Flickering torchlight illuminated the tiny cell below the arena. Rachamim sat on a wooden table as the gladiators' physician washed and bandaged his wound. "A shallow cut, some bruises, and no broken ribs," he said. "You're a very lucky man."
"What now?" Rachamim asked.
The physician shrugged. "You'll know soon enough." He clapped the slave on the shoulder. Rachamim winced. "Whatever happens, good luck to you. I hear that was quite a fight."
He left the cell, leaving the basin of water behind. Two guards came in. One tossed a new tunic onto the table.
"Clean yourself up and put this on," he said. They watched and waited.
Though cold, the water felt good on Rachamim's skin. He washed off the blood and sand, and dressed. When he had finished, the guards escorted him out of the cell, up a staircase, through a barred gate, down a long corridor, and out into the open air, where a cart waited.
The guards prodded him with their spears. "In here," commanded the talkative one.
Rachamim obeyed. The silent one fitted a shackle to his ankle. The chain led to an iron ring bolted to the floor of the cart, so there was no escape.
He did not resist; there was no point. He was in God's hands.
The silent guard nodded curtly to the driver, who shouted to the horses and cracked his whip. With a lurch, the cart began to roll and bump over the stone-paved streets of Rome.
Rome was a beautiful city, Rachamim had to admit. The Forum, with its statues, columns, and temples served as a majestic reminder of the scope of Rome's power and wealth. The Rostra, the platform from which any citizen could declaim his views on politics, morality, or just about anything, was decorated with the prows of captured enemy ships. The Via Sacra ran through the center of the Forum. It was the road by which victory processions traveled on the way to the Temple of Jupiter. There, the victorious general would receive the honors and accolades from the Emperor and Senate, and sacrifice to the god.
On the Via Sacra, leading away from the Forum, they drove under the Arch of Titus. Rachamim had heard about this arch when the Emperor Domitian had built it some ten years earlier, though he had never seen it. He looked up at it now. It was quite an imposing structure, standing more than seven times a man's height. Images in relief portrayed Titus' triumphant return from the war in Judea, carrying the spoils of the Temple in Jerusalem.
Rachamim gripped the side of the cart tightly as his father's constant admonition echoed in his head: Remember, my son. Never forget.
"I will never forget, Father," he whispered through gritted teeth. "Never."
Rachamim remembered the stories his father had told him about life in Judea. He remembered the vivid portrayals of the small oasis town where he had lived with his mother and older brother, and how they used to go to the Temple in Jerusalem three times a year. His father had described the Temple to him in great detail. He had often fallen asleep with the light of the golden menorah or the glow of the sun on the stones of the great plaza dancing, warm and comforting, in his head.
But the menorah was dark now, and in exile; the stones of the great plaza scorched and buried in rubble. His father and mother had been brought to Rome in chains, and now here he was.
Feeling the cart slow to a halt, Rachamim shook his head free of his daydream; he needed to be in the present now.
The villa encompassed two imposing stories of sterile white stucco crowned with a gently sloped red shingle roof, its appearance softened only by the delicate tendrils of morning glory that climbed the spare Doric columns flanking the entrance. The road leading directly to the door was wide and paved with smooth stones. A groundskeeper, engaged in pruning the tall evergreen hedges that lined the road on both sides, looked up from his work as the cart stopped a scant distance from where the straight ranks of hedge began.
"Hey!" called the driver, gesturing at his passenger. "Where do you want him?"
"Take that side road around to the back," the groundskeeper directed the driver. "Ask for Verus."
With a brusque nod and a tug at the reins, the driver proceeded in the indicated direction.
As the cart rattled slowly along, Rachamim observed his surroundings. On one side of the road sprawled the villa, large and impressive. Behind it was the farmyard, containing the stables and livestock pens that held sheep, goats, hogs, and poultry. A small vegetable garden lay behind the kitchen off to one side. On the other side of the road lay walled orchards and vineyards, with busy slaves moving industriously among the trees and vines.
A large man, whom Rachamim assumed to be the vilicus, was waiting for them at the roadside.
"Hard trip from Rome?" he asked as the driver hopped to the ground, wincing as the circulation returned to his legs.
"Always is," he grumbled. "Ought to get something soft to put on the seat - I get rubbed raw every time."
Verus nodded sympathetically. "At least you had company."
The driver turned and spat on the ground. "Not much of a conversationalist."
"If you'd said two words to me, I might have been," Rachamim muttered.
The two other men turned to look at him. "So you do talk," exclaimed Verus. "Come out and introduce yourself."
"I'm chained in."
"Right," nodded the driver. "Dangerous fellow, this one."
Verus went around to the back of the cart. "Got a key?" he asked.
Mumbling under his breath, the driver limped over, fumbling in his belt pouch. With a clank and a thud, Rachamim was free - relatively, anyway.
"Thanks," he said, jumping out.
Verus grunted in reply, then turned to the driver. "Why don't you go inside for a bite? I'll take him from here."
While the grateful driver took his leave, the vilicus sized Rachamim up. "Come along, then; I'll show you around."
Suddenly, Rachamim stopped in his tracks. Directly in front of him crouched a dog as big as a small horse, tongue lolling, teeth showing, slobber dripping everywhere, tail wagging as if ready to pounce. Every cell in Rachamim's body screamed, "Danger!" and horrific memories flooded his mind. All he could hear was the snarls of Cornelius Vespa's vicious mutts and the shrieks of their victims. He did the only thing that seemed logical: he turned and fled, running faster than he ever had before. The dog, thinking this was a game, barked loudly and gave chase, which impelled Rachamim to run even faster. He didn't hear Verus' voice calling the animal to heel, or notice when the well-trained beast obeyed.
