Fic: The Horse-Master [Original]
May. 5th, 2016 09:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
autiotaloTitle: The Horse-Master
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
Word count: 4051 words
Summary: How Hipponax became enslaved.
Notes: Written for the ‘enemies’ square of my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
genprompt_bingo card.
The Horse-Master
Catta’s eyes rolled and she jerked up her head, snapping her teeth in fear as the splintering crash rocked the little ship. Hipponax grabbed for her lead rein and pulled her head down close to him, looking at her and murmuring soothing words. Her ears pulled back, lying flat, and she bared her teeth again.
Beside her, Amanda and Ballista shifted restlessly, snorting and stamping as they caught Catta’s fear. Another crash, and all three horses began pulling and whinnying. The ship lurched, gave a groan, and settled to an ominous silence.
Hipponax glanced upwards. It had been a mistake to bring the horses down into the hold. Usually he kept them on the deck, where they could breathe fresh air and take a little exercise once they were accustomed to the movement of the ship, but Gallus, the captain, had insisted that this time the animals were stowed out of sight. Hipponax had argued, but ultimately he’d wasted his breath. Gallus had his reasons for the order, and whatever they were, he hadn’t been inclined to share them.
Probably something to do with evading the attention of the authorities. Kydonia might now be in Roman hands, but its people still talked of the days when the city defied imperial power. Gortyn, the place Hipponax claimed as his home, had ceded to the invaders quickly, won over by the promise that Rome would make the city the capital of the province of Creta and Cyrenaica.
Not to say that the citizens of Gortyn rested easy beneath imperial rule. Some of them, like Hipponax, enjoyed tweaking Roman noses. For centuries Cretans had traded where and with whom they liked; Hipponax saw no reason for this to change.
Hence this voyage, taking three of his finest horses to Illyria. On paper he was selling them to the horse-dealer Servius Magnus; in reality they were bound for the stables of an Illyrian warlord who’d requested swift, sturdy mounts as at home on the plains as in the mountains.
Another groan rocked through the timbers. The ship shivered and rolled, then came shouts and the thunder of feet from above. Hipponax faced the horses, gathering them to him. Ballista nipped at his arm, too upset for reassurance. The two mares pushed together, trembling. Their nostrils flared, their snorting breaths panicked, and the whites of their eyes showed in the gloom.
Praise Poseidon he’d not brought a lantern down here with him. Hipponax knew his horses well enough to enter the makeshift stables in the half-light, but even though they trusted him, another disturbance could be enough to make them attempt to bolt. The lead reins were strong, but nothing a terrified and angry horse couldn’t break. If all three animals plunged into fear, he’d be trampled.
“Hush.” He looked each animal in the eyes, projecting calm. “All will be well. We will reach the coast and you will go ashore, and you will run, all of you, you will run and play and all will be well—”
Heavy sounds above. Metallic. One after the other. Grappling hooks, maybe.
Amanda pushed her velvet nose against his chest. He patted her, steadying his breathing even as his heartbeat accelerated. What was going on? Gallus had assured him there’d be no trouble. The last thing Gallus ever wanted was trouble, considering the cargo this ship carried. According to various talkative crew members, in addition to the horses there were bales of Tyrian cloth, amphorae of garum and olive oil, bronze ingots from Syria, Egyptian perfume, and information gleaned from the cities and towns the Iason had put into during its voyage. Not all of these items had been acquired through honest means, but every one would bring profit.
But only if the ship remained undetected.
Gallus had sworn the route was a fortunate one, free of pirates and Romans alike. He’d made the necessary sacrifices as they’d left Crete. The sea gods were satisfied. Favourable omens had been seen—first a dolphin, accompanying them away from the island, and then the wind gods had blessed them, allowing them to slip through the Kytheran Straits without a contrary breeze.
Things had turned sour when they’d got amongst the Ionian islands. Gallus’ insistence on hugging the coast had resulted in down-draughts from the mountains buffeting the ship. The going was slow because of hidden reefs and rocks, and as they sailed through the narrow channel between Ithaka and Kephalonia, the current ran against them and the sailors had to row.
All of which meant that the crew was exhausted and dispirited now, when they most needed their strength.
Because they were most definitely under attack.
Hipponax stepped back from the horses as the sounds from above grew louder. Thuds, clatters, yells and screams. The clash of steel. A solid sound as something heavy—a body?—hit the deck directly overhead.
The horses stamped. All three of them, their hindquarters wet and the stink of their fear growing, blocking out the smell of the sea and the pitch caulking the timbers and the straw he’d scattered this morning. They shifted, whickering to one another, heads tossing.
Ballista would break first. He was more noisome, liked to think he was the leader. He’d fought against coming aboard, and he was getting ready to fight now. As soon as he kicked out, Catta would follow. Amanda was more placid, but once riled she was a force to be reckoned with.
Hipponax moved a little further away, keeping himself in the sightline of his horses. More shouts from above. Cries. Splashes as men went overboard either voluntarily or otherwise. The trample of feet on the wide ladder. Orders shouted in Latin. Commands given in sharp military terms.
They weren’t being raided by pirates. They were being arrested.
