She blinked. Someone nearby had shouted for the beauty with the black hair to smile. As she’d been warned, she fixed her gaze ahead and didn’t respond. The emperor’s entourage were above the plebeian rabble, so the slave master said, though she didn’t feel that way.
The feast that night went on until almost dawn, but Juliana was allowed away early after the main dishes were served and collected. It was the way she'd been treated since Constantine and Lucius had departed. She guessed one of them must have said something to someone.
She helped in the kitchens the following day and discovered that the local baths had a special time for slaves and decided to visit them. The facilities for slaves in the governor’s overcrowded villa near the forum were limited to washing from a large bowl. On arriving, she remembered that the time of her blood was late. She prayed it would not mean what she feared most. Had being close to Sybellina’s charm affected her womb too?
Juliana knelt in a corner of the warm room at the baths, where a niche had been set up with a statue of what looked like Diana.
Was she being punished for the thoughts of Constantine that invaded her mind constantly at night, unbidden? His many qualities filled her dreams, but most of all she remembered his body on top of her, his manhood driving into her, hard and fast, again and again, making her long for him inside her. Such thoughts made her feel guilty, and ashamed. Some mornings on the road north she hadn’t eaten because of it all.
Why hadn't she resisted him? Had he fooled her? Was there a messenger coming at all?
The day after arriving in Eboracum she began looking for her father. She’d quickly established that she’d not be considered missing if she disappeared for an hour or two. No one was watching her movements that closely. She’d found out from a stable slave where the smiths worked and asked in every shop on that street, near the city wall at the Porta Sinistra, was there any smith in Eboracum who'd served in the East with the legions, and who had the name Arell.
What she got for her efforts were scowls and sneers, although once she was told that such a man did exist, but when she went to his smithy he was far too young to be her father and all he did was shake his head when she asked questions. She wasn’t sure whether this was wariness of anyone he did not know, or just his lack of Latin.
Eventually, after three more days of searching, she’d visited every smithy in the civilian town outside the city walls and along the river, and finally she had to accept defeat. A new moon was coming that night, but she felt empty inside, abandoned, cursed. All that night she trembled and sickened at what her future might hold.
The next morning, early, she received a summons.
“But Sybellina’s not my mistress,” she said to the slave standing in the doorway.
“It matters not, girl. What Sybellina asks for, she gets.” The old slave was clearly angry she’d dared question his summons.
Juliana felt queasy as she looked at the old man’s stony face.
“You’re lucky I don't whip you so you can't sit for a week, then drag you to her anyway.”
Juliana grunted in dignified assent, then put the twig brush she’d been using to sweep the corridor in a corner. What could Sybellina want? Did she know about Constantine, and about the charm? Or was there some errand she wanted her to run?
She looked at the old slave. His expression was as fixed as that of a marble statue. He wasn’t going to tell her anything. Anyway, what could Sybellina do to her in the middle of a busy palace?
Anxiety twisted inside her as they hurried to Sybellina's room in the far courtyard near the emperor's quarters.
When they entered the room, after knocking, Sybellina was on her knees moaning, banging her forehead gently against the floor in a corner of the room. A single iron-grilled window let a patterned square of sunlight onto the red tiled floor. Juliana stood still, taking in the faint but audible thuds as Sybellina's head hit the floor, her low rhythmic moaning filling the air. She wanted to shout, “Stop,” but she couldn’t. Thoughts of running filled her head.
“Please, Juliana, send him away. Only you can help me,” said Sybellina. Then she let out a low moan.
Juliana turned. The old slave was already gone.
“What can I do to help?” She edged forward, lowering her eyes respectfully, hoping Sybellina wouldn’t see how truly pleased she was to see her distressed.
“I heard your kind are sworn to help people in need.”
Juliana’s mouth went dry. What did she know about her kin? How did she know anything about her?
“When did the sickness start, mistress?” she asked, hoping to distract her.
