A Roman Ransom

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I had been ill. That was the only thing I knew — and it was the first real thing I’d been aware of for a long, long time.

There had been fevered dreams. A slave-ship. Beatings. Thirst. I was tossing, chained and shivering, in that filthy hold again, hearing my young wife calling out my name as the pirates tore us from our home and carried us apart. Then these tortured images of my past would pass and instead I was sweltering and helpless in a fiery cave; or my mosaic workshop was consumed in flames, while mocking demons forced hot liquids down my throat.

Now, though, as I forced open an exploratory eye, those nightmare visions seemed to have dispersed. I appeared to be lying in a sort of bed of reeds in a little roundhouse which I vaguely recognised as mine — although I could not for the moment make any sense of this. Yet the place was so familiar: the central fire, the wooden stools, the cooking pots — even the Celtic weaving loom set up against the wall. If this was a dream, I thought, I was content with it. I could almost feel the warm glow from the fire, and feel the smart of wood-smoke in my eyes.

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