Chapter 10

Holding a stone hammer in his left hand and a leather bag filled with water dangling from around his neck, Longus laboriously climbed down the rough, wooden ladder inside the mine shaft. Each step caused the rickety ladder to shudder and move as though, like a scale, it was weighing its newest burden. The thick nails driven through the wood into the hard ground behind it occasionally shifted. Longus struggled to keep the hammer from failing while still grasping the wood. Sweat dripped down his forehead, occasionally stinging his eyes. He tried to concentrate, knowing that death awaited him if he lost his grip.

Looking down, all he could see was darkness. The dark abyss slowly swallowed him as he descended. He felt as though he were back in that tunnel that had guided Rachel and him to the Christians. Then, too, the mine carried overtones of the catacombs. In many ways, those events seemed to be preparing him for the far hotter and more overwhelming experience of digging for silver from Spanish dirt.

At one point, with the entrance only a few yards above him, he almost froze, unable to go on. How much easier it would be to just let go and fall. How simple the process would be. He would feel nothing for a few seconds except the freedom of the embracing air before the final impact, a spasm of pain and then nothing. Barnabas could chatter about some harp-filled heaven, but he knew better. Long tradition told him that he could only expect to wander as a shade for eternity.

“Wouldn’t you rather look forward to a place of harmony and peace?” Barnabas asked him.

“How do you know that exists?” Longus countered.

“It doesn’t matter,” Barnabas said. “It has to be better to imagine a brighter future than to expect idle nothingness.”

Longus agreed, as he had with Rachel when she made the same argument. He tried to orient his mind that way. In the few moments at night before exhaustion overwhelmed him, he would think of the heavenly delights awaiting him. They would vary, although feasts regularly took a starring role. He would invariably fall asleep before the imaginary food ever touched his lips and awake to the same stark, gruesome reality.

Now, the concept of a heaven seemed so ludicrous. He looked down at the distant floor, and finally shook off his lethargy and struggled on. Death waited, he told himself, but could not bring himself to take the final descent just yet. Somehow, hope still lingered inside him. Perhaps Rachel could rescue him. Perhaps his uncle could be roused from his usual drunken stupor, find out what happened to his nephew and use his influence to get him plunked from this nightmare. There was always that chance, however slim. Only one thing was sure. Whether as a shade or an angel, Longus knew his days of feasting and carousing were definitely over.

He finally reached the adit, an entry tunnel cut into the shaft from the side. It brought fresh air into the stifling mine as well as some sunlight. The sky this day, however, was becoming overcast, adding a gloomy lid to the adit’s distant entrance. Longus blinked a moment, but did not linger. That would have only brought more punishment later. He took a deep breath and forced himself to climb on.

In a moment, he could hear someone panting, coming up the ladder. Longus swung himself to the side, hanging onto the wooden edge. A small, thin youngster burdened with a heavy basket filled with rocks was pulling himself up the ladder with one hand. To advance, he would press the basket simultaneously against the ladder and his side for leverage and then reach up to the next rung. He had a split second to grab hold before gravity would have driven him to the bottom. Somehow, though, he had mastered the technique.

He managed to get by Longus and continue on to the adit. His bare feet, bleeding and dirty, swung close to Longus’ face. The stench of perspiration permeated the air. Longus waited until the lad passed and then swung back to the ladder. More than the odor or the festering wounds on scrawny legs, Lingus saw the haunted look on the teen’s face and the deep emptiness in his eyes. How long, Longus thought, before he became robotic, too, without emotions and accepting imminent doom?

In a few more minutes, Longus reached the gallery, quickly dropping the last few feet to the hard-pan ground to get away from the fetid ceramic pot filled with human waste and placed behind the ladder. Almost immediately, someone with a heavy basket moved around him and started up. He was an even younger boy with a small basket. Romans liked children to tote the baskets, figuring they were more agile, but had added larger baskets to speed the process. That had forced some of the adults to ferry the ore to the smelters. Men were stronger anyway. The young slaves often fell off the ladders. In their last seconds of life, they saw only the dark walls around them and the ore from their upturned basket tumbling towards them.

In older mines, engineers would have a pulley system in place to haul the ore from the mine, but this mine was new and required slaves to carry the ore. That would change soon enough. The windlass was still under construction. Dangling rope from one piece hung loosely, moving only as people passed it to create a lovely breeze. The slaves eyed the rope with disdain. Once the machinery was in place, they would be stuck in the mine from sunup to sunset. At least, now, they could alternate getting out by carrying the ore to the adit and, for a moment, at least, breathe fresh air.