A whip hung on the wall. Hipponax reached for it, wrapping his grip around it tightly. Behind him, the horses stamped. Ballista reared, the top of his head brushing the roof of the hold. He snorted in disgust and pulled forward, but the reins held. For now.
More shouts outside. The Romans must be searching. Hipponax wondered if they were looking for something in particular or if they’d take everything.
The door burst open. Light poured in. The horses plunged and whinnied. Hipponax dropped to a defensive crouch and swung the whip, catching the first soldier across the wrist and making the man drop his weapon. The sword clattered to the floor and the soldier spun aside, cursing and clasping the bloodied wound. The next man through the door jabbed with his burning torch, cackling with harsh laughter as the horses reacted in a mass of kicking legs and lashing tails.
Hipponax glanced back at his animals. Ballista was yanking at his reins so hard he’d hurt his mouth. Catta was kicking out at the wall behind her as if she could smash through the hull. Amanda was screaming.
Rage coloured Hipponax’s vision. He launched himself at the soldier with the torch. He couldn’t use the whip again, not without the risk of the torch falling to the floor and setting the hold alight. But he could turn this weakness into an advantage; he could shove at the soldier and try to tumble him backwards out of the room. After that...
It didn’t matter what happened after that. The horses would be safe.
He threw himself at the soldier. They grappled, Hipponax twisting the hand with the torch until it was pointed outward. The element of surprise only lasted a second, and then the man fought back. He was wiry and tough, no doubt a veteran of several campaigns, but Hipponax had been breaking and training horses since he was a child and was not without strength of his own.
More soldiers filled the space outside the door. Curses streamed from the first man, but he was rising to his feet with murder in his eyes. The horses were like beserkers, hooves striking, limbs flailing. As soon as Ballista broke loose, this place would be carnage.
A burst of desperation carried Hipponax forward. The soldier with the torch tripped over the threshold and fell back. The flame dipped, caught Hipponax’s hair enough to singe, passed so close to his face he felt the heat scorch the moisture from his skin, then it went tumbling to the floor.
The soldiers jumped back with a shout, then one snatched up the torch and held it aloft. Hipponax punched at the man beneath him and got a knee to the gut, then the rest of the men swarmed over him, pulling him away from their companion and raining down blows.
He could hear Ballista screaming and thumping.
“Stop! Stop this at once!”
A fierce voice, cracked from bellowing orders. An officer of some sort, judging by the way the soldiers moved aside. A confident tread down the gangplank, slow and measured as it reached the bottom. A man accustomed to being obeyed.
Hipponax uncurled from his defensive position. His body hurt all over. Dizziness pounded his head. The metallic sweetness of blood slipped over his tongue. His face was sore, either from the torch or from a stray punch, he wasn’t sure. Despite the agony that flared up with each movement, Hipponax forced himself to his feet.
“Silence!” the officer snapped.
A moment later, Hipponax realised the horses had calmed somewhat. They were still fussing, especially Catta, but they’d responded as if Hipponax had given the order himself. He wasn’t sure if he was glad or not.
The officer surveyed the situation, then jerked his chin up. “Bring them to the main deck. Quickly now. Be careful of flying hooves.”
One of the soldiers muttered, “Those there aren’t Pegasus, sir.”
“Maybe not, but they’d be too swift for you if they got loose.” The officer fixed the man with a stare. “So make sure they’re secure.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hipponax watched as the four soldiers edged into the stables. “I can do it. Those are my horses. They won’t like—”
The officer turned, giving a signal to the two remaining soldiers. “Up. I refuse to conduct any further interviews in such cramped quarters.”
Moments later Hipponax was hustled onto the deck. The sail hung loose, slackened no doubt by enemy hands. The sky arced over, impossibly blue, plunging until it hit the green of the sea. Rocks garlanded with weed jagged from the water, dangerously close to the ship. And then there was the Roman ship, large and swift and deadly, its bronze ram still trailing shattered planks from the Iason.
Hipponax dragged his gaze from the Roman ship and took in the sight that greeted him on the main deck. The aftermath of chaos danced through with violence. Bodies strewn across the scrubbed planking, blood puddling and drying. Gulls shrilled overhead, circling, diving into the sea with tiny splashes to catch up whatever carrion was already floating out there.
Sickened, Hipponax looked towards the stern, where a cluster of sullen crewmen awaited their fates, kept in check by a loose semi-circle of Roman swords. None of the men would acknowledge him.
Dread crept cold through Hipponax’s body, and he suppressed a shiver. “Gallus?” He couldn’t see the captain anywhere.
The officer stood wide-legged, braced against the swell, and put his hands on his hips. Not a tall man, but powerfully built. Older than Hipponax had first thought, with a shock of grey hair that shone in the sun. A red kerchief was knotted around his throat, the same kerchief any common legionary would wear, and though his cuirass was dented and scratched and the leather pieces of his armour were faded, both were oiled and polished.
This was a man who led from the front. A man who, under other circumstances, Hipponax would respect and do business with. But not now. Not after an unprovoked attack on a Greek trading vessel.
He repeated the question, speaking in Latin. “Where is Gallus, the captain?”
“The captain.” A smile splintered the Roman’s grim features. “He jumped overboard when he saw us coming. Thought he could swim to Lefkada. Damn near made it, too. I’ve dispatched a couple of men to pick him up. Gallus won’t get far, not laden down as he is with all that plundered gold.”
