Lionslayer's Woman

by Nhys Glover

  As if to support her words, a loud gong sounded nearby to announce midday and the opening of the baths. She had cut the trip to the marketplace too tightly. It was now lunchtime, and her father would have let his students go for the day and would be making do with the bread his wife had packed for his lunch that morning.

  Orpheus swung the thin creature into his arms after sheathing his sword. He held tight as the girl made a half-hearted attempt to struggle out of his grip. She had obviously used the last of what little strength she had fighting off her attacker. Now she was as weak as a kitten and had begun to shake.

  ‘Are you cold?’ Galeria asked in concern, seeing the way the girl’s body shuddered.

  ‘It is shock, Potnia. She is not cold.’ Orpheus didn’t wait to be told to walk on. He took his reeking burden and began to stride purposefully back down the road that would lead to their small school. Galeria had to trot to keep up with him.

  Galeria found her father sitting in the shaded, open-roofed atrium eating his dried out bread and warm cheese. The patter of falling water from the fountain in the centre of the impluvium gave the impression of coolness. At his side sat Gnaeus Arrius Antoninus, the overweight son of the Proconsul of Asia.

  Antonius had come to study with her father several months ago, determined to increase his understanding of Stoic philosophy. Because he was much older than the other students, being in his late-twenties, her father had decided to tutor him separately out of generosity. Today was not one of the days set aside for the man. Why was he here?

  ‘But Caesar doesn’t display the necessary virtues to be a leader of men,’ Antoninus was saying loudly to make himself heard over the splashing water of the fountain.

  ‘Is a man’s virtue measured by results or by his intention? If I try to save a man’s life, should I be measured on the man’s death or on my desire to save him?’

  ‘But the Emperor is a degenerate who murders at will,’ Antoninus came back.

  ‘We do not know the mind of Caesar; therefore we cannot measure his true intent. We can therefore not judge…’ Her father finally caught sight of them coming toward him and stopped mid-sentence.

  ‘I have purchased a new slave, Pater. I hope you don’t mind.’ Galeria smiled brightly, trying to cover her own distress. The hasty rush had winded her and her body was running with sweat. The smell from the girl was making her gag, but none of this mattered. They had saved a life this day, she was sure of it.

  ‘Take her to the back of the house and get her cleaned up. I can smell her from here. Can she not walk? What were you thinking to buy a sick slave, Galeria? She may pass her sickness to the other slaves or to us.’

  ‘She is not sick, Pater, she has just been badly set upon by men. I couldn’t pass by and let it happen. We will see to her now.’

  ‘Let Orpheus do it,’ her father said, and she saw him glance with concern toward Antoninus. She knew her father was wary of displaying too many liberal views before the Proconsul’s son, and he would want her to be seen to be behaving as a virtuous Roman maid.

  ‘I’ll just supervise, Pater. She is terrified of men after what she has been through. My presence will keep her calm.’

  ‘Keep your distance then. I’m still not assured that she is free of bad humours.’

  ‘Yes Pater.’ She bobbed her head in the perfect replication of a virtuous patrician woman. It was an act they played in front of others. Her father really treated her as a beloved equal, bowing to her wishes when he thought appropriate.

  Orpheus headed for the back of the house where the kitchens opened out into the small, enclosed yard. Galeria followed quickly in his wake, aware of the beady gaze of Antoninus boring into her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  15 September 81 CE, Island of RHODOS

  Cyra lay back on the straw-filled pallet of her new bedchamber. It was late afternoon and the heat was oppressive, but she didn’t have the strength or the will to drag herself from the bed and go out into the fresh air of the peristylium. Her body was too weak from malnutrition and abuse, and her spirit was beaten down. Even though her lot had improved immeasurably since the morning before when she had stood naked on the slave block, her brain foggy, her reflexes slow, watching with only half her attention the disgusted expressions on the slave buyer’s faces, she now felt defeated in a way that was totally alien to her. Life no longer seemed worth the monumental struggle it required to maintain it.

