by Nhys Glover
“Then I had better eat and put on some weight, had I not?” I sniped, knowing it was the wrong thing to say and yet unwilling to be compliant any longer. “So the prince wants me as his wife.”
The spark of jealousy, or something similar, made the leader’s dark eyes glisten in a way that made the hairs on my arms stand up. This was no man to poke at. He would retaliate sooner or later. There were many things he could force on me while keeping my virginity intact. I had to remember that.
The half day journey to Antiochia was done on horseback, during which I was once more uncomfortably perched behind one of my captors. All I could say of it was that it was better than voyaging by ship, though the ground still rose and fell at odd moments, even now. But I gritted my teeth, fought to breathe through my mouth, and kept silent.
Complaining had never been a habit of mine. And life as Cassius had knocked any of my noblewoman softness out of me. I may not care for my current situation, but complaining would not improve my lot. In fact, it was likely to make it worse. So I counted my blessings, few that they were.
At least my hands were no longer tied. I imagined it would look too suspicious for the Parthians to be seen on these busy roads with a bound Roman woman. While we were still in Roman territory they would try to be as inconspicuous as possible.
Not that these five would ever be considered inconspicuous. They had attracted gazes everywhere we went. Or their smell did.
I shuddered. Would I ever get used to the smell of these men? One could get used to any smell over time, I reasoned. And I was not much sweeter smelling. My skin was coated in sweat, salt and dust I worried would never come out of my pores.
Another blessing was the scenery. We had been making our way inland along the river. At times, steep cliffs rose up on either side of us, majestic and awe-inspiring. Once clear of the cliffs, we entered a long narrow plain, verdant and lush with all manner of exotic plant and birdlife. Even the air smelled different from home.
One of the men suddenly pointed ahead, grunting a few brief words in his unintelligible language. Craning my neck and bending sideways so I could see beyond the broad back of my captor, I tried to see what he pointed at.
Ahead lay what I assumed was the city of Antiochia, a great walled city spread along one side of the river and occupying the full expanse of a large island in its middle. It then stretched up the side of rolling, vineyard covered hills. The white of the houses was blinding in the winter sunshine. For a moment I was struck dumb by the beauty of the place.
Unlike Rome, Antiochia seemed well laid out and neat, as if some god had drawn a series of hatched lines in the ground running off from the one thick, straight, central line that seemed to run east to west. My ancestors had built their roads along those lines, their houses between them. The river’s graceful sweep was the only thing that interfered with the symmetry of the city’s streets.
Although I knew it would not be the case, as it never was when humans were involved, it still seemed that Antiochia was both pristine and perfect.
And, of course, I was right. As soon as we grew closer the sounds, smells and detritus of humanity struck me like a blow. Yet it was nowhere near as foul and chaotic as Rome.
Like all Roman cities, the streets were empty of vehicles during the day, I noted as we passed through the eastern gate. I immediately caught sight of soldiers on a street corner, relaxed and talking while they devoured some kind of bean stew they’d purchased from a nearby stall. My heart rose and began beating rapidly as hope of escape beckoned. If I could get to those men and tell them what had happened to me, who I was, they might protect me!
But my idea must have struck my captors as well, because in the next instant I felt a sharp prick against my belly. If I breathed too deeply the stabbing pain grew worse. It took a moment for me to realise what was happening. My captor had brought his right hand back behind him. In that hand he clutched a dagger. It was this that pressed into my side so painfully.
Desperately, I looked down to see if the dagger was visible. Surely one of the soldiers would see it and realise I was a prisoner. But no, the arm had gone between the split in the side of my captor’s knee-length tunic. If anyone saw the bent elbow they would think he was fingering me lewdly as we rode.
My heart sank further as one of the other Parthians moved up to ride between me and the soldiers, talking at me in his own language as if we were the best of friends. I was not even going to be allowed to use my expression to alert the soldiers to my situation.
We followed the wide straight road through the centre of the city until we reached the western gate. And before I had found another opportunity for escape, we were out of the city and moving onto a great flat area where the caravans camped.
Here there were colourful tents and people of all nationalities, dressed in exotic costumes and jabbering in a variety of tongues. Rome had been like that, but the main voice had always been Latin. Here, Latin seemed to be in the minority. If I had to guess, I would have said the most prevalent language was Aramaic. I had become acquainted with the tongue in Portus Augusta last year, and its cadence had struck me as distinctive then, even if I could not understand its meaning. That same cadence was around me now, melodic and undulating.
The smell of animal dung was heavy in the warm midday air. Occasionally, an odd animal noise like a deep gravelled growl sounded, and I looked around to catch sight of the beast that made such an odd noise.
Sure enough, a tall creature with a large hump on its back was responsible, and the way it was pulling at the rope holding its head, the animal was objecting to whatever the man required of it.
I would have loved to watch the interaction between contrary and vocal beast and man, but my captors were making their way quickly through the press of animals, humanity and makeshift dwellings to the edge of the huge encampment.
Here we dismounted, and I was given the chance to stretch my legs and find a latrine set aside for the women. It was little more than a hole in the ground surrounded by sheets of coarse fabric and no ceiling overhead, but it gave me what I needed, privacy and relief. During my extended period without food and water I had not needed to relieve myself often. Now, though, my body’s normal rhythm was returning.
