The Bronze Bow - Elizabeth George Speare [9]
Rosh waved a greasy mutton bone in his direction. "See that Samson gets his big belly full," he shouted. "After tonight he works for it like the rest of us." A roar of laughter applauded him, but no one moved to carry out his command. Daniel perceived that in his absence the matter had been settled. Samson they had christened the slave, and Samson he would remain, no matter what his proper name might be. And Daniel had only himself to thank that he had been promoted to Samson's keeper.
He went to the chill depths of the cave where the goatskin water bags were kept, and after he had taken a long deliberate draught for himself he carried a gourd of water to the slave. The gourd contained only enough for two tremendous gulps, and he went back to fill it twice more. Then he brought a huge slab of mutton. The black man snatched it from his hands, and sank his teeth into it with a ferocity that turned the boy's stomach. He tore off two chunks of barley bread and laid them down within the slave's reach. Then he went to the other side of the fire and sat down apart from the others. He had lost interest in his own supper.
Rosh did not let him rest for long. "What are you waiting for?" the leader prodded him. "Get your file to those chains."
"Tonight?" Daniel was startled.
Around the fire the sprawling figures reared up in protest.
"Leave the shackles on him!"
"He won't know the difference."
"He'll know, right enough, and so will we when we get our heads smashed in!"
"Shut your mouths!" roared Rosh. "What kind of patriots are you? We'll have no slaves on this mountain. He's one of us—get that through your heads. I'll double the watch so you pigeonhearted can sleep. But the man sleeps free."
With a sigh Daniel got to his feet. This job would have fallen to him anyway, since he was trained to the trade of blacksmith. It was not the first time he had removed manacles. Two of the men who now sat near the fire had made their escape from the Roman mines. He went now to get the chisel and mallet and a heavy file.
The slave crouched in a sort of stupor after his meal. When Daniel signed to him to stretch out his arms, he blinked stupidly. Gradually he seemed to comprehend what was required of him. He shifted his heavy frame and allowed Daniel to stretch the manacled wrists across a flat surface of rock. Then Daniel bent himself to the task that he knew would take half the night.
Rosh stumbled to the pile of skins in the cave. Most of the men stretched out where they lay, pulling their cloaks over their heads and falling at once into slumber. The man who had first watch, planning to wake reinforcements before the slave was freed, settled down to observe Daniel's labor. From time to time he renewed the fire so that Daniel could see to work, but beyond that he had no intention of helping.
Daniel's shoulders began to ache. The steady rasp of the file, which seemed to make little headway on the double thickness of metal, wore his nerves thin instead. After an interminable time a narrow channel sank almost through the first band. The slave did not move. The guard, bored, prowled about the fire, poking in the ashes for scraps from the meal. To keep himself awake, Daniel began to talk, expecting and getting no response.
"I know this is hard on you," he said. "But it's no joke for me either. Rosh was right about the chains, but if he'd had to do the job himself I wager it could have waited till morning. Still, what Rosh says goes, and you might as well learn that tonight."
The black eyes, in the half-darkness, looked like bits of polished basalt.
"You don't know what's happened, do you?" Daniel asked. "You've got Rosh to thank that you're not on the way to the galleys. You don't know what the galleys are either, I suppose. But you do know the taste of a whip, that's plain. Well, that is over. It's not easy here in the cave, but there are no chains, and no whips. You're safe now."
The slave gave no sign that he either heard or understood, but Daniel went on, thinking out loud, shutting out the grating of the