Rosemary Rowe - The Chariots of Calyx

I was roused at last by a noise from the street above. Faint at first — so faint that I half thought I had imagined it. Then it came again, more loudly now, and this time there could be no mistake. I got to my feet, listening intently. Footsteps and muted voices in that unfrequented alley. I was debating whether whistling or shouting was more likely to penetrate the outer walls and so attract attention to my plight when suddenly the noises stopped again and another sound, even more unexpected, reached my ears.

Someone was sliding the bolt.

For a moment a wild irrational hope possessed me and I was ready to shout ‘Here!’ and throw myself on my deliverers, but then whatever intelligence I possessed reasserted itself. Of course, this was not likely to be rescue. Quite the contrary — anyone who had come to this place on purpose was much more likely to be my executioner.

The door upstairs flew open, and although when I had first come in the light from the aperture had hardly seemed enough to grope my way down the steps by, after the long period of captivity in total darkness the sudden daylight almost dazzled me. I closed my eyes for a moment against the light, and when I opened them once more I realised that the outer door had been pushed to again, and someone was standing at the top of the stairs lighting a taper from the embers in one of those portable braziers.

My brain seemed to stir into life again, with my eyes, and I realised that for a moment I had the advantage. The incomers — and there were clearly several of them — would find themselves in darkness, even with the taper, whereas I had unaccustomed light. I could already see the dark outline of the steps — to my surprise I was only a few feet from them — the black circles in the floor which marked the tops of the sunken pots and the sinister dark outline of the corpse. The room was smaller than I imagined: it had seemed endless in the groping dark. I could see the wooden door set in the further corner, and behind the steps there seemed to be some kind of darker space, a sort of alcove probably used for storage once. All this I took in at a single glance, and I looked around for something sensible to do.

There was no method of escape, that much was obvious, but I reasoned that if I could reach the alcove I would have, at least, the advantage of surprise. What use that was to me, I was not sure. Perhaps it is merely an instinct with captives. I had no hope of overpowering them; I am no longer a young man and I was only one against several. I think I had some dim idea of slipping past the men as they came down the steps, though realistically there was never the slightest hope of that.

The taper was well alight by now, and I could distinguish the outline of at least four men in the sudden light of its flames, and then the gentler glow of embers dimmed, as someone put the lid on to the pot of coals. Another taper was lit, and then another — three in all. To me it seemed as if the sun had risen. I had to remind myself again that, to the men accustomed to daylight, those brilliant flames offered only a minimum of illumination.

Someone lifted his torch aloft and held it over the stairwell, illuminating the uneven stone of the steps. That served my purpose, however, since it meant that the darkness beyond would seem denser than ever. Now that I knew where I was going, I scuttled as silently as I could in the direction of the alcove. It was a kind of doorless cupboard — one or two high shelves still remained in it — but there was just room for me to huddle there and listen to the approaching slap of leather sandals on the steps beside me. I heard the clunk as the brazier was set down against the wall.

‘Where is he?’ a dry, sharp voice enquired. ‘You told me he was here. If you’ve let him escape I’ll have you flayed.’ They were all four down the stairs by now, and the speaker moved into the ring of light. I was appalled — though not surprised — to see the face and recognise the man. It was Glaucus, the Grey, his crooked nose and pitiless mouth looking crueller than ever in the flickering shadows.

He looked towards the dark heap on the floor, and his expression hardened. ‘Great Mithras! You haven’t killed him, have you? You useless son of a sow, I told you that I wanted him questioned first.’ One casual but savage backhand blow, and one of the other figures was grovelling on his knees, dropping his taper as he fell. By its light I could make out his face — it was the old slave who had lured me here.

I should perhaps have revelled in his fall, but Glaucus had signalled for the fallen taper, seized the man by the hair, and was now holding the flame viciously close to the man’s neck. ‘Well, what have you to say for yourself?’

‘Most merciful one,’ the slave was stammering with fear and pain, ‘that is not the man. That’s just the slave we captured earlier. I told you about him, Mightiness — he was asking too many questions.’

So that poor battered shape was ‘just’ a slave, and therefore of no importance. It made me more furious than ever — although the gibbering speaker was ‘just’ a slave himself.

Glaucus sent him sprawling to the floor. ‘Fool! You bring him here, and then you let him die.’

The old man grovelled. ‘It was an accident, Mightiness.’

Glaucus aimed a kick at him. ‘So you say. So where is this other fellow now? That infernal spy of the government? I suppose he is here somewhere? The door into the rest of the building is still blocked? If he has got away I’ll have you fed to the dogs.’ He seized the taper and began to peer around the room.

The fate of my poor slave made me despair, but the instinct for self-preservation is strong. It was only a matter of time before they reached me, and I had no doubt of their intentions. I could see their shadows, larger than life-size, flickering on the wall, and hear the scuffling of their sandals on the stones.

Stones! What an idiot I was. I bent down and scooped up one or two. They were not large, but they afforded me some sort of weapon, and I still had the knife at my belt. Too late. The movement of picking up the pebbles had drawn the attention of Glaucus to my corner. He strode towards me, the taper in his hand. By its light I could see an unpleasant smile playing on his lips.

‘Well,’ he said, coming to a halt in front of me. ‘What have we here? A little rat hiding in a hole.’ He gestured brusquely to the two men at his side. ‘Fetch him out of there.’

They were big men, both of them. I remembered, irrationally, that Fulvia had talked of her attacker’s being large.

They seized me by the upper arms and it was pointless to resist. I did, though, clench my hands around the stones which I still carried. If I waited long enough perhaps I could find a chance to use them. I had no hope of escaping now, I could see that well enough, but I was always a fair shot with a slingstone and if I was to be killed in any case there was nothing to be lost. If I could get a clear aim, at least I might find an opportunity to take one of the men with me when I died — Glaucus for preference. Revenge for the death of ‘just a slave’.

My two captors dragged me out to stand in front of Glaucus. They hauled me upright, keeping my arms behind me, so that I was forced to bend forward in a painful stoop. I stole a sideways look. Both men were armed with large swords at their sides, but, since each guard was holding me with one hand and carrying a taper with the other, the weapons would not be easy to draw. I stood rigid but unprotesting, like a subjugated slave, and dropped my gaze submissively. My best chance would come if my captors were unprepared for any kind of resistance.

Glaucus was gratified to find me cowering. I could detect it in the way in which he said, ‘So, citizen’ — the word was mocking now — ‘we meet at last. You have been following me, I think.’