by Mira Zamin
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A week later, Pyp knocked on Calista’s door. “We will spend the whole day together today,” he told her. Excitedly, he leaped around her room, one moment on the bed, another near the dresser where she stored her lotions and perfumes. His gold bulla bounced madly on his stout chest.
Still groggy from sleep, Calista stupidly asked, “Is today your birthday?” followed by incoherent snuffles. She covered her face with the thick sheets to protect herself from the sun which spilled through the windows and door.
Pyp nodded, attempting solemnity but an excited grin broke through at the last moment. “Time to take on my duties, or so Father says. Let’s play on the beach the whole day, please.”
Covering a yawn with her hand, Calista agreed. She chivvied Pyp out so she could change. Dispensing with calling a slave, she carelessly knotted on a sleeveless mint green stola. She left her room, darting to the kitchens where the cook, Koisis, readily handed her an orange from Hispania. She found Pyp polishing away a plate of bread and she seated herself beside him, puncturing holes into the skin of the orange and peeling it away. They ate in silence. After Pyp had finished, Calista leapt up and shouted, “Race to the shore!”
Calista easily beat Pyp with her longer legs. When he reached her, he was panting. Calista had woven a crown of seaweed and placed it on her head. “I am the champi-o-n!” she sang, dancing around and waving her arms and legs in frantic movement.
“No fair! Your legs are longer, and you’re taller, and you’re bigger!” Pyp complained, his arms akimbo.
Still smiling grandly, Calista did a final mad caper towards the ocean. “Into the water! That’s always fun, eh Pyp? And don’t pout! You’ll never find a wife with a face like that!”
“Especially when the tide is going out!” Pyp exclaimed excitedly, ignoring Calista’s teasing. “Remember that time when one of the slaves had to swim out to get me, remember? Remember? That was such fun!” He rushed after her, determined to beat her to the ocean even if there were no announced challenge.
Calista looked at him in amusement. “If you say so...”
They sat down on the edge of the water and when particularly large waves surged, they would drench Calista’s and Pyp’s clothing, staining their garb with salt and sand and eliciting delighted yelps and shivers. Absent-mindedly, Calista dug her fingers in the rough sand. The iron band around her finger became icy cold. Pyp watched with curiosity as Calista used both hands to dig up a large spiral seashell.
“I’ve never seen anything like it!” exclaimed Pyp, reaching forth to snatch it from her hands to examine it more closely.
Calista turned it over. “Perhaps its from somewhere far, like Mauretania...Or maybe even further!”
“Can I hold it?” asked Pyp.
“You can have it. It’s yours. Consider this all you’re receiving for your birthday.”
Pyp settled comfortably at her side, examining the new oddity. They stared at waves as mesmerized complacency descended. The sun was an hour from leaving their side of the earth when Nuala called, puffing, “Your father wants to see you. Perhaps he means to scold you for slipping your old nurse. A spanking would you good too, you rascally vermin.”
“In a second, Nursie,” Pyp shouted. “Well, goodbye, Caly,” he said, giving her a kiss on her cheek, no mutinous mutterings about Maro’s opinion concerning affectionate displays. He stood up from the water, vainly endeavoring to squeeze the sea from his tunic.
Calista laughed, “You aren’t going off to war, you’re going off to talk to Father about the beginning of your lessons!”
“Just as bad,” Pyp muttered.
Remaining seated in the wet sand, Calista shook her head at him as he loped past her to his nurse. She stared after him, and felt her nose begin to sting, a sure sign that she would soon start bawling.
“Well,” a soft baritone said behind her, “if it makes it any easier for you, saying good-bye is not always such a terrible thing.”
A tear dribbled down her face.
“It’s all right, it’s all right, Calista.” Claudius repeated the words to her over and over again, a comforting chant, which soon lost all meaning. Once the tears had stopped, he gently kissed her hair. The gesture brought Calista back to herself.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I should not be here.”
