The Valiant

by Lesley Livingston

  • • •

  Rome.

  And I had thought Massilia was a place of wonder.

  We sailed inland, up a wide river called Tiber from the bustling port of Ostia on the coast. As we approached the capital itself—the so-called beating heart of the civilized world—the river traffic increased until it was almost impossible to see the water for all the boats, and the galley captain steered toward what looked to be a private wharf on the west bank of the river just inside the city walls. Looking east, I could see hundreds and hundreds of thin gray plumes—smoke from multitudes of cooking fires—rising up into the still evening air like ghost souls. The sun reflected off the hills and many-tiered terraces of the city, clothing her in a soft, blushing glow. Temples and public buildings stood adorned with marble figures and sculpted scenes floating atop colonnades carved of white marble veined with gold and pink and silver.

  From a distance, Rome was serenely majestic.

  Close up, it was a starkly different story.

  Once off the ship, we were herded through a tangle of narrow streets hemmed in by looming structures that blocked out the blaze of the sunset. I could feel eyes on us as our gang of fresh fodder for the auction block was shuffled along.

  The voice of the city was a cacophony of noise pressing against my skin. Men whistled and called out obscenities as we passed. Even with my coarse trader-learned Latin—in some cases, especially with it—I could understand what they said, and it made my flesh crawl. There were women too out in the streets. Some carted baskets and bales of goods and went about their business. Some stood in doorways with eyes and lips painted garishly, wearing filmy garments that did less than nothing to conceal their skinny bodies. One greasy-looking creature wore nothing at all and instead sat chanting before a cobbled-together altar, her limbs draped in writhing, brightly patterned snakes.

  I shuddered and stumbled quickly past her, now anxious to catch up with Charon’s personal wagon, which rumbled along at the head of our ragged train. It turned sharply and disappeared beneath an archway. The slavers prodded us to follow. Once we were through the gate and standing huddled in a sandy courtyard, the madness of the city streets receded to a dull throb, the noise kept at bay by high, thick walls, plastered smooth and topped with jagged points of broken stone. A pair of iron-bound oak doors swung shut behind us, and the sudden, complete silence was deafening. And terrifying.

  Then the slavers were among us, dividing us up and leading us off in groups of men, older women, boys, girls . . . and then Elka and me. The two of us were the last to be led away, through a stone archway and down a long colonnade. I wondered if we were being singled out. Perhaps Charon had changed his mind and decided to punish us for our ruinous escape attempt.

  To my relief, the place we were led wasn’t a cell or a dungeon. It was a bath. A proper Roman bath, mist-wreathed, sweet-scented, and blissfully warm. I’d heard stories of them back home from the traders, and I’d tried without success to imagine what one would be like. I’d only ever bathed in the River Dwr or in the big copper tub that stood in the corner of my little house, filled with water heated in a cauldron over the hearth fire.

  I gazed around, openmouthed.

  Elegant fluted columns held up a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of gods and goddess and strange creatures emerging from waves, horses with fish tails and white bulls wreathed in sea foam. In the center of the ceiling were set panes of colored glass that cast blue and green wavering light onto the surface of the still, steaming pools below.

  Elka let out her breath in a low whistle.

  I had to grudgingly admit to myself that I was glad the Varini girl was still with me. In a way, she almost reminded me of my sister. Sharp-tongued and haughty, but good in a fight, at least.

  As we stood there, a matronly woman strode briskly in through one of the archways, followed by a bent-backed old crone swathed in a drab black robe. The first woman introduced herself as Maia and ordered Elka to unwind the braids that bound her long pale hair close to her head. Then she told us to disrobe. With fingers grown weak and clumsy, I plucked at the knotted lacings of my ragged tunic and handed it over. Maia took the garment and held it with two fingers, her nose twitching. When she took Elka’s, her nostrils actually pinched shut in protest.

  She handed them off at arm’s length to the crone, who gagged and rolled her rheumy eyes. “We’ll just be burning these, then,” she grumbled as she shuffled out a side archway.

