Seize the Day, page 27
Marcus shivered through an even colder night. Gitta and Davo clutched at each other, while Marcus went to share his blanket and heat with the elephants. Next morning proved a slow start as people had difficulty forcing movement into their numb limbs.
During the day, boxed in by cliffs on both sides, they passed through the most likely spot for an ambush. While none came, everyone’s nerves were on edge with great apprehension. It had been taken for granted that this was where the attack would come; now they had to worry about someplace else. But where? The heights looked even more ominous.
Falldown Gap was aptly named, for the ice build-up made every step treacherous. The midday sun would soften the top of the snow, which would then freeze as soon as the sun lost its strength. The animals had great trouble keeping their feet, slipping often and falling to their knees. Marcus had wrapped their feet in rags to protect them from the cold, but now had to unwrap them so they could get better traction. Tantor was greatly discouraged, whining. Crenah tried to calm her but was having troubles of her own. The riders had dismounted to ease the work of the animals, but it had become too dangerous to stay on top in any case. They all struggled on, their legs stiff with cold, their steps unfeeling and clumsy.
Once in a while they passed the carcass of a pack animal by the road. The unfortunate had fallen, broken a bone and had to be killed and abandoned. The blood froze in the wounds and the ice crystals soon covered the beast. People plodded on in grim determination. How had the world turned so cold in high summer? It seemed so unnatural. Marcus, remembering the heat in the desert, wished now he had some of it. But life was like that. Too much of one thing, not enough of the other.
A step ahead Gitta kept the pace. She did not complain, ever. Marcus, who remembered his sister crying at the least little thing, found Gitta’s fortitude heroic. She would probably outlast him. Surprisingly Davo was not doing so well. His face was puffy and frozen, and he was dragging his feet. Septimus was helping, keeping a steadying hand on him. Gitta was talking in her strange tongue, obviously encouraging him.
A swirl of ice crystals blinded them as they stumbled forward. Afterward Crenah grabbed onto the end of Marcus’ cloak, and Tantor onto Crenah’s tail. Cautiously they moved forward, just a little more.
The land changed constantly. The open slope was suddenly overshadowed by a cliff again, and the wind dropped. It was strangely disconcerting with one step to be in a different climate. It felt softer in the wind shadow, warmer already. Ahead people were enjoying the improvement while those behind were still struggling on in the old world, freezing. But like all things good or bad, this too passed.
Soon after they reached the next resting place, a flat table land nestled into a curve of the cliff. Gratefully, people dropped onto the ground, too tired to stir from the spot. But Marcus had to. He had animals to take care of, to feed from their shrinking grain supply and to water them with melted snow. He was exhausted, and had to force himself to complete the least little thing. Septimus helped while Gitta took care of her brother who was having difficulty breathing.
“It’s the altitude,” Septimus said, also short of breath, “the air gets thin.” Marcus did not understand the concept, but felt its effects. The animals were suffering too, their breath wheezing in and out of them. Marcus made the animals lie down back to back and covered them with blankets, then joined them himself. Luckily the air was getting warmer and the ground not so cold. Still, the night seemed endless, as they huddled close, stiffening into cramped postures.
Next day, mucus was dripping from Tantor’s snout. She blew a few choked-off sounds and shook her head to clear it: she had a cold! She dragged her feet and snuffled miserably, then froze in midstep and sneezed, the explosion rippling through her big body. Crenah tried to comfort her, but the other only grew more petulant. Marcus and Septimus draped all the blankets over the sick animal, hoping to rest her some, but when the procession resumed, they were forced to go on.
With each step they climbed higher on the road that snaked up on a steep incline to a ridgeline overlooking the whole of the countryside.
On top was the Sky Ladder, a brief flatland that was embraced by the whole of the sky, the highest point of their passage with a spectacular view. Behind them was a range of mountains and untold precipitous folds of the land between the snow-capped peaks; clouds were caught by their height. Ahead spread out a vast panoramic descent into the lush green of summer, still far, far below.
