Woman of Sin

by Debra Diaz

  She knew Paulus didn’t bother to hide his contempt for his stepbrother. Staff tribunes had little or no military experience but loved to strut about and give orders to their subordinates. Lucius was no exception; he wore the uniform of the military tribune and seemed to have some authority (also bestowed upon him by Sejanus) but it was ambiguous in nature and no one seemed to know how far it extended. Lucius contented himself by keeping the lower-ranking officers running hither and yon on various errands, and created an illusion of being much more experienced in military matters than he actually was; in reality, he had never seen a battle although he was extraordinarily gifted in the use of a sword…something he proved often in mock exhibitions of swordplay in the arena.

  Lucius’ relationship with Antonia’s daughter, Selena, fared little better, for Selena bestowed no cordiality upon anyone who failed to admire her brother. It was an unhappy situation, to be sure, but Antonia had no idea what to do about it. She had simply shrugged mentally, turned her attention to her prize-winning gardens and frequent parties, and prayed to the gods to keep them all from killing each other.

  Alysia knew the older woman was scrutinizing her, but she suddenly felt too sick to care. Without warning the room seemed to darken and the floor dropped away. The legate turned as she began to fall and instinctively reached out to catch her. Through the fog of semi-consciousness she heard the woman say, “Don’t touch her, Paulus—I hope she isn’t sickly …”

  She was floating, the walls were gliding past her, and the legate’s hard leather cuirass was pressing uncomfortably into her side. Her arms dangled awkwardly but she refused to raise them to his shoulders. He didn’t look at her; he seemed almost angry about something. He easily climbed a short set of stairs, entered another room and lowered her onto a couch. She scrambled up and tried to get to her feet, but again the world seemed to reel and she stood swaying as he grabbed her and set her down again.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said impatiently. “Be still.”

  Her eyes fell upon the knotted red sash that hung down the center of his cuirass; she stared at it as if hypnotized. She had no idea what to expect now—or what was expected of her.

  “Master Paulus, your mother said you have need of me.”

  A plump, elderly woman with tight curls all over her head stood in the doorway. She looked at Alysia and then moved toward her, clucking like a hen. “Oh, but that gown, my dear. We shall have to get you some clothes. The other maid’s things won’t fit you at all. She was much heavier in the—”

  “Calista, may I have a word with you?”

  The legate walked back to the door. Alysia’s eyes flitted over the room, noting the fine, colored panels of the walls, the rich wood of the chest, the bed with its linen covering, and the shadowed antechamber that would no doubt be hers. She sank back against the cushions of the couch, still half-believing this was a dream. Here she sat, in a strange land, in a strange house, no longer a person but the property of Romans.

  Romans had taken her father. Romans had destroyed her life.

  Calista scurried toward the legate, and though he spoke in low tones, Alysia could hear everything he said. His words didn’t leave her with any great feeling of reassurance.

  “Give her something to eat. Let her rest until tomorrow.” He hesitated, and his eyes went over her in an absent, thoughtful way. “Above all, see that she is kept away from my stepbrother and his friends.”

  * * * *

  She woke abruptly, alarmed by the quiet solitude in the room. She wasn’t accustomed to quiet. She climbed out of the narrow bed and stood blinking in the tiny, almost dark room. Now she remembered; she’d eaten what Calista had brought her—bread and some kind of fish soup—and then she’d fallen asleep in the bedroom of her new owner, whom she had yet to meet. Someone (the legate?) must have carried her into this room and placed her on the bed.

  Alysia peeked into the adjoining bedroom. No one was there. She moved lightly to the window and threw open the latticed shutters.

  The late morning sun slanted through the window and she leaned far over the sill to take in the view. Because the house topped a steep hill, she thought she must be able to see half the city. Markets, temples, the red tile roofs of other mansions, aqueducts, trees and paved roads spread in all directions below. Looking toward her right, she could see the glint of the Tiber River, and there was a breathtaking view of the hills beyond. A narrow road, apparently for private use, ran almost directly beneath the window and appeared to connect with another house some distance away.

