But as he walked quickly away, his foot caught on something heavy. There was a grating sound and an instant later a heavy jar smashed on to the flagstones. Liquid splashed up against his legs and the air was filled with the aroma of olive oil. An icy jolt of fear shot down his neck. The sound had been enough to alert the farmhands, he was sure of it.
He made to run to the door but the spilled oil made the flagstones slippery and he was forced to tread carefully. Marcus heard a shout from the main farm building and he emerged from the shed into the moonlight to see that the man by the fire had risen to his feet and was sounding the alarm. Marcus ducked down behind a pile of firewood beside the shed to keep out of sight. Even though it was night, the moonlight would provide enough illumination for the man to spot him. A door crashed open just inside the entrance and a moment later two more men joined the first.
‘What’s going on?’ one of them asked.
‘Heard something breaking in one of the storerooms.’
‘Animal?’
‘We’ll soon find out! Come on.’
The first man lowered a torch into the brazier and the flames quickly carried to the oil-soaked rag binding the end of the torch together. The three of them started towards the shed, lit by a wavering pool of orange light from the flame of the torch. Marcus realized that they would see him in a matter of moments. He would not be able to outrun them laden down with the food he had taken, but equally he was starving and he knew that he would not be able to go on without something to eat. He glanced round desperately, then his eyes fixed on the oil gleaming in the entrance to the storeroom.
Rising up from behind the logs, he ran back to the door.
‘There!’ The man with the torch thrust out his arm. ‘That boy!’
‘Little thief! Let’s have him!’
They burst into a run. Marcus glanced round and then ducked back into the shed.
‘Ha! He’s trapped now,’ one of the men shouted with glee. ‘We’ve got him.’
Marcus carefully made his way across the pool of oil to the door on the far side. It was fastened with a simple bolt, but it was stiff and squealed faintly as he struggled to draw it back. There was a glow in the room as the man with the torch reached the entrance. Trying not to panic, Marcus struggled again with the bolt. His heart pounded with terror at the thought of being captured. Just then the bolt shot back and he thrust the door open.
‘Stand still, you!’ the man shouted across the room.
Marcus glanced back. ‘Make me.’
Then he ran off into the night. Behind him he heard the men enter the shed and there was a cry of alarm and a soft thud, then another, as they slipped and lost their footing in the slick of olive oil.
‘Watch that torch, you fool!’ a voice cried.
Marcus ran on, away from the village, making for the safety of the shadows under the nearest olive grove, a hundred paces away. He did not dare look back as his pursuers shouted in panic. Only when he reached the trees did Marcus pause and glance over his shoulder. The door was clear to see, lit by a strengthening glow of red and orange from within the shed. One of the men came stumbling out, silhouetted by the glare within. The torch must have set fire to something in the shed and now the flames were spreading quickly. The shouts of the men had roused more people from the house. Marcus’s chest heaved as he caught his breath and watched for a moment, content that no one was pursuing him. He tore at one of the loaves and chewed quickly. The first of the flames licked through the roof of the shed as several figures began to throw buckets of water on to the fire.
Marcus felt a surge of guilt at the sight. He had only wanted to eat and was shocked by the growing blaze. Once the fire was put out, the people who owned the farm would be sure to send men to look for the culprit. He had to move on quickly and get as far away from here as possible before daylight. Biting off some more bread, Marcus turned away and hurried through the olive grove. He strode as quickly as he could, not daring to run for fear of tripping and twisting his ankle in the dark. After he had put a mile between himself and the farm, Marcus turned back towards the river and continued following it downstream.
At first light he saw that the river was flowing through a narrow gorge and he was forced to follow a steep path leading up the hill to the side. When Marcus reached the crest, puffing from the effort, he stopped dead. On the far side of the hill the ground fell away to a narrow strip of coastal plain. Below, a large port lay in the shadow of the hill. Beyond the thick stone walls lay a confusing maze of dull red-tiled roofs stretching out towards the coast, where there was a wide bay. Twenty or thirty ships were moored beside the quay, and many more lay at anchor.
For the first time, Marcus felt his spirits rising as he stared down at the ships. Some of them were bound to be sailing to Italia and he would find a way to get aboard one of them. He would work his passage or, if necessary, he would stow away and jump over the side as soon as the ship dropped anchor off the coast of Italia. Then he must get to Rome and find General Pompeius. Marcus knew that a long road lay ahead of him and he must travel it alone and overcome the dangers he encountered on the way by himself. If only his father were still alive and here now. He would know what to do and he would be strong enough to see it through. For a brief moment he doubted whether he could do it, and then he remembered his mother and his heart filled with renewed determination to rescue her.
Marcus ate half a loaf of bread, and some of his cheese, then set off down the hill towards the port.
10
‘You want to join my crew?’ The captain of the Fair Wind smiled as he looked down at Marcus. They were standing on the deck of his ship in the harbour of Dyrrhacium and around them the crew glanced at the small figure with amused expressions. He swallowed nervously before he replied to the captain.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I see. So, what experience do you have?’ asked the captain as he rested his hands on his hips.
‘Experience?’
‘Of sailing ships. Like this one.’ The captain gestured round the deck.
At the moment cargo was being loaded into the ship. A steady stream of porters came up the gangway, laden with bales of richly patterned material. The crew of the ship took the bales from them and lowered them to some sailors in the hold, who carefully stowed them away. Above them towered the mast, with a furled sail hanging at a slight angle. Ropes stretched down in all directions from the mast and sail.
Marcus drew a breath and tried to sound confident as he bluffed, ‘I’ve been on a ship before, sir. I’m sure it will all come back to me.’
The captain scratched his jaw and then stepped to the mast, plucked one of the ropes out and cocked his head at Marcus. ‘Well, then, my young sailor, what’s this one called?’
Marcus looked at the rope, then traced its path up the mast until he lost sight of it among the other ropes and pulleys. He felt his heart sink as he turned his gaze back towards the captain. ‘I can’t remember, sir.’
‘Rubbish! You’re no sailor. That’s clear enough. You don’t know one end of a ship from the other.’