A brief interlude

They had been on the road for a week. They should have been within Rome’s walls that very morning, but because of the heavy rains over that month, the country roads had turned into churned bogs, and their wains, laden heavy with food and provisions for the city’s market, sank deeply into the mud. And though their oxen heaved mightily, the wheels turned as though in slow motion through the viscous sludge. The city was still a day’s journey away.

These men were merchants. Not men of the mighty trading families, but simple country men, who made their living by buying produce in the country markets, and transporting it to the city’s thriving center. In such weather most travelers stayed under the roof of a warm road house, but the city had a magnetism of its own. Like a living thing drawing in the vital air, the city drew inexorably towards it all the things it needed. Its people required food, and its many artisans and workshops required raw materials for their labors. The markets were the city’s lungs. The promise of gold, and indeed the certainty of higher prices brought on by the inclement weather, drew these country traders to the city as surely as a pot of honey on a windowsill draws flies. Zeus would have to conjure up many more lightning bolts and mighty gusts of wind before these men relented to unhitch their oxen and take shelter. After all, once the weather cleared, their excuse to exact a premium for their goods would disappear like fog in the noon sun.

And so as a band they had departed their homes outside Caieta, and traveled north through Latium, though the weather grew steadily worse. The men traveled in a group, because although Pax Romana kept the highways safe enough, those only connected the major towns and cities. So for those engaged in carrying produce from the farms to the cities, who had to travel on the unpaved and isolated roads of Campania and Latium, the best security against petty banditry was to travel with your local competitors.

In truth, though life on the road was tough, these men enjoyed their time away from their homes. On the road, and under the open sky, there were no nagging wives or crying children. The moneylenders and creditors were not likely to come calling when you were camped under a flimsy tent in a torrential downpour. And though the men were perhaps all rivals for the business in the city, they were also companions, and after many years of caravanning together, friends.

So they looked with suspicion upon the stranger who joined the caravan, two days journey out of Caieta.

The traders had just left a small hamlet by the sea, where trading galleys from Sardinia often stopped to unload their cargo of dried cod and salt. The gentle slope of the hamlet’s beach made an easy landing for galley captains who wished to avoid the duties and bribes involved in harboring at Rome itself. The traders bought several wain loads of dried cod, at a price that was merely a third of what could be commanded for the same goods in Rome. They left the hamlet with their money purses lighter, but smiles on their faces nonetheless.

As they drove their wagons slowly out of the hamlet, a man, dressed in a simple woolen farmer’s tunic, and hooded against the rain, walked out of the woods and joined the end of their column.

The man had only a small sack thrown over his shoulder, and nothing else with him. So the traders knew he was not one of their kind. But his clothes were too simple to be those of a moneylender, and not simple enough to be those of a slave. Yet runaway slaves could steal clothes to disguise themselves, so as they walked along, one of the traders fell slowly to the back of the caravan and tried to engage the man in conversation. It was best not to be seen to be aiding in the escape of another man’s property—if that was indeed the case.

“So friend, where is it you are heading? Will you be taking the road with us all the way to Rome?” the trader asked with as friendly a smile as he could manage.

But the stranger kept his face bowed, and answered only monosyllabically, “Yes.”

The trader was not deterred, for it is a merchant’s job to engage in conversation, to obtain information, and to negotiate. “So friend, what business brings you out into the country, in this, the worst season of the year?” the man asked.

But the hooded man ignored the question and lengthened his stride, so the trader soon had difficulty keeping pace with him. To follow the man now would be impolite so the trader remained at the rear of the train, as the stranger moved steadily to the head of the caravan.

Soon the man had walked past all the traders, and was several wagon-lengths ahead of the front of the caravan before he slowed down again to avoid leaving the column behind altogether.

It was clear to everyone that he did not wish to engage in conversation.

On the first night, when the traders made camp, the man joined them beside their fire. Then for the first time he pulled his hood down.

The man had a most startling appearance. His head was completely bald, and in fact he seemed to be completely hairless. In the flickering light of the camp’s fire, the men could see that the stranger lacked even eyebrows!

But it did not end there. The man’s skin was white as powdered chalk. Not pink, or fair-hued, as often the Gauls were, but completely and unnaturally white, an albino. White as death, was the first thought some had.

