Seize the Day, page 21
After feeding and watering the elephants and rubbing them down, Septimus and Marcus went into town to look around. Safarkan had paid them handsomely for their services, so they even had some money to spend. It felt like a long time since they had been this near to civilization. They were both nervous with the crowds, the hustle of the city streets, the patrolling soldiers everywhere; Marcus felt like his slave brand burned through his tunic obvious for all to see. But they passed through the streets unchallenged.
At the market they separated. Marcus argued long with a Greek merchant for a short sword that almost passed for a gladius. It had the feel and weight of one, and the balance. He then had a smith put a real edge to it, tempering the blade a little, giving it a bluish sheen. Satisfied, he clasped it on his left side in civilian fashion, not on the right like soldiers. It felt strange, but Marcus thought it prudent to keep it there, not to give away his military past.
Septimus had bought himself a book. The Iliad and The Odyssey of all things, in Greek. “Could you not find something more useful for travel than this?” Marcus asked, exasperated with his friend.
“Things are not always what they seem to be,” Septimus observed mysteriously caressing the book and slipping it back into its protective leather cover.
“Why couldn’t you buy a map instead?” Marcus persisted.
“Because this is a vital military zone and no maps are allowed for sale. Would you like to sell a road map to your enemy, perhaps?” Septimus countered.
“Bah! The enemy already has maps, good maps, you can bet on that. Only we, common traveling public, are hurt by such silly prohibitions.”
In early evening they took the elephants to the courtyard before the city hall. There the local notables with their families collected to watch the unusual spectacle of two elephants in their city. The common folk crowded onto the wide steps.
Safarkan had hired a drummer, and to the beat of his drums the elephants danced; Crenah in the lead with Marcus on top and Tantor behind carrying Septimus. In fact it was really the drummer who adjusted to their motions. The animals shifted from foot to foot, swung their heads from side to side and spun around, whirling. Safarkan passed around his hat and coins rained into it from the delighted crowd. It was not often that such entertainment could be assured.
Marcus reversed the spin of the animals, then in the end, signalled for both to rise onto their hind legs, trunks in the air, trumpeting. The crowd roared. Few had seen such beasts, most thinking them to be mythical or allegorical, but now had this close look at them. More coins fell into the hat.
Afterwards the crowd did not want to disperse but shoved to get close, making the elephants nervous. In the end the city guards had to hold the press of the curious back. Then the prefect made a request to have his twelve year old son ride on an elephant, and reluctantly Safarkan agreed. Marcus climbed down and helped the boy onto the animal. They took a turn around the square, the boy screaming half in fright, half in delight. But it turned out to be a mistake, for now the rest of the sons also wanted to get a ride, and they pressed forward, clamoring. Marcus signalled Crenah, and on cue, she reared up, then dropped down, eased herself onto the ground and rolled over, with Marcus skilfully jumping off her, just in time. There were no more requests after that.
The prefect and the city fathers gave a modest but not insignificant purse to Safarkan for the fine entertainment. The elephants were escorted back to the inn and guards were posted to keep the crowds away. In a private room of the inn, Safarkan shared out the earnings equally. “Are you sure you boys wouldn’t like to come with me? We have a gold mine here. We can entertain all along the way and among the Hindus. Why we would be rich even before we got there.”
Marcus played with his share of the take. He had never had so much money in his life, and there was the promise of more. But he shook his head, “It’ll be hard enough to part with you and your pets in three days, but after a year it would be impossible.”
Septimus concurred. “We too have plans, esteemed friend, but we certainly wish you the very best with yours.”
“Too bad,” Safarkan said sadly, but brightened almost immediately. “You know I’m a blessed man. I’ve raised two families, three if you count my pets. Have the interest of this journey to keep me young and a future to attract me. I’ve already lived two full lives at least.” He closed his eyes counting his blessings. “I’ve enjoyed your company greatly as well and wish you the best in all your undertaking.”
“Ala ecta es,” Marcus murmured laconically.