  Rome wasn’t at all like Athens, she decided. Athens was a peaceful place, tranquil, lost in its memories of days gone by. There the agora was a place where men who had nothing better to do gathered to discuss the exploits of Pericles, the philosophies of Plato, Socrates, Aristotle. She had been to Corinth once, and it was like Rome—all noise and activity, overpopulated and abused. She’d disliked it intensely.

  She stretched and was about to move away when she heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on pavement. Looking downward, she saw the legate in full uniform, a dark red tunic over which he wore the leather kilt and cuirass. She’d always thought men of high rank wore white tunics with purple borders, but he seemed to prefer the crimson. His hair shone in the sun, a light, tawny brown with pale streaks from much time spent outdoors. It was somewhat longer than the current fashion of close-cropped curls, and was straight with a natural fullness.

  The sleek horse and the man moved with rhythmic precision, and there was an air of mutual respect between the two. There was, she thought reluctantly, something of the strength and grace of the man that reminded her of an animal. Once, in one of the agoras of Athens, she’d seen a captured lion on display. The beast had awed her in its magnificence, its sheer power. The Roman, too, was strong and agile and proud. She remembered how he had carried her as effortlessly as if she were a child. No doubt he was as fierce and deadly as a lion; no doubt he had killed many men.

  He spoke cheerfully to someone on the grounds, and glanced up at the window as he passed, as though he could feel her watching him. Their eyes met. She made herself look away and retreated slowly until the diminishing hoof beats told her he was out of sight. She felt her heart beating hard with anger and resentment.

  “My brother is very handsome, is he not?” A proud, feminine voice spoke from behind her.

  Startled, Alysia whirled and stared at the voice’s owner. She was a young woman of her own age, of the same tall stature and slender form. She had golden hair piled atop her head and woven into intricate curls, gaily decorated with ribbons to match the pale rose and cream gown she wore. Large dark eyes regarded her solemnly, but in their depths something much like mischief sparkled.

  “I am Selena. My real name is Valeria, of course, but no one ever calls me that.” The girl moved with liquid ease further back into the room, as if expecting her slave to follow. “And you are Alysia. The name suits you. I don’t expect I’ll change it.”

  Alysia remained where she stood, her eyes on the floor. Change her name, indeed!

  “I allowed you to sleep late because my brother said you were ill yesterday. You are feeling better?”

  “Yes.” Alysia struggled with a wave of rebellious thoughts. She was accustomed to servants doing her own bidding, and now she must take orders from this girl, this Roman!

  “I have arranged for you to—” Selena paused delicately, “bathe. I shall go through some of my old clothes and select some for you. I don’t like my slaves going around in dark colors like everybody else’s. I’m sure they’ll fit you. My other maid—the one who died—was much shorter of stature.”

  Alysia was silent. She certainly did not owe these Romans her thanks! Selena seemed unperturbed by her lack of gratitude.

  “Tell me, what sort of things do you do?”

  Alysia looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you sing, dance? Tell stories?” Again, mischief sparkled in the dark brown eyes. “W
hat can you do to entertain me?”

  “My father, before he was murdered, was a man of means. His daughter was not versed in the art of entertaining. If you think I am going to amuse you, you’d best send me out to work in the fields.”

  “Oh, but you do amuse me!” Selena seemed to restrain herself from a burst of laughter. “And believe me, you wouldn’t be happy working in the fields.”

  “As happy, I’m sure, as I will be serving you.”

  The young woman gazed at her for a moment, the hint of laughter disappearing. “You may address me as ‘lady’. I’ll leave you alone now. Calista has brought you a light breakfast. I’ll send someone in with a tub and water.” As she was leaving she said over her shoulder, “We will discuss your duties later.”

