Daughter of the Sea

by Mira Zamin

  * * *

  Calista started as thunder resounded through the cold winter air like deep-bellied drums. She knew she had to be quick; she recognized she had only a few moments before someone checked on her. They would look in the kitchens first. And then the study. And then perhaps the rooms, and there they would discover couples in their beds and hastily close the doors. They would check the common room, and the study and kitchens again. And then they would go back to cellar and after ascertaining she was truly gone, they would head towards the most obvious destination, her target.

  But would they? She was fool enough to attempt it but she would not accuse her companions of the same folly which was boiling in her blood. She would not put the others at risk. The carnage in Atlantis still unsettled her sleep, and she fervently hoped that her friends and family would not follow her. She did not want any more lives exposed to danger.

  The chill night air swept goose bumps across the exposed skin of her arms and neck and the clapping of her sandals against the well-known stone streets felt loud enough to overwhelm the rhythmic sound of the waves, the muffled babble which drifted from the stables, and the occasional boom of thunder. She wished she had thought to bring a cloak. At the point she thought her heart would finally capitulate to her nerves, her burgeoning guilt, she caught sight of it: the villa.

  There stood her home, so pristine in the brief flashes of moonlight, its silvery gleam on the columns that cast the arches into inky blackness. Legs trembling beneath her from anxiety and cold, she began making a slow circuit. The manor sprawled, vines crisscrossing up its walls. Warm, golden lights peeked out at her through the windows.

  The feeling that if she ran in, ran straight to her parents’ room, she would find them there, laughing softly and bathed in the light overwhelmed her. She could run to her father and cry and apologize for being so rude to him those last times and her mother would laugh, running her fingers through her hair and her father would attempt to be stern, telling her that he should take a strap to her but chuckle at the last moment, dispelling any threat. He would hug her briefly and say whatever he did was out of his love for her and as long as she understood she had been wrong it was all right. It was suddenly before her, the scents, the touches, the sounds so real; so indisputably authentic that she stood still, unwilling to let it dispel. Then, a fat raindrop fell on her face, followed in rapid succession by three more, and the dark clouds overtook the moon again. A whisper thin bolt of lightning raced across the sky and reality fell upon her unsympathetically.

  Throat still quivering, she spotted a movement before the entrance of the manse. She fell to the ground. Through the rain, a pair of soldiers rapidly bore towards her, growing more and more distinct with each step. Now, she was utterly incapacitated. Options rapidly flooded her: run, hide, attack, scream, but her body seemed incapable of action, a horrific repeat of what had happened when Avaritus had found her and Hadrian. Lying flat on the sparse, wet grass, she hoped thinly that she would remain undiscovered, that they would by some miracle pass her by.

  Calista sensed their presence, felt each footstep reverberate through her body, as if she were an anvil being pitilessly struck. Finally, some spark flowed to her fingers and she slipped a knife she had stolen from the kitchens into the neck of her stola. She hoped desperately that no one would discover it, that it would not fall out.

  Please. Neptune, do not deny that you wronged me! Remedy that. Save me, she thought angrily, desperately. You are my father. She felt a raindrop on her head. Artemis, protector of maidens, queen of the moon, save me!

  The vibrations of their footsteps were upon her and then suddenly silenced. Calista was unceremoniously hefted up. Dazedly, she looked at her captors, a few drops of hope dying within her. Avaritus’ men: not workers of any deity.

  “And who might you be, sneaking about like this?” asked one of the man, his manner neutral but his eyes eagerly devouring every detail of her.

  With an unexpected burst of bravery (or bravado), Calista spat, “Take me to your master. He will want to see me.”

  The rain began in earnest then, pounding down cold and hard on the three of them, slicking Calista’s hair to her head.

  An immense flare of lightning illuminated the two men exchanging looks and the first one finally said, “Come along then,” and yanked her arm. His hand slipped at the wetness from the rain, rubbing her uncomfortably—of course, that was the least of her worries. Vision blurred by the torrential rain, she stumbled upon the damp, uneven ground.

