaded with heavy boulders and pulled taut, awaiting use. Two uniformed sentries stood side by side by the entrance. They held up spears until Longus and the guard approached. Then the sentries pointed the spears at them.

“Halt,” one sentry said. He wore a round helmet with a face guard that shielded his eyes. To Longus, he resembled an apparition in a nightmare. “Password,” he barked.

“Best of Emperors,” Longus’ guard replied in a firm voice.

The sentries lowered their spears. “Enter,” the other one said. His mask had no face shield. He even looked friendly, Longus decided, seeking some kind of omen to clue him into his immediate future.

Longus cautiously walked by them into the camp. He heard a noise behind him and took a quick peek. The guard who had been hitting the old slave was coming up to the entrance behind them. He was alone. Longus didn’t have to wonder what had happened to the old man.

He glanced around him. Like all slaves, he had never been inside the compound before. It had some of the hallmarks of the side streets in Rome with multiple ramshackle wooden buildings, but fewer people. There were only a couple of women, each with several children. The rest were men, hurrying one way or the other. Everyone seemed to have something to do. Here and there, Longus could see side streets, each with wooden buildings. The entire western side of the camp was taken up with an array of low white tents. The campground was separated from the rest of the fortification by the stream that also ran through the latrine. A female slave was washing clothes in it.

Further west, but still inside the wall, Longus could see some cattle grazing along with sheep. White birds hopped among them.

The guard continued down a central pathway through the middle of the camp. Rain driven by the wind hit Longus in the face. He opened his mouth to drink some of it. Unmindful of the weather, the soldier walked on, giving no hint of where he was headed or why. His sandals squished on the softening ground, as though speaking in a strange language.

Longus and the guard walked by a rectangular stone structure, which seemed to be a storage facility. Longus wasn’t sure. He had little contact with the military at any time in the past, but knew that grain had to be stored somewhere. The soldiers mostly ate grain, which was only marginally better than the slaves’ meal. The army bought wheat, oats and barley from local farmers and hired cooks to make bread.

Several slaves were struggling to carry off what looked like large linen bags of grain from the main entrance. Four slaves were carrying two sacks: one walking beside and helping the man actually doing the lifting. Two slaves were bent almost parallel to the ground from the weight of the bags while soldiers berated them for both speed and care. One slave slipped and fell flat. The bag fell to the ground and split. A younger man with a light beard, the slave scrambled to collect the dispersed grain from the many puddles. His fingers sifted through the water, and he was openly crying in frustration.

Exasperated, the soldier only waited a few minutes before drawing his sword and hitting the slave on the back, sending him sprawling face first into the muddy road. He got to his knees and seemed about to stand, possibly to strike back. The soldier didn’t wait, but drove the sword into the slave’s midsection. The wretched man collapsed immediately.

With his sword still gleaming red, the soldier grabbed another slave and threw him to the ground next to the grain. The slave hastily began to refill the bag while the young slave still writhed near him. The soldier looked around for more slaves and saw Longus, who almost froze. The Roman started toward him, but then stopped. Longus’ guard did not pause in his march, but Longus sped up to walk beside him.

They moved through an open area that possibly served as a kind of farmer’s market. Although empty in the storm, it contained the kind of stalls seen in the Forum that Longus was familiar with. Several vendors looked up as they passed. Apparently, Longus decided, not all the local residents were unfriendly.

He kept glancing back. The soldier had slain a second slave by the fallen bag of grain and had found two more. He stood over them haughtily, his blood-red sword in his hand as the rain pelted down.

Holding his breath, Longus hurried to keep pace with his long-striding guard. They came to more buildings. One had a raised platform and possibly served as a court where soldiers could be tried for various offenses. It had an official look and was the only one in this area made of stone. Longus could also see a large altar sitting on a stone base by one of the offices. Rain cascaded over its marble side. It seemed almost forlorn in the storm.

Glancing around, Longus saw no signs of unrest or unusual activities. Everyone seemed to be proceeding calmly. Longus had no idea what normal was, but there definitely was no indication of any danger. Guards walked back and forth in a steady patrol. Slaves were busily building a stone structure to the right. An occasional shout of pain burst through the storm as someone dropped a stone or a guard had batted a slave with his sword. One slave simply keeled over. Another two slaves dragged the body to the far wall and left it there. Almost immediately, two large crows circled and then landed on the wall. They looked down at the body.

Longus almost stopped. One day, he would be the one carried away to be carrion for the animals. He didn’t know why that realization hit him now. He had seen such events before. Death was so commonplace; life so worthless here. At the same time, an odd sense of peace filtered through his body. For some reason, none of it mattered.