  She kept remembering those disgusted expressions. Yes, she was a gruesome sight now. It was amazing she still lived after her master had sliced off her breasts, telling her that if she wanted to behave like an Amazon then she would need to look like one. It was only due to the fast work of the cook, who was also their healer, that the blood flow had been staunched, the skin stitched together and ointment applied to ward of putrefaction. In a way, she wished the woman hadn’t taken such good care of her. Death would have been better than the life she now lived.

  The very proper young woman who had saved her the day before had promised her a better life. She’d reassured her she would never be hurt again. But Cyra had seen the look of horror and disgust on her face when she had seen her scars, still angry and raw. The woman would sell her off as soon as she was well. Nice, upright citizens of Rome didn’t fill their environment with disgusting objects like her. People like Cyra reminded people like Galeria that the world was not the rosy place they thought it was. Beneath the thin veneer of civilization, the Roman Empire was no better than any barbarian territory. Worse than some even.

  But to a sheltered, gently reared women like Galeria the Empire was a place of wonder, order and safety. How wrong she was.

  At that moment, a shadow appeared in the open doorway and Cyra looked up. Her thoughts must have manifested her new mistress, because there she was – every tall, lean and scrupulously tidy inch of her. Today, the expression on her almost plain face was gentle but determined. Only the large grey eyes and the wide mouth with its fleshy bottom lip gave the long, angular face any semblance of beauty. It didn’t help her appearance that Galeria kept her brown hair pulled tightly back in an unappealing knob at the top of her head. That only succeeded in emphasising a nose that was a little too big and a chin that was somewhat too firm for a woman’s features.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’ Galeria asked, coming into the tiny room and crouching down at her side.

  ‘Well enough, Mistress.’

  ‘Mater said you didn’t eat your lunch. You’re half starved. If you’re to regain your strength you must eat.’

  ‘And if I don’t? You will lose your two sesterces. Is that it?’ Cyra couldn’t keep the weak snarl out of her voice.

  ‘The money I paid for you doesn’t concern me. I’m worried about you. I want you to get well for your own sake.’

  ‘Why? What am I to you but a lame bitch you rescued from a midden heap?’

  The other woman jerked back as if she’d been slapped and for a moment, Cyra felt ashamed. She’d never been a cruel, angry person. Even when she was betrayed, she hadn’t harboured any intense animosity toward the woman whose role it had been to protect and guide her but had instead lined her pockets by selling her. Back then she’d felt only an odd sense of incomprehension. It had been beyond her to understand how one of her people, who valued freedom above all else, would do such a thing to another of their tribe.

  In many ways, being sold to the school of dancers in Amaseia had been a step up in life. She’d lived in luxurious surroundings, trained to sing, dance and play a variety of instruments and had her active mind educated in languages, philosophy and the arts for five years. Her body had been dressed in silks and other fine fabrics, her skin soothed by unguents from the Far East. All of it done to make her a more entertaining slave-concubine.

  For a little Parthian dancer whose sole aim in life had been to raise enough money from dancing and prostitution to go home and support a family of her own, it should have been the most wonderful time of her life. But to Cyra’s
people, who lived in the remote mountains to the north of Parthia, a gilded cage was still a cage. Even if she had sold her body on the dusty streets of Rhagae, as was expected, she would have been the one to choose who took their pleasure with her. And she would have been paid for her services, and that payment would have made her respected and honoured as a provider back home.

  Instead, she no longer owned even her body – what was left of it – and becoming a possession had obviously made her mindlessly cruel it would seem. Otherwise, why else would she be verbally striking out at a girl who had saved her from the worst kind of hell?

  ‘I don’t see you as a dog, I see you as a person. One who has been most horribly abused. I know you must feel like life is no longer worth living, but I assure you it is. We’re different from most of the Romans you’ve probably met. My father is a Stoic and we follow his philosophies in this household. They’re more than a way of thinking to us; they’re a way of living. And slaves are people, not animals, to us. I know that means nothing to you at this moment, but it will.’