Marcus was overawed by the breathtaking view, having never seen its like. Septimus conceded, “Very striking. But then you should see the Alps.”
“Or the Carpathian mountains,” Gitta added.
They started down, but instead of becoming easier, it proved harder than the uphill climb, perhaps because the view gaped so openly at them, and each step was so minuscule compared with all that emptiness ahead. Once they descended into the fold of cliffs, it became easier as they could measure their progress against way points left behind.
Tantor was shaking her head vigorously. Because of her congestion, the pressure was trapped in her ears, and it irritated her on top of all her other complaints. Septimus patted her on the head and scratched her earlobes, knowing nothing else to do to ease her discomfort.
The vanguard had captured a spy, scouting their progress. He was interrogated, tortured and confessed that Soan, the self-styled King of the Mountains, was conducting a private war against a rival in a mountain chain farther to the east. This was welcome news for it meant that the caravan was safe, from him at least. But there were many others who cautioned that it was just a ruse: the spy had been planted to give them false information to lull their vigilance. There were many theories and suspicions. Marcus kept his spears near at hand, ready to use at any time.
Over midday break, Marcus asked, “Just how far are we?”
Septimus shrugged, his map too small to be of much use, but Gitta was full of information. “After this there is an extended valley leading north, through much of Moesia. Then some rivers to cross and then we’re in Pannonia.”
“Is that your home?” Marcus asked, more than just curious.
“For the present,” she said, her face flat, closed. Davo looked from one to the other. He had picked up a few words of Latin, but refused to speak it. The brothers then went aside to confer.
Marcus muttered to himself, his dissatisfaction rumbling deep within him. Septimus threw a look at him and asked philosophically, “Why worry about something you can’t do much about? Aren’t there enough real concerns to worry about?”
“They’re hiding something,” Marcus complained.
“Probably. But are we not hiding a few things ourselves?” That struck home. In his self-righteous stance he had almost forgotten that he was still a branded criminal.
They descended through a layer of clouds, barely able to see more than a few steps ahead. With the air so heavy with moisture, their hair was soon plastered down and their outer clothes turned slick. Tantor shivered and wheezed out a few coughs. Through it all they heard the wind moaning higher up, trying to get over the mountains.
Down they went, a long worm carefully working its way down the slope. With every step the air became warmer, and they soon noticed tufts of grass hiding in protected pockets. Melt water trickled between the rocks and grew into rivulets then streams, falling down the mountainside in a plume of vapor. They continued down, once hearing the rumble of an avalanche sweep down the slope on the far side, feeling the vibration of its descent.
A herd of mountain goats grazed on the sparse vegetation. The sentinel, all four feet standing on the same rock, regarded the worm move past. A few bushes then even a few trees appeared, all stunted by the extremes of the mountain top. Above them a flock of birds cruised the altitude. What was there for them to eat this high up?
They had to skirt a rockslide that partially obstructed the road. According to custom, everyone took a rock and laid it aside in a safe spot. It would not do just to pitch it into the deep, causing a slide that would wipe out the road further down, or even kill the head of the worm.
The Centurion rode by them on his mountain horse, frowning as he always did at their slow progress. As usual he paused to watch the elephants lumber by. Tantor sneezed just then, sending the Centurion galloping off on his startled horse. They could hear him swearing a long distance away.
Marcus was tired; tired of the mountains, tired of the weight of worry he carried in his head. Physically he was exhausted. Although he rode on top of Crenah, he had to shift with every step and hold on with his knees. Behind him Gitta had only the pack strap to hang onto, though occasionally she hooked her hand into Marcus’ belt for extra support and sagged against him tiredly. Still, she never complained.
Their progress was boring, slowed by the pace of the people on foot. Often the elephants had to use a stutter step and break rhythm not to overrun those in front. And those just ahead threw apprehensive looks back at the great lumbering beasts.