  Alysia ate the bread and cheese, drank the water lightly laced with wine, and felt a little better. The bronze tub was brought in and filled with water by two youths. A sour-looking young woman left a linen towel and a pile of clothes on a table. She looked as though she’d been sucking lemons. Alysia wondered if she looked that way, too.

  Hastily she stripped off the red gown and stepped into the water. Though she had been vigorously washed by the women preparing her for the auction, she scrubbed again at her sore skin as if she might erase every trace of the slave ship. She washed her hair, pouring clean water over it from a pitcher. When she had dried herself with the towel she examined the clothes. There was a sleeveless shift of an off-white color, a tunic of pale green, and an outer skirt—the Romans called it a palla—of deep sea green. A soft leather girdle bound her slender hips and there were dark green sandals that fit her narrow feet perfectly. Alysia supposed that wearing the cast-offs of the legate’s sister she would be the best-dressed slave in the empire.

  She quickly plaited her hair, allowing the waist-length braid to hang down her back. On the table where the clothes had been was Selena’s mirror, a large, round bit of pottery into the center of which had been poured metal and glass; it was one of the best in quality Alysia had ever seen. She lifted it carefully and stared at her reflection.

  It was a striking face, remembered by those who beheld it. Finely-sculpted cheekbones gave balance and distinction to her slender features; her eyes tilted slightly upward and were accented by curving black brows and a thick fringe of long dark lashes. Her lips were full and well-shaped, and (once upon a time) could curve into an engaging smile. Her teeth, in spite of their recent neglect, were even and white and showed no signs of imminent departure.

  Somehow she was surprised by the familiarity of her face. How could she remain unchanged, after all that had happened to her?

  The door to Selena’s bedroom opened. “Come, Alysia,” Selena said, smiling. “There is much to teach you.”

  CHAPTER III

  Alysia felt as if she were becoming another person. She wasn’t rude by nature; she had always been civil to everyone, even to her servants. But after having the midday meal at the rear of the house with the other slaves, she discovered that she was pointedly ignoring them and didn’t know why. It was as if by refusing to acknowledge them she could somehow refuse to acknowledge that she was one of them.

  The girl who had brought her clothes did not attempt to be friendly. There were two boys who stared at her, and a female cook who was unusually fresh looking and lithe of figure (it was Alysia’s experience that cooks were often overweight and out of sorts). There was a silent Egyptian who she learned was the butler; he gave her a solemn nod. Others drifted in and out. They were all quiet but looked at her curiously.

  Afterward, Selena came and escorted her into the library, where she received an outline of her duties in stony silence. It seemed that her sole function in life was to be Selena’s shadow and to attend to her every need and comfort. She must always stand straight unless given permission to sit, must never speak unless spoken to, and she must always be at the beck and call of her owner. She was to see that Selena’s clothes were laundered and laid out each day; she was to help her dress; she was to be trained in the art of hairdressing so that she might create an enviable coiffure at a moment’s notice.

  Now she sat listlessly as Selena slept with a volume of poetry on her chest that moved slowly up and down with her breathing. It was the Roman custom to nap in the afternoon, Selena had told her—wasn’t it that way in Greece? But Alysia must not even close her eyes… “unless, of course,” Selena said with a wink, “you think you can get away with it.” She’d been sleeping for a long time, and before that had read for a long time. Alysia was so bored she could have chewed up the book and spit it out. That should prove very entertaining!

  From far away she heard the sound of the knocker at the front door and presently she saw the Egyptian, whose name she had learned was Omari, pass down the hallway. Selena stirred and sat up at the sound of voices.

  Omari appeared in the doorway and bowed stiffly. “My lady, your sister-in-law has arrived.”

  Before Selena could reply, a woman fanned into the room, her scarlet gown billowing and trailing the scent of a strong perfume. Omari disappeared on silent feet.

  “Megara, what a lovely surprise,” Selena said, stifling a yawn.

  The woman sat down, looking at Alysia without speaking. Selena followed her gaze and frowned disapprovingly. Alysia remembered she was to stand in their presence, unless given permission to do otherwise. She made a motion to rise and stopped, resentment flooding her once again. She pretended not to see Selena’s glance.