Hipponax was about to reply when a commotion on the gangplank made him turn. Six soldiers, two apiece, were struggling to control the three horses. Ballista came first, his head tossing back so high he looked like a sacrifice to the oldest and most deadly of the gods. Then Catta, planting her feet and pulling back every other step. Finally Amanda, her tail swishing as she lunged and bit at anything that moved.
The blood, Hipponax thought. It was going to upset them.
Ballista snorted, his eyes rolling. His nostrils flared wide, no doubt scenting the ozone and the copper-fetid stink of death. He rose to his hind legs in surprise, then he did it again, starting to rock and buck. The soldiers holding him tried to shorten the reins, but they’d been cut through and weren’t long enough, and soon Ballista was out of control, his distress flashing to the two mares.
Hipponax acted on instinct. Heedless of the soldiers and their weapons, he stepped in front of the gelding. “Ballista, no. Calm yourself. Good boy. That’s it. Listen to me. Look at me, that’s right, good boy...”
The horse pricked his ears, recognition in those big dark eyes. He whinnied, and when the soldiers backed away, he hurried forward a few steps then pulled up, dropping his head to Hipponax’s shoulder.
“Good boy.” Hipponax put his arms around Ballista’s neck and rubbed the side of his face against Ballista’s head. “Who’s my good boy.”
He continued to murmur soothing words until the horse quietened, and then Hipponax did the same with Catta and Amanda. Only when all three were calm again did he face the Roman officer. “They need food and water, and an enclosure here on the deck where they’ll be comfortable.”
The officer hid a smile behind a brawny hand. “Who are you, to be giving me orders?”
“Hipponax of Gortyn.”
One dark brow lifted. “I’ve heard of you. I thought you’d be older.” The officer made no attempt to conceal his amusement this time. “I am Fulcinius Lamia.”
Hipponax sucked in a breath. “I’ve heard of you, too.” In taverns across Crete, the name had been muttered and cursed. Fulcinius Lamia had been given an imperial mandate to scour the Middle Sea for pirates. He was reputed to be very good at his job.
Lamia gave a bark of laughter and swung away, his patched scarlet cloak fluttering after him. “We sail for Kerkyra.” He signalled the Roman ship, and the crew aboard swarmed into activity. At a second signal, the soldiers on the Iason began similar preparations.
Hipponax followed him across the deck. “How can we sail? You rammed us.”
“Above the waterline. It’s a tricky manoeuvre but one that’s worthwhile. I’ve got men making repairs as we speak. Not enough to make the ship seaworthy on open water, but good enough to get us to Kerkyra. If necessary, the Victor can take us in tow.” Lamia’s eyes twinkled. “Fear not, Hipponax of Gortyn. I’ve sailed worse wrecks through a meltemi without incurring damage.”
It seemed to take little time for the ships to get underway. Gallus had run a tight crew, but compared to the efficiency of the Romans they looked like slugabeds. The former crew was put to work on the oars until they were clear of the rocks, and then with the sail righted and trimmed, the Iason skimmed along in the wake of the larger Victor.
The soldiers then commenced cleaning up, wrapping the dead in cloaks and sacking and piling them at the stern near their chained brethren. The deck was swabbed with fresh seawater and the congealed blood scrubbed away, though a good hard rubdown and polish would be needed if the stains were ever going to come out.
An enclosure was erected for the horses towards the front of the ship, and food and water was brought up from the hold. Hipponax replaced the reins and moved between the animals, talking to them, touching them, reassuring them once again that all was well. Amanda especially seemed to enjoy being in the open air. Catta manoeuvred herself to a patch of shade cast by the sail and swished her tail lazily. For a while longer Ballista refused to settle, flicking an ear and rolling an eye whenever a gull flew too close overhead.
Fulcinius Lamia came down from the prow and watched. He studied the horses, walking all the way around the enclosure. Perhaps he studied other things, too, for whenever Hipponax raised his head, Lamia was looking at him.
After a while, Lamia asked permission to touch the horses, and when Hipponax agreed, the officer patted Amanda’s shoulder. He moved closer to her, crooning softly, and the mare gave him a considering look before she allowed him to stroke her nose.
“You must have seen the cargo down in the hold when you went to check on the horses.”
Lamia’s tone was neutral and his attention appeared to be wholly on Amanda, but Hipponax wasn’t fooled. “Not much. I had no reason to go anywhere but the stables. I know Gallus was transporting garum—I could smell it.”
“Cretan garum? From Hierapytna?”
Hipponax focused on untangling a knot in Catta’s mane. “I have no idea where it came from. I told you, I know nothing of the other items Gallus was transporting.”
“Not even the Egyptian perfumes?”
Hipponax met the Roman’s penetrating stare. “Gortyn was the last port of call. I boarded the ship there. I have no knowledge of any goods acquired earlier in the voyage.”
Lamia ran a hand over Amanda’s back. “You’re sure Gortyn was the last port of call?”
Hipponax held Lamia’s gaze until Catta nudged him, recalling him to his task. He murmured an apology to her and resumed working on the knot.
Apparently changing tack, Lamia touched the brand on Amanda’s left flank, an ‘H’ and ‘X’ intertwined. “These are fine horses. You bred them yourself?”
