Rosemary Rowe - The Chariots of Calyx

Except, of course, that there had been no attempt to rob me. Kidnap me then, and demand money for my return? Perhaps these were slave-traders, and I was to be sold back into servitude. I hoped that I had been merely seized for ransom. In that case someone would come and talk to me, if only to find out where to send demands. Anything was better than being left here to rot, or die of thirst and hunger. Already the morning was drawing on, and — because I was alarmed and there was no possibility of obtaining water — my mouth was already desperately dry.

I hardly dared to contemplate the obvious — that my investigations had brought me too close to the murderer for comfort, and someone — in the Blue factio presumably — had wanted me locked up and out of action, perhaps for good. If that was the case, there was no certainty that anyone would ever come. For who would think of looking for me here?

Perhaps it was that which spurred me into action. At least I could explore the place I was in. It would not be easy. I had expected my eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, but there was little sign of that. There was not a chink of light from anywhere, and the blackness seemed more impenetrable than ever. I got up and tried a few tentative steps with my arms outstretched, but the floor was so uneven that I almost fell. My hands, however, had touched nothing but a void — the basement, whatever it was, seemed bigger than I’d thought. I wished I had made some attempt to measure distances — as a pavement-maker I should have thought of that.

I got down on all fours. The loose stones on the floor dug into my knees, but I was more confident like this and by sweeping the ground with one hand I was able to clear the worst of the obstructions. I was anxious about finding my way back to the steps — ridiculous if I was to be left here to die, but at least it gave me a point of reference — so I found the wall and edged my way forward, feeling my way by that.

A very few shuffles brought me to a corner, and finally to another. This was not a corridor at all, then, but a room — built as some kind of storage space perhaps. That must be it. I was in a cella — a sort of underground storage room sometimes found in larger houses built on rising ground. I began to feel around for any sign that something might once have been kept here, and almost at once my guess was confirmed. One of my hands discovered a large circular space set in the floor a little further from the wall — the remains of one of those huge sunken amphorae which one sometimes finds in larger houses or in villa courtyards for storing oil or, occasionally, wine.

I pushed up my toga sleeve (the gods alone knew what state my proud new garment was in by now) and reached my arm down to its full extent, but whatever had been stored in there had long since disappeared. A sniff of my fingers suggested that it had once been wine — turned to vapour for the gods, perhaps, since the container had been left without a lid. Certainly, it was not about to slake my thirst.

Further groping told me that there was another buried amphora a little further off, and then a third — all equally empty. The discovery had lent me hope, however. This place had once been used by a living household. Although it clearly was deserted now, it was unlikely the only exit was the door I had come in by. A household needs to reach its storage space. I felt my way back to the wall and began my blind exploration again, with renewed energy.

The second wall was so much longer than the first that I was beginning to imagine that I had lost my bearings altogether in the dark. I could hear my own breath, unnaturally loud, rasping like a harried horse. Panic was beginning to overcome me. I fought it down, forcing myself to think rationally — telling my tortured brain that, at the very worst, the wall I was following would eventually bring me to the steps I’d started from.

Why that should have seemed like an improvement, I do not know — I can only report that in that black, dank, foul-smelling pit of obscurity any certainty was better than none. I groped my way onwards with increasing desperation, until my questing fingers found an alteration in the wall. Wood instead of stone? It might be so. A frame. A hollow. A door, then? I dragged myself upright and ran my hands all over the area, almost crying with relief.

It was a door — I could feel the planks of wood. My hands could find no fastening — presumably it was bolted from within — but I located what felt like the edge of a plank and pushed with all my might. The thick wood did not yield an inch. I tried again, thumping against it with all my strength, using my arm, my foot, my whole body. I even took a few steps back and made a run at it. This time I thought it did shudder a fraction at the top, but it was my frame rather than the door’s which was taking the brunt of the damage. Perhaps I could lever one of the planks away? I still had my eating knife in my belt.

With a strength born of desperation I reached upwards, feeling for the corner of the outside plank. Ugh — my fingers sank into a nest of something soft which yielded under my touch and sent little scuttling somethings up my arm and into my tunic, so that my skin and hairs crawled with them. In the oppressive dark that was the final horror, and I found myself sobbing aloud and slapping at myself in a frenzy. Only spiders, I tried to tell myself; but my voice and body seemed briefly to have taken on a life of their own, and I could hear myself moaning as I flapped and stamped, rather as I have heard criminals do on their way to face the beasts. I tried to control myself, but I seemed to have lost the power — as if I were witnessing someone else’s panic and the frenzied noises I emitted were not of my own making.

It was not my most heroic moment.

But the worst was yet to come. My frenzied stamping had taken me away from the friendly comfort of the wall, and when I had at last managed to regain command of myself — my fingers damp and gritty with what felt like a thousand tiny arachnid corpses — I found that I had completely lost my sense of direction. I reached out my hands again, tentatively this time, but they met nothing but blackness. Mercifully the floor seemed rather clearer here.

I took a step forward, and stumbled over something at my feet. Something large and heavy: soft but stiff, and very, very cold. It appeared to be lying in a pool of moisture. I bent down to investigate. Something, when I explored it further, that seemed to be man-shaped. Something that was not breathing. Something. . dead.

I was fumbling desperately by this stage. ‘Junio?’

I traced the feet. Sandals — just like the ones my slave had worn. The body was lying on its front and there seemed to be loose rope around the ankles. My hands moved up. A servant’s tunic and a leather belt. Wrists, cruelly bound together with a length of rope. I could hardly bear to go on, but I had to know. My fingers reached the neck, and found the chain and name disc that every slave must wear. Short, wet, matted curly hair. Sickened, I turned the body over and reached out for the face — dreading that my hands would trace the boyish features I knew so well.

What I found was a soft and shattered mess. I leapt back as though stung by a million spiders. I could almost see the hideous mosaic of splintered flesh and bone. This time I did not shout or sob. I opened my mouth, but I could make no sound at all.

Some emotions are too terrible, even for grief.

I do not know how long I remained there in the dark beside the body. It might have been an hour or two, perhaps less, but to me, shivering with shock, despair and grief, it seemed a lifetime. My desolation at least spared me one misery. After the discovery of the corpse all sense of thirst and hunger left me. I simply squatted there beside the lifeless form, as incapable of action as if I had been drugged by one of Lydia’s potions.