But the man was clearly not dead. He ate and drank like the rest of them. And though he was not talkative, he spoke occasionally, if only to answer questions or to ask for more drink, and he smiled at jokes—though he made none of his own. And when one man began to play his flute, he nodded his head in appreciation, but he did not join the others in their bawdy trader songs.

Though the Albino rarely spoke, the traders soon found he was a useful companion. When one of the wains became mired in a particularly bad stretch of road, he put his shoulder to the wheel along with the other traders, and helped free it.

And often he would leave the caravan behind for a short while, and then return with a bird or two strung over his shoulder, or even, as on one occasion, a deer. But the man’s hunting was a puzzle to everyone, because he had no bow or spear with him, so it was unclear how he brought down his prey.

Some days after the Albino had joined the caravan, and the traders had become accustomed to him walking silently along with them, a group of a dozen horsemen riding north joined up with the train.

These were golden-maned and ruddy complexioned Gauls, armed with spears, with bearskins thrown over their shoulders, who were employed by the Legions as auxiliary troops. And though they were allies of the Romans, they also had a reputation for less than civil conduct when their employers were not in sight.

The traders were wary of them, for even though they outnumbered the Gauls, the barbarians had a reputation for being tough fighters and bad tempered. But there was no way to leave the horsemen behind if they chose to accompany the caravan, as the men on horses were far swifter than the trader’s wagons.

But it was not a large thing, for the Gauls though onerous and rude drunks, did not make trouble for the traders beyond a few uncouth remarks. They made their own campfire each night and slept separate from the rest of the caravan.

Until one night when a particularly large Gaul, drunk on wine and quarrelsome, left the horsemen’s fire to make water in the woods, and on his return stumbled over the sleeping form of the Albino. The man had drunk so much that he was unable to stop himself from falling and fell heavily onto his face. There he lay for a moment stunned.

Then he rose slowly, swaying, to his feet, and swearing loudly said in pidgin Latin, “Which whoreson is this who trips me up?”

The Albino did not answer, but rose slowly to his feet, and taking up his bedding, moved some distance away from the drunk, before bedding down again.

The drunk hurled some choice expletives at the Albino as he walked away, but then turned and returned to his companions.

The next day when the drunk awoke, he found his nose swollen and painful, and crusted with blood. In his drunken stupor he had not realized that he had fallen so hard that his nose had broken. The other Gauls laughed at their injured companion fueling his anger and humiliation.

At midday the Albino left the caravan in his customary fashion to search for game. Sometime later the injured Gaul and a companion left on horseback in the same direction.

The traders shouted after the Gauls, because it was clear from the murderous look in the injured man’s eyes, what they intended to do. But the Gauls rode away swiftly and the traders could do nothing, though they raised their own spears and clubs in frustration.

Then they went to the other Gauls and shouted angrily, “Where are those men headed? If they injure our companion, don’t think you will leave here unharmed.” This was the trader’s ethic. You look after your road-companions, even if you do not know them well.

But the Gauls only brandished their own spears fiercely and riding swiftly out of reach of the mob of traders yelled back, “How will you catch us? Will you chase us on your oxen?” Then they were gone, riding swiftly in the direction of their departed companions.

The traders walked silently own for the rest of the day. They feared the worst for the Albino. With a dozen wily armed Gauls tracking him, what chance did an unarmed man have?

That evening as they made their camp the traders talked softly to one another, lamenting the fact that they had never asked the Albino his name, or the whereabouts of his kin. They knew no one now to notify of his fate.

But as the sun was sinking below the horizon, and the red light of evening began to dim, as the traders took there places beside the campfire, the Albino, a pair of birds slung over his shoulder, walked down into the camp and took his customary seat beside the fire, as though nothing at all had happened.

And the traders could easily have believed that nothing had happened, that perhaps the Gauls had somehow missed finding the Albino in the woods, except for the fact that the he had a new bearskin cloak thrown over his shoulders and a stout new spear of Gaulish design.

That night the Albino ate enough to feed three men, slept early, and did not rise till late. The traders were accustomed to breaking camp early and hitting the road at dawn, but for him they waited till late morning.