Now in the main gallery of the mine, Longus felt searing heat sweep over him. Little fresh air got this far. Sweat poured down his face and from every pore, forcing him to shed his tunic. He staggered a moment, more aware of how difficult it was to breathe than anything happening around him. Not that long ago, he had been digging a new latrine in the graying morning. Then, he had been ordered back into the mine. Now, he wished to return to the surface where breathing wasn’t so hard, even if guards stood inches away with busy whips.

Staggering, he didn’t waste time looking at the other slaves pounding at the rocks or the two boys standing by with baskets. It didn’t matter how many men there were. They were all the same: thin, drenched in perspiration and wearing little clothing beyond the leather apron. Dirt had infiltrated every pore, turning them into walking shadows of filth. Bare feet stepped on rocks, but were too calloused to feel anything. No one turned to look at Longus except Barnabas, who was gathering rocks hewn from the walls. He gave a wan smile and then, he, too, disappeared into his own thoughts.

Several small torches held in the rocks provided the only light, creating strange shadows as the men swung single- and double-headed stone hammers at the thick walls. The flames flickered uneasily, adding heat and emitting black smoke into the thick air. The men coughed constantly as they worked.

Like Longus, a couple of the men had stone hammers, with hewn rocks bound to wooden handles. Others used an iron rod called a gad. A companion would shove gad into the stone and then step back so the other man could swing the hammer, as though driving a spike into the surface. One man had an iron wedge for the same purpose. Another man had an iron pick with a curved blade. He was hewing softer rock, carving out chunks to be collected by the boys with thick grass or wooden baskets. The youngsters had iron rakes, spades or hoes for that task. Every now and then, one of them would head up the ladder to the adit, bearing the basket or a bucket.

The constant pounding spewed dust and flakes in small clouds that covered everyone and created a gritty powder that infiltrated hair and skin.

There were no guards down here. None of them were willing to be exposed to the suffocating conditions and oppressive heat. Instead, if the baskets stopped, if the flow of ore slowed, one or more slaves were ordered to climb out at random and were either beaten or killed. Slaves did not hesitate to respond to such orders despite the consequences. There was no refuge in the mine except death anyway. Escape was impossible. Under the circumstances, being beaten to death had a certain appeal. So did simply curling up and dying. That had been the choice of several slaves in the 35 days Longus had been there. Other slaves had carried the bodies out. Two slaves had also died overnight. Their bodies were simply tossed into the woods.

Death was the only escape. There was no refuge in or outside the camp. The perimeter was guarded against incursions by neighboring tribes, but slaves would find no safety in their villages. The natives lumped slaves and Romans together, and hated both as interlopers. Any slave who left the camp faced certain death. That didn’t deter everyone. Several preferred the quick death at the end of a spear to the slow, agonizing torture in the mine with minimal food and water. Slaves generally received limited rations everywhere, but slaves in mines were fed the least of all. Besides, there were always replacements: men captured in wars or who ran afoul of important enemies, and sent to live out their miserable existence digging in the dirt for valuable ore that when smelted paid for more wars and more slaves.

Retrieving a leather apron from a pile dropped by guards every morning, Longus walked slowly toward a vacant area in the gallery. He was met by the stench of the slaves as well as the vinegar used to wet the wall before fires were set. The smell lingered amid the other odors, although few fires burned now. They had done their job and softened the rock. The men struggled to remove the fractured stone, widening the gallery with each swing. They could see the characteristic gray band in the rocks, but, mostly, it resembled any stone. As a result, the slaves could only pound away and collect the resulting debris. Some of it could be valuable, or none of it. Not that it mattered to any of them. Quantity invariably trumped quality.

Longus dropped the water pouch on the ground with a splat. When he had first arrived at the mine, the pouch had seemed impossibly heavy. Now, he could carry it easily. It still strained his neck a little, but he had grown hard and strong. The limited diet had trimmed off any remaining weight. He would have admired himself in the mirror, if such an amusement were available. However, he realized that the next step was the rapid decay of underfed muscles until bones seemed to gleam through the taut skin. The mere thought of looking at himself no longer appealed to him anyway.

After a moment to recover from his arduous descent, Longus picked up a metal wedge and dropped it into the pouch. He stretched his back. Barnabas gave him a short wave before resuming filling his basket. Longus simply nodded. He had no energy to waste for much more.