“Wait.” Sybellina rose, shuffled to a small round table with ivory feet. On it sat a yellow beeswax candle, calibrated for the hours, two simple silver goblets and a jug. A small flame and a curl of smoke rose from the candle. Sybellina collapsed into one of two armless high-backed wooden chairs beside the table. She leaned in and cupped her hands around the candle.
Juliana felt warm, as if it was midsummer in the Eastern provinces. A trickle of sweat ran down her back. She stared at the chair she was clearly expected to sit on. Was Sybellina playing a game with her? Was this all some ruse? It felt as if a metal band was being tightened round her head.
Sybellina pointed at the chair. Juliana moved to it, perched uncomfortably on its front edge. This felt wrong. All wrong. She couldn’t help Sybellina. She should go. At once. Her hands were trembling. She looked at the door, then back at Sybellina. She was holding her head at a strange angle now, smiling as if some amusing thought had just come to her.
“Please, drink with me, Juliana. I need to know you trust me. I know you’re nervous, but don't be. I am not evil.” Her eyes widened. She looked innocent.
Then it came to her, the door out of the room was behind Sybellina. She was trapped. She swallowed, hard.
Sybellina filled the goblets on the table with wine from the jug. It glugged as she poured. Wine splashed onto the table. Sybellina touched the spill with a finger, licked it, nodded her approval, then passed one of the goblets to Juliana and raised the other to her lips. She saw Juliana looking at the goblet with suspicion. With a flourish, she put her own goblet down.
“I see you don't trust me, Juliana.” She sounded offended. “So please, take mine. I'll drink yours. If it is poisoned, I'll be the one to suffer.” She handed her goblet to Juliana, who hesitated for a moment, then passed her own back to her.
Sybellina drank. Juliana looked at her goblet. She sniffed at it. It smelt fine. If Sybellina had been about to drink from this one, surely it couldn't be poisoned. She tasted it. It tasted good, a little bitter. Sybellina raised her goblet, drained it. Juliana took a sip, waited, drank a little more. Surely such a small amount could not hurt her.
“My ailment started, Juliana, my dear,” said Sybellina, her tone more assured now, “when someone stole my most secret charm. And for a long time, I wondered who had done this.” She shook her head in mock bafflement.
Juliana’s heart thumped so loudly she feared Sybellina would hear it.
“Lucius, perhaps, or one of the emperor's officials, or some impudent slave. But there was no proof, no proof at all, until last night.” She smiled with the sure purpose of a snake.
Juliana's mouth opened. She wanted to say something but felt too tired. The goblet slipped from her hand, crashed, rolled, settled very slowly, rocking back and forth. The stink of wine filled the air. Her eyelids drooped.
“Late last night, our emperor told me his son took an interest in you before he went away. A passionate interest. And I knew at once. Only powerful magic could have turned his eye toward a scrawny mongrel like you.” She snorted derisively.
Gut-twisting terror gripped Juliana as if she was being held in a vice.
“Stealing has terrible consequences. You know that, don't you?”
A wolf was about to pounce. She had to run, but she felt so terribly weary. Then pain squeezed at her stomach, and set her hands shaking.
“I must go, mistress.” She tried to sound normal, but her voice came out funny, all slurred. Sybellina was getting bigger, her face filling Juliana's vision.
A hand gripped Juliana's arm.
“You’re so innocent, aren't you?” Tinkling laughter echoed in her head. Juliana tried to stand. But her feet wouldn't cooperate. Her vision blurred. Someone was holding her up. Laying her down on a soft bed, forcing something into her mouth. She spluttered, swallowed. A voice came blurrily, as if through a trumpet.
“You’ll pay the price now, sweet Juliana.” A slow chant began. It went around and around, over and over and over.
There was a smell.
Sage.
Heat.
She wanted to sleep. A whiff, a burning, penetrated her mind, wrinkled her nose, bringing her back. Though she didn't dare open her eyes. Darkness sucked at her.
“The ritual will be done properly this time, sweet Juliana. The knife will be cleansed in fast running water before we take your blood. Sleep well.”
Scornful laughter echoed in Juliana's head. A hand griped her chin, crushing at her cheekbones. She mustn’t react. It was not that hard. She had no energy. Her concern was about falling asleep again.