  “Where is Phoebe?” Selena asked quickly, as Megara delicately arranged the folds of her palla about her.

  “Sick—again! I left her at home.” Megara seemed disgusted by the absent Phoebe. “She’s the laziest slave I’ve ever seen and I may sell her to those Arabian merchants I saw in the forum today. It would serve her right, having to live in a tent and be in their—harems or whatever you call them.”

  Selena giggled. Megara again cast a questioning eye in Alysia’s direction, and again Selena hastened to speak. “How is Paulus? I only saw him for a moment this morning. I spent yesterday with Cornelius’ family in the country.”

  The other woman sighed. “I wouldn’t know. Probably I see less of my husband than you do.”

  Alysia glanced up sharply, regarding the woman with more interest. From what the legate had said yesterday, she had assumed that Lucius was his stepbrother, and had mistakenly concluded that this woman must be Lucius’ wife. There was something about Megara that brought Lucius to mind—a kind of alert wariness that somehow made you feel you were not quite to be trusted. She didn’t seem suited to Paulus somehow, though she was very beautiful, with red hair (probably dyed) adorned with jewels set in a tiara, and large light brown eyes, almost topaz, which were rather cold and remote. She was taller than Alysia and quite old—at least in her late twenties.

  She had a rich, throaty voice and spoke with precise enunciation. “I see you have a replacement for—what was her name?”

  “Lydia. Yes, this is Alysia. Paulus got her for me yesterday.”

  “Indeed?” Megara’s face became very still, but something in her eyes leaped into life.

  Selena said, with deliberate nonchalance, “Paulus must have been much impressed. He despises slave auctions, you know, but I begged until he gave in. I don’t like to go myself, and I don’t trust anyone else. I expected him to buy the first one he saw, so I could hardly believe it when I saw she was so elegant, and such a beauty.”

  Megara smiled. “How brotherly of him. I trust you didn’t pay more than a few hundred denarii?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me, though I suspect it was much more than that. He gave her to me as a gift.”

  For a moment, the other person Alysia had become hated them both, hated them so fiercely she thought she might lose her breakfast upon the white cushions of the couch. She almost wished she would, just to see their horror-struck expressions. They would certainly think her elegant then!

  Why am I thinking this way? she asked herself, dismayed to
realize how bitter she had become in so short a time. She jumped when Selena called her name. “Alysia, go and have Nerva prepare a tray of honey cakes.”

  Alysia’s jaw tightened. She saw the contemptuous way Megara regarded her and, for some reason, this gave her the impetus to stand and walk stiffly from the room.

  Megara watched her departure. The slave did have an uncommon beauty, and it was easy to see why Paulus had been attracted to her. It was not unusual for a man to free a female slave and set her up as his mistress. The wives of such men usually shrugged and pretended not to care, many really didn’t care, and promptly found lovers of their own. Never mind that Augustus had once made adultery a state crime; it was an old-fashioned statute that no one paid any attention to these days.

  But Megara did not intend to share Paulus with a slave. She knew he’d had a few affairs, but always very discreetly and with ladies of breeding. Never let it be said that he preferred a slave to his own wife!

  “She’s not very pleasant,” Megara said. “I shouldn’t think you’d want her.”

  “Oh, she’s still indignant about losing her station in life. But she will recover. I remember Lydia was that way for a while.”

  “If she’s proud, she’ll never make a good body-slave. You’ll do well to get rid of her and find some girl simple-minded enough not to care about a meaningless existence.”

  “Meaningless—oh, really, Megara! We treat our slaves very well. If she’s loyal she can live a very good life, and I might even free her someday.”

  Megara sighed. “She’s a troublemaker. I can tell simply by looking at her. If you change your mind my household manager will dispose of her for you, and even get you another maid.”

  “No, thank you. I intend to keep her, if only because Paulus went to the trouble of finding her for me. Here she comes…”