He retrieved the poem kept close to his body under the side of the loincloth and re-read it. It seemed to bring him such contentment. He had never felt this way before. The gods in his life had delivered only turmoil and uneasiness. They were capricious, acting without clear motives. A man could be successful one minute and driven low the next. Somehow, the Christian god was different. There was a direction, a sense of an ultimate purpose. Whatever happened on Earth, there was a future. The heaven that Barnabas described seemed so unreal and ridiculous. Yet, it was something, a chimera that offered hope. He hadn’t felt that since being manacled and placed on a cart. Then, all that loomed before him was darkness and despair. Maybe there was a better world, one where the evil of this world did not exist. There had to be a place where good was rewarded, and men like Hyperion were not allowed in.

Longus smiled to himself. That would be nice. No wonder Barnabas accepted his fate. He expected to be rewarded after death. No quiet shade in Pluto. No, he would be among the celestial beings in some distant heaven. The idea was both charming and encouraging.

For the first time, Longus felt calm, almost content. He was not the victim of some harpy, but rather following a prepared path that would guide him to a glorious afterlife. He really liked that idea. Barnabas said he planned to study and learn at Jesus’ feet. That held little appeal to Longus, but there had to be something there more enticing for people like him. Perhaps there was food in heaven. Maybe he could see friends. Possibly he could play all day. He almost smiled at the thoughts. Would he have a girlfriend there? He would have to ask Barnabas about the benefits. The Roman Pluto offered nothing but shades walking in endless gloom. Heaven had to have more inducements. He was willing to accept the absence of vices, but there had to be some pleasures.

Did it matter if the Christian Jesus was another Dionysus? Not really, Longus told himself. A name had no meaning. The message mattered. He had a framework for life, a sense of purpose, something completely missing from before. He was not being tossed by random events, but rather directed. Life had meaning. He felt suddenly free. He may be a slave at this moment, but he felt completely released from his burdens. The rain was more of a bath. He reveled in the storm, feeling the rainwater soak through his filthy tunic and run down his body, washing away his concerns.

Christians in the catacombs loved to sprinkle water on each other, what they called baptism. Longus felt that the rain was doing the same thing to him.

“How are you?” he cheerily asked the burly guard, who ignored him. “And where will you spend eternity?”

The guard still did not respond.

“Nice day,” Longus continued. He felt almost giddy.

“Wait,” the guard ordered, pointing to a large puddle by the side of a small wooden structure. A flag topped by a Roman eagle had been placed by the door.

Longus obeyed. The water was cool and refreshing. He watched the guard tromp up three stairs to a small, open porch, knock, open the door and disappear inside. Around him, Longus could see the outer wall, more wooden buildings and the ever-present sentries. He almost felt sorry for the men, who simply performed a duty with little sense of where they were or why. They trusted in the immortal gods, that fickle crew who had no interest in them. He was even tempted to walk over and introduce them to Barnabas’ faith, but stayed where directed. Nearly two months of obeying orders had engrained obedience into him.

He glanced at the side of the small building and spotted a small altar standing open to the weather. How silly it seemed, as though its meaninglessness were now exposed by the elements.

“Come,” the guard barked as he emerged from the office.

Longus dutifully walked up the stairs. His feet slipped on the wood, and he grabbed the banister. The guard watched him with a sneer on his face. He did not help.

“Thank you,” Longus told him happily.

He stepped inside the office. Facing him was an officer behind a desk. To his left was a small table with a wine decanter and several glasses. A small rug covered the wood flooring. Longus avoided standing on it with his muddy feet, although he could see the wet prints where his guard had walked across it.

The officer behind the desk looked up at him with dark eyes glowering beneath thick eyebrows. A small man in a brown, fitted tunic, he had grizzled cheeks and weathered skin. A red cape hung from his shoulders. Longus did not recognize him at first, but then realized who he had to be: Cornelius Julius Manlius, the centurion who served as commander. They had never met, of course, but every slave knew the name of the man who controlled their lives.

Manlius calmly picked up a grape from the plate on the right side of his desk and popped it into his mouth, as if mocking Longus and his limited diet. He then sipped from a wine goblet on the desk before picking up a small scroll with a red ribbon around it. He slowly untied the ribbon and let it fall to the desk. He then unrolled the scroll before looking up at Longus, who could barely breathe,

“Publius Scipio Longus,” he demanded in a raspy voice.

