“Zoe,” the beastcatcher said, in a voice as hard as the iron he had just ground against the floor, “I’ve just decided that Alexandros will be better off with me in the field than he will be here in Rome learning to recite Homer. I think I’m going to discuss that with Master Sempronianus. I’m certain he will agree.”
“Lycon!” Zoe pleaded, as she rose and stepped toward him with her free hand outstretched. “You mustn’t do anything hasty!”
“I’m not going to do anything hasty,” Lycon promised, his tone a confirmation of her worst fears.
Perses stared open-mouthed as his father strode out of the bedchamber. Lycon’s household was small; the four slaves were barely the minimum staff that respectability demanded for a man at his level of success. The slaves had ducked out of sight in healthy fear of meeting their master in his present state of mind. Perses’ nurse reached out toward the three-year-old boy, bleated when she saw Lycon coming from the bedroom, and bolted back into the kitchen without her charge.
Lycon’s walking staff was iron-shod hickory, and as big around as the beastcatcher’s own powerful wrists. He snatched it with one hand, while he jerked open the door to the stairwell with the other. The family’s doorkeeper was cowering in his alcove.
Vonones stood on the landing with his hand raised to knock. He looked terrified. The two men blocking the stairs behind him were soldiers.
“Lycon, thank the Light I’ve caught you at home,” the dealer gasped.
“Whatever it is, it can wait!” snapped Lycon as he started to push past. Zoe and one of the female servants were in the main room, wailing like mourners.
“It can’t wait,” Vonones said.
Chapter Seven
The barge was drawn up in normal fashion in one of the stone slips beneath the Portico of Aemilius, headquarters for the city’s grain supply.
“Had to tow it like that the last three miles,” said the foreman of the teamsters glumly. “Me on the steering oar, too, because the boys said Master could crucify them before they’d get aboard that barge. And you couldn’t tell how bad it was, not really, till the sun come up after we’d docked.”
The foreman was an Egyptian, but he spoke a dialect of common Greek that Lycon had no difficulty in understanding. The beastcatcher had no difficulty in understanding the teamster’s fears, either.
There were now almost a hundred men standing on the levee, looking down on the barge slips in the Tiber. The numbers were nothing unusual for that was ordinarily the busiest part of the city—the lifeline by which was imported virtually all the food for a populace of uncertain hundreds of thousands. Slave gangs paced up and down the ramps from the levee to the slips. Each man carried a narrow pottery jar of wheat up to the measuring stations in front of the portico, then returned to the barges for another load.
The difference at this particular station was that the men were motionless and almost silent. The stevedores who would normally have been working the slips squatted on their haunches instead—naked except for loin cloths and, in rare instances, chain hobbles that permitted them to walk but not run. The heavily-armed Germans who glowered at the slaves and the surroundings in general might have dampened the normal enthusiasm of men released unexpectedly from work, but perhaps more of the reason lay in the closed palanquin that the Germans guarded. Lady Fortune, the only deity to whom Lycon still sacrificed, knew that the palanquin and the man it contained inspired such fear with good reason. The life of any or everyone here balanced upon the uncertain whim of lord and god Domitian.
Nonetheless, the men watching on the levee were in no way as silent as those sprawled upon the barge below.
“Let’s go on down,” Lycon said. “Yes, you too, dammit!” he added to the foreman, who had tried to edge away.
The barge had loaded grain at Portus from a North African freighter far too large to navigate the Tiber itself. The freighter would be refitting for several weeks, so a dozen of its crewmen had hitched a ride into Rome on the barge.