“What has happened?” I asked, though I already had my suspicions.
She swallowed.
“The Emperor is not well. He has returned to Hadrian’s Wall and sent his son Caracalla to conquer my people. But. . . it seems he has murdered them. Women. Children. Everyone.”
It had been a long time since I had seen Caracalla. But I could believe every word. The Emperor was a soldier. Caracalla was a murderer. There was a difference.
“Your family. . .” I said.
“I don’t know. They may be dead now. Oh, I wish I could know. I was only a child when I was taken. I would do anything to be free, so I could try to find them, even if I only find their bones.”
It was a terrible thing for a slave to say, but I could not find it in my heart to blame her. Instead I reached out to touch her hand in sympathy. But before I could do so, she moved swiftly away, and I was left hurrying after her, trying not to lose her in the crowd.
From that day on, Avitoria’s interest in me disappeared like a shadow under the rising sun. She barely gave me a glance, instead spending all the time she could whispering with Ganymede in corners. I was hurt and humiliated and angry, but how could I object? They were slaves. I was free. They were not even my slaves, so I could not free them. I cried myself to lonely sleep every night, knowing how stupid I was being, unable to stop feeling things Roman women in stories – Lucretia or Lavinia – would have scorned to feel. I read the Aeneid over and over again, especially the part about Dido, who promised to be faithful to her dead husband, but fell in love with Aeneas by the will of Venus. She killed herself when Aeneas sailed on to his destiny to found Rome. Dido and Cleopatra, Punic and Egyptian, were unable to conquer their passions, and were destroyed by them. Miserably, I felt that, like them, I was an Eastern woman, not Roman enough, lacking in virtue, dignity and piety. I did not understand my own feelings. I only knew that Avitoria was unhappy, and so was I.
Then one day Julia Domna said something that made me realise what all the whispering was about.
“When will that Theodora sell you to me?” she said to Avitoria casually, as Avitoria carefully curled and lifted up her hair into the rolls she loved so much.
A hairpin fell from Avitoria’s hand. One of the other girls pounced on it and handed it back to her.
“I do not know, my Empress,” she said quietly, setting the pin in its place.
“Tell her I will pay well. You have skilful hands, and you work quietly, without gossiping. I like that. I expect to hear from her soon.”
Now I understood what the trouble was. Theodora had made no secret of the fact that she meant to free her slaves in her will. But if Avitoria was sold to the Empress, she would never be free – she would be taken back to Rome and she would never know what had happened to her family.
“You won’t be sold,” I told her as soon as we were alone. “Theodora would never sell you. You are like her family.”
Avitoria turned to me. She was still holding the Empress’s face cream, a gold pot with a red glass snake on the lid. Her fingers were white as she clutched it.
“A request from the Empress,” she said, her voice shaking, “is not a request.”
I had no answer for her. We both knew it was true.
“Let me talk to the Empress,” I said. “Perhaps I can appeal to her.”
Avitoria looked at me gratefully. I wanted so much to be able to please her. But when I found myself alone with the Empress, my courage fled. I did not know how to open the subject. What could I say? It would look strange and suspicious to care about the fate of a slave. In the end, I tried in the evening, when she seemed calm and relaxed, and Geta was at home for once.
“My Empress, are there no hairdressers in Rome?” I said, trying to make my voice sound casual.
She looked at me in surprise. It was very rare that I spoke to her without being spoken to first.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know why you want to take that Caledonian back with you.” It was a dangerous game I was playing, and I was horribly aware that I did not know how to play it. “Can she be trusted, after all?” I said weakly. Had I said too much? I did not want to push the Empress the other way, into mistrusting Avitoria and perhaps having her killed. “She is a Caledonian.”
Julia Domna frowned at me.
“Now what is your real meaning,” she said to herself, a smile in her voice. “Oh, I see. You are jealous of her, aren’t you? You fear I like her more than I like you?”
I was forced to nod.