After a moment, he tied on his leather apron, grateful for its minimal protection. Then, he retrieved the wedge, which dripped with water. He licked it before shoving the pointed edge of the wet wedge into the wall. The hot air immediately caused the metal to swell. With his hammer, Longus drove the wedge further into the seam. He could see the stone start to crack. His right shoulder ached. He had bruises on his bare legs where the hammer had bounced awkwardly in the past and dealt a glancing blow to the nearest limb. He had to be careful to avoid wild or errant movements. The leather apron had only a modest effect on safety.

He also couldn’t take an inordinately hefty swing. There just wasn’t a tremendous amount of room. The ceiling was inches above his head. Besides, since this was a new mine, the few months needed to open it had not been enough time to widen the gallery significantly.

The lack of air pinched his lungs and made exorbitant effort unlikely anyway. The heated air was a dead weight on his shoulders. Other slaves were currently constructing a ventilation shaft parallel to the existing shaft. It would not be finished for a few more days. Vapors still rose, released as rocks were torn from the walls. They were not deadly yet, but soon would be without the new shaft.

He didn’t want to hit too hard anyway. The mine was relatively dry. The slaves had not struck any water, but that, too, was a danger. Slaves regularly drowned in mines when an underground stream suddenly burst through a weakened wall. This mine, again because of its newness, did not have any kind of bailing system or method of rerouting the water. That would be added only if the seam proved valuable enough. Otherwise, any water seeping through the walls would be ignored. Hammering had to be done cautiously for fear that someone would accidentally break through to an underground stream.

Nevertheless, the dull sounds of hammers hitting walls echoed around the small gallery, accompanied by gasps and the sounds of panting. No one talked; the slaves simply continued to work.

One man crawled out of a tunnel dug on a side wall. Dropping a small, metal tool, he bent over and retched violently. Only dirt came out of his mouth. His red face evidenced the difficulty he had breathing. No one comforted him. He finally straightened. His shoulders bent in resignation, he returned to the tunnel and leaned against the wall for a moment. Then, gathering his strength, he knelt and re-entered by lying down and wiggling inside. In a moment, he was gone.

So far, that was the only new tunnel. It had been started to follow another silver vein. At the moment, it was a small, black eye staring unblinkingly from the far wall. Anyone who went in there had to work lying on his back, keeping his mouth shut to avoid ingesting too much rock and dirt. Longus glanced at the opening and shuddered. He had watched the men carve out the tunnel with growing distaste. To date, he had been able to avoid being forced inside because he was still too bulky. That job required a very thin person. However, the tunnel was slowly being widened. Longus had no idea how long he would be able to avoid that suffocating darkness.

Redirecting his attention to the cracks in the wall, he again swung the hammer at the wedge. It clanged lustily. Longus glanced around before swinging again, trying not to hit any of the other men crammed together. That was hard. Contact was inevitable. Men would glare at each other, but none had the energy to fight. Most were incredibly thin, mere skeletons waging war against the solid earth. Their only focus was on producing more dirt for their masters and being given their pittance of bread and occasional porridge for their lone meal each evening.

Then, too, Longus had to make sure he didn’t make contact with one of the three wooden braces, called propping, that supported the roof. They were thick pieces of lumber, surely strong enough for the job, but the weight of the ceiling pressed hard against them. Yet, they stood, like Atlas, and kept the gallery open.

To Longus’ left was a pillar of stone also used to support the roof. Slaves had shoved the rocks in place haphazardly, creating an uneven tower seemingly ready to topple. There had already been several cave-ins at two other mines. The overseers simply closed one of the mines and left the bodies interred. They did reopen the other mine, but had slaves dig a new shaft and ignored the original one. No one checked for survivors.

Barnabas said the dead were probably grateful for their release anyway. Longus couldn’t argue with that.

Longus felt a twinge in his right hand and stopped to look at it. More blisters were forming. His old gaudy rings, long since confiscated, would have simply fallen off. His once pink, plump hands were now thin and hard. Callouses bulged. He put his sore hand into the water pouch, letting the cool water soothe the skin for a moment. Then, after flexing his fingers, he picked up his hammer.

“Not much longer,” someone whispered. Longus gave a quick look. Barnabas. He had brought his basket to that side of the gallery and was collecting the rocks that had fallen under Longus’ hammer.