“Yes.” Hipponax allowed himself to relax a little. “I breed Numidian stallions with native Cretan stock. The horses of the Messara plains are small and sturdy and dark in colour. My horses are a hand taller, strong in the chest and with powerful hindquarters, and they’re fast. Not as fast as a Numidian racehorse, not yet, but they’re close. Ballista’s sire Anemos is the champion of Crete.”
“They have nice colouring,” Lamia remarked, petting Amanda. “The grey sheen of the Numidian mixed in with dark hair. Quite charming. Yes, girl, you’re lovely.” He caught the mare’s nose and pressed a kiss to it.
Hipponax didn’t know who was more surprised, himself or Amanda.
Lamia straightened. “Where were you taking them?”
“Illyria. To the dealer Servius Magnus.”
“That old thief.” Suspicion sat lightly in Lamia’s voice. “The nags he sells are worthless things. Mules for the farm and fancy ponies bred for their looks rather than strength and stamina. No serious connoisseur of horseflesh would buy from him, no matter how good the wares on display.”
“Nevertheless, that’s where I was bound.”
“How much did you expect to get for them?”
Hipponax did a rapid calculation, then added on a generous amount extra. “Seven hundred sesterces each.”
Lamia grunted. “A fair price in a provincial market. I’d have given you nine hundred.”
The knot came free beneath Hipponax’s fingers. “You would buy them?”
“I would have done, if you’d been a free man capable of trading with me.” Lamia smiled, but his eyes were watchful and assessing. “But you are no longer a free man, Hipponax of Gortyn. You’re a pirate, and thus your life is forfeit.”
The cold beat of dread returned, thumping hard. “I am no such thing.”
“You’re travelling on a pirate’s ship, consorting with pirates, paying pirates for your journey—and perhaps for other things.”
Hipponax held himself rigid. “That does not make me a pirate, Fulcinius Lamia. I am a free man.”
“You knew the risks when you stepped aboard this ship,” Lamia insisted. “Come now, we all know how it’s done. Find a captain who asks no questions. Grease the palms of the port officials. Use a middleman like Servius Magnus to sell your goods...” His gaze was too sharp, saw too much. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe that you were ignorant of Gallus’ reputation. You cast the dice, and you lost.”
Catta shook her head, snorting lightly. Hipponax realised he’d tangled his fingers in her mane and was pulling tight. Zeus’ arse, he was in deep shit. Goosebumps crawled over his flesh. The punishment meted out for piracy was crucifixion.
Lamia’s expression turned sympathetic. “I don’t make the rules. I just enforce them. I can let you plead your case to the magistrate, but I warn you now, he’s a hard man. Harder than me, and I did not earn my cognomen by being a meek and gentle soul. You’ll be punished along with the rest of the crew. The best you can hope for is a quick death. If you have any coin, save it to slip to the executioner. He’ll strangle you before the nails go in.”
Hipponax tried very hard not to imagine what it was like to be crucified.
“I will take your horses,” Lamia said, speaking softly now. “Don’t worry, they will be cared for as they deserve.”
Tears welled in Hipponax’s eyes. His horses. If he died, who would look after them? Would his family be informed of his death? Would the farm pass to his sister and brother-in-law, as his will stated, or would it be seized by the governor? And what of the animals here, Catta, Amanda, and Ballista? He’d not baulked from selling them to an Illyrian warlord, but for them to be taken by this Roman...
He took a deep breath. “Ballista loves sparrow eggs in his mash. Catta tends to shy if her left eye is blinkered or her vision impaired in any way on that side. We’ve been working on it, but she can still be skittish. Give her time and a little patience, and she’ll reward you. As for Amanda, she’s perfect. She’ll give you no trouble. Just one thing—she likes her chin scratched in a certain way. Here,” Hipponax went to the mare and demonstrated, “like this. Do this and she’s yours.”
Silence resonated between them. Hipponax leaned against Amanda, scratching beneath her chin until she dribbled happily on his tunic. The ropes snapped as the sail filled with a gust of wind. Gulls shrieked and dove in lazy parabolas. Timber creaked, the waves rushing past the prow. The taste of sunlight and salt, the scent of ozone and horseflesh and his own humanity.
“There is an alternative,” Lamia said.
Hipponax allowed himself to hope. “What is it?”
“I take you as a slave.”
Hope was crushed. The world dropped away. Slavery or death.
Lamia moved closer. “I am returning to Rome soon. The census will be held within two months, and after it, the census for the equestrian class. I am of that order and must attend with the horse given to me by the state—my public horse. Any fault found with my public horse reflects on me. There are...” he paused to consider his words, grimaced, “consequences.
“Aethon is a splendid beast, but was lamed recently during a skirmish.” Lamia hooked his thumbs into his belt and leaned back on his heels. “My groom assures me Aethon’s good for nothing but putting to grass. I would be interested to hear your opinion.”
Hipponax shook his head. “I cannot work miracles.”
“I do not ask for them. Merely your honesty and your care towards my horses.” Lamia nodded at the three surrounding them. “All of my horses.”
Hipponax rested his forehead against Amanda’s long nose as if he could absorb some of her placid strength. He was being given a chance. He’d be a fool not to take it. Straightening, he faced Lamia.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll be your slave.”