  ‘I know of the teachings of Diogenes of Babylon and his student Apollodorus of Seleucia. I’ve read the latter’s works on physics.’ Cyra tried to keep her voice matter-of-fact when all she wanted to do was yell at this woman that she was not the illiterate whore she thought she was.

  Galeria’s eyes opened wide and she grinned in surprised delight. For the first time, the girl looked beautiful. ‘You do? Oh, how wonderful! Pater will look forward to hearing your opinions on that work. I myself haven’t read it. I struggle with written Greek I have to say. Languages don’t come naturally to me.’

  ‘I write and speak several languages, including Greek and Latin.’

  ‘Get well…’ Galeria paused as she sought Cyra’s name in her memory and didn’t find it. ‘Oh, I still don’t even know your name. I told you mine yesterday but you weren’t in a fit state to tell me yours…’

  ‘Cyra. It means moon. And I remember your name is Galeria and that this is the household of Appius Galerius Donicus.’

  The young woman beamed at her again. ‘Get well, Cyra. You’re much needed here. What’s been done to your body is unimportant. It’s your soul and your mind that are important to us. And it’s obvious to me that your mind is a wonderful resource that I hope you’ll share with me.’

  ‘I am your slave. I’m used to giving everything to my masters.’

  Galeria studied her closely for a moment in silence before she replied. ‘I’ll ask you to share, not demand it. You’ll never be forced to do anything, even share your thoughts and knowledge with us, if you don’t care to.’

  Cyra had no answer for this. She simply grunted and looked away.

  ‘If I bring you fresh grapes and honey cakes will you eat them?’ Galeria’s tone was almost cajoling.

  Cyra grunted an affirmation. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this young woman now. Could she truly mean what she said – that Cyra had value because of her knowledge? And that it would be her choice if she shared it?

  Even though she’d been trained to believe that her knowledge made her a valued slave-concubine, her first master had treated her more like a trained monkey, delighting when she spouted logic as if her wisdom was just a clever form of playacting. But soon his interest had turned to aggression, as he became threatened by her superior mind. He’d eventually been unable to perform with her without beating her into submission first. It was during one of those beatings that she’d been driven to fight back in the only way she knew how – she’d ridiculed his manhood. And she’d paid a high price for it.

  But Galeria didn’t treat her like she was a trained monkey. She seemed genuinely impressed with her knowledge and attributes. Could Astarte have finally led her to the place where her soul truly belonged?

  ‘I will eat, Mistress. And I’ll share what I know with you if you care to hear it.’

  The beautiful smile was back, and Cyra realised she had to rethink her opinion of this woman in more ways than one. When she let her beautiful soul shine through, Galeria was glorious. Cyra’s own past beauty paled beside it.

  20 October 81 CE, Island of RHODOS

  Cyra stood behind the divan on which her young mistress lounged. Donicus and his wife, Papia, reclined on divans at right angles to Galeria’s, while their youngest family member, eight-year-old Galerianna sat at a small table next to the wall. The child was sulking because her request to take up a divan of her own at meals had been rejected.

  Instead of rebuking her, Donicus had simply laughed good-naturedly at her antics. Papia had been the one to reprimand her daughter. And since that sharp rebuke, the child had sat sulking in her usual seat refusing to eat.

  Children were the same everywhere, Cyra concluded, as she turned to smile at the child. This youngest, most beloved member of the family was spoiled, but not enough to damage her engaging personality.

  The child saw Cyra smiling at her and grinned back. Then she turned to face the offending table again, crossed her arms over her chest and stuck out her bottom lip in the most outrageous pout. At moments like this, Galerianna reminded Cyra so much of her own little sister Katja that her heart ached.

  ‘Appius won’t be home as soon as we expected. His missive said that he’ll extend his military service another six months and then take up a position as one of the judges at the centumviral court at Ephesus,’ Galeria said, to cover the uncomfortable silence Galerianna’s sulks had created.

  Cyra knew that Appius was the son of the household who was a year younger than Galeria. He’d just served his obligatory six months as a tribune and had been expected to be able to focus on his chosen profession, the law, from now on. She wasn’t sure why he’d extend his military service, but she did know that the centumviral court dealt with civil matters of law. It was a prestigious position for such a young man.