“Don’t concern yourself. She is just a slave, and you will no doubt be married when we return to Rome, with plenty of other things to fill your mind and time. I will find someone. . . appropriate for you.”
I could not think of anything else to say. At least, I told myself, I had tried.
Later in the week, I spoke to Theodora about it too, but she just shook her head bleakly.
“I cannot refuse the Empress,” she told me. “If I let her have Avitoria, at least I am safe and the other girls are safe too.”
17.
Snow
It was February, a colder day than I had ever known, and the air was sharp as a sword blade. I could not settle. I paced up and down in my room, watching the messengers go back and forth in the courtyard below.
“Camilla!” The Empress’s maid called me, sounding annoyed. “Get ready, the Empress wants you to go with her to the basilica.”
I dressed in a hurry. Every day, Geta was supposed to hear cases and complaints from local landowners. He was the face of the Emperor. But he hated every moment of it. As he sat in the chair in the basilica it was clear he was dropping off to sleep as the lawyers droned on. Their thick British accents mangled their speeches until it was hard even to understand what was being said. Judgements were passed and lives destroyed, and Geta yawned his way through it all. One man put his head in his hands, as the judge ordered him to sell himself into slavery to clear his debt. His family sat with blank, hopeless faces. Others were sentenced to work in the mines, for theft, and went away roaring their innocence, although the evidence had sounded conclusive enough to me. Just behind Geta sat Julia Domna. Occasionally she leaned forwards and asked an intelligent question that made the pompous lawyers sit up, startled to realise this woman was the one in real control. Then some complicated case came up, and the Empress stood up to speak privately with the officials. The conversation went on and on, and the sky outside seemed an odd colour, yellowish. Somehow, I could not rid myself from the feeling that Theodora needed me.
Just at that moment, I spotted a flash of colour by the door. My eyes widened. It was a snake. It wriggled fast across the threshold, its scales glittering, almost glowing in the dull light. For a shocked second I believed it was the snake from the Empress’ face-cream pot, somehow come to life and slithering away. It had the same diamond-shaped mark on its head. Then it was gone – slipping into a black crack in the wall, vanishing like a melting snowflake.
Everyone knew that snakes were spirits, and more than spirits – visitors from the gods. I felt throughout my body that this was a sign. I stood up and, excusing myself as unwell, I snatched my cloak and went to the door. I had to get out.
As I stepped out of the basilica, something bit me. I looked up, and found myself showered in blossom – but freezing blossom. Snow! I gasped. I had seen snow before, but I never got used to how beautiful it was. I gazed in amazement at the sparkling jewels that clung to my sleeve.
“You should see it on the hills outside the city,” remarked a voice.
I looked up. It was Arcturus.
“Is it even more beautiful there?” I asked.
“Yes, because no one treads it to slush. Here in the city it will be brown, dirty water by sunset, but out where my farm is. . . the hills glow in the moonlight like silver.”
“I’d love to see that,” I said, and meant it.
“Are you here alone?” he asked.
“No, but I had the fee
ling. . .” I shook my head. “I felt somehow that Theodora needed me.” I explained about the snake. He understood at once and he frowned.
“Shall I take you to Theodora? Would that set your mind at rest?”
I hesitated.
“Oh, don’t worry about going with me unescorted,” he added. “People see you as a doctor now, not as a young lady – they are not surprised by it.”
He meant to reassure me, and he did, but I also felt my heart sink. I had been suspecting something like this had happened to me, to the way people saw me. In Leptis Magna, I had been a child. In Rome, I had been a valuable object, a bride to be decorated richly and looked after carefully. I never left my parents’ house without an escort. But here, in Britain, I was not so important any more. I could come and go like any poor woman who worked for their living. I did not think my father would be pleased with the change when he came back from the North.
“I should stay here,” I said shortly. “The Empress needs me.”
