Rome Burning (73 page)

There was a small garage, filled with junk since they took over the farm, which they’d never used. But it was sturdy; there was only one entrance, and no windows. There was a cellar, too, under the house, if he needed another impromptu cell. He had the garage emptied, he’d have to find some way of getting a light in there, for it was terrible to think of anyone trapped in such total dark. He watched it turning into a prison under his eyes, as the broken farm equipment and rotted furniture were carried out, and felt gouged and scraped through with fury against Marcus Novius, who was the cause of this, who had set Una against him, sabotaged what she should have been. She was out of earshot now, yet Dama still seemed to hear her.

He joined in the work, gathering up what he could manage, fiercely, almost welcoming the tugs of pain in his shoulders. Half of him was expecting to be called to the longdictor to hear that Mazatl had failed; Sulien and Lal had known what was coming and fled, called the vigiles. And when minutes passed and it did not happen, he began to think Mazatl would not come, must have been arrested.

But then he heard the van, coming down the long track.
Some of his followers were beginning to gather near the gates, watching it come.

‘Go back to what you were doing,’ he said gently – no force was necessary. They were passionately grateful to him, and they were used to doing as they were told. It was a tendency he honestly believed he wished them to unlearn, he wished their loyalty to be freely given, but it was undeniably useful now.

The van drew up beside him and stopped. And as Mazatl and the others began to get out, there was the bang of something striking the wall of the van from inside and Sulien’s voice, thickened with rage, crying, ‘
Dama
.’

‘Was he alone?’ he asked Mazatl.

‘No, we brought the girl, like you said.’

Dama leant his forehead on the van’s side, close to where the impact had been. He didn’t have to see them. He could just order them to be shut away. Then he walked purposefully round to the doors. ‘Get them out.’

Their hands were tied behind their backs. Sulien must have slammed his shoulder, rather than his fist, at the wall. It was a sensible precaution; Mazatl was right to have restrained them so, yet Dama had to still a little shiver of horror at it. They looked frighteningly vulnerable as the light hit them: crouched together, both their faces made strange and alike with indignation and fear: a pale, underground look, their eyes unnaturally large and black. Lal was crying. And Sulien, who’d given him back so much strength, undone so much pain – Dama was not sure he’d ever even seen him angry, there had always been a leniency and gentleness about him which was part of the reason Dama had never considered him as an active ally. But now, when he saw Dama, as he and Lal were pulled out of the van, he seemed splintering apart with anger, as if it were altering the very substance of his body. He shouted, ‘So what are you going to do? Are you going to kill us?’

At this, standing behind Lal and Sulien, Mazatl levelled a hard look at Dama. But Dama refused to show he saw it.

Lal wept, ‘You can’t, you wouldn’t.’

‘No, no,’ Dama said softly. ‘Of course I won’t kill you.’

Lal pushed towards Dama, beseeching, ‘Dama, how can you be doing this?’

She still seemed wholly incredulous. But Sulien, who had seen Dama kill, found that there was some part of his mind that kept refusing to be fully surprised, that said, yes, this is what he would do. ‘What do you mean “of course”? Do you think there’s anything we can trust you on now? What have you done with Una?’

‘She’s fine,’ answered Dama, shortly.

‘Where is she, then? Let us see her.’

‘I’m sorry. No. I’m not taking chances.’

Sulien lunged forward as if, restrained and absurdly out-numbered though he was, there might still be some way of attacking Dama. He scarcely felt that he was being held back, he was only disgusted that Dama should stand there looking on, sad and motionless. ‘You bastard, you ungrateful, sick … How dare you? Look at your hands. Who did that? You could hardly lift them when I met you. I helped you. Lal’s father saved your life. How dare you do this to us?’

‘I haven’t forgotten, Sulien,’ said Dama in a low voice, looking away from him. ‘And I’m sorry I have to do this. But I can’t risk the safety of everyone here. And I can’t risk the cause we’re working for. I’d like you to understand that. I don’t know if you can.’

‘Understand?’ cried Sulien. ‘I don’t care why you’re doing it.’

