Peter Dickinson - Earth and Air

Slaves were issued annually with a length of cotton from which to make their own clothes. Varro, typically, had some to spare, and it was natural enough for him to use it to refurbish the shoulder bag in which he kept his belongings, casually enlarging it as he did so. There was not much more that he could do.

He was worried about his feet. Slaves went barefoot, so his soles had thickened, but five years in a household, years spent mainly at a saddler’s bench, are no preparation for days of desert marching. Of course it would have been easy for him to make his own sandals, with all the materials to hand at his workbench, but on his first day at work the harness master had told him about a predecessor who had been found doing exactly that, and what had been done to the man before he died. Varro had thought it an exaggeration. Then, not now. His friends had died not only to satisfy Prince Fo’s notion of justice but also his taste in entertainment. It wasn’t even worth the risk of filching leather. All he dared take from work on his last day at the bench was a few small tools, needles and fine cord. That and his supply of food and an empty waterskin were already dangerous enough.

There was a rota of the younger men told off to attend the slave-master in his room each night, but the man wasn’t picky—almost anyone with flesh on his arse would do. In fact, the offer to take over this chore was one of the regular items gambled at knucklebones, which was how Varro had managed to avoid it so far. On his chosen night he made the offer and then deliberately lost his bet, so nightfall found him scratching at the slave-master’s door.

“Hum, Varro? Thought it was Gabrin coming. Dice fall badly for you this time?”

Varro hung his head as if in shame.

“No, sir. Gabrin has the runs,” he muttered.

“Greedy sod, if it’s true. Let’s take a look at you, man. Hold your head up. I’m not going to hurt you.”

As an apprentice Varro had learnt to use a knife for other things than trimming leather. He let the slave-master chuck him under the chin and drove his knife in beneath the raised arm. The slave-master choked and collapsed to the floor. Now there was no turning back.

In addition to the all-round lashings for his escape, there would now be at least one death, after torture. Varro wiped his finger along the blade and used the blood to scrawl the name “Karan” on the floor by the slave-master’s outstretched hand, then smeared more blood onto the man’s forefinger. He took the keys from the man’s belt, and explored the room for anything he could use. The shoes were all too small, but the open-toed sandals, though ornate and shoddy, were better than nothing. He took three pairs, a cloak to cover his slave garments, and a purse of coins. No doubt there was more hidden in the room, but he hadn’t time to search. Finally he filled his waterskin at the pitcher and drank as much as he could stomach. The room was at the entrance to the slave quarters, so he could let himself straight out.

From the roof he had studied the movements of the household watch—his fellow slaves, but no less a danger for that. He moved through shadows, avoiding them, to the back of the stables, where the bedding was still being cleared out into the dung-carts, nocturnal work because in the cooler air the odours would be less offensive to his lordship’s nostrils. At a point when all the barrows were indoors being loaded he gathered a bundle of loose straw under his arm, and waited, and when the work seemed almost done took a similar chance to climb up, tuck himself down between the main heap and the side panel of the cart, and spread the straw over himself. The last few barrowloads were pitchforked aboard, adding to his concealment. The oxen started to heave the cart away on the slow journey to one of his Lordship’s estates.

These lay northeasterly of the city, so as soon as the cart was well clear of the gates Varro wriggled to the back, slipped over the tailboard, dropped, and darted to the side of the road. He lay there, panting, until the wheels were out of earshot, then rose and headed south, steering by the stars. Prince Fo was endlessly fussing with his harness, and often took a saddler with him on his hunting trips along the edge of the desert, if only to have someone to beat when his saddle chafed, so Varro had a good idea of where he was.

Daybreak found him well into the desert, where no sane man travels much after sunrise, but he trudged on for as long as he could bear to, and then found a rock on a north-facing slope with a thin strip of shade from which he could watch back the way he had come. By now the slave-master’s sandals were falling apart. It was difficult to sleep for anxiety, heat, thirst and discomfort, so he spent part of the day taking the ruined sandals apart and using the pieces to adjust and reinforce the next pair.

He walked all that night, hurrying, because even with the stars to guide him and the memorised list of landmarks from the manual, he knew he might finish the stage only in the rough vicinity of the water hole, and then would need daylight to find it. As dawn broke he came to three separate sets of animal tracks converging in the same direction. He walked on until he came to harder ground and turned aside in the direction that the animal prints had taken, along a line that should intersect with them. Ten minutes later he was kneeling by a scummy pool in a hollow.

First he poured a libation to Mercury, then drank sparingly and filled his waterskin. He drank again, twice, before heading off, still aside from his route and still on hard ground, and didn’t start searching for shade until he was well clear of the pool.

This time he slept well. In the late afternoon he woke and returned to the pool, where he tied a large loop with a slipknot into his toughest cord, laid it out along the water’s edge, and led the loose end up to the rim of the hollow, and hid. In the evening small animals came to the pool to drink, but they were very quick and wary, and seemed able to smell where he had been. They sniffed around the noose and went elsewhere.

He had two long nights’ journey to the next water, so couldn’t afford to watch too long. In the late dusk he filled his skin with what he could carry, and his stomach also, and set out. By next morning his sandals were again in ruins, so he spent some of the day cobbling a last pair together, and set out again in the dusk. His food was by now almost gone, so while he trudged on he tried to devise more effective animal traps in his mind.

This place, he hoped, would be easier to find. There was a sort of notch in a range of hills, the outlines clearly described. His way led through the notch, on the left flank of which water oozed down a rock. It turned out to be exactly so. He praised Mercury, and poured a second libation for the soul of the long-dead traveller who had written the manual. The water was sweet and clean, but the only sign that any animals came there was a scattering of bird droppings. He saw no nests and heard no cries. Nevertheless he tried laying out nooses for them, but none came all day.

He moved on that evening, knowing that if he didn’t find food at the next water place, or sooner—it was another two nights’ journey—he wasn’t going to make it through the desert. It amused his sardonic turn of mind to think that this was the supposedly demon-guarded pool. It had been made by men, ages before, and had what was apparently a small temple beside it. The demon might be the statue of some forgotten god. Perhaps the priests who had served it had demanded a human sacrifice, which would help to explain the sudden little absurdity in the otherwise reasonable and accurate route details. Well, if it didn’t provide him with something to eat, he thought, the demon would get its payment of a life.