  ‘Thank the gods for Livianna Honoraria’s patronage. Without her ear to her cousin-in-law, Emperor Titus, I’m sure it would have been far longer before I saw my boy home again,’ Papia said with a sigh of pleasure.

  ‘She’s been a good friend to you over the years, dear heart, and it was such good news to hear that her long lost daughter has been returned to her. She deserves it.

  ‘Cyrianus was ever the dogmatist back in the day when we studied under Attalus together, but I would never have imagined him sinking into madness. Anyone can become tainted it would seem, even the most carefully cultivated minds. It saddened me to hear what became of him.’ Donicus sighed heavily as he reached for a leg of cold chicken.

  ‘I only hope Livianna can cultivate the ear of Domitian now that he’s claimed the Empire. Do you know she was there with Titus on the final day of the inaugural games, the day before his death? The emperor gave her a condemned slave who’d fought and killed a lion with his bare hands. She said it was the most exciting thing she’s ever seen.’ Papia waved a small fan in front of her over-heated face.

  Cyra knew nothing of this Livianna or Cyrianus. She’d picked up a great deal about this family in the weeks she’d resided here, but there were still many pieces of gossip that eluded her. But she now knew that Galeria would happily explain it all to her later if she wanted to know about it.

  If she’d been concerned that she’d be bled dry of her knowledge by Galeria, she’d worried for nothing. Her new mistress was as happy to share what she knew with Cyra as she was to gain her knowledge. It was a wonderfully equal relationship in so many ways, and it was almost like having a sister again.

  It was becoming harder and harder to remember that she was a slave and not just a valued servant in this household. There were no locks on the doors and no one watching her every move in case she tried to escape. Because of that, Cyra was happy to stay. It didn’t hurt that she had seen firsthand what happened to runaway slaves during her months with the slavers. It still turned her stomach to remember the brandings she’d seen and the one crucifixion she’d witnessed. No man deserved to die in that torturous way.

  No,
going home now was out of the question. Without the money to support a family, she would be valueless to her people. With each passing year, she’d seen herself grow older and farther from her goal. By now, had she stayed free, she would have raised enough to return home. But five years in the dancing school and one with her last master had set her back too far. And if that weren’t enough, being unable to nurture any child she bore would make her valueless as a mother and sexually unattractive to any prospective husband, even if she did manage to earn the necessary money.

  No, this was her new home. And, oddly, the longer she stayed here with the Stoic family, the more content she became with her lot in life.

  ‘Antoninus asked for your hand again today, Galeria. He is becoming quite insistent,’ Donicus said after he finished his meat.

  ‘You told him no again,’ Galeria replied without making it a question.

  ‘Of course. But that young man worries me. He seems to be intentionally trying to put words into my mouth. I don’t understand his purpose.’

  ‘He idolises you Pater and so he wants you to be the heroic rebel he can’t be himself. His father has him chained to him as surely as any slave. That’s why he came here to Rhodos, I think. To escape that man.’ Galeria took up a bunch of grapes and began nibbling on them thoughtfully.

  ‘It would be an advantageous marriage, and you aren’t getting any younger. Most girls are married with a family of their own by your age,’ Papia said wistfully.

  ‘I have no plans to ever marry, Mater. You know that. I’m happy to follow in Pater’s footsteps. And what attractive, intelligent man would ever want someone as plain and forthright as I am?’

  ‘Antoninus would. He obviously cares greatly for you. He could do far better for himself than you, my dear, given his father’s position, but he wants you.’

  ‘I said attractive, intelligent man. Antoninus is neither. And it isn’t his weight or appearance that makes him unattractive, it’s his personality. At first, I felt sorry for him and tried to bring him out of his shy ways, but then I realised that he’s quite the most obnoxious man I’ve ever met. And his lack of intelligence just compounds the problem. I wish I did find him attractive. Believe me, I do. And I know women of my station regularly marry men they don’t like. But the idea of spending my life in that man’s bed bearing his children just makes my skin crawl.’