Daughter of the Sea

by Mira Zamin

One morning some suns later, Calista was preparing for her engagement party, the sponsalla. Slave maids whirled around her, weighed down by clothing, jewelry, perfumes, and cosmetics. Prominent Romans in Portus Tarrus and nearby provinces had been invited, senators had been asked and the whole event was much anticipated—to Calista’s chagrin. In preparation for the engagement party, the household had been turned and tossed like a storm-struck ship. The cooks and slaves were in a frenzy of baking and cleaning. Everyday, new packages arrived from Rome and the East stuffed with gifts: fine wines, gorgeous pottery and metalwork, fabric so soft it felt like water—all of which her mother dangled before Calista enticingly.

  However, Calista refused to be distracted by pretty presents and she remained outraged at the very idea of wedding a man old enough to be her grandfather. It is preposterous! she fumed. He was never outwardly unkind and when she had voiced her complaints to her parents, they had curtly replied that she was being imaginative and that if she could not rein in her mind there was plenty of work that could be found for her. But when Avaritus looked at her, she felt as if winter-cold water was trickling down her neck, sending uneasy shivers rippling down her back.

  Calista suppressed a brief flash of mirth at the memory of what had passed the morning after she had learned of her engagement.

  Eyes closed, she was lying abed, still exhausted and depressed, when, without knocking, Pyp’s slave, Maro, entered her room.

  “What do you want Maro?” she said wearily. Her fingers screened her eyes from the glare of light flooding into the room.

  “Master Pyp, er, Nicetius, Master Nicetius, sent me to report that a crab appeared mysteriously in Avaritus’ bed last night.” He grinned impishly, leaving no doubt in Calista’s mind who had been responsible for the crab. “Apparently, the doors weren’t shut tightly enough,” he continued, “and the crab decided Avaritus might make a nice midnight meal. He will not be able to attend the sacrifices due to...injuries...” Again, the grin appeared, and Maro had turned to leave, without bothering to bow; he never did.

  She sighed. One day those two boys would get themselves in trouble with their little escapades. Still, she chuckled at the thought of the arrogant Avaritus being frightened out of bed by a crab and sustaining injuries of the caliber that he could not attend breakfast or the ritual sacrifices. Only the satisfaction of gloating had motivated her to leave her bed that morning.

  When Calista walked into to the golden sunshine of the courtyard, she had seen Avaritus limping in the opposite direction. Despite the quietness of her steps, his eyes cracked towards her with the ferocity of a whip. Her legs trembled beneath her stola, but she still held his gaze with as much bravado she could muster. As soon as he strode away, she began scrubbing her arms furiously, attempting to raise heat where the fine hair of her arms stood erect. There lurked something merciless, demonic, behind eyes but her parents would not believe her, not when they were so blinded by wealth and station—Like a pair of plebs, she thought disdainfully. They would think that her fancies were taking her again. In the sunlight streaming onto the fountains and potted trees, she began to question her own judgment.

  “Are you cold, milady?” a voice behind her asked.

  Startled, Calista had whirled around to see an astonishingly handsome man, an apparent incarnation of Apollo. A halo of gold hair appeared damp, as if fresh from a bath.

  “Y-yes, I am, thank you.” “Wait, no. I mean no, I am not cold.” Catching herself, she yelped, “And who are you and what are you doing here in our courtyard?”

  His cerulean eyes danced with amusement and he responded, “I have business with the proconsul.”

  Mystified, she could not tear her gaze away from his. Giddiness flooded her eyes, her veins. “Are you here with the merchants?” Calista had asked, trying to relieve some of the sudden awkwardness. There was something unbearably familiar about him…like someone recalled from a dream.

  He brightened at that. “Yes, domina would you like to see our cargo?”

  A thrill surged through her body at the sound of his voice. It originated somewhere in her stomach but quickly suffusing her palms, the tips of her fingers and toes. “That is not necessary. I am in need of one thing, though. A golden chain, not too heavy, the finest one you have for a pendant.” Calista paused for a moment, crinkling her nose in thought. “If you would wait, I could fetch the pendant to give you and idea of what sort of size I would need.”

  “That would be advisable.”

  There was a trace of laughter in his voice to which Calista had responded with a smile. Quickly, she left the atrium, her heart pounding. The man lingered in her thoughts. He cannot be much past twenty, she decided as she entered her room.

  Finding the pendant safe in her mahogany box, she returned to the man, eager to learn more of him—he provided a welcome distraction from Avaritus and his creeping stare. “This is it.” She dropped it into his open hand.

  Feeling the heft of it, the man replied, “Fine craftsmanship, certainly. I believe I’ve seen a piece similar to this before.” Curiosity had glinted in his eye, but he continued. “I think I have just the thing. Or several. We have not had a chance to set up stalls in the market yet, but if you want it now, you can come with me to the ship.”

  “Not now, but perhaps if you can meet me at the ship before dinner, we will do business.” She flashed him a pert smile and left.

  Arriving back at the present, Calista wiped the insipid grin from her face. Another braid was bound jerkily and she yelped in pain. While that meeting had certainly been the highlight of her day, it did not warrant such a silly response. I still have not got that chain though. Guiltily, she thought that she should have let the man know that she could not come (for she had never actually met with him). Vaguely, she made a note of it in her mind but she knew it would be quickly lost; she was occupied with graver things at the moment.

  Beneath her window, the courtyard teeming with party guests. At the thought of the sponsalla, her stomach plummeted miserably to her knees. Their large villa was almost brimming and they had been forced to locate people in the other, smaller and older manor that bordered the walls on the opposite side of the town.

  Someone knocked on her door, and Calista rose from the short stool, but one of the maids reached it more swiftly. It was Nuala, a bolt of ivory silk foaming in her arms.

  “Is that the robe?” asked Calista dully.

  “Yes, dear.” Nuala shook it out to reveal the stola, which fell into precise pleats and might have been gowned a Phidian statue for its perfection. Of the finest silk from the Far East, it was bordered by Tyrian violet. “It’s beautiful,” she cooed enticingly. “Your mother did quite a job in having it made and delivered here so hastily from Rome.”

  Calista shrugged disinterestedly.

  Studiously ignoring her apathy, Nuala said, “Come down to the baths, my dear.”

  Taking her arm, Nuala nearly dragged her to the baths on the lower floor of the house. Calista supposed she must have looked like quite the spectacle to all she passed: the fiancée being hauled around like a caterwauling toddler. Certainly, the slaves who had followed them had appeared most amused. Nuala, with the help of the bath attendants, dunked Calista beneath the waters of the deep tiled basin, and scrubbed her with a wash of myrrh, and called for one of the masseuses to rub her with jasmine oil. Another maid wove her hair with laurels, of the same sort which would be given to the victor of the chariot races of the Circus Maximus which would precede the sponsalla.

  Bare and gleaming with oil, she rolled her eyes at Nuala, and offered an arm to take the robe.

  Ignoring Calista’s ocular gymnastics, Nuala said, “Let me help with this robe; it’s quite tricky...”