He was perversely glad to see Dama begin to look angry, it was better than the sorrowful patience he’d shown up until now.

Dama said, ‘You don’t care? You must care. You have to care.’

‘A war. Murder.’

‘It wasn’t murder when I killed that man in the Sanctuary, to
save
you. That’s what I’m doing now. That’s what it takes.’

‘But
innocent people
,’ insisted Sulien.

‘Innocent people!’ exclaimed Dama. ‘People who think they can own a human being if they can only afford it, people who live next to a disgrace like that factory, and
do nothing! How are they innocent? And even if they are, what about the innocent people being bought and sold and worked to death? Or do you only care about free Romans, now you’re one of them?’

Sulien blinked, for a moment so taken aback as to forget how angry he was. ‘I never said that,’ he protested, ‘Dama – for the gods’ sake – how can you ask me that?’

Dama said, ‘There’s only one God.’

All of them were silent.

Flatly Dama resumed, to his people, ‘Him, there in the garage, her in the cellar.’

‘What?’ Lal said, automatically straining closer to Sulien. ‘Dama! At least keep us together.’

‘You have to,’ agreed Sulien, quickly. ‘She’s been ill.’

Dama, whose eyes were focused now on some undefined point beyond them, eyelids slack and listless, said wearily, ‘Sulien, I know she was ill. And I know when she reached you. She’s been well these two months.’

‘She’s relapsed twice,’ said Sulien, without knowing he was going to say it.

‘Well. One thing at a time,’ muttered Dama and turned away.

And Sulien and Lal were dragged apart, but a rapid, urgent look went between them, like the flash of a lamp, a signal across a dark valley.

Sulien hardly noticed where he was being taken. He stared at the man who was marching him along, oddly fascinated. ‘You’re Atronius, aren’t you?’

Atronius smiled thinly. ‘That’s a Roman name. Forced on my family, one way or another, once upon a time. I’m Maian. I go by Mazatl, now.’

‘What have you got to do with Drusus, then?’ Sulien asked, recklessly curious. ‘Why were you in Byzantium?’

Mazatl stopped, and dragged Sulien closer by the shoulder. ‘What do you know about me?’

Sulien smiled harshly. ‘You know who I am. You know where I live. You brought me here. It’s hardly fair to ask me that.’

Mazatl glowered, suspicious and uneasy. ‘I’ve got nothing to do with Drusus Novius. He had a lot of slaves, he wasn’t
known for treating them well. And an Imperial target was one option, at that time.’

Sulien nearly laughed. ‘You might have killed him? Instead of what you did at Veii?’ Mazatl didn’t answer. Sulien persisted, wondering, ‘But you were never a slave.’

Mazatl pushed him forward, as one of the others threw open the heavy garage doors. ‘My whole country’s a slave.’

The air felt powdery and stagnant, and smelt of soot. Dama had plainly prepared the cellar as thoroughly and humanely as possible in such time as he’d had: there was a mattress on the floor, tidily supplied with blankets, a bucket, a large jug of water, an old, faded dress to change into, even a little pile of books. Lal paced the floor, sometimes hearing herself crying as if it were somebody else. The idea that had leapt between Sulien and herself as she was pulled away seemed far less potent now. Would it not be obvious what she was trying to do? Certainly it would be if she made any move immediately. So how long should she wait? To get free was as much a responsibility as an instinctive, tormenting need: they would have to tell what Dama was doing, where he was. And she wept again at this new loss of Dama, whom she had known since she was ten years old. Oh, no, she could not stand to be here for any time at all, thinking these things – not by herself. Being trapped might be bearable if there were somebody with her, but not alone. And even if she could reach Sulien or have him brought to her, what would it achieve? They had no plan, and no way of communicating one.