“For what?”

“Until I join Jesus,” Barnabas said. “I pray daily to see Him. Someday, I will sit at his feet and listen to Him.”

“Someday, I’ll bathe in mare’s milk, too,” Longus replied sourly. “He’s certainly not coming down here.” He grunted, again driving the hammer into the wedge.

“Of course not,” Barnaby said. “I will be going to Him.”

Longus grimaced and paused to try to catch his breath. His chest rose and fell in great bursts. His heart pounded, creating a ringing noise inside his head. He felt overwhelmingly exhausted and wasn’t sure he could continue. Ever-present hope continued to wear away, slowly becoming mingled and lost in the dirt.

“Where did you ever get such a crazy idea like that?” Longus asked wearily. He drove the hammer into the wall again and threw up a cloud of white dust.

“Everything is new,” Barnabas said. “Once I was a Cornelius, but I changed my name to throw off the past.”

“Too bad you didn’t figure out a way to change the present,” Longus sighed. He leaned against the wall, resting a moment.

“Come on. Don’t stop,” Barnabas urged. “I only need a little more.”

Longus complied. He raised the hammer and once more struck the wedge. A few more rocks tumbled from the wall. He leaned over and picked one up. It was mostly light colored and gave no hint of its value. He tossed it into Barnabas’ basket.

“Tell me,” he said, pausing to wipe his forehead with his forearm. “Where did you get that prayer you are always looking at?”

“It was a miracle,” Barnabas told him while raking up more pebbles and shards of stone. “I was checking out a report that one of Nerva’s appointees was stealing money. He had the scroll on his desk and tore it up in front of me. He knew I am Jewish. I rescued a small piece. I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was evidence. A friend translated it for me. As you saw, it turned out to be that prayer. He got mad when I took the piece; I ended up here. I think he’s the Emperor’s relative.”

Longus felt disgusted. All that effort to read and preserve the letter from Rachel’s uncle had been in vain. Eliezer had sent it to Marcus, but it had obviously been intercepted. He hammered at the wedge again. Then, a curious thought crossed his mind.

“Who was the guy who tore it up?” he asked, panting and straining to keep the hammer going. It weighed almost 10 pounds and seemed to be getting heavier with each swing.

Barnabas shrugged. “Some Greek. Hyp, Hyperius,” he tried. He stood up with the basket. “That’s enough,” he announced. “I’ll take it up.” He started for the ladder, with the basket pressed against his hip. Although small, he seemed very strong and moved awkwardly but steadily to the ladder.

“Hyperion?” Longus called after him.

Barnabas stopped. “Yes,” he finally said. “That sounds right.”

Anger erupted inside Longus and enflamed his muscles. He hammered repeatedly at the wedge. With each blow, he imagined Hyperion’s face between splintered into blood shards. After a few minutes, emotions died. He slumped forward, his head against the wall.

“Slacker,” someone said.

Longus whirled, hammer at the ready. He couldn’t tell who said that, but everyone was working, He could see the straining arms, the pained expressions and lowered the hammer. By the time Barnabas returned with the empty basket, there was plenty new ore to collect.

“My turn,” Longus said. He took the basket and began to fill it. The sharp edges of the rocks cut into his hand. Barnabas picked up the hammer.

“This one is too heavy for me,” he said. “You’ve really gotten strong.”

“I prayed for strength,” Longus muttered.

Barnabas didn’t reply. For a moment, he studied Longus, who felt his presence and his stare.

“What?” Longus finally demanded.

Barnabas hesitantly removed the small piece of parchment from his loincloth. “You need this more than me,” he said. “I know where I’m going. You don’t.”

Longus followed Barnabas’ hand. The parchment was already stained with sweat and dirt. He knew what it was. He shook his head. “That means nothing to me,” he said and continued to fill the basket. When he looked back, Barnabas was still holding out the parchment and with a smile on his smudged, dirt- strained face. His eyes shone, vibrant in the dark setting.

“I will give you inner strength,” he said, gesturing with the parchment. “I have it memorized. I don’t need this anymore.”

Longus could not resist. He reached out with a trembling hand and took the small piece. He knew what the writing on it said, but read it again anyway, mouthing the words: “Fear not; I am the first and the last: I am he that lives, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death.”

“God be with you,” Barnabas said.

“Maybe he’ll save me,” Longus said. He gently placed the piece of parchment in his loincloth.

“Give your burdens to Jesus,” Barnabas said.