They reached another plateau, where like water they spread out, choosing one of the many fire pits. There, around the circle of stones, they found the bones of a small bird, maybe chicken and something larger, perhaps a goat. They cursed as they cleaned up the mess of the previous occupants. Huddling around the empty fire pit, they were cold and shivering because they had already used up all of their firewood.
Marcus led the elephants to a pool fed by a gush of melt water. It was cold, and Crenah sucked up careful little sips into her trunk and passed it up to her mouth. After half a dozen times, she got a numbing ache in her sinus cavity and she trumpeted her displeasure. Tantor refused to drink at all, her trunk still stuffed with mucus. Crenah sprayed a few trunkfuls into Tantor’s mouth.
Next day they reached level land. The road straightened and spread out comfortably. The head of the worm could now see its tail as it wound itself into the countryside. Green plants and vegetation welcomed them, the green pleasing to the eyes after the harsh glare of snow and the monotony of rock. Grass grew by the wayside and Marcus allowed the elephants to graze there. A little later they rejoined the flow moving north.
By mid afternoon they reached the village of Cruso, officially the end of the crossing that the passage fee entitled them to. The caravan split, half heading for the Dalmatian coast, half to continue on north. They were now safe from robbers, but not from the kind that overcharged for their supplies when the travelers tried to replenish their depleted stocks. Septimus had to pay eleven sesterces for two bushels of grain for the elephants.
“I remember this,” Gitta said as they passed through the next village. “This is where we were resold. The new master wanted only me, but I convinced him to take us both.”
Marcus pricked up his ears; he wanted to penetrate her secrets. “How?” he asked, looking closely at her. But Gitta just shook her head. This was as close as she wanted to come to that memory.
A smaller procession continued north without military escort, much reduced and much less formal. Only slowly did people thaw out of the grip of fear of an impending attack that had been with them through the mountains. One group visited another, trading stories and experiences. Atop their elephants Marcus and Septimus rarely benefited from such civility.
They passed through another village and stopped to restock supplies. The place was already crowded with a new train forming up, heading south. Consequently the best camping places were already taken, and latecomers had to make do with the rocky periphery.
After finishing with the animals, Marcus walked into the village and stood in line at the bakery waiting for fresh bread as the baker got a new batch out of the oven. A delicious aroma filled all their noses and made their mouths water.
“It’ll be great to break bread again,” said a bearded man in a workmanlike traveling cloak. Now where had Marcus heard that formulation “breaking bread?” Among the galley slaves there was a group, separate unto themselves, always mumbling prayers, making a great show of eating together.
“Are you Christian?” Marcus asked curiously.
“Christian? Me?” The man looked alarmed; his eyes carefully searched Marcus’ face. “I have friends who are Christians,” he then said guardedly.
“I . . . worked with Christians before,” Marcus volunteered just as cautiously. Though the persecutions under the demented Nero had by and large ceased, Christians were regarded as a nuisance, a splinter cult of the Jews. With two costly uprisings in Palestine that were brutally suppressed and the dispersal of Jews through the Empire, Christianity had also fallen into disrepute. There were even periodic calls to outlaw the religion. Seventy years ago Hadrian had forbidden the Jews to enter Jerusalem, but a great many had ended up in Rome, where they were locked into eternal squabbles with the growing Christian community. The city fathers alternately ignored or bore down hard on them.
“My name is James,” the man said, extending his hand in Roman fashion for a clasp.
“I’m Marcus.” Gladly he shook the man’s hand. The simple gesture restored some of the civility he had lost as a galley slave. Here he was on equal footing. “We’re heading north.”
“Why, so am I. With others to Mursa.” Then he looked a little puzzled. “I don’t remember seeing you in the caravan.”
“I’m . . . with the elephants.”
“I’ve seen them.” The man looked taken aback; elephants were too unconventional. “Then I will definitely see you as it’s hard to miss those elephants of yours.” But his eyebrows came together, noticing the elaborate markings on Marcus’ arms, the stamp of some mystery religion. Christians were not very tolerant of other beliefs.