“Yes.” Longus eyed the grapes. He was happy to have achieved some spiritual sustenance, but his stomach reminded him of the need for nutritional support, too.

Manlius pushed back his chair, revealed an ornate silver belt. Longus had seen such belts on soldiers in the forum. They were usually bronze with a tin patina to make them shine. Manlius' version, however, no doubt featured real silver. Longus didn’t have to guess the source.

“Your citizenship has been restored,” Manlius said in a flat tone. He seemed reluctant to admit that.

Longus was stunned. He needed a moment to digest what he heard. “What?” he managed.

Manlius picked up a scroll in front of him. “By order of Emperor Marcus Cocceius Nerva Caesar Augustus,” he read, “all orders issued by factotum Hyperion Cocceuis Spittama have been revoked.” He looked up. “You are one of several people who were enslaved by order of Spittama. I have been ordered to release you.”

“Others?” Longus sputtered. Was one of them Barnabas? He had been sent here by Hyperion, too. Was this possible? Could they both be free? He quickly asked.

Pursing his lips, Manlius consulted his sheet. “Barnabas?” He read down the list. “I don’t see anyone with that name. There’s a Sylvan Gourdas and a Cornelius Gaius Tyche.”

Longus felt disappointed. No Barnabas. Still, that last name sounded vaguely familiar. Hadn’t Barnabas said something about changing his name? Longus couldn’t remember. He suddenly felt so weary, as though the anguish of the past weeks had been swept away, leaving nothing but emptiness inside.

“Gourdas is dead,” Manlius continued. “He hurt his leg or something and didn’t survive. We’ll see he gets a proper funeral if we can locate his body.”

“Cornelius, Cornelius,” Longus repeated. He suddenly remembered. “Wait a minute,” he cried. “That was Barnabas’ real name.”

Manlius looked at him. “Barnabas?”

“In the mine. He’s working in the mine,” Longus said urgently. “One of your men can call him out of there.”

Manlius shrugged. “As soon as someone is available,” he said.

“I’ll get him,” Longus said. “I know who he is.”

Manlius started to say something. “You’re a Roman citizen,” he finally told Longus. “I can’t stop you.”

Longus gaped. “Then it’s all right?” he asked.

Manlius waved a hand. “Be my guest. We’re planning to close the mine anyway. The silver seems to have run out.”

“Can I go now?” Longus asked.

Manlius glared. “I don’t care what you do,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Longus said. He backed away, groping for the door. He stepped outside and was met by the strong wind and gales of rain. It was coming down in sheets, raking his body. He looked up to the north. The sky was particularly dark in that direction. The guard who had brought him there was standing on the side of the building, staring straight ahead. Longus started to say something and then began to trot toward the mine.

He was so exhausted. His worn body could barely stand up to the pounding rain. He bent his head and trudged on. The ground was soaked. In the many weeks he had been here, there never had been this much rain. He could see large pools were forming around in low areas. The road itself was nothing more than a quagmire, sucking at his feet with each step.

He wanted to lie down somewhere, anywhere, but the idea that he could rescue Barnabas animated him. So did the realization that, for the first time in his life, he actually cared about someone or something. The mere idea startled him. For most of his life, his focus had been on personal pleasure. Suddenly, he wasn’t thinking about his own pains, his body weakness. Longus enjoyed the sensation. Barnabas mattered more than food or sleep his body desperately craved.

Longus wasn’t sure why Barnabas meant so much to him until he remembered the prayer. Barnabas had given it to him, not for some advantage or personal gain, but simply because he felt Longus needed it. It was the most valuable thing Barnabas possessed, yet he freely gave it away. No friend had ever done anything like that. Longus quickened his pace, bending forward into the driving rain. He would return the favor. He would give Barnabas his freedom.

Eventually, he reached the mine. Behind him, he saw the guard. Apparently, he was being followed. Other soldiers were standing around the mine entrance or near the smelters. Work had ceased there. The fires could no longer burn in the downpour. Some soldiers stood beneath the trees. The slaves who had been smelting stayed out in the rain, hunched down under a tree and huddled together.

Longus hurried to the narrow adit. Water was flowing into the mine in a steady stream. He bent down, planning to slide down to the ladder in the mine shaft. He started to get in feet first and then realized that a young boy was laboriously pushing a basket of ore toward him. The onrushing rainwater had been the task much harder. The boy was barely moving.

“I’ll help you,” Longus called. He slid in face first completely inside the adit and took hold of each side of the basket. Cold water flooded through the front of his tunic as though he had lain down in a river. Peering around the basket, Longus could see the boy in the semi-darkness. His eyes were dark and frightened.