It was not until the next day that I was able to go to Theodora’s house, and by that time the feeling of panic had gone. I could not even be sure if I had dreamed the snake. After all, a snake in winter? In the city? No, I decided, it was just my imagination.
Yet, as I arrived at the house, I saw a dead cat on the rubbish heap by the door. It was a dirty white cat with one ginger ear; I had seen it skulking around a few times before. Snow was swiftly covering it. I do not know why this struck me – dead animals were hardly a rare sight in the area. But perhaps I was in the mood to see signs from the gods. I did not spend much time looking at it then, but later on, I did remember it – and the sign from the gods.
18.
A Dream from the Gods
That night, I dreamed of home.
In the dream, I was in the theatre in Leptis Magna. I had never actually been there, but my father had described it to me, so I knew what I was seeing. I was sitting on the topmost tier of seats, looking down at an empty stage.
The theatre was enormous, like Olympus. I felt dizzy. The marble columns on the stage were taller than the tallest trees I had ever seen, taller than pines or palms. Through them I glimpsed a line of rich blue sea behind the pillars, flecked with white-topped waves. I was perched so high that I could see the roundness of the world.
On each side of the stage stood huge statues of the Diascuri, the holy twin gods. Enormous, cast in shining bronze, they looked like real giants with tanned, sweaty skin. Their eyes were picked out in white glass and they gleamed as if they were alive. I realised that they were watching us, the audience. Except there was no audience – there was only me. Strangely, this did not disturb me, or at least, only deep in the back of my head, as if someone far away from me was shouting a warning. I knew why I was there; I was there to see a story.
My father said that dreams were very important. If someone came to him feeling unwell, one of the first things he would ask was: “What dreams have you been having?” Dreams were one of the ways in which the gods spoke to us, and Asclepius often sent cures in dreams. The great doctor, Galen, had cured his own serious illness after following the advice of a dream. So, I told myself, even in the dream, that I had to pay close attention. Whatever was being shown to me was important. But although I waited and waited, the play did not begin. The stage was empty. All I could see was the sea behind the pillars.
I began to feel as though something was wrong. As the shadows lengthened, the Diascuri seemed to frown at me.
I gripped the cold marble edge of my seat, frightened. Even the sea seemed shadowed, although there were no clouds in the sky. Then, I realised that it was not a shadow. It was a wave – a huge wave the length of the entire horizon. It was coming towards me, and growing fast.
I leapt to my feet. A distant rumble and crash told me it had hit the shore. Spray flew up in the air, with shards of stone, brick and dust. Where there had been a forest of columns, there was suddenly just boiling sea, racing towards me faster than wild white horses.
I screamed.
The wave came, racing up through the helpless city, drowning the houses, smashing down the trees, tossing boats like blossom in the wind, spurting between columns, swamping the Diascuri, heading straight towards me. I tasted salt and felt spray in my face—
Then I woke up, my heart pounding.
The moonlight was shining straight through my window and I was soaked in sweat. My blankets were twisted and tumbled on the floor. I could hear voices and hurrying feet outside in the courtyard and wondered if I had screamed so loudly that I had woken people up. The dream had been so horribly real. I could only think of one meaning: I was going to die soon. After all, the wave had come for me and no one else in the theatre.
“I don’t want to die!” I sobbed out loud.
Hooves clattered outside in the courtyard. The light was not all moonlight, I realised; some of it was torches carried by people outside. This surely wasn’t all happening because of my nightmare. I jumped up and went to look out of the window.
The courtyard was full of men and horses. The men wore armour and carried flaming torches. The horses snorted and shook their harnesses till they jingled. I spotted a familiar shape, a box carried by weary slaves: the Emperor’s litter. Then I heard a voice that was more than familiar.
“Father!” I gasped.
I didn’t stop to think if I were dressed to go out or not, I just flung open the door, raced down the stairs and threw myself into his arms.
I was home at last.
19.
The Return
“My grandfather!” you say. “You never told me how he died.”
