David Pilling - The Red Death

The Milion was also the starting-point of the thoroughfare, called the Mese. It was still early morning, and everything obscured by mist, but I could see the colonnaded porticoes that lined either side of the street, some twenty-five metres wide. The porticoes housed shops and tavernas. Lights flickered in their windows as the Sarmatians moved us along.

They took us to an enormous central forum, dominated on the western side by a marble triumphal arch. I remember gawping at the sheer size and magnificence of the vaulted roof towering over my head. The roof was split into three passageways, and the central archway, the largest, was flanked by columns carved into the shape of clubs grasped by colossal fists. The central archway was mounted by a heroic statue of an Emperor in full military regalia, flanked by statues of two younger men I took to be his sons.

The centre of the forum was dominated by another edifice, a marble column decorated with carved reliefs that displayed the same Emperor receiving tribute from defeated barbarians. Another triumphal statue, similar to the one on the arch, was mounted on top of the column.

One of the Sarmatians croaked at my mother in a painful semblance of Greek. “He says this is the Forum of Theodosius,” she told me, “where we shall be sold as slaves. The statues are of the Emperor Theodosius, who had all of this made.”

I shaded my eyes to gaze up at the column. “Look!” I cried, all my sorrow and fear briefly forgotten, “there is someone up there!”

The column was over forty feet high, and narrowed towards the top, but there was a man standing on a ledge just beneath the statue of Theodosius. From my vantage point, so far below, I saw that he was barefoot and clad in a soiled gown that hung limply from his fleshless body. His hands were clasped in prayer and his face turned upwards Heaven.

“I have heard of such holy men,” said Eliffer, “in Greek they are called stylites. They live on top of columns and high pillars, sustained by charity and praying for the sins of the world. We should beseech him to pray for us now.”

There was little time for prayer, as we were herded towards a corner of the forum. Here there were a number of raised wooden blocks arranged in neat, widely-spaced rows. The blocks were meant for slaves to stand on display during the auction that would soon begin. A few were already occupied, one by a black-skinned man I took to be a Numidian.

He had clearly been a fine-looking man once, handsome and muscular, but the miserable life of slavery had reduced him to a cowed, emaciated brute. He wore nothing but a loin-cloth, and his glossy flesh shivered in the chill. His master, a big Arab with a swollen gut, growled at him in some indecipherable tongue and frequently struck his back and thighs with a vine rod, perhaps to stop him shivering.

The Numidian’s face wore an expression of gross stupidity, as if such cruel treatment had excised his humanity. I can still picture the fresh welts on his back, the wasted muscles of his long limbs, and the dull, glassy look in his eyes. I never knew his name, or spoke with him, but he is one of the people whose souls I light daily candles for.

My mother and I were made to stand on a vacant block. There we waited, trembling and hugging each other, as the morning mist gradually lifted and the forum started to fill up with people.

Many of them were wealthy Roman citizens, whom I had not properly observed since entering the city. In other circumstances I would have found them fascinating, these bejewelled and perfumed aliens, elegantly dressed in long silken robes and conversing in Latin and Greek, which to me were the languages of the schoolroom. The wealthiest, with their entourages of clerks, slaves and hangers-on, projected a superior air, as though they considered themselves a race apart: understandably so, since they were the inheritors and keepers of Empire.

The slave-blocks filled up quickly, and by mid-morning men and women were being sold like sweetmeats. They were transported from all over the Empire and the mysterious lands beyond, these helpless souls, and of many different creeds and nations. Most were pagans, but there were a few Christians like us, their lips moving in silent prayer as they were inspected like cattle at a fair.

The Sarmatians guarded us closely, and the one who spoke bad Greek discussed prices with the few Romans who expressed interest in us. A few glanced with vague interest at the sword strapped across my back before moving on. Had they known its provenance, I daresay their interest would have known no bounds.

Clothaire was presumably sleeping off his hangover, but he turned up eventually, limping along on his crutch and nursing a sore head and a worse temper.

“No bids yet?” he grunted, glaring balefully up at us, “no wonder. You both look like you’re about to be carted off for burial. Smile, woman!”

He prodded Eliffer’s calf with the handle of his crutch. “It is in your interest,” he added, “smile and preen, look pleasant, and you might be fortunate enough to attract a kind owner. You do not want to end as the property of some of the bastards here, I assure you.”

Eliffer didn’t even deign to look at him. “I live only for my son,” she replied in a faraway voice, gazing over the heads of the teeming mob, “whatever happens today, I will ensure that he regains his freedom.”

“Perhaps he can fight his way clear with that,” Clothaire sneered, nodding at Caledfwlch, “you notice I have allowed him to keep his little sword. I thought it might add to his value.”

He positioned himself in front of our block, cupped his hands around his mouth and started bellowing in Greek, vying with the raised voices of the other slave-traders for the attention of passing trade. Still we drummed up little interest, until one man pushed his way through the throng to inspect us.

The potential buyer was rich, judging from his dress and deportment. He wore a long white tunic, and over that a dalmatic (a heavier and shorter form of tunic) of crimson silk fringed with a gold triangle pattern. There was a muscular, stocky look about him, and he wore a long gold-mounted sword in a black leather sheath at his hip.

Even at my tender age I knew a soldier when I saw one, and judged this man to be dangerous. He had a cruel mouth and a heavy jaw, and his large eyes were flat and expressionless.

Clothaire adopted his most ingratiating manner, and bowed and cringed before the Roman as they conversed together in Greek. The Roman did most of the talking. His eye kept straying to me and the sword on my back.

“Be calm, Coel,” whispered my mother, “remember who you are, and do not avoid his gaze. Arthur’s grandson fears no-one.”

In truth Arthur’s grandson feared a great many people, not least this thickset Roman who kept looking me up and down as though I was a choice joint of meat.

“He has made me an offer,” said Clothaire, turning with difficulty to face us and rubbing his hands, “a very handsome offer. More than I expected. He wants to examine the sword. Give it to me.”

I was sorely tempted to draw Caledfwlch and bury it in his throat. I reluctantly pulled out the sword and gave it to him, hilt-first.

Clothaire handed Caledfwlch to the Roman, who studied it carefully, turning the blade over and over in his big, powerful hands. The gold eagles on the hilt seemed to fascinate him.

“He knows what it is,” I whispered in panic to Eliffer, earning myself a furious glare from Clothaire, “he will take it from me!”

“Courage,” she said quietly, “the sword is your birthright. It was meant for you. God will not let anyone steal it.”

Eliffer put a deal too much faith in God. The Roman agreed a price for us with Clothaire, and called his clerk forward. The clerk, a bald, skinny Greek, counted out a number of gold coins from a bulging purse into Clothaire’s sweaty palm.