“No,” the boy cried.

“You won’t be punished,” Longus said, knowing that the lad feared he would be killed for not doing his own work.

“No, no,” the boy screamed. He continued to struggle forward, digging toes and knees into the muddy soil to propel himself up the adit.

“All right,” Longus said. “Keep pushing.” He kept his hands on the basket and pulled it slowly toward him, wiggling backwards in the progress. He felt a sense of urgency. The boy had to move. He was blocking the entrance. Longus could back out and hurry to the main shaft, but that would delay him even longer. The boy should be out of the way in another minute or so. Together, they continued tugging the basket forward.

The boy was crying. Longus could see the strain in his arms and shoulders. He was shaking from cold and exhaustion. “Come on,” Longus urged. “You’ll be fine. Just a little more.” He struggled with the heavy basket, which had grown heavier as the dirt soaked up more water.

The boy was straining so hard. His face turned red; his arm muscles quivered. The basket had cut a groove into the muddy soil, creating a miniature dam that blocked passage. Longus frantically dug at the small mound, trying to clear a pathway. “Come on, come on,” he kept encouraging.

The boy gave him a look of despair and slowly started to slide backwards. His eyes remained fixed on Longus; his face filled with terror. Then, in another second, he was gone, plummeting into the pits of the mine. For long seconds, Longus heard nothing. Then, instead of a thud, there was a splash followed by shouting.

“God,” someone screamed.

That was followed by a low rumble. Desperately, Longus continued to pull the basket forward. Rain drummed around him, creating a banging that muffled even his gasps. Finally, with his own strength failing, he got the basket into the entrance. One final pull dropped it onto the wet ground. It sank into the soft surface. Panting, Longus stared at it. Mud caked the bottom half of the basket. The gray stone inside was quickly turning dark as raindrops splattered against it.

Slowly, Longus felt some strength returning. The many days of abuse had sapped his muscles. The rain helped revive them.

Finally, he gathered his energy and started back. As he poked his head into the adit, he could hear a low, steady grinding noise. It started increasing in intensity. People were climbing the ladder. He could hear bare feet hitting the wood and multiple shouts. He slid down to the end of the adit. The ladder started quivering. Then it began jerking around as though alive and trying to shake off anyone using it. Spasms drove the wood back and forth.

A nail popped out. The section of the ladder near Longus twisted slightly. That prompted more screams echoing up from the gallery. Longus desperately reached for the ladder. More nails were free, torn from the water-damaged walls and the constant pulling from below. In only a moment, the ladder fell away from the wall.

Longus watched it. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. He groped for the ladder and was able to grab the side with his right hand. It continued to disassemble. He felt himself being pulled forward through the mud. He tried to dig in his toes, but they could not hold him. The ladder dragged him forward. He could feel himself being sucked into the abyss.

He had to let go.

Grabbing a stone edge projecting from the adit wall with his left hand, he stopped his sliding. He rammed his right palm into the other wall, helping stabilize himself. He was close enough to the end to look into the emptiness below. He heard voices, but couldn’t hear what anyone was saying. Then, the ladder smashed into the ground deep underground.

The voices ceased. Silence raced up the shaft, colliding with the steady noise created by the rain behind him.

As he watched, large stones began to tumble by him, diving down the shaft. He ducked his head back. The top of the mine was caving in. The water-logged surface fractured, dropping down toward the gallery. It was raining dirt and mud. Longus pushed with his elbows, forcing his way back. In a few moments, coated with mud, he was outside the adit.

The guard who had followed him was standing a few feet away,

“The mine is collapsing,” Longus yelled. “Get help. We’ve got to save them.” The guard did not move. “For God’s sake,” Longus pleaded.

The guard turned a cold, icy stare at him. “You must leave,” he said.

“Some of them may still be alive,” Longus tried. He felt crushingly exhausted.

“They are slaves,” the guard replied. “They are all dead now. Even without a cave-in, most of them would have been dead a few days from now.” He put his hand on his sword. “I have been ordered to take you to the port,” he said. “You will get clean clothes there.”

Helplessly, Longus turned back to the mine. He could only see an open pit. Rain had eroded the surface, so that the adit now was at the top of a gaping hole. The guard was right: no one could be alive. He took a deep breath. Barnabas had not wanted to live. He wanted to go to heaven. He had gotten his wish. Jesus had answered him.

Stumbling away, Longus again followed the guard. Tears filled his eyes. Behind him, no one moved. No one mourned. The rain slackened until the skies stopped crying, but Longus did not.