  They walked along the long path which ran to the villa, past the quartered pond with its four fountains, each divide running into a path, past cypress trees that lined it. Icy moistness seeped into her toes which, like her fingers and nose, were growing numb. Thanks to the guard’s hand, however, her arm was quite warm.

  Suddenly, the rain disappeared. She was beneath the manor’s veranda and the windows washed her in light. She blinked uncertainly as she was pushed inside, past another pair of guards who were quickly notified of the circumstances. One marched towards the barracks, doubtlessly to alert their captain of the state of affairs.

  Wresting her arm free of one of the guard’s grips, she ran her fingers through her drenched hair, reminding her ruefully of her attempt at grand appearances facing Avaritus earlier. Then, she had childishly believed that being well-dressed and poised would be enough to win back Portus Tarrus—now, she recognized that her action would have to be much more drastic, violent, bloody, to redress the balance. Avaritus had won through those selfsame means and she would mimic him to do just as he had done. He had won: surely there was something correct in that—something that the gods and fates approved of, something that had been lacking in her own previous attempts.

  The dark-haired guard, grabbed her hand again, and she slipped across the mosaic floor. Up the stairs again and she was thrust before the door to her parents’ room. Avaritus’ room. She could feel the knife burning brightly against her chest, felt that everyone should know what it was there.

  A guard pushed the door open, revealing a figure she had supposed dead: Panos. Panos with a bandage wound tightly about his neck. Panos, breathing. Panos, smirking. “She has returned, milord,” Panos announced to Avaritus. The world spun around her, once, twice, before she managed to grasp the situation.

  “You!” she gasped, and that vision of her father flashed before her eyes again, so tremulous, like a raindrop on the cusp of falling from a blade of grass. Plunging her free hand into her robe, she produced the knife and drove it into Panos’ throat once, straight through the bandage. Crimson blood bloomed on the white fabric. She could feel the tearing of his cartilage resound through her bones as she slashed now, widening the wound, once, twice, thrice.

  An obscene second mouth grinned at her as the mouth above bubbled blood. Her hand was restrained again, the knife wrested from her grip but she could only watch in morbid fascination as Panos fell to his knees and then onto the floor. In his last motion, he bowed before her, spilling blood on her robe. From the corner of her eye, she saw the dark ocean writhe and twist, attempting to break loose of its confines and pour onto the beach. Lightning lanced through the sky.

  “Look what you’ve done, you bitch!” a guard exclaimed.

  She fought their clutches wildly, biting, scratching, kicking, all in her attempts to break free, to the real prize, Avaritus. He stood well-beyond her reach, eyeing her carefully, and shouting for guards to act as further reinforcements.

  “You stupid bastard. Guards? Let us settle this between us!” she snarled. She felt no fear. She felt no grief. She was boiling with the desire to hurt. To rip, to scratch, to tear. To make him bleed. To make him cry. She was mad with it. Thunder and lightning cracked above their heads, the villa itself trembling. Then, much to her surprise, she felt herself released. “Oh!” she breathed softly, and then ran at Avaritus.

  From behind her, she heard a pair of voices call out in unison. “Calista!”

  It br
ought her back, her hands trembling with quickly suppressed fury. “Hadrian? Claudius?” They stood behind her, both wielding kitchen knives. A crumpled form lay at their feet.

  Another group of heavily armed men joined them. “Milord?” asked one, perplexed at the situation. He should not need to ask, really. Not that intelligent, Calista thought briefly. Clearly, he should be trying to kill me.

  At that moment, Avaritus slid his arm about Calista’s neck, her back pressed against his soft stomach. She gasped for breath: his arm was tightening against her throat and the pressure rose by the moment. Bright spots of color exploded in her vision and the world faded before her eyes.

  The desire to harm surged within her again, stronger than ever. Flexing her fingers, she drove her nails into Avaritus’ face, and she could feel blood seep out from the punctures. With a surprised, angry gasp, Avaritus’ grip loosened. She pulled the knife from his hand and blindly stabbed it into his soft, yielding stomach. Her fingers came back warm and sticky.

