by Mira Zamin
* * *
Calista stared heatedly at Avaritus, shakily awaiting his anger. Instead, soft laughter, worse than a thousand blows, drifted to her ears.
“Our time will come soon, and I shall enjoy it.” Something caught his eye outside and he turned heel, leaving Calista by the window. She watched the cacophony of men, horses, and weapons out. It made as much sense to her as Assyrian. Less, even. From what she could see, her army was filing to the coliseum. Beyond that…Assyrian.
The light flop of sandals alerted Calista to the presence of another in the room. Thinking Avaritus had returned, she readied to launch herself at his throat. Instead, she saw young Marius, his face displaying a strange blend of fright and determination.
“Calista, follow me. There is to be an attack and Domina Olympia wants you in a safe place until we win the battle.” That was said with utter confidence. He led her into the hall and halted near a spare chamber. He knocked on a thick door (which Calista realized, much to her mortification she had never noticed before) cannily disguised as a part of the wall.
“Maro,” Calista said suddenly. “Wait here: I need to fetch something.”
“A pretty dress, Caly?” Maro asked incredulously. “We really don’t have the time.” An odd sort of seriousness had settled on his face.
She laughed dryly at Maro’s assumption. “Don’t worry—I will be quick.”
“All right...”
Battle cries filtering into the manor, she sorted through her things looking for it. Finally, her hand touched a cold metal edge of her gladius. About four hand’s lengths, it had been given to her by a heartily amused Lucretius for her thirteenth birthday. She wished she had asked for another one.
Tucking the gladius in her belt, she looked regretfully at her other possessions, but she knew she could not safeguard everything. With much restraint, she took only the locket the Pyp had given her and clasped it around her neck. It knocked warmly against her bulla. She ran back to the slim door, where Maro awaited her patiently.
“Can you use that, Calista?” he asked skeptically, eyeing the blade at her waist.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.” Seeing Maro’s worried expression, she speedily added, “I think I can though. What about you?”
Maro pulled a dagger from his belt. “Gods, I hope so.”
On impulse, Calista hugged Maro warmly. Breaking the embrace (Maro squirmed perhaps a little less than Pyp, in deference to her rank, no doubt), Calista nodded to herself. She knew Pyp had not yet commenced his training and her mother would never think of using a knife for anything but cooking—and even then Olympia would only supervise. If it came down to it, she would protect them. “Are there any guards with us?” Calista asked.
The air of taking charge and assessing their situation did not settle naturally around Calista, nothing like a second skin—she was aware of her duty but it made her nervous. She attempted calmness.
“We have ten guards, and five slaves.” A frown appeared on Maro’s young face. “Your mother’s attendants and their children are all with us. Some fifteen women and children.” As if he were not a child himself. As if she were little more than a child. Calista smiled wanly.
Judging by the shrieks of metal and men, the other army was still pounding at the gates with their artillery. Why does Avaritus not just open the door, Calista thought angrily, it would make this whole terrible affair easier for him.
The sounds of battle reminded him of his duties and Marius knocked an intricate tattoo, which, after a moment, Calista recognized as a tavern tune she had heard the cook, Koisis, whistle from time to time. After a few thuds, the door opened, revealing a pair of guards framing a narrow passageway that led to a rickety staircase. Recognizing her, they bowed. “Domina Calista.”
She smiled through the dark at them in what she hoped was a heartening way.
At the top of the stairs was a sort of upstairs cellar, not in use but with the familiar dank smell. Faint light filtered through a grimy window, illuminating a small room of the same marble as the rest of the manor but rough, unpolished. Calista counted some eight guards and six attendants not to mention a dozen or so children, just as Maro had reported.
“Calista!” Olympia exclaimed in relief. Pyp gave her a watery smile.
“Ah, Domina Calista,” said a young lieutenant whom Calista’s memory swiftly named Trebonius. “As I was explaining to your mother, we should be able to withstand any assault in this room. It’s damned difficult to find let alone breach.” He grinned confidently, his brown eyes too smoothly mirroring his words.
Calista did not believe him.
Faint screams and the sharp rings of metal reverberated through the room.
Ignoring them, Trebonius continued, “You are not to worry. We will take care of everything.”
One of the soldiers shepherded the women and children, including Calista, into the corner nearest the window. When Calista protested, showing her gladius, the man guffawed. “If it comes to that, Domina, you’ll be dead.”
Trebonius shot the man a stern look.