“What is with you? Seize the day and the die is cast?” Septimus turned on his friend irritated, “Why are you parroting such hackneyed phrases?”
“Hackneyed they may be,” Marcus admitted somewhat defensively. “Yet I use them to challenge myself or . . . commit myself irrevocably to a course of action. It is a seal that there is no turning back.”
Septimus was taken aback; it was more of an answer than he expected. In some measure Marcus had outgrown Septimus’ knowledge of him. He decided to watch his friend more closely and not let the small changes escape him.
Septimus and Marcus went down to the waterfront to inquire what it would cost to get across the isthmus. They found a number of ships making regular runs across the water, and the competition between them kept the prices quite reasonable. A few of the flat-bottomed ships also took horses and carriages and livestock of all sorts and charged even less. Septimus went off to investigate further, while Marcus wandered along the shore. He sat down at a table in a tavern veranda under a canopy of grape leaves, and feeling expansive with the weight of money in his pocket, ordered a cup of rich wine and some biscuits. The wine tasted much too sweet for Marcus, who preferred the sour thin wine from his service days, better at quenching one’s thirst.
At the next table a Decurion and a legionnaire tried to interest a few young men in signing up for service in the army. They were no doubt plying four local farm boys with wine to try to sell them on the glory and honor of the military. A woman joined them, obviously hired to raise the prestige of the army even more. She artfully admired the boys, saying how much she liked men in uniform. The boys’ eyes, dulled by the wine, suddenly glowed with lust.
Marcus stood up and joined them. “I’m interested in the army myself.”
“Well then sit down and join us, lad.” Waving him to a place on the bench, the Decurion was more friendly than Marcus had ever seen a Decurion be. He poured Marcus a cup of wine. “Life in the service is an honor, as I was saying to these young men. Train, travel and see the world, protect the Empire.”
“And how much would we get paid?” Marcus asked.
“Three sesterces a day, every day, rain or shine, for doing little at taxpayer’s expense. And don’t forget, on a campaign a soldier is entitled to combat pay and a share of the booty taken from the enemy.”
“Three sesterces is good,” Marcus said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of a steady income. “And how is the food?”
“Good and nutritious, though nothing fancy, mind you,” the Decurion replied, trying to gloss over the menu.
“But what exactly?” Marcus persisted. “Meat every day? Fresh fruit I like. And surely even something sweet?”
The Decurion shook his head, “No, no. More basic, manly stuff. Nothing sissy. Eh, Roxanna?” and he slapped the prostitute’s rump. She squealed on cue, distracting them from an uncomfortable topic.
“You don’t mean lentils and onions, I hope? Bean curds and hardtack biscuits? That’s what I eat now,” Marcus persisted, shaking his head. “And I hear they make you buy your food with the three sesterces they pay you and charge for the cheap wine they sell. I hope the equipment is provided free of cost, but I hear it whispered that it’s not.”
“Well, my son, the army is not for everyone. It’s for the rugged sort like these stalwart fellows here,” the Decurion replied trying to salvage the situation, but three of the boys were already getting up from the table. “And there’s the grant of Roman citizenship for everyone who’s served with the military.”
“You mean after twenty-five hard years, don’t you?” Marcus threw in, hitting the one remaining prospect vigorously on the back so that he threw up the wine all over the table. Marcus dragged the boy off to the water trough, leaving the Decurion swearing behind them; a whole morning wasted on cheap wine and on a cheaper woman.
Septimus was glad of the information he had unearthed and Marcus was glad of the good deed he had done. In his own case, his father had sold him out cheaply to the army. But perhaps his father really believed all he had said. To a vegetable grower looking back, his army life must have seemed exciting.
Observing the crowded streets, Marcus wondered why Safarkan had not hired his crew here. He asked Septimus, who shrugged his shoulders but answered, “Perhaps he needs us to woo the Governor in Cyzicus to issue him a safe conduct through the remaining Roman provinces.”
“But how’re we supposed to do that . . .?”
“By putting on a show as we did here.” That seemed likely.