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
Word count: 4051 words
Summary: How Hipponax became enslaved.
Notes: Written for the ‘enemies’ square of my
genprompt_bingo card.Catta’s eyes rolled and she jerked up her head, snapping her teeth in fear as the splintering crash rocked the little ship. Hipponax grabbed for her lead rein and pulled her head down close to him, looking at her and murmuring soothing words. Her ears pulled back, lying flat, and she bared her teeth again.
Beside her, Amanda and Ballista shifted restlessly, snorting and stamping as they caught Catta’s fear. Another crash, and all three horses began pulling and whinnying. The ship lurched, gave a groan, and settled to an ominous silence.
Hipponax glanced upwards. It had been a mistake to bring the horses down into the hold. Usually he kept them on the deck, where they could breathe fresh air and take a little exercise once they were accustomed to the movement of the ship, but Gallus, the captain, had insisted that this time the animals were stowed out of sight. Hipponax had argued, but ultimately he’d wasted his breath. Gallus had his reasons for the order, and whatever they were, he hadn’t been inclined to share them.
Probably something to do with evading the attention of the authorities. Kydonia might now be in Roman hands, but its people still talked of the days when the city defied imperial power. Gortyn, the place Hipponax claimed as his home, had ceded to the invaders quickly, won over by the promise that Rome would make the city the capital of the province of Creta and Cyrenaica.
Not to say that the citizens of Gortyn rested easy beneath imperial rule. Some of them, like Hipponax, enjoyed tweaking Roman noses. For centuries Cretans had traded where and with whom they liked; Hipponax saw no reason for this to change.
Hence this voyage, taking three of his finest horses to Illyria. On paper he was selling them to the horse-dealer Servius Magnus; in reality they were bound for the stables of an Illyrian warlord who’d requested swift, sturdy mounts as at home on the plains as in the mountains.
Another groan rocked through the timbers. The ship shivered and rolled, then came shouts and the thunder of feet from above. Hipponax faced the horses, gathering them to him. Ballista nipped at his arm, too upset for reassurance. The two mares pushed together, trembling. Their nostrils flared, their snorting breaths panicked, and the whites of their eyes showed in the gloom.
Praise Poseidon he’d not brought a lantern down here with him. Hipponax knew his horses well enough to enter the makeshift stables in the half-light, but even though they trusted him, another disturbance could be enough to make them attempt to bolt. The lead reins were strong, but nothing a terrified and angry horse couldn’t break. If all three animals plunged into fear, he’d be trampled.
“Hush.” He looked each animal in the eyes, projecting calm. “All will be well. We will reach the coast and you will go ashore, and you will run, all of you, you will run and play and all will be well—”
Heavy sounds above. Metallic. One after the other. Grappling hooks, maybe.
Amanda pushed her velvet nose against his chest. He patted her, steadying his breathing even as his heartbeat accelerated. What was going on? Gallus had assured him there’d be no trouble. The last thing Gallus ever wanted was trouble, considering the cargo this ship carried. According to various talkative crew members, in addition to the horses there were bales of Tyrian cloth, amphorae of garum and olive oil, bronze ingots from Syria, Egyptian perfume, and information gleaned from the cities and towns the Iason had put into during its voyage. Not all of these items had been acquired through honest means, but every one would bring profit.
But only if the ship remained undetected.
Gallus had sworn the route was a fortunate one, free of pirates and Romans alike. He’d made the necessary sacrifices as they’d left Crete. The sea gods were satisfied. Favourable omens had been seen—first a dolphin, accompanying them away from the island, and then the wind gods had blessed them, allowing them to slip through the Kytheran Straits without a contrary breeze.
Things had turned sour when they’d got amongst the Ionian islands. Gallus’ insistence on hugging the coast had resulted in down-draughts from the mountains buffeting the ship. The going was slow because of hidden reefs and rocks, and as they sailed through the narrow channel between Ithaka and Kephalonia, the current ran against them and the sailors had to row.
All of which meant that the crew was exhausted and dispirited now, when they most needed their strength.
Because they were most definitely under attack.
Hipponax stepped back from the horses as the sounds from above grew louder. Thuds, clatters, yells and screams. The clash of steel. A solid sound as something heavy—a body?—hit the deck directly overhead.
The horses stamped. All three of them, their hindquarters wet and the stink of their fear growing, blocking out the smell of the sea and the pitch caulking the timbers and the straw he’d scattered this morning. They shifted, whickering to one another, heads tossing.
Ballista would break first. He was more noisome, liked to think he was the leader. He’d fought against coming aboard, and he was getting ready to fight now. As soon as he kicked out, Catta would follow. Amanda was more placid, but once riled she was a force to be reckoned with.
Hipponax moved a little further away, keeping himself in the sightline of his horses. More shouts from above. Cries. Splashes as men went overboard either voluntarily or otherwise. The trample of feet on the wide ladder. Orders shouted in Latin. Commands given in sharp military terms.
They weren’t being raided by pirates. They were being arrested.
A whip hung on the wall. Hipponax reached for it, wrapping his grip around it tightly. Behind him, the horses stamped. Ballista reared, the top of his head brushing the roof of the hold. He snorted in disgust and pulled forward, but the reins held. For now.