At first she scarcely noticed the irregular hollow ringing noise, down here it was so faint, and she was so agitated, that she dismissed it unconsciously as part of the workings of the heating system or water supply. But finally it occurred to her that the sound resounding in the pipes that ran along the wall and up into the ceiling was being deliberately caused, and that Una must be causing it. Lal darted to the pipes; they were painfully hot on her knuckles when she knocked on them. She drew back and tapped harder with her foot. There was silence for a second, and then a reply: an imitation of the sound she’d made. Lal laughed foolishly
and tapped again. Una replied again. There was still no way of saying anything useful that Lal could think of, but nevertheless, any contact with either Una or Sulien seemed a small triumph.

She sat down on the mattress, still weeping and shuddering a little. There was a book of scripture among the rest, which she had expected as soon as she saw the little stack. But below that, of all things, were a couple of fashion magazines, both more than a year out of date. Lal stared at them in disbelief. What on earth were they doing in this place? It seemed absurd, even insulting, that Dama should draw from his memories of her, to try to be kind. He should treat her as a stranger now.

But she read a few verses, and looked at the magazines, and felt very slightly comforted.

Dama went to the kitchen for some water, and gulped it down with a painkiller, furtively. Una was still at work overhead, drumming something against the pipes. It was quite plainly not the sound of an attempt at escape, nor an expression of hysteria; it was a message to him. She meant to keep him aware of her, she meant not to allow him a moment’s comfort with what he had done. Dama started up the stairs on furious impulse and shouted, ‘
Stop it. Shut up
.’

Of course, there could be no clearer means of telling her that she was succeeding in unnerving him, and of course the sound did not stop.

Mazatl appeared in the main doorway. ‘So, what is this?’ he asked.

Dama took him into the little shelf-lined room he used as a kind of study or retreat, and explained, shortly, the gist of what had happened. Una had learned their plans from Sulien, too soon, too unprepared.

Mazatl glanced drily up at the ceiling. ‘So, she’s up there making her feelings known.’ And he watched Dama, troubled, admonishing. At last he said, ‘What are you doing, Dama? You
know
what has to be done.’

Two and a half years ago – or getting on for three now

– Mazatl had been a bored and resentful night-watchman,
working at a mansion on the Caelian hill, who had caught Dama in an early, inexpert attempt to release a handful of slaves. Dama, who should have been appalled that he had been stopped before he had even begun, had instead been elated by the almost instant certainty that he had, providentially, met exactly the right person. And so he had begun to speak, in total confidence.

The handover of authority that had happened then had lasted ever since: although Mazatl was older than Dama, and though his experience had given him skills that Dama had had to learn, he had accepted Dama’s leadership from the moment there had been a movement to lead. And part of his value to Dama was that he could, occasionally and without lasting ambition, take the upper hand, in order to question Dama or tell him what do, like an older brother, while continuing to trust him. This was the first time Dama had seen such obvious doubt displayed on Mazatl’s face.

‘I’m not going to hurt them,’ Dama said.

‘I’m not talking about
hurting
them,’ said Mazatl grimly. He took his gun from under his jacket and laid it on the table between them, his hand resting beside it, ready. ‘Look. It’s not as if you’ve got to be the one to do it. You can leave it to me. I’ll get them out in the woods, one by one. It’ll be quick, you can trust me for that.’

‘You’ll do nothing,’ Dama retorted.

‘What, then? Do you think we can keep them here for the rest of their lives?’

‘Of course not. Until the war begins. Then it won’t matter.’

Mazatl made an impatient, clicking sound. ‘If they’re a threat they’re a threat. And even if we can hold them here, there’s a good chance they’ll disrupt what we’re doing. It sounds like that girl’s doing her best to do that now. What if our people here get curious about them? It’s taken us years to reach this point. It’s not right to let them get in the way, just because you know them. It’s selfish to put our own feelings first. That’s what you’ve always said.’

Irritably, Dama slid the gun away from him, but as his fingers rested on the metal, he knew that Mazatl was right.
Of course he was right. Dama tried not to hear the thought, tried to forget it. He said, ‘I’ve made my decision.’

Mazatl grunted and got up. Dama added, ‘You can go back, now. There’s no need for you to stay here,’ as lightly as he could. With a sudden pang of sickness he had remembered that he should not have let Mazatl get so close to Una.