“What do you mean he’s gone? The door was locked. Sealed tight!” Daimon hurried up an unlit hallway, lamp held high to see ahead. Beside him was Fausta. Together the two of them headed the Flavii estate here just north of Rome. If it could be called an estate it was a joke and a poor one at that. May as well compare Tartarus to Elysium.
“The kitchen staff came down with Borix to see he got his dinner,” said Fausta. An elderly woman whose mother had served the Flavii, her short grey hair was bundled up behind her head into a tight ball. “They were gone for almost an hour before some of the slaves plucked up the courage to see what had taken them so long.”
“And?” asked Daimon. The steward was in no mood for guessing games. Usually a calm and well-mannered man, the possible escape of his ward had set the usually taciturn Daimon on edge.
“And nothing. When they got there the door was open and the room empty. No sign of him or Borix and the rest.”
The room in question was underground. Originally a wine cellar the room had been converted over a year ago to hold his occupant. It was located towards the back of the house and in an unusual move most of the villa’s slaves were quartered towards the front.
It was the dead of night too. All of the household slaves were awake and positively wetting themselves. The small house guard had be roused and readied. Even the dogs where out. Two of the great hulking guards were behind them now. Greeks both of them, built like rocks and about as hard.
Daimon felt like he was walking onto Circe’s island.
They arrived before the cellar door. It lay open, but strangely there was no one about. They had been expecting some of the slaves who had come to investigate to be present.
“Who did you say came?” Daimon asked.
Fausta looked around nervously. “Philo and Barmedies. They should be here.”
Daimon tentatively stuck the lamp into the black square, trying to illuminate the room. He felt like he was putting his hand into a lion's mouth.
“You two in, now” he ordered the guards. The two of them drew their swords and descended into the cellar.
Nothing.
Two dim thuds echoed from bellow.
Fausta leaned over the cellar edge. “Kos. Ulix.”
Nothing.
Suddenly something. It happened fast enough that Daimon barely time to gasp and stagger back from the cellar. Something flew from the dark hole, a glint of steel, fast and hard enough to lift Fausta off her feet. The old woman collapsed to the floor with a sword embedded in her chest up to the hilt. Eyes wide in a slowly expanding pool of her own blood.
“Fausta?” Daimon already knew she was dead. The suddenness of it stunned him. The question was left hanging in the hair as Daimon looked towards the cellar door. It was almost as though the shadow seemed to bulge and vomit up some of itself. Like mist he simply seemed to float up the stairs.
“Daimon,” said a cold voice. Devoid of any emotion other then a cruel hiss, a sick smile spread over a pale face. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen my keeper. Sorry about Fausta, though don’t worry. I’ll put her to good use.”
Daimon was terrified. In all the time he had been here he’d never actually seen the boy. Fausta had but refused to talk about him. Now he knew why. He tried to make a dash for the kitchen but something struck his neck hard enough to crush it. The force of the blow drove the steward to his knees as he tried vainly to draw breath through a ruined throat. A cold hand clutched a handful of hair and yanked his head back.
Pitiless black eyes glared back at him. They were two pools of dark water, bottomless in their ruthless cruelty. Daimon would have whimpered if he were able to as tears ran down his face. “Almost, Daimon, almost” whispered the voice close to his ear.
There was a horrible ripping sound. Like someone tearing meat and the distinct sound of steel scraping on bone and cartilage. A blood soaked blade appeared, held across his throat. His vision was starting to blur and go dark at the edges. This was the end, and Daimon knew it. It dawned on him. This boy was killing him. He lost control of his bladder.
“And this is the race that gave birth to Achilles and the Spartans?” the voice sneered. “Pathetic.” The blade drew back, a slash across the throat and Daimon went wide-eyed into oblivion.
The body slumped forward onto the floor as the figure stood up. There was such a terrible mess in the cellar too, and this. Not the most auspicious beginning to a new life. But after a year locked in that cellar, a little revenge was called for.
Shouts were coming from further forward in the house. It seemed some of the other slaves had finally gathered up the gumption to come and investigate for themselves. The figure smiled, raised his sword, and like a howling Fury descended on the villa.
-
Aulus Flavius rode along a slight path. Overgrown and barely visible it was obviously some time since people had last passed this way. He was a tall man, dark hair and eyes, of lithe build and carried himself with a sort of air only patricians could really muster. His hair was cropped close to his skull.
He wore a dark green tunic, embroidered around the hem with vines and a think wolf fur cloak. Stout boots were strapped to his feet, the sort a man could walk to the edge of the earth in. He rode a plain black steed, saddlebags packed with supplies. A simple Spanish sword hung from a decorative scabbard at his hip.
For all his appearance Aulus Flavius was a gentleman out in the country. Except patricians didn’t travel alone. There was no sign of an entourage, slave, clients or the usual sycophantic baggage that seemed to attach itself to the average patrician. He was entirely alone.
The lands of Etruria were fairly tame. They’d be cultivated for centuries. Grapes for wine, grain for bread and olives for oil. Except for at the feet of the Apennine’s, Etruria was a fairly calm place.
Flavius was only half paying attention to the road ahead either way. The Via Aemilia Scaura wasn’t far from here. Once he was on the main road he’d pick up the pace in no time. He was so droll about the whole affair he’d opened up a copy of Titus Lucretius’ On the Nature of Things.
So when he horse suddenly reared up Flavius had to drop Lucretius and throw his arms around the bay’s neck to keep him from falling off. The panicked beast nearly bolted, and it took all Flavius’ skill to keep the horse from running.
A wolf! The animal had crept up right in front of him. He snatched his blade out and tried to position himself to skewer the creature if it attacked. But it didn’t.
Instead it rolled over and stood up.
It wasn’t a wolf. Rather a man wrapped in cloak. He looked part animal either way. Covered in dirt and filth, Flavius wondered if he had even heard of bathing, much less partaken of it.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
----
OOC: You of course are the filthy barbarian Marius