  Hadrian grabbed Calista, pulling her past the surprised man. They ran: down, down, turning, turning. Calista could hear mercenaries rousing, attracted by the commotion. Thunder clapped, shaking the entire manor.

  Avaritus’ voice cried out, “Capture them, you fool!” and she could hear her own voice, “Release me! I need to get back to him! I need to kill him!”

  Bright flashes of colored tiles flooded her vision: scarlet, violet, gold, cerulean. They ran, ignoring the shouts, onto the tree-lined path which led to the heart of Portus Tarrus. Calista’s legs burned, and she was overcome with a startling exhaustion but she pressed on, panting heavily. That murderous rage to which she had almost lost herself was slowly ebbing.

  She could hear their pursuit, the sound of ten or fifteen pairs of sandals clopping on the ground, tapping through the mud, with furious speed and it spurred her on. Claudius was running raggedly behind them. Calista risked a look back: he was clutching his sopping bandage, his jaw clenched in pain.

  Hadrian muttered angrily, shaking back his wet hair, “I told him not to come! His wound will open again. Claudius, hurry!”

  Calista paused for a moment to turn to look at Claudius. As they stormed downhill, he was obviously lagging, and the bandage was turning scarlet again. Muddied, Calista attempted to give him an encouraging smile, wondering all the while when the horses would appear. She doubted Claudius could maintain this pace for too long. Blinking furiously, she tried to clear her eyes of the stinging darts of rain.

  Finally, they came to a stand of trees, at the foot of the villa’s hill, where a pair of horses, panicky because of the storm, were tied. Claudius and Calista swung onto them, and Hadrian clambered on behind Calista.

  Before she had seated herself rightly, the horse was off. Clinging tightly to the reins she asked, “Where are Mother and Pyp?”

  “Waiting upon the third horse,” Hadrian answered briskly.

  “A third horse? How did you get it back?”

  “That honor belongs to your brother,” Hadrian said.

  She goaded the horse to run faster. Claudius’ mount galloped parallel, and if Calista had wished it, she could have reached out to touch him. That is, if she desired to lose her seat and tumble to the ground. Another reverberating blast of the thunder followed in close succession by a slash of lightning. She shivered in the freezing storm. The sound of their hunters had faded, replaced by the sound of raindrops falling like stones. Their sweet smell mingled with the scent of the ocean, the sand. The horses dashed on, heedless of pursuers, dipping and slipping in the wet earth.

  “We have lost them!” Calista crowed with delight. She ducked below the stand of trees, the trembling leaves dropping rain onto her soaked skin. She thought of Avaritus, and the wound in his stomach, and she hoped it would be his end.

  Craning his neck to peer past her through the dark and the sheets of rain, Hadrian responded, “Not for long, I do not think.”

  At his words, a horn brayed, and suddenly, a half-formed ring of the mercenaries’ horses began to secure the noose around them.

  “They cannot see us yet,” Calista said confidently but twitches of fear squirmed down her back.

  “No, not yet,” agreed Claudius.

  As if purposefully proving Claudius a liar, a group of horseman emerged from the hill, charging down towards them. Very evidently, they had been spotted.

  “Calista, I—” He glanced at Hadrian’s arm around Calista. Tightening his mouth, he turned the horse around, galloping deep into the woods. The pounding of the rain, the squelching of his horse’s hooves overcame Calista.

  “What are you doing?” she screamed, bewildered, horrified. She wiped the rain from her eyes and brow. “What are you doing?”

  Even Hadrian called, his dark hair wetly pressed to his skull, “Come back, man! What idiocy is this?”

  Claudius ignored them as he rode, allowing himself one last telltale look at Calista. She started towards him, angry questions bubbling to her lips when Claudius burst out from the woods and headed towards the galloping line of Avaritus’ men. Through the thick haze of rain and dark, they caught sight of him. He veered off in the direction opposite of Calista. The sound of his horse was muffled by the patter of falling rain.

  With a final look at Claudius, tears falling into her gasping mouth, she urged the horse to gallop faster. “He could have made it! He could have! Why? We should go back, Hadrian.” But even as she said it, she knew it was impossible. His deed had gained them much-needed minutes and to go back would render his sacrifice worthless, something they could ill afford, something he would most certainly have not wanted.