His lungs burned and his bruised ribs smarted as he ran through the hilly woodland, but he didn't stop until he reached a shallow stream. Water, recalled his oxygen-starved brain, dogs can't trace a scent through water. He staggered across the wide, clear stream, and collapsed on the other bank, gasping for breath. He rested there for a while, taking occasional gulps of the clean, life-giving liquid that flowed past him.
Once he regained his strength, he staggered to his feet and began wading, following the brook downstream. Here his years of labor served him well: thick calluses on his bare feet protected them from the pebbles and sharp rocks of the streambed. He kept alert, remembering that Rome's hills and forests swarmed with bands of bounty hunters, desperate men who made their living turning fugitive slaves in for a reward. He touched the "F"-shaped burn scar on his forehead, the painful consequence of a previous encounter with such men, admonishing himself to use extra caution.
As the stream abruptly widened and deepened, Rachamim heard a faint cry. He stopped in his tracks, ready to bolt in any direction at any time, and listened intently. There it was again - it was a woman's voice, and she was calling for help.
Rachamim grabbed a sturdy branch from the forest floor, and tossed it into the water. Then, he struggled out of his tunic, leaving it on the bank, and jumped in after the branch. Holding on for dear life, he paddled toward the source of the sound.
As he came closer, he saw a girl flailing about in the water, caught by a strong undertow. Her head sank under the water, and he paddled even more furiously. When he reached her, she broke the surface, gasping.
"Grab my hand!" he shouted, reaching out to her.
The girl extended her arm, but was too weak to take hold. Rachamim seized her wrist as the rest of her went under again. Adjusting his position on the floating branch, he clutched her with both arms, hauling her head above the surface. She was unconscious. He felt the current taking hold of his legs and knew they had to leave the area fast. Kicking as hard as he could, he towed the girl to safety.
When they reached the shallows, he dragged the girl onto land. He laid her on her back and pounded on her chest, trying desperately to expel the water from her lungs. A trickle dripped from the corner of her mouth; then she began to cough weakly. Rachamim rolled her onto her belly as her coughing became stronger, and she vomited a great deal of water onto the ground. Finally spent, she lay on the bank, gulping air as her rescuer gently wiped her face with a corner of her soaked dress.
The sun was making its inexorable way toward the western horizon. There was now a noticeable chill in the formerly temperate air, and Rachamim saw that the girl was shivering.
"Can you move?" he asked.
She looked up at him weakly, as though seeing him for the first time. "Who are you?" she asked hoarsely.
"It doesn't matter," Rachamim answered. He offered her his own tunic, which was dry. "Here, you can put this on. Your clothes are wet; you'll catch a chill."
The girl looked at the garment suspiciously. "How do I know I can trust you?" she demanded, attempting an authoritative tone.
Rachamim raised an amused eyebrow. "If I intended to harm you, I wouldn't waste my time talking," he rejoined
Recognizing the logic of his argument, she accepted the tunic with shaking hands and a quiet "thank you."
As Rachamim turned and walked a few paces away to give her privacy, she gasped. "You're a runaway slave, aren't you?" she asked.
Rachamim stopped suddenly, flinching as if struck.
"Such scars...you've been badly hurt."
Rachamim shrank into himself. "What do you care?" he asked rudely.
"In my father's house, slaves are treated with kindness." She finished dressing, approached him, and put a hand on his arm. He pulled away. "Maybe he can help you."
Rachamim didn't say anything, but a spark of hope ignited within him.
"I'll ask him to," she said. "You saved my life."
The slave was silent for a long time.
"I'll have to escort you home, anyway," he finally said. "The forest isn't safe for a girl alone, and it's getting dark and cold."
The girl shivered and looked around at the deepening shadows. "I walk in the forest all the time," she said in a small voice. "I've never encountered anything...dangerous."
"Then you're lucky," Rachamim told her, adding darkly, "I have."
He did not elaborate.
"We should start moving," the slave said. "If, as you say, you come here often, may I assume you know the way back?"
"I know the way." The girl pointed upstream, the direction from which Rachamim had come.
The slave's heart sank. God help me, I'm as good as dead, he thought in dismay. But he couldn't in good conscience leave the girl now. He squared his shoulders, placing himself firmly in God's hands. "Let's go."
They walked in silence for a while, Rachamim carrying the girl's clothes in a wet bundle. Suddenly, Rachamim stopped to listen.
"What's wrong?" the girl asked.
"I hear something. Men and horses."
"What should we do?"
"You stay here, behind this boulder. I'll scout ahead."
The girl hid, and Rachamim walked slowly ahead, keeping quiet and alert. Soon, he saw the flicker of the men's torches, lit against the encroaching dark. He hid behind a tree as they grew nearer.
Soon, he was able to make out the figure of Verus riding next to a man wearing a red cloak clasped at one shoulder with a gold brooch.
Rachamim blanched. He began inching back toward the girl's hiding place, keeping hidden in the shadows of the trees, when a twig snapped underfoot. Shouts arose from the search party, and soon, Rachamim was surrounded and bathed in the torchlight of half a dozen men on horseback.
Antonius rode up to him, and bent down to get a better look at him. Just at that moment, the slave noticed that he still clutched the bundle of the girl's wet clothing. Unfortunately, the senator noticed at the same time.
His face twisting in rage, he grabbed Rachamim by the hair.
"Where's my daughter?" he shouted.
"Over there..." Rachamim gasped.
Antonius pulled him closer. "If you've so much as touched a hair on her head, you're a dead man!" he growled. He flung the slave away, and he stumbled and fell to the ground.
The senator whirled his horse around. "Verus - with me! The rest of you, take him back to the villa and lock him up!"
Rachamim was roughly hoisted to his feet, bound, and thrown over the flanks of one of the horses. Upon arrival, he was unceremoniously shoved into a windowless storage room and locked in.