*****
Two days later they stopped by a small river to enjoy a midday break. Safarkan prepared a meal while Marcus and Septimus scrubbed down the elephants. Crenah was rolling from one side to the other in the water, spraying playfully about herself. The animals were in a good mood, having stuffed themselves full on the lush riverbank.
As Marcus scrubbed and scrubbed, the reality of the separation hit him and he felt guilty, as if he were abandoning these creatures to some horrible fate. “They’re only dumb animals,” he told himself even though he knew it was not the case, far from it in fact, but he was starting to worry more about the animals’ reactions to their sudden departure. They were likely to grieve the loss of their companionship, as if the two of them had died. How was he going to explain that to Crenah? The fact was that he could not, and that ate at him. Crenah sprayed him and Marcus exploded furiously. “That’s it! You can be so irritating! Spraying and throwing things . . . all the time.” The rest of his anger he swallowed. But Crenah felt the disapproval and was anxious to do something about it. She stood up and her eyes blinked at the man, her ears drooped and her trunk hung despondently. Marcus had to laugh, but inside he felt even guiltier.
After a quick meal they packed up and resumed their travel east. The road had passed through some burnt out hills which made the river so welcome. At one time there had been a village along its bank, but obviously it had been burned down, testifying to the violence on this coast notwithstanding the nearness of the Roman presence. The sun was hot, boiling down from a clear sky. Marcus brooded, sitting high on Crenah, gently rocking from side to side with each step.
Ahead the road narrowed and a group of armed men appeared, blocking the way. “Customs here?” Safarkan asked somewhat irritably. But the customs sign was clear and the men wore the uniforms of the local militia. Everyone wanted a piece of the profit that flowed along the road. As they came even with the group, an officer came out of the tent. He looked them over and walked all around. “That will be twenty two denari, if you please,” he said in officious tones.
“Twenty-two denari?” Safarkan was horrified. That was eighty-eight sesterces! Enough almost to buy a small garden.
“Yes. And have I forgotten to include two more for the road toll?” the officer said with a smirk on his face. The rest of his men were enjoying the officer’s humor.
“But that is . . . that is robbery!” Safarkan gasped out in indignantly, then added resolutely, “I won’t pay it!”
“Regretfully that forces me to confiscate your elephants and all your goods,” the officer replied in a studied, bored tone. His men crowded a little closer, their weapons suddenly ready. Marcus held onto his spear, choosing the officer’s neck as a target. Whatever happens now, that man will die, he decided grimly.
“You aren’t soldiers! You’re robbers! Stand aside!” Safarkan shouted angrily at them and the elephants tensed. There were four tent-units, over thirty well-armed men.
“Oh, we've been called worse,” the officer said casually, then drew his sword. “Kill them!” he ordered his men, then died with Marcus’ javelin in his throat. Septimus cursed for being slower than Marcus, but he got the second-in-command. Safarkan threw a knife at the man near him, burying it in his chest up to the hilt. In an eyeblink, three men lay dead and the renegades were suddenly leaderless.
Marcus slid from Crenah’s back, drew his short sword and rushed the remainder, closing in as he had been trained to do for infighting. The first man died before he had a chance to defend himself, but the next, suddenly furious, turned on Marcus. Crenah charged in, grabbing the man with her trunk and casting him into the midst of the rest. Tantor was right behind her, both elephants trumpeting in rage and fright. The remainder fled, but not before Marcus dispatched one more with a quick sword trust.
Marcus was closing on another but the man turned, casting his javelin. Marcus ducked under it, broke stride and the man escaped.
“Yihhh! Run you bastards! Run you cowardly whoresons!” Septimus called after the retreating foe. He slid from Tantor and examined the dead, nudging them with his foot. “You don’t suppose they could have been a real customs detachment, do you? A little crooked perhaps, but genuine all the same?”
“Not with the passage fee they asked for!” Marcus rejected the possibility. “They had to be renegades!”
They turned to Safarkan and to their great shock, found him pale, doubled over, an arrow deep in his chest. “Safarkan!” Marcus cried out. He quickly climbed Tantor and caught the older man before he could topple from the height. Through his pain, Safarkan smiled tiredly at him. “We gave it to them, didn’t we?”