  They galloped through the woods. The rhythm of the horse’s thumping steps ran in time with her heart. She closed her eyes as branches and twigs whipped in her face, leaving lattice-like scratches across her cheeks and chin. Then, she discerned through the dark and silver pellets of rain her mother, Pyp, and another figure sitting upon a horse. She squinted and her heart leapt as she recognized the other chid—it was Maro. As soon as they were spotted, her mother urged the horse to a run. Her stola whipped in the furious wind. Wiping the raindrops and tears from her face, Calista pressed the horse onward, until she finally caught up to her mother.

  “Where’s Claudius?” asked Pyp breathlessly as Calista urged the horse to slough through the mud alongside them.

  “Back,” Calista gasped, unsure of what had just happened, of how to share the occurrences with her family. Rain and tears filled her mouth and her throat felt heavy with grief. Momentarily, she buried her face into the horse’s mane, attempting to sort out the events of the past few minutes, trying to hide her tears from her family.

  “What?” asked Olympia, her black eyes revealing a depth of puzzlement, of worry for the boy who looked so much like her Calista and had risked so much for them.

  “He’s not coming back.” Calista lifted her head from the horse’s warm neck and forced the words from her mouth, feeling as if keeping them back might have altered the course of events, might have kept him with her, if only for a few more moments.

  She had driven him to his rash decision she was sure; she who was incapable of returning his love had forced him to end his life this way, to save her, someone who did not deserve the nobility of his gesture. Not just me, she reminded herself forcefully. Pyp, Mother, even Hadrian with whom he was so often combative. He ended his life not save those he loved but those I loved. Another sob racked Calista.

  “What?” Pyp repeated, bewildered. He could not comprehend that someone would toss away his life so lightly. He did not understand that each question he asked negated Claudius’ sacrifice all the more by wasting time. He did not even realize, despite all that had happened to him: the loss of his father, home, that he would never see Claudius again.

  “He’s not coming back!” Calista shrieked, wishing that they could leave the subject behind, desiring that they leave Portus Tarrus behind. She herself had not absorbed the matter and now having to ex
plain it to those she loved most in excruciating detail was altogether too much to bear. “Mother, we will follow your plan!” She closed her eyes, clenched her fists, and tightened her thighs around the horse and he skipped forward a step.

  “Why?” persisted Pyp, still not understanding. Olympia placed a silencing arm on Pyp’s shoulder but he stared at Calista, determined to receive an answer. Maro watched impatiently.

  “So that we could escape!” Hadrian finally exclaimed. “We must ride! We must ride!”

  She took the mare’s reins and steered her east. The horses stumbled through the mud, leaving Portus Tarrus behind but before the ocean disappeared completely from view, Calista allowed herself one last, lingering look at the churning black sea, veiled by swathes of rain. Bolts of lightning cast it into ghostly relief and thunder momentarily drowned the crash of the waves obliterating the beach.

  She closed her eyes and when she opened them again she thought she heard her father’s soft voice: Go.

  EPILOGUE

  The breeze fluttered above the ocean, sighing indolently now that the storm had passed: Rome, it breathed, thinking that it had heard the word somewhere. This wind was not as salty and clean as the one at Portus Tarrus—it was far too near the city for that and it smelled faintly sour.

  Below, a girl was riding, her golden hair waving like a pennant under the newly-clean sun, the sort of sun that emerges after a storm. The girl, woman—she had experienced too much to be a girl anymore—was accompanied by a group of companions, who all wore expressions as grief-struck as hers. Pressing her horse forth, she squeezed the hands of the older woman and the two young boys. They passed her brief glimmers of smiles which faded again under the shadow of some morose thought.

  But, the breeze urged them with a whisk through the woman’s hair, there is always hope. Whatever you have undergone, as long as there is breath in your body, there is hope, too.

  The woman, perhaps hearing this, turned her sad, blue eyes upon the dark-haired man riding behind her, and shared a sad, slow smile with him. One full of memories, sorrow, and yes, hope.