  “Right.” Maia clapped her hands. “Into the plunge with you both.”

  She pointed at the nearest pool and then at the tray of sea sponges and cakes of lye soap and pumice stones that sat off to one side. When she turned to see Elka and me both staring at her, unsure of what to do, her mouth quirked into a wry grin.

  “Couldn’t sell you to pig farmers in your present state,” she said. “Now. Into the cold pool and scrub off as much of that travel muck as you can. Gruoch will be back to assist you once she’s disposed of those rags. You’ve probably both got fleas, so use the soap—it’s got rosemary and lavender to kill the little buggers—and lather it through your hair. Thoroughly. More than once. And don’t dawdle.”

  I couldn’t have dawdled if I’d wanted to. The water was almost too cold to step foot in, let alone sink to my chin. But every time Elka or I tried to leave the pool before we’d sufficiently lathered and rinsed our hair, Gruoch, the old crone, would bring a willow switch down on our knuckles or shoulders in a painful, precisely aimed slap. I’d never heard Elka curse so colorfully, not even in Alesia.

  Finally, once we’d achieved a level of cleanliness that Gruoch determined entitled us to leave the frigidarium—for that, I learned, was what that torturous ice bath was called—we ran, scurrying and hugging ourselves, arms and legs covered in gooseflesh—to a different pool called the tepidarium. We flopped like landed fish down the shallow submerged steps, splashing and sinking into the warm, scented waters beneath the fantastical glass and mural ceiling.

  And it was the closest I’d been to happiness in months.

  The closest since Mael.

  I closed my eyes and sank into the soothing warmth, feeling my muscles melt like they had when he’d kissed me that morning in the vale. I’d almost forgotten what that had felt like. The steam rose off the surface of the water until I couldn’t see old Gruoch where she sat on her bench. Even Elka, drifting motionless on the other side of the pool, was just a shadow. I could have stayed there forever, my hair floating out all around me, wrapped in mist and dreaming and the scent of flowers.

  I barely felt the tears sliding down my cheeks.

  XII

  “DON’T TART THEM UP TOO MUCH.” Maia briskly ordered her women about the room she called the “tiring room,” where Elka and I were being prepared for sale. “But for Juno’s sake, do something about the sunburn and freckles. Put this one in something green, nothing sheer, but make it short. She’s got the legs. And leave her shoulders and arms bare. The blonde one wears braids well, but do something with that forehead of hers. It’s far too high. And give her one of the leather cinchers. She’s got a good small waist for all she’s big-boned. No pallas for either of them. We can’t have them too covered up. The auction is scheduled for the ninth hour this morning, and Charon wants them ready well before then.”

  She ordered us both to sit on the stools and forbade us to move, speak, or fidget.

  One elegant woman with hair dyed an unnatural shade of deep purplish red attacked my snarled locks, brandishing brushes and hairpins made of polished bone and silver. I didn’t twitch a muscle for fear of losing an eye to the flurry of implements. She brushed out my long brown hair until it gleamed. But where I would have simply dressed it off my face with combs or a circlet, this woman began to twist and fasten, pulling strands up from the sides of my head and weaving them together at the crown. Her fingers moved in a swift, intricate pattern. I could feel my hair pili
ng up on my head, bit by bit, and felt dizzy from the scent of perfumes.

  When I muttered something under my breath questioning the necessity of such effort to sell a few slaves, the woman laughed quietly and leaned down to whisper in my ear: “What do you think we are, my dear?”

  My confusion must have shown on my face.

  “Let me give you a piece of advice,” she murmured. “Rome only exists because of slaves. That’s how it functions. We are its muscles, its brains, and most of all its secrets. You are now a part of that world. You are what you are, no matter what you once were. But there is power in such a position. Understand that. And learn to use it.”

  Her breath in my ear was warm, but her words sent a chill down my spine. I hadn’t even guessed that this refined woman was a slave. But of course she was. Trained, specialized, highly skilled, but not free.

  Power? I wondered. I’d never felt so powerless in my life. I wasn’t even allowed to scratch an itch.