Unperturbed, Claudius answered, “It’s fine. What are friends for if not to cry on their shoulder?”
She smiled shakily in reply, but thought, Not to kiss you. Still, she did not shift away when he sat beside her. She stared at Pyp’s small footprints. When she raised her head, she saw Claudius studying her intently. She gave him a little smile but turned towards the harbor when she could bear his gaze no longer. About to ask how he had come to his captaincy so young, she distinguished a great ship gliding across the water at a numbing speed, flanked by two fainter ships. It reminded her of a sweeping bird of prey.
“Claudius, is that a trading ship? Arriving a little late, isn’t it?”
The answer came immediately when an arrow, dipped in oil and lighted, sailed towards the shore like a shooting star, only to be extinguished with a hiss, by the salt water. A hail of fire followed.
Calista paled. “Is it an attack?” she asked blankly. Claudius’ horrified face confirmed her fears. “Attack!” she shrieked with all the volume she could muster. She bound to her feet and sprinted towards the town.
Several slaves and townspeople loitering near the shore looked at her in surprise. More flame-throwers were cast towards Portus Tarrus. The people gaped at the approaching ships in horror.
Screaming Calista bolted, her feet sinking in the sand with every step, “Attack!” She was heaving, but she had finally reached the city. Dashing past people, she heard one mutter, “What if the ship burns the salt, destroys the wine?”
Astounded, Calista stopped, unbearable impatience bursting from her. “I hardly think that should be the worst of your fears!”
The group of middle-aged men looked at her quizzically, then turned back to their discussion. They did not believe her. They could not fathom such a thing happening.
“Don’t you understand?” Calista asked in agitation. “The ship is coming to attack, kill, ravage, rape, burn. Run, dammit! Run! Go to your families! Take them away!” She pushed one roughly. The startling motion broke the spell of shock and they bolted towards their families, their livelihoods.
Heedless of propriety, her wet robe hiked past her knees, Calista ran through the town. Shaken from their torpor, some townspeople milled around in hot panic while others worked to secure their families. Others spotted the ships and hysteria threatened to grip them all.
Yelling “Attack!” until her throat was hoarse, Calista trampled into the villa and scrambled up the stairs. Heading towards her parents’ room, she warned every slave she encountered of the coming ships. Arriving at the chamber gasping for breath, she was met with emptiness. Running to the thick window, she tried to discern what was happening outside. For a better view, she craned her neck and was horrified at what she saw: a horde of thousands of horsemen galloped towards her home.
“My gods, what in the name of the Underworld is happening?” she whispered to herself. Automatically, her mind began listing what she must do: find her parents, hide Pyp and Nuala, warn General Cornelius…
“Domina Calista, what are you doing here?” A translucent hand curled around her shoulder.
Calista swallowed a shriek and closed her eyes. “I am searching for my parents, Avaritus. Something...is coming.” She bit back a spurt of hysterical laughter.
“Why ever would you think that, dear Calista?”
She could hear the delight foaming in his voice.
With one look in his black eyes, she suddenly knew with an uncanny surety that he was responsible for the ships, the men, the invasion. It was the worst of her lurking fears come to a real and undeniable fruition. Calista stepped back and drew a breath. “You! They are here for you!”<
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A menacing look came into Avaritus’ eyes. “What do you mean?”
Ready to throttle him, Calista threw one last look at the scene outside and screamed, “You damn well know what I mean! The ships—”
He cut her off. “A dangerous accusation to make of your future husband.” His voice was deadly still, thinly sharp, like a dagger in the night.
“You will never be my husband,” she spat. “You bastard! You are a fool if you think I will marry you now. After this!” She slapped him, the iron of her ring colliding with his cheekbone. The sharp sound of flesh’s contact with flesh rang throughout the room. For an instant, the sounds of the armies, the sea, and even the panic overtaking Portus Tarrus were muted.
“Bitch,” he snarled, cradling his cheek where a bright red bruise was rapidly blossoming.
The battle had begun.