“He’s welcome to give me a hand,” Longus said as he picked up the basket. His back ached from the effort. He smelled the musty odor of decay amid the rocks, which shifted as he held the basket tightly to his body. His biceps bulged under the strain.

Barnabas found an iron pick and began to dig into the rock. His puny efforts had little effect, but he mustered his energy and kept trying. All the while, he murmured something under his breath. Longus didn’t have to ask what the words were.

After putting his tunic back on, Longus lugged the basket toward the ladder. The adit, merely a faint glimmer of light in the shadows above him, seemed so far away. This was a larger basket than he was used to. He should have watched when Barnabas brought it. He tried to lift it. The weight pulled at him. After a few experiments, he found that he could hold the basket against his right hip and use his left arm to climb. A month ago, he had not been strong enough to do this. Now, although the effort was painful and strained every muscle, he could. Still, moving up each rung hurt.

He wanted to pray to a god for help. The concept seemed silly. The gods hadn’t done anything for him so far. Maybe he should follow Barnabas’ advice and pray to Jesus.

What had Barnabas said? He smiled to himself. “Give your burden to Jesus.” Now seemed the perfect time. Silently, Longus offered a prayer to Jesus. He wished he had some wine to offer in support of his prayer, but he was not likely to taste any again. He did notice, however, that the basket didn’t get any lighter. Whatever burden Jesus was ready to assume apparently did not include baskets of stones and dirt.

After several laborious minutes, he neared the adit. Another slave descending to the mine below moved aside for him. Like Longus, he had probably shifted from working in the camp to mining. The guards usually kept a few men above ground each day to clean, perform menial work or provide amusement. One miner had served as a living target for lances. Another had been crucified for trying to grab more food than allowed. A lucky few got to take bodies into the woods for the animals or, in one case, carry a message to a commander in another camp.

“It’s raining,” the descending slave told Longus.

Longus nodded thanks. He would get something to drink, at least for a moment. The Romans provided little water. They had no concern if slaves died. Actually, in many ways, they encouraged it. However, they couldn’t stop anyone from swallowing a few drops of rainwater.

A few minutes later, Longus reached the adit. He laboriously flung the basket ahead of him and stepped off the ladder into the tunnel. He pushed the basket to the other end where pallets waited. Then, he slid the basket onto the pallet, crawled around until he emerged into a gray mid-day with a light drizzle. He stood and grabbed the rope to pull the pallet to the end of the adit. Once outside, Longus let the rain pat his head and dribble down his face. He licked at it while hefting the basket to carry it to the collection point. There, more slaves poured the dirt and rocks into metal containers roasting over a fire. The resulting slag was then poured cold water, while slaves added salt to precipitate silver and copper granules from the molten dirt.

At one time, Longus had done that, too, getting singed in the process.

He did not loiter, but started back, carrying the empty basket. He walked as slowly as possible, feeling the rain pelt his skin. It was picking up in intensity, creating rivulets of dirt that ran down his arms and back.

“Slave,” someone snarled at him from behind. Longus whirled. A Roman soldier faced him. A tall man with hard black eyes, he held his hand on his short sword and appeared ready to use it. Longus felt cold inside. Had he been too slow?

“What’s your name?” a guard stared at him. Longus told him. The soldier rolled the name over on his tongue, apparently thinking. Then, he brightened. “Come with me,” he ordered. He turned and led Longus to the path leading back to the camp headquarters.

Stumbling and afraid, Longus tried to figure out what was happening. Had he done something wrong? He couldn’t imagine what, but the Romans didn’t follow any kind of protocol with slaves. They could be killed with impunity. His hand slid down to the prayer. If there was ever a time for Jesus to do something, this was it.

To his left, Longus could see the small cross erected in the corner of the camp near the latrine he had worked on earlier in the day. Then, he had simply dug into the ground, unmindful of anything around him. His attention was riveted in creating a ditch and then redirecting a small, nearby stream to run through it. He didn’t even remember the guards. He certainly did not recall the crucified man hanging a few yards away.

Now, he could see the victim clearly. Rope wrapped around his forearms held him firmly in place. His legs simply dangled as did his hands. His head, swathed in hair, hung down so that he stared at the ground. Longus was sure the slave was dead. Rain had soaked the wood, almost making it glisten in the brief sunlight through the clouds.

Longus did not look at the man for long, but a dismal thought did cross his mind: was that his future?