Just then bread, still hot from the baker’s oven, was distributed, and Marcus stuck three large loaves under his cloak. He hurried back to the campsite with this treat. There was great rejoicing at such a rare commodity and all ate with gusto, tearing the bread apart, still hot in their hands. Marcus gave a pinch to Crenah, which disappeared in an instant, but the trunk came back looking for more.
They built themselves a small fire more for visual comfort, as they were in summer again. Gitta and Davo went to the creek to join others washing clothes. Gitta had kept up her boy-disguise to avoid inviting any attention to herself as the only female in the entire caravan.
Marcus and Septimus lolled around the fire, enjoying the luxury of not being cold, nor having to watch each step constantly. Most significantly, they were safe, free of the peril of the mountains. Septimus was reading his book, relishing the words.
“Where did you learn all you know?” Marcus thought to ask.
“Copying text and reading,” Septimus answered, looking up from his book. “But for real learning, I was a servant to a rich man’s son, and carried his books to class and attended on him. I heard all that was taught and I learned, though the rich boy never did. But he’s serving as a Legate in Hispania someplace.”
“Yes, life can be so unjust,” Marcus said, parroting the formula consolation.
“Life? Life is what you make it. Birthright is inherited, but life is yours to do with as you dare.” Septimus looked up. “Look at me. I never expected to be here with a pair of elephants heading into Barbary.”
There was that about Septimus. He craved the new and exotic, and embraced all experience, whether good or bad, with great enthusiasm. Septimus opened himself up to all possibilities. It nearly got him killed among the Thracians, but doubtless he was titillated by even that. By contrast Marcus, like a stick in the mud, was trying to impose order on the chaos he found around himself. The more powerless he was, the more he had to try to hold things together. He hoped to make some sense of gods and deities to give him that feeling of order he craved. But there was such a confusion of them. If he saw James again, he would dare to ask about his one god.
He got up and went looking for the two “brothers.” After the hardship and dangers of the mountains, the camp life all around was festive. Music sounded everywhere, and people were socialising freely. Laughter and good cheer filled the air.
Arriving on the creek bank, however, he walked into something deadly serious. Ten Macedonians stood facing Gitta and Davo, both of them with daggers drawn. “You thieves! Give me back my amulet!” Gitta spat the words at the leader of the Macedonians.
“Who are you calling a thief?” the man sputtered, drawing a curved blade from his belt. The others watched him indulgently, clear that he could easily deal with two such youngsters as these.
With the swiftness of a cat, his sword out in an instant, Marcus pounced on the man, the point at the man's throat. “Now, now. We all want to stay very calm,” he said with silky smoothness, yet with an iron edge to his voice. “I’m very good with this sword and can finish four of you before you can get to me. My two friends will finish at least one each. That would make six of you. But which six? Perhaps you, or you.” He prodded the man in the neck with the tip of his sword and smiled evilly. The man’s eyes turned yellow with growing fear. Marcus continued with snake oil smoothness, “But it need not be. Whoever took whatever can give it back to its owner and we can all carry on peaceably.” Nobody moved, as all waited for something to happen. “It would be a shame to die on such a nice sunny day . . .” Marcus tailed off.
The Macedonian said something rough and all his people took a step back. A shifty-eyed youth drew forth a bundle and threw it at Gitta’s feet. She quickly retrieved it and faced the rest, her dagger still drawn.
“Yes, so is right,” Marcus let go of the man and dusted off his cloak. “Now we can all go about our business and not risk life and limb over such paltry trinkets.”
The man backed away, his eyes blazing as he measured Marcus, who casually held his gladius in hand. Obviously, he too decided that the trinket was not worth blood, but his prestige had been challenged, and that required some redress. What was it worth, the man tried to decide. Marcus slipped his sword back in its scabbard, hoping to defuse the situation. The leader put on a thin smile and turned to shoo his men back.