“You do know your lover’s not coming back, my sweet,” said a distant voice. “Delmatius will marry Fausta. And after that there will be no future for Constantine. He’ll only be in the way. And we know what happens to sons who are in the way. I might have saved him, but now it's too late. Such men were not for the likes of you. All you did was pull him down, Juliana. So, understand this, soon I'll hold your love-struck pumping little heart, my sweet. And I'll squeeze it hard until the last ruby-red honey-thick drops come out and I’ll have my new love charm and all the fresh blood we need.” The voice became indistinct.
The bang of a door closing came to her from far away.
She had to get up. She had to get away. She tried to raise her head. It didn't want to move. She tried to shout. Her mouth was stuffed with something.
Her nostrils twitched, wrinkled. Something smelled bad. She opened her eyes. The room was empty. A candle flickered, casting shadows. She balled her fists, dug her nails hard into her palms, turned her head, lifted a shoulder, a leg. The effort almost drained her.
It reminded her of how she’d felt after a heavy beating back at the estate in Bithynia. But she had to focus. Constantine was in danger. She had to move. She rolled, first one way then the other, then, after three tries, she rolled off the bed and onto her side in a crash that hurt her knee. She peered up. A water jug stood nearby. She reached for it, slowly, forced an evil tasting rag out of her mouth, pulled the jug to her, took a long drink, then poured the rest over her head. Her eyes widened with shock. She didn’t have much time. She had to stand.
Dripping, she stumbled for the door, creaked it open, leaning against the wall as she did so, then took a step, then another.
She was at another door. It opened. A corridor lay ahead. At the end of it stood a doorway. Sounds of the street came from beyond it, dogs barking, a child crying. Then she was at the end of the corridor, pushing. Then sunlight and voices.
“Wake up. Wake up.” A slap landed on her face, stinging her. She opened her eyes.
Her head was pounding as if a knife had been pushed through it from the back. She blinked. It was night time. She was lying on a rough blanket on what felt like straw. She looked around, every muscle tensing in fear.
A face. One eye. Leering at her. Tiresias, the half-blind wanderer from Londinium. It couldn’t be. She groaned in recognition.
“Where am I?” She eased herself onto an elbow. Her head felt ridiculously heavy. A vague confusion of images came to her. She remembered waking alone because of a smell, then stumbling into the corridor.
She'd been in a nightmare.
“Three days I waited for you at that kitchen courtyard gate, Juliana. Waiting for you to go on one of your silly trips around the smithies, disturbing them all. Every smith in town has been talking about you, girl. It wasn't hard to find out where a blue-eyed, raven-haired slave girl was staying, though I began to doubt you’d ever come out of that villa again. Then you fall into the street, and I had to grab you from a bunch of do-gooders who wanted to bring you back into the villa. Needed a bit of talking to, they did. It's not like the old days, you know. Everyone’s out for what they can get.” He pushed himself to his feet, brushed himself off, and stretched, his blue-veined arms poking out of his gray woolen sleeves. It appeared he’d been on his knees, watching over her.
“It looks as if you've gone and made enemies, girl. Big enemies. No one wastes a sleeping draught, like the one you were given, on a friend. You've slept half a day and most of the night. A new dawn approaches. Tell me the tale of how it all happened. Who gave it to you and how did you escape?” He sat on an old saddle nearby.
She looked around. They were in the loft of a small outhouse. It felt odd not to wake up in her cell with duties beckoning. A pang of guilt rose inside her. Who would do her tasks? Could she go back to them? She licked her lips.
No. Sybellina wouldn't let her get away so easily again. She might be considered a runaway already. The pain for that was death or torture and disfigurement. It was likely too that torture was what Sybellina would prefer. She could have killed her already with whatever she’d put in that drink but had instead made it weak enough for her to survive.
She had to find Lucius.
She told Tiresias about Sybellina. As she began relating the story she glanced over her shoulder, as if afraid someone might be listening.