More shouts outside. The Romans must be searching. Hipponax wondered if they were looking for something in particular or if they’d take everything.
The door burst open. Light poured in. The horses plunged and whinnied. Hipponax dropped to a defensive crouch and swung the whip, catching the first soldier across the wrist and making the man drop his weapon. The sword clattered to the floor and the soldier spun aside, cursing and clasping the bloodied wound. The next man through the door jabbed with his burning torch, cackling with harsh laughter as the horses reacted in a mass of kicking legs and lashing tails.
Hipponax glanced back at his animals. Ballista was yanking at his reins so hard he’d hurt his mouth. Catta was kicking out at the wall behind her as if she could smash through the hull. Amanda was screaming.
Rage coloured Hipponax’s vision. He launched himself at the soldier with the torch. He couldn’t use the whip again, not without the risk of the torch falling to the floor and setting the hold alight. But he could turn this weakness into an advantage; he could shove at the soldier and try to tumble him backwards out of the room. After that...
It didn’t matter what happened after that. The horses would be safe.
He threw himself at the soldier. They grappled, Hipponax twisting the hand with the torch until it was pointed outward. The element of surprise only lasted a second, and then the man fought back. He was wiry and tough, no doubt a veteran of several campaigns, but Hipponax had been breaking and training horses since he was a child and was not without strength of his own.
More soldiers filled the space outside the door. Curses streamed from the first man, but he was rising to his feet with murder in his eyes. The horses were like beserkers, hooves striking, limbs flailing. As soon as Ballista broke loose, this place would be carnage.
A burst of desperation carried Hipponax forward. The soldier with the torch tripped over the threshold and fell back. The flame dipped, caught Hipponax’s hair enough to singe, passed so close to his face he felt the heat scorch the moisture from his skin, then it went tumbling to the floor.
The soldiers jumped back with a shout, then one snatched up the torch and held it aloft. Hipponax punched at the man beneath him and got a knee to the gut, then the rest of the men swarmed over him, pulling him away from their companion and raining down blows.
He could hear Ballista screaming and thumping.
“Stop! Stop this at once!”
A fierce voice, cracked from bellowing orders. An officer of some sort, judging by the way the soldiers moved aside. A confident tread down the gangplank, slow and measured as it reached the bottom. A man accustomed to being obeyed.
Hipponax uncurled from his defensive position. His body hurt all over. Dizziness pounded his head. The metallic sweetness of blood slipped over his tongue. His face was sore, either from the torch or from a stray punch, he wasn’t sure. Despite the agony that flared up with each movement, Hipponax forced himself to his feet.
“Silence!” the officer snapped.
A moment later, Hipponax realised the horses had calmed somewhat. They were still fussing, especially Catta, but they’d responded as if Hipponax had given the order himself. He wasn’t sure if he was glad or not.
The officer surveyed the situation, then jerked his chin up. “Bring them to the main deck. Quickly now. Be careful of flying hooves.”
One of the soldiers muttered, “Those there aren’t Pegasus, sir.”
“Maybe not, but they’d be too swift for you if they got loose.” The officer fixed the man with a stare. “So make sure they’re secure.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hipponax watched as the four soldiers edged into the stables. “I can do it. Those are my horses. They won’t like—”
The officer turned, giving a signal to the two remaining soldiers. “Up. I refuse to conduct any further interviews in such cramped quarters.”
Moments later Hipponax was hustled onto the deck. The sail hung loose, slackened no doubt by enemy hands. The sky arced over, impossibly blue, plunging until it hit the green of the sea. Rocks garlanded with weed jagged from the water, dangerously close to the ship. And then there was the Roman ship, large and swift and deadly, its bronze ram still trailing shattered planks from the Iason.
Hipponax dragged his gaze from the Roman ship and took in the sight that greeted him on the main deck. The aftermath of chaos danced through with violence. Bodies strewn across the scrubbed planking, blood puddling and drying. Gulls shrilled overhead, circling, diving into the sea with tiny splashes to catch up whatever carrion was already floating out there.
Sickened, Hipponax looked towards the stern, where a cluster of sullen crewmen awaited their fates, kept in check by a loose semi-circle of Roman swords. None of the men would acknowledge him.
Dread crept cold through Hipponax’s body, and he suppressed a shiver. “Gallus?” He couldn’t see the captain anywhere.
The officer stood wide-legged, braced against the swell, and put his hands on his hips. Not a tall man, but powerfully built. Older than Hipponax had first thought, with a shock of grey hair that shone in the sun. A red kerchief was knotted around his throat, the same kerchief any common legionary would wear, and though his cuirass was dented and scratched and the leather pieces of his armour were faded, both were oiled and polished.
This was a man who led from the front. A man who, under other circumstances, Hipponax would respect and do business with. But not now. Not after an unprovoked attack on a Greek trading vessel.
He repeated the question, speaking in Latin. “Where is Gallus, the captain?”
“The captain.” A smile splintered the Roman’s grim features. “He jumped overboard when he saw us coming. Thought he could swim to Lefkada. Damn near made it, too. I’ve dispatched a couple of men to pick him up. Gallus won’t get far, not laden down as he is with all that plundered gold.”