Outside the latrine one of my guards waited. He took me by the elbow and led me back to our small group. Here I discovered the leader in deep conversation with a short, skinny man with leathered face, black, greasy hair and beard, and long flowing robe. A stained and filthy robe, I noted with a heavy sigh. There seemed to be plenty of fresh water here, could nobody find use for it to wash their bodies and clothes?
They seemed to be negotiating, and at one point the leader snapped imperiously at the much shorter man and made him jump. The greasy stranger became much more accommodating after that, and shortly thereafter we were led to a nearby tent and offered food and water. Once finished the brief meal, we remounted our horses. The skinny man joined us, accompanied by a heavily packed mule.
I had been placed behind another of my captors. It would seem they were passing me around to ease the burden on their mounts. Not that I was much of a burden. I weighed little more than a child at the moment. Fleetingly, I wished I had been able to eat during the sea voyage so that I could now slow down my captors with my weight. It was a foolish wish.
And while the warm sun beat down on us, we began our journey south.
Chapter Four
Late January 65 CE Mare Internum
ORION
We had been travelling quickly, pushed on by rowers that worked in rotation all day and all night, and by the cold winds that filled our sails. Our only stops were to replenish our stores. The liburna was a lightweight craft, part of the emperor’s own praetorian fleet. It had twenty-four oars on either side of the slim-lined vessel, each manned by two men on either the lower or mid-decks. On the upper deck, under permanent canopies, legionaries being transferred to Asia Minor were seated on long benches.
The Wolf Pack sat on t
he deck at the prow, well out of the way of the crew and the legionaries. We were the only non-military personnel travelling on this craft, a special dispensation given to our master from someone high up in the senate, I assumed. For the most part we were silent, lost in our own thoughts of Accalia. None of us were getting much sleep, even though life in the barracks and the ludus had taught us that giving in to the weakness of sleeplessness could get us killed.
We’d been at sea for nearly two weeks and would shortly be leaving it behind. In a way, I’d regret the end of this stage of our journey, though it brought us closer to our goal. I’d voyaged long distances during my trial and enjoyed it. Unlike Talos, who had been pressed as a galley rower along this very route.
In Britannia I’d managed to find a post as bodyguard to a merchant whose own bodyguard had gone missing the night before he was to leave for Rome. That I had assisted that bodyguard to miss his departure by getting him drunk and leaving him in an alley to sleep it off, had been my little secret. I travelled on the unfortunate man’s documents and enjoyed the journey home, the little merchant an amusing and informative companion; unlike the man who had accompanied me on the outward journey.
I felt marginally guilty for leaving the little merchant unprotected once we reached Rome. There were plenty of ex-gladiators or soldiers ready to take my place, I’d reasoned. He would not be left unprotected for long.
I was dragged from my thoughts by a change in the wind. Moments later, the call went up that a storm was approaching. Men scattered like organised ants to prepare for the onslaught.
All but Asterius had experienced storms. I had survived a harrowing one on the way to Britannia. But nothing could have prepared me for the way the sea shifted so suddenly from calm to mountainous waves as this one did.
From past experience, I knew that those who were not part of the crew could only get in the way if they tried to help. Our safest option was to find a sheltered corner and pray.
“Do you think Accalia’s caught in this?” yelled Talos over the deafening sound of the wind. The crack of the flapping purple sails, as the crew tried to lower them, sounded like a dozen rapid lightning strikes.
I didn’t bother trying to make myself heard over the racket. Nor did anyone else. None of us knew where Accalia was. Although the chances of her being caught in this storm were small, I hazarded.
The legionaries were led below decks. I didn’t know if I would have preferred that option or not. If we went down, I’d rather not make the interior of this ship my coffin. On the other hand, there was less chance of being washed overboard below decks.
It was irrelevant anyway. We four were not the centurion’s concern. So we huddle out of the way of the salty waves breaking over the deck and tried not to freeze in the wind that must have come straight from the icy realms of the north.
How long the storm raged I had no idea. An hour? A day? Time lost all meaning as the ship bucked beneath us like an unbroken horse and the wind whipped at us like an angry lanista. My hands grew stiff and numb from being clamped so tightly around the rope I’d claimed as my own. It was wrapped around a water barrel, affixing the cask firmly to the side of the ship.
My pack-mates had found similar places to secure themselves nearby. They looked as wet, miserable and exhausted as I felt.
My teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. I told myself it was from cold, but it could just as likely have been from fear. Any man would have been a fool not to be afraid during the harrowing hours we clung to our small lump of wood. A lump of wood that fought valiantly to stay upright and afloat in a boiling stew that only the angriest gods could have conjured.
It happened suddenly. One moment I was holding onto the ropes; the next I wasn’t. Later, I decided the rope must have torn away from the barrel, and my hands, too numb to grapple for a new handhold, had let go. All my beleaguered brain knew in that moment was that I was suddenly no longer holding onto the rope. Instead, I was sliding across the wet deck, colliding with anything in my path.