“Yes, six dead, the rest still running. Is it hurting really bad?”
“I’ve been better.” His smile turned into a grimace and a groan escaped his throat. Marcus and Septimus carefully lowered him to the ground and stretched him out on the grass beside the road. The elephants anxiously crowded close, their trunks sniffing at him, worried by the smell of blood.
“That’s all right my pets.” Safarkan feebly stroked their trunks, trying to reassure them. Tantor whined like a child.
Septimus examined the wound: the arrow had pierced almost through the right chest. He shook his head uncertainly. “I think we must take it out, but then he’ll surely bleed.” He looked questioningly at Marcus who had to shrug his shoulders. They had taught him to kill, not to fix up the wounded.
Septimus cleaned the wound as best as he could and considered his options. The barbed arrow had nearly gone through the body, and the better alternative was to push it all the way through, rather than trying to pull it out, the barb causing even more damage. Either way it was going to hurt. Steeling himself, Septimus grasped the shaft and snapped off the end with the flight feathers. Safarkan groaned at every touch. With grim determination, Septimus then punched the arrow all the way through the chest, extracting it from the back. Safarkan screamed, then mercifully lost consciousness.
“Give me some salt,” Septimus ordered Marcus, “and heat your sword tip in the fire.” Marcus did as ordered. “I’ll rub salt into the wound to stop the bleeding . . . hopefully. Then burn both wounds to sear them shut.” The salt slowed the bleeding, and the heated sword closed the wounds. Septimus did not hurry, making a thorough job of it. A sickening odour wafted in the air and Marcus felt nauseated. Septimus wrapped some clean cloth around the chest then they laid the unconscious man on blankets.
“Do you think it’ll work?” Marcus asked, trying to quiet his stomach.
“I hope so,” Septimus answered, not knowing what else to say.
Marcus and Septimus dragged the dead soldiers off the road into the tent. “We can’t stay here. They’ll be back.”
“But where can we go? Forward or back? They’re likely to try ambushing us up ahead. Behind us is a village, but I bet a few of them belong to it. In any case, dare we move him at all?”
“We have no choice and therefore must,” Septimus decided, his mouth grim. Marcus made Tantor drop to her knees, and with Crenah’s help got Safarkan onto Tantor. Septimus climbed up and Marcus after him, both holding onto the unconscious man. They started off, back the way they had come, past the village, past all habitation, stopping by a small water run only when the light was fading. They unloaded Safarkan and made camp, their backs protected by a low cliff. The elephants remained close by, nervously shifting about, uninterested in the nearby grass.
Safarkan woke to ask for water, his face fever flushed. He tried to speak, “If I die . . . you must promise me . . . you take care of them. Promise.”
“Of course . . . of course.” The two would have promised anything to reassure him.
“That’s good . . .” Safarkan fell back into a delirium. Septimus wiped his face to cool him, and Marcus stood guard a dozen paces off, listening into the darkness, a sword in each hand. He had picked up an extra weapon from the dead at the roadblock, but it was a curved eastern blade favored by many auxiliaries, and did not fit his hand well. Still, two swords were better than one.
The elephants stood near, snuffing quietly in the dust. From time to time they would reassure one another with a gentle touch, huffing back and forth in rather plaintive tones, very much as if commiserating. Marcus listened to them astonished, thinking that maybe he was reading too much into it. But the animals would reach for Safarkan and very gently tug at him, trying to comfort him.
“Great Jupiter, show your mercy to a valiant man,” Marcus prayed, “Give him strength to . . .” he tailed off. To what exactly? To be healed? Or to die peacefully?
Throughout the night Safarkan remained in a restless, fever-tossed delirium. In the morning the fever abated somewhat and he was anxious to speak. “If I die, you must care for them . . . I cannot expect you to take them back to Africa or to the valley of the Indus . . . but perhaps you could find a safe place for them where you’re going.” His eyes looked beseechingly from one to the other.