Hipponax was about to reply when a commotion on the gangplank made him turn. Six soldiers, two apiece, were struggling to control the three horses. Ballista came first, his head tossing back so high he looked like a sacrifice to the oldest and most deadly of the gods. Then Catta, planting her feet and pulling back every other step. Finally Amanda, her tail swishing as she lunged and bit at anything that moved.
The blood, Hipponax thought. It was going to upset them.
Ballista snorted, his eyes rolling. His nostrils flared wide, no doubt scenting the ozone and the copper-fetid stink of death. He rose to his hind legs in surprise, then he did it again, starting to rock and buck. The soldiers holding him tried to shorten the reins, but they’d been cut through and weren’t long enough, and soon Ballista was out of control, his distress flashing to the two mares.
Hipponax acted on instinct. Heedless of the soldiers and their weapons, he stepped in front of the gelding. “Ballista, no. Calm yourself. Good boy. That’s it. Listen to me. Look at me, that’s right, good boy...”
The horse pricked his ears, recognition in those big dark eyes. He whinnied, and when the soldiers backed away, he hurried forward a few steps then pulled up, dropping his head to Hipponax’s shoulder.
“Good boy.” Hipponax put his arms around Ballista’s neck and rubbed the side of his face against Ballista’s head. “Who’s my good boy.”
He continued to murmur soothing words until the horse quietened, and then Hipponax did the same with Catta and Amanda. Only when all three were calm again did he face the Roman officer. “They need food and water, and an enclosure here on the deck where they’ll be comfortable.”
The officer hid a smile behind a brawny hand. “Who are you, to be giving me orders?”
“Hipponax of Gortyn.”
One dark brow lifted. “I’ve heard of you. I thought you’d be older.” The officer made no attempt to conceal his amusement this time. “I am Fulcinius Lamia.”
Hipponax sucked in a breath. “I’ve heard of you, too.” In taverns across Crete, the name had been muttered and cursed. Fulcinius Lamia had been given an imperial mandate to scour the Middle Sea for pirates. He was reputed to be very good at his job.
Lamia gave a bark of laughter and swung away, his patched scarlet cloak fluttering after him. “We sail for Kerkyra.” He signalled the Roman ship, and the crew aboard swarmed into activity. At a second signal, the soldiers on the Iason began similar preparations.
Hipponax followed him across the deck. “How can we sail? You rammed us.”
“Above the waterline. It’s a tricky manoeuvre but one that’s worthwhile. I’ve got men making repairs as we speak. Not enough to make the ship seaworthy on open water, but good enough to get us to Kerkyra. If necessary, the Victor can take us in tow.” Lamia’s eyes twinkled. “Fear not, Hipponax of Gortyn. I’ve sailed worse wrecks through a meltemi without incurring damage.”
It seemed to take little time for the ships to get underway. Gallus had run a tight crew, but compared to the efficiency of the Romans they looked like slugabeds. The former crew was put to work on the oars until they were clear of the rocks, and then with the sail righted and trimmed, the Iason skimmed along in the wake of the larger Victor.
The soldiers then commenced cleaning up, wrapping the dead in cloaks and sacking and piling them at the stern near their chained brethren. The deck was swabbed with fresh seawater and the congealed blood scrubbed away, though a good hard rubdown and polish would be needed if the stains were ever going to come out.
An enclosure was erected for the horses towards the front of the ship, and food and water was brought up from the hold. Hipponax replaced the reins and moved between the animals, talking to them, touching them, reassuring them once again that all was well. Amanda especially seemed to enjoy being in the open air. Catta manoeuvred herself to a patch of shade cast by the sail and swished her tail lazily. For a while longer Ballista refused to settle, flicking an ear and rolling an eye whenever a gull flew too close overhead.
Fulcinius Lamia came down from the prow and watched. He studied the horses, walking all the way around the enclosure. Perhaps he studied other things, too, for whenever Hipponax raised his head, Lamia was looking at him.
After a while, Lamia asked permission to touch the horses, and when Hipponax agreed, the officer patted Amanda’s shoulder. He moved closer to her, crooning softly, and the mare gave him a considering look before she allowed him to stroke her nose.
“You must have seen the cargo down in the hold when you went to check on the horses.”
Lamia’s tone was neutral and his attention appeared to be wholly on Amanda, but Hipponax wasn’t fooled. “Not much. I had no reason to go anywhere but the stables. I know Gallus was transporting garum—I could smell it.”
“Cretan garum? From Hierapytna?”
Hipponax focused on untangling a knot in Catta’s mane. “I have no idea where it came from. I told you, I know nothing of the other items Gallus was transporting.”
“Not even the Egyptian perfumes?”
Hipponax met the Roman’s penetrating stare. “Gortyn was the last port of call. I boarded the ship there. I have no knowledge of any goods acquired earlier in the voyage.”
Lamia ran a hand over Amanda’s back. “You’re sure Gortyn was the last port of call?”
Hipponax held Lamia’s gaze until Catta nudged him, recalling him to his task. He murmured an apology to her and resumed working on the knot.
Apparently changing tack, Lamia touched the brand on Amanda’s left flank, an ‘H’ and ‘X’ intertwined. “These are fine horses. You bred them yourself?”