I look down at my hands on the reins. Even now, I feel hollow and lonely when I think of my father. How can it be over twenty years since I last heard his voice? But it is.
“He died,” I begin, my voice sounding strange in my own ears, “because he was murdered.”
“You’re back at last!” I pulled out of my father’s arms, looking up at his face with delight – and my happiness vanished just as the dream had. Even in the flickering torchlight, I could see that he looked terrible. His eyes were hollow and haunted; his face was like that of a man already dead, eaten from inside.
“My daughter,” he said, and kissed my forehead. “Thank the gods you are safe. I have worried so much about you.”
“What has happened, Father?” I asked in a low voice. I looked around me. The soldiers filling the courtyard were menacing as the torchlight glinted from their breastplates and helmets. Their boots and their horses had churned the snow in the courtyard to slush, and they looked wild-eyed and savage, and there was an edge in the air that I could not describe. I felt as if I were in the presence of a terrifying god, one who might swing his sword of vengeance one way or another without warning. The Emperor was nowhere to be seen, nor was the Empress. But Caracalla was there. Caracalla was dressed in travel-stained clothes and he looked older and harder-faced than before. He was glaring up the steps that led from the courtyard to the higher floors where the imperial family had their rooms. At the top of the steps, I now saw, stood Geta.
He had clearly just been woken, and he had his toga thrown over his tunic. Although he stood higher than Caracalla, there was something about the way he felt for the edge of his toga, to stop it slipping, that made it seem as though he was the weaker.
“Welcome home, brother,” he said.
Caracalla did not reply. As if his silent glare was a signal, the soldiers in the courtyard separated, without words, like water and oil. Some moved towards Caracalla, and some went up the steps to join Geta. More went towards Geta, but the men who stayed with Caracalla had the look of hungry dogs about them.
I watched, frozen with terror. I actually expected one of them to attack the other at that moment, but instead, Geta glanced at my father.
“Physician,” he commanded, “the Emperor needs you at once.”
My father broke free from me and went after him without a word. Caracalla followed th
em, his gang of soldiers behind him. I was left standing and shivering in the cold shadows, with the stars above me, frightened and confused. There was nothing to do but go back to my room and wait for news. I did not go back to sleep.
At daybreak my father came to find me. In the pale light he looked worse than ever. He sat on the end of my bed and began talking. It was as if the words had been bottled up for so long that they had to spill out of him.
“At the start,” he began, “it was a disaster. We marched into the wilds of Caledonia. Gods, that place is forsaken! Nothing but stinking marshes and biting insects, freezing cold winds and bleak stones, everything drab and the rain lashing down as if we were slaves under a whip. Yes, we got the Antonine Wall back, but at what cost?”
I flinched at the bitter fury in his voice.
“The Caledonians hid in the land they knew well and attacked us when we were least expecting it, vanishing away like ghosts before we could gather ourselves together to attack. We lost hundreds of men.”
“But how—?” This was not the story of victory I had expected.
He gestured impatiently.
“There are no roads up there, and the ground eats people up without warning. If there weren’t forests barring our way, there were freezing, treacherous rivers to bridge, and if there weren’t swamps, there were sheer cliffs with an evil slippery kind of gravel that tore men off balance and hurled them to their death on sharp rocks, like teeth. Then arrows would come whizzing out of nowhere, and you’d feel as powerless as a sitting duck waiting for the hunter to strike you down. Horrible!” He paused for breath and wiped a thin sweat from his forehead. I saw his hair was greyer than it had been and shot with silver, and a new pink scar lined his forearm. “But that wasn’t the worst of it. They put sheep and cattle in front of us, so the men, starving for some meat, would charge towards them to hunt them, become separated, and then be picked off by bands of warriors. When we found them, some were dead, some wounded, and the wounded we had to kill because we could do nothing for them, and if they had been captured alive it would have been the end for us. Our men were slaughtered.”
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