“She will look for me. She’ll not give up easily,” she said at the end. She felt the familiar ache of longing for Constantine. He would protect her. He had to.
“There is someone who can help me, if I can get to Gaul.”
“Calm yourself. It’s common knowledge that witch of yours will be gone back to Rome after she conducts the sacrifices for the games of Apollo after the full moon. If they find you before she goes you could end up crucified, if she claims you stole something and ran away. Now tell me, girl, who is this person who’ll help you in Gaul?”
She looked away. He probably wouldn’t believe her.
He leaned closer. “Tell me. I deserve to know.”
She looked in his eyes. There was kindness there. She debated not telling him, then remembered what her mother had said, to always listen to the voice inside you, they are angels talking to you.
She opened her mouth, closed it, then spoke. “The son of the emperor. I…we. . .” Her mouth had gone dry.
“Ssshhh, girl. Say n’more. I know all about it already. The emperor’s slaves know almost everything.” He touched his nose.
She groaned, thought about all the giggles, the slaves who’d looked at her oddly in the past few weeks. They all knew. She felt stupid. Tiresias had been testing her.
“There’s someone I want you to meet, girl. With his help we could send you to Constantine, but you must do something for us.” He stared at her, daring her to offend him.
“What do I have to do?” She pulled back from him, looked down, fear rising inside her again. She glanced at the opening in the floor leading down to the ground. Would she have to run?
“Constantine must come back. He must come back to Eboracum. Aye, the pot boils best with all the right ingredients.” He chuckled.
A pain tugged at her. She put her hand to her stomach. A long shudder ran through her.
Tiresias patted her arm.
“Don't you worry, girl. I examined you. You have no injuries that I could see. And I had a good look. I expect you will have stomach cramps for days, though.”
She turned away. Could she trust him?
“Where’s your master, Lucius, these days?”
She told him about Lucius being with the auxiliaries. Tiresias looked pleased.
“Lucius will get you a travel pass. Officers are always sending slaves on errands. You’ll go to him first if you want to see
Constantine again, girl.”
Yes, she thought, Lucius would help.
The first cocks were crowing as Tiresias led Juliana into the courtyard of the small villa to which the outhouse was attached. A rough wooden door filled one corner. He knocked four times and after waiting what seemed ages, knocked four times again. The door was opened. Tiresias went inside. Juliana followed. They entered an earth-floored low-ceilinged kitchen with battered pots hanging on its walls. The smell of warm fresh bread filled her nostrils. She felt terribly hungry. A gray-haired man stood by a polished wooden table. He was staring at her. Tiresias gripped her elbow and spoke in a low voice.
“This is Wehwalt, the woeful one. He lost touch with his first family, a wife and daughter, twenty years ago near the border with Persia.” His tone was calm and there was a hint of pleasure in his voice.
“He has another name too. Arell.”
A flush of warmth ran through her. Could this be her father? The man was certainly tall, as her mother had described, but he was bent, aged, not at all like she’d imagined. She looked at Tiresias. He nodded.
“You met Wehwalt’s son when you called to his smithy half a moon back. You didn't expect him to answer a Roman slave's questions, did you? Your visit set his father thinking and when I started making enquiries for you, he volunteered his tale.”
“You look just like your mother,” interjected Wehwalt, in halting Latin. His eyes were pale blue, not unlike hers.
“I thank the great spirit, the raven and the wolf. I know your eyes. They were different to hers. Your mother’s were brown. You got mine. I could never forget you.”
Juliana shook her head. Was this a trick? She took a step forward. She wanted this man to be her father, but fear rose up inside her, filling her head with a roar of doubt. Were they trying to dupe her?
Or was she dreaming? She held her arms tight across her chest. Her breathing had quickened.
“I was a lot younger then. When the legion I was part of was moved, without warning taken from our frontier duties to go to Alexandria to suppress a rebellion, I petitioned three times for leave to meet your mother, to ask her to follow me. But each time I was refused.” His voice almost broke. He put his fist to his mouth to steady himself and the gleam of tears came to his eyes. He blinked.
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