I heard someone call out. Probably one of my pack-mates. But I was too occupied trying to protect myself from the next full-body collision to look around for them. It was like the worst beating I’d ever had. And I’d taken some beatings in my time. But this... this was all the more terrifying because, at any moment, I expected to go over the side.
When it happened it was almost a relief. A great wave washed over the deck and picked me and my barrel up and cast us into the frigid sea. Somehow, survival instincts kicked in enough to have me grabbing onto the barrel as it ploughed into my side. With splinters digging into my numbed fingertips, I hugged the barrel close.
The storm abated not long after. Or so it seemed to me. Although time was still doing odd things. All I knew for sure was that the seas had calmed, the skies had cleared, and the sun began to shine again. It was as if the storm had never been. But I knew it had, because I was flung over a barrel in the salty mare with no sign of anything but the endless expanse of blue. For as far as my stinging eyes could see the horizon was empty.
Again time elongated as I drifted in and out of consciousness. My brain was foggy when I was awake. In retrospect, it was a good thing it was because, had I been thinking clearly, I would have given up. The sea teemed with sharks. I couldn’t swim. My only hope for survival was a renegade barrel that had once held drinking water, but was probably now filling up with seawater as it prepared to sink. And worst of all: there was no land in sight. Yes, it was a good thing my brain remained unaware of just how dire my situation was.
I simply hung on to my floating saviour and prayed to Mars to intercede with his brother Neptune for me, so I could live long enough to one day fight for him again.
He must have done just that, because the next time I awoke it was to find myself sprawled face up on a pebbled beach, the stones pressing uncomfortably into my bruised and lacerated back.
Flopping over onto my belly, I coughed and hacked up water. In the part of my brain that still worked, I decided this must be what a beached fish must feel like: out of its element, cumbersome and awkward, and unable to draw breath. I would never look at another fish again without remembering this moment.
It was night. The sky above was black and littered with pinpricks of light. No moon illuminated my surroundings. I tried to remember what phase the moon was in. I should know. I would have seen it every night of our journey. But my brain wouldn’t remember. It wouldn’t remember much of anything.
Panicking, I surged to my feet. Why couldn’t I remember?! Where was I? How did I get here?
Like a fragment of a dream, I caught a memory. A ship. I had been on a ship, and a storm had hit. A wave washed me overboard.
My pack! Accalia! More and more was coming back now, I was relieved to realise. But my relief was short-lived. I might remember how I came to be here, but I had no idea where ‘here’ was. And I didn’t have the time to be waylaid by misfortune. Accalia needed me!
I looked around me. What little light there was showed me a deserted beach with no outline of buildings. If I just started walking it could be the wrong direction. Might it not be more sensible to wait until first light when I could assess my situation? I could have washed up anywhere. There were hundreds of islands, large and small, in this part of the Mare Internum. Until daylight I wouldn’t know.
So I staggered up onto the grassy verge and collapsed once more. I was cold, but not nearly as cold as I had been during the storm. The climate seemed milder at this time of the year than I was used to. Not exactly hot, but not the cold of an Umbrian winter. Or even a Roman winter.
Thirst clawed at me. My mouth felt as dry as a desert and tinged with salt. I kept trying to swallow, to wet it and drive out the taste of the sea. It didn’t work. In the end, unconsciousness or exhaustion claimed me once more. I forgot all about my thirst and fear as I sank into oblivion.
I awoke to find a dog licking my face. Batting it away, I struggled to rise.
Where was I? What had happened?<
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The small animal sat at my side, long tongue lolling out, and bright eyes sparkling with mischief.
If I had to, could I eat it? My empty belly told me I could. And the bloody juices would quench my raging thirst.
But a sharp whistle ended that daydream. The dog jumped to its feet and took off in the direction of the whistle. That’s when I realised a whistle meant a person. I was not on a deserted island. There was someone here besides me!
I clambered unsteadily to my feet and began staggering in the direction of the whistle. Though my eyes were blurry and crusted with salt, I thought I made out the shape of a person ahead. The dog was jumping and prancing around him. Yes, him! It was definitely a him!
I tried to call out, but my throat was clogged with salt. So I staggered on, hoping against hope that the person... a boy?... would not run away at the frightening sight I presented.
He didn’t. In fact, he ran toward me and began babbling at me in a language I couldn’t hope to understand.
I was good with languages. And I’d made a point of learning as many as I could from the people I came in contact with in the last couple of years. I had spent hours learning Greek from a seaman on my journey to Britannia. I could speak a little of the languages of the Britannic tribes. I learned one of the Germanic tongues from a kinsman in the ludus in Rome.
It interested me, the many differences in languages men developed, and mastering them occupied hours that would otherwise have been wasted on idleness.
But, of all the languages I had heard on my travels, I’d never come across the one this lad spoke. And that worried me. Where was I? Not the coast of Asia Minor, I was fairly certain of that. And not Greece either. How far off track had the storm carried me? How long had I drifted?
Shaking my head at the boy, I tried to get him to understand I didn’t understand him. After a moment, the flood of words petered out and the small lad—maybe eight or nine—stared up at me in consternation.