“Yes.” Hipponax allowed himself to relax a little. “I breed Numidian stallions with native Cretan stock. The horses of the Messara plains are small and sturdy and dark in colour. My horses are a hand taller, strong in the chest and with powerful hindquarters, and they’re fast. Not as fast as a Numidian racehorse, not yet, but they’re close. Ballista’s sire Anemos is the champion of Crete.”
“They have nice colouring,” Lamia remarked, petting Amanda. “The grey sheen of the Numidian mixed in with dark hair. Quite charming. Yes, girl, you’re lovely.” He caught the mare’s nose and pressed a kiss to it.
Hipponax didn’t know who was more surprised, himself or Amanda.
Lamia straightened. “Where were you taking them?”
“Illyria. To the dealer Servius Magnus.”
“That old thief.” Suspicion sat lightly in Lamia’s voice. “The nags he sells are worthless things. Mules for the farm and fancy ponies bred for their looks rather than strength and stamina. No serious connoisseur of horseflesh would buy from him, no matter how good the wares on display.”
“Nevertheless, that’s where I was bound.”
“How much did you expect to get for them?”
Hipponax did a rapid calculation, then added on a generous amount extra. “Seven hundred sesterces each.”
Lamia grunted. “A fair price in a provincial market. I’d have given you nine hundred.”
The knot came free beneath Hipponax’s fingers. “You would buy them?”
“I would have done, if you’d been a free man capable of trading with me.” Lamia smiled, but his eyes were watchful and assessing. “But you are no longer a free man, Hipponax of Gortyn. You’re a pirate, and thus your life is forfeit.”
The cold beat of dread returned, thumping hard. “I am no such thing.”
“You’re travelling on a pirate’s ship, consorting with pirates, paying pirates for your journey—and perhaps for other things.”
Hipponax held himself rigid. “That does not make me a pirate, Fulcinius Lamia. I am a free man.”
“You knew the risks when you stepped aboard this ship,” Lamia insisted. “Come now, we all know how it’s done. Find a captain who asks no questions. Grease the palms of the port officials. Use a middleman like Servius Magnus to sell your goods...” His gaze was too sharp, saw too much. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe that you were ignorant of Gallus’ reputation. You cast the dice, and you lost.”
Catta shook her head, snorting lightly. Hipponax realised he’d tangled his fingers in her mane and was pulling tight. Zeus’ arse, he was in deep shit. Goosebumps crawled over his flesh. The punishment meted out for piracy was crucifixion.
Lamia’s expression turned sympathetic. “I don’t make the rules. I just enforce them. I can let you plead your case to the magistrate, but I warn you now, he’s a hard man. Harder than me, and I did not earn my cognomen by being a meek and gentle soul. You’ll be punished along with the rest of the crew. The best you can hope for is a quick death. If you have any coin, save it to slip to the executioner. He’ll strangle you before the nails go in.”
Hipponax tried very hard not to imagine what it was like to be crucified.
“I will take your horses,” Lamia said, speaking softly now. “Don’t worry, they will be cared for as they deserve.”
Tears welled in Hipponax’s eyes. His horses. If he died, who would look after them? Would his family be informed of his death? Would the farm pass to his sister and brother-in-law, as his will stated, or would it be seized by the governor? And what of the animals here, Catta, Amanda, and Ballista? He’d not baulked from selling them to an Illyrian warlord, but for them to be taken by this Roman...
He took a deep breath. “Ballista loves sparrow eggs in his mash. Catta tends to shy if her left eye is blinkered or her vision impaired in any way on that side. We’ve been working on it, but she can still be skittish. Give her time and a little patience, and she’ll reward you. As for Amanda, she’s perfect. She’ll give you no trouble. Just one thing—she likes her chin scratched in a certain way. Here,” Hipponax went to the mare and demonstrated, “like this. Do this and she’s yours.”
Silence resonated between them. Hipponax leaned against Amanda, scratching beneath her chin until she dribbled happily on his tunic. The ropes snapped as the sail filled with a gust of wind. Gulls shrieked and dove in lazy parabolas. Timber creaked, the waves rushing past the prow. The taste of sunlight and salt, the scent of ozone and horseflesh and his own humanity.
“There is an alternative,” Lamia said.
Hipponax allowed himself to hope. “What is it?”
“I take you as a slave.”
Hope was crushed. The world dropped away. Slavery or death.
Lamia moved closer. “I am returning to Rome soon. The census will be held within two months, and after it, the census for the equestrian class. I am of that order and must attend with the horse given to me by the state—my public horse. Any fault found with my public horse reflects on me. There are...” he paused to consider his words, grimaced, “consequences.
“Aethon is a splendid beast, but was lamed recently during a skirmish.” Lamia hooked his thumbs into his belt and leaned back on his heels. “My groom assures me Aethon’s good for nothing but putting to grass. I would be interested to hear your opinion.”
Hipponax shook his head. “I cannot work miracles.”
“I do not ask for them. Merely your honesty and your care towards my horses.” Lamia nodded at the three surrounding them. “All of my horses.”
Hipponax rested his forehead against Amanda’s long nose as if he could absorb some of her placid strength. He was being given a chance. He’d be a fool not to take it. Straightening, he faced Lamia.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll be your slave.”