The men stationed themselves around the small chamber. The majority guarded the narrow stairs. She supposed that the space was small enough that a handful of men could easily defend it. Starting, she realized all they had was a handful and she fervently hoped that her untutored assessment proved true. Pressing a hand to her breastbone, she felt as if her soul was preparing burst. Her stomach was jittery, her head light…and she felt the most inopportune urge to empty her bladder.
The thudding and cries of battle sounded painfully close. She flinched with each scream. Yet, the attic had descended into a silence so deep it was almost deafening. A brown-eyed child, no more than two, wailed. His mother hushed him, cradling him to her breast.
Calista imagined the scene outside and immediately regretted doing so. More noises. The rustling of leather. The clang of swords.
“Sir.” The voice was outside but frighteningly clear. “There was a noise through there.”
A second voice, older sounding, replied scathingly, “How could a noise come through a solid wall, you fool.”
A pause and Calista dared to hope.
“Ah, it appears I was mistaken,” the second voice said. “A cleverly disguised door.”
The soldiers tramped down to lend their silent strength to reinforcing the door against the mercenaries’ assault. After a few muffled shouts, Calista ignored her mother’s protests and dashed to the top of the stairs to see what was happening. Blinking against the light coming from the open door, she counted five mercenaries to her eight. She watched as one of her soldiers was hamstrung. She watched him topple to the ground, heard him roar in pain. To Calista’s eyes, that was the only event that stood out. Everything else blended together in a haze of shadow and blood. Still, it was a simple numbers game and Portus Tarrus quelled the assault with no more casualty to their side. Avaritus’ dead littered the floor. But not before another troop of looting mercenaries noticed the carnage before them. Seven to a dozen now. Outnumbered.
And thoughtlessly, Calista leapt into the fray.
“Portus Tarrus!” Calista bellowed. The mercenaries gawked at her in amused disbelief. For that matter, Portus Tarrus’ soldiers were not far behind. Trebonius used the distraction to strike a mercenary to the ground. The spell was broken.
Deep in the mêlée, she was overwhelmed by the stink of blood and sweat. A grinning man raised his arm to club her over the head with his blade. Instinct ruled. Raising her own arm, she met his gladius with her own. The contact reverberated down her arm. His blade locked above, in a fluid movement, she swung hers down, gripping it with both hands and striking at his neck where the armor gaped. He had not expected it of her, a patrician girl. She felt his flesh and bone vibrate through her hands, a thousand times more terrible than the feel of the metal. His head thomped to the ground, still smiling. He had green eyes. She wanted to retch but she willed herself to be strong. Just do not think about it
. Do not look there.
Suddenly, she realized that she was being moved up the steps. Thinking her soldiers were moving her back for protection, she felt irritated—but relieved. Looking at the spectacle below, she understood that they were retreating. Shock lanced through her. The crush of mercenary reinforcements slapped her with the knowledge that Portus Tarrus was lost. She could not have believed that so many would be in the manor otherwise. Her foot missed a step. On the main floor now, she deliberately avoided looking at the women and children.
Hot panting curled the fine hair on the nape of her neck, the gladius slipped out of her sweaty fingers and in her panic she kicked it away. She could not reach it. The mercenary had been several feet from her but he lunged, stumbling unsteadily but he still managed to paint a thick scarlet ribbon across her arm. Quelling the scream that rose in her throat, she determinedly shoved the pain away. Other men were fighting in clusters and she would distract them with her shouts. Unarmed, she grabbed his hair, bit the man, kicked, scratched. Anything. It made not the slightest impact on him. She stabbed his sword hand with her sharp nails and in shock, he dropped the weapon. He closed his other hand like a vise around her throat. The room spun.
Grabbing his hair, she smacked it against the wall. The man’s skull was made of iron. Expressionless, he tightened his fingers. Blackness. Her body fell limp. Then, the fingers loosened and Calista gasped for air as hot wetness trickled down the front of her robe. A kitchen knife was being pulled roughly from her assailant’s throat. By her mother.
“Mother!” Gods, Calista thought. By rights, she should have let me die. Supervise, indeed. Her wry chuckle faded into a gurgle when she surveyed the surrounding bath of blood and death. Gladius roughly wrested away from her by an invader, she realized that nearly all of Portus Tarrus’ men were prone. The mercenaries stood victorious. Although, Calista noted with spiteful joy, more of their dead littered the floor. It was a small a pleasure.
She had killed. Knees buckling under her at the thought, she collapsed. She had killed, yet they still had been vanquished. That was not right. Scrutinizing the scene of their loss one last time before being hauled unceremoniously and prodded out of the room a captive, she murmured staunchly, “I will be brave. I will be strong.” She hoped that by saying it enough times, it would become true.