Power. Of course.
Financial. Political. Even military...
Especially military. Change the course of wars, elections, anything. It would be just the thing to interest old man Carreras, too, Jésus' father—something to entice him back into an active role in family affairs. Charlie narrowed his eyes. Come to think of it, that retirement story had rung a little hollow all along. Carreras men retired when someone dumped dirt over them. The more Charlie thought about it, the more he knew was he was right.
Julio Carreras had always been more subtle, more given to complex setups than Jésus, although Jésus was good. This whole setup was so convoluted and carefully hidden, it fairly screamed of Julio Carreras' touch. Charlie wasn't certain Jésus would have been able to pull it off single-handedly. Why the devil hadn't he considered any of this earlier?
Charlie called himself several kinds of fool. He refused to accept any excuses, even the fact he'd been trying to stay alive in a world as alien as anything he'd ever seen on Star Trek. For four entire years, he hadn't been thinking, let alone thinking like a cop.
It had taken Sibyl to jar him back on track.
Sibyl...
Charlie closed his eyes. He wished for just the tiniest, selfish moment he could cradle her close and hold onto her until the aching emptiness in him disappeared. How long he lay on his side, curled up in a ball around his daughter and trying not to cry, Charlie had no idea. Eventually, the combined stresses and physical abuse he'd endured took their toll. While arguing with himself about whether or not he ought to confront Decius Martis with a request to know where they were headed, Charlie fell asleep.
He woke slowly. His first response was surprise. He hadn't slept so soundly—or, he suspected, so long at one stretch—in four years. He started to sit up—
"Nnngh—"
Moving involved a whole series of agonies. They began in his neck and ended in the soles of his feet. Breathing hurt. Saddle-galled thighs burned so badly he hissed between clenched teeth. Welts in his back had glued themselves to his stolen tunic. His back felt as stiff as his armor. Dull pain in his ribcage shuddered and stabbed like bright lightning when he shifted position. Above it all, he was so hungry, he could've gnawed on the woolen sail which draped across him in wet sags and folds. And when he tried to move again, he discovered he'd been efficiently tied up.
The sea still heaved and bucked, reminding him of the ground the previous day. The boat tilted sharply every few moments, giving him an unobstructed view of Herculaneum. Vesuvius still belched destruction. The whole coastline looked like a madman's vision of hell. The crazed movement of the fishing boat as it slid and tossed across the wave crests caused the whole landscape to shift crazily. What little he could see was a glowing sea of lava and gas stretching right down the mountainside into the sea itself.
Of beautiful, idyllic Herculaneum, there was no trace.
The air was thick and heavy. It smelled of rotten eggs. Rocks and ash continued to pelt them. A lamp hung forlornly from the charred stump of the mast, casting dim light into the volcanic gloom. Everything was coated with a dull grey film. Blurred movement in the bow showed him Phillipa, her breasts bare as she nursed her child.
Lucania, fast asleep, lay across her lap. Charlie sagged in relief. She's all right. Whether or not she stayed that way very likely depended on him. Again, he thought of old movies he'd watched. Hollywood had certainly got that part right. Nobody pitied the child of a disobedient slave.
The fisherman still manned the tiller, drooping visibly in exhaustion. Sometime while Charlie slept, Decius Martis had dragged him closer to the stern. Probably after tying me up, to keep me away from his wife and kid. Predictably, he had confiscated Charlie's sword belt.
The fisherman had, by his own standards, shown astonishing leniency. Nonetheless, Charlie felt nothing but utter defeat. It was worse, almost, than the day he'd lost the use of his leg in the arena. Then, he'd had only himself to think of, only his own freedom to somehow win. The ropes Decius Martis had tightened around his wrists and ankles were more than symbols of imprisonment. They represented loss of all hope. The best that could happen now was a return to slavery—not only for him, but for little Lucania.
He said in a low, hard voice, "You hold our lives in your hands. Denounce me... they'll kill me without pity. Then they'll take my daughter and sell her to some stinking brothel to be raised a whore... ."
Decius' brow furrowed thoughtfully. "You have courage. I will grant that. And a good mind. I would have you know, slave, I see a great difference between quietly killing a man in his sleep and turning him over to an Imperial garrison to be tortured to death."
Charlie shivered. Graphic images of the executions he'd been forced to witness still haunted him.
"It is little enough to offer, but when we reach the port of Stabiae, we will tell no one in authority of this." He gestured to Charlie's stolen armor.
Charlie remained silent. Decius seemed to understand. The fisherman wiped ash and grit off his face. Lantern light revealed burns on his hand and lower arm. He must have kept hold of the tiller, or tried to, during one of the surges.
The fisherman lifted his gaze from the sea and met Charlie's eyes. "You must realize you cannot simply go free? Not with that brand on you?"
Charlie nodded, hardly daring to hope this man might show his child, at least, some pity. He winced when a pebble at terminal velocity stung his shoulder and wished he could wipe ash and grit off his own wet face.
"I know."
Decius' voice was a little less harsh this time. "We are not wealthy, Phillipa and I, but a fisherman can always earn a living and seldom starves."
It didn't take ESP to know the fisherman was afraid of him—and in his shoes, Charlie supposed he'd have been afraid, too—but equally clearly, the man was trying to be fair.
"Yeah, well, I guess that's true enough," Charlie agreed. "I'm not much good on a boat."
"No..." Decius pursed his lips slightly. Exhaustion made the man's eyes water and brought a tremble to his burned hand. How many hours since he had slept? "But there are other things a man who is slow of foot can do. I never have enough hands to keep nets mended. And the rigging and sails must be repaired constantly.
"Then there is the job of cleaning and sorting the catch, hauling it to market. And I will need a new mast, which you can help shape with wood-working tools, and the boat needs recaulking. And the gunwales are damaged. And once you learn woodworking skills... even a crippled man can work wood and earn himself and his master a living."
Too true.
"Or buy his child's freedom," Decius added softly.
Charlie's glance was sharp. But he said nothing. Not yet. He wouldn't risk Lucania's future on his temper.
"There is plenty of opportunity to do this—and more. You begin to see?"
Charlie's forced laugh came out badly strained. "Yes. I begin to see. Master," he added bitterly.
Decius grunted softly. "I have never been a slave. But I am not a citizen, either. And when you cannot claim citizenship, you suffer abuse from all Romans, rich and poor." He held Charlie's eyes steadily. "That cannot have been easy for you to say."
Charlie was surprised by even that small measure of understanding. He hadn't expected to find any. If he were doomed to live out his life a slave... There were worse men he could call "master."
Charlie wondered how one mended fishing nets.
"I have no choice," Charlie answered slowly. "You could have me killed when we reach port. You could throw me overboard now. You could throw my child overboard. As you say, with this brand, who would believe I was a freedman? I have no manumission papers. No freedman's cap. And I certainly can't pass myself off as a citizen. They might believe you had lost my ownership papers in the disaster, but never that I had lost my manumission."