  I stayed still and silent while another woman took over, powdering and painting my face so that I resembled one of the figures adorning the walls of the room. After my hair and my face were done, a plump, smiling dressing woman prodded me over to stand near the shelves. She began pulling down basket after basket of carefully folded garments in an array of colors I’d never even seen before.

  She bustled back and forth between me and Elka, who now looked entirely unlike the girl I’d come to know. Her fine, pale hair was back in braids, but far more elaborately woven this time. And she wore a wide band of silver around her forehead that narrowed to a peak between her brows. It made her look both regal and predatory at the same time—like a hunting owl—and it emphasized her ice-blue eyes, which were lined with dark kohl.

  “Slaves are usually sold naked in the marketplace, you know,” Maia said. “But Charon plays a different game than the average trader. A smarter one. He instructs us to make you appear not as you are but as you could be. He sells potential to the good people of the Eternal City. Prestige. Fantasy. And they pay him handsomely for it.”

  Potential for what? I felt as though I might be sick.

  The dressing woman draped Elka in shades of blue and mauve, and then she rummaged around in a basket and brought out a length of shimmering green-gold fabric. The woman held it up in front of me and almost chirped in delight.

  “Oh! This makes your eyes shine,” she said. “Perfect! Arms up now!”

  She slid the sheath of material down over my torso, pinning it at my shoulders and gathering it in flattering drapes at my waist and hips. Then she ruched up the hem to show as much of my legs as possible. She clad my feet in laced-up boots and slid thick bronze bracelets onto my wrists. Lastly, she fastened a belt of polished bronze discs set with purple stones around my waist. The cosmetics woman dusted some kind of powder over my arms and legs, and then finally I was led in front of a long, polished bronze mirror.

  I gasped at the sight.

  “It’s all in the presentation, dear,” the dressing woman trilled with a grin.

  A creature made of living molten gold stared back at me.

  The dust on my limbs and face shimmered in the sunlight that spilled in from the courtyard, making it seem as though I was lit from within. My hair was twisted into dozens of plaits that the dresser had woven into a subtle crest that lifted high over the crown of my head and flowed down my back. The effect somehow reminded me of the crested plume on a Roman warrior’s helm.

  Then Elka stepped up beside me. Our transformation from two filthy castoffs was staggering.

  She was carved out of glittering ice.

  And I was golden, forged in flames.

  The only discordant thing about our reflection was the dull iron rings we still wore around our necks. I reached up and traced a fingertip over the rough surface. The skin beneath was rough too. Calloused. Even if the collar were removed, I would bear the marks for a long time to come.

  “It’s a pity, that,” the woman who’d fashioned my hair said, leaning against the mirror and regarding the collar. “It clashes with the rest of the look.”

  I glanced back at her, noticing that her long neck was smooth and white and bore no collar. “You don’t wear one.”

  “I would never try to escape.” She smiled wryly.

  “You think I would?”

  She snorted softly. “Given even the hint of a chance. I can see it in your eyes like it was written there in fire. I, on the other hand, have no need. I’ve made my own freedom, and that is something I’ll never give up. Especially not for some hollow ideal of that word.”

  Hollow? I thought. How could she even think such a thing? Freedom to my people was like air or water or love. It was essential to life. What kind of freedom could she possibly have made for herself without liberty? I wondered how I would survive in this new world I’d found myself in. I wondered if I’d ever understand it. I swore to myself that I would never be like her, so imprisoned that I didn’t even need a collar to obey my masters.

  I curled my fingers into fists at my sides to keep from clawing at the iron circle. She might have been content to live life as a slave, but I was the daughter of a king. And I would find that warrior girl inside me again and find a way to set her free.

  “We could try to find a scarf to cover it.”

  “No!” I shook my head. “No. I would prefer whoever buys me to know exactly what it is they’re getting.”

  I saw a glimmer of respect in the woman’s gaze as she reached out and patted a stray lock of my hair into place. “Then you’re ready to go.”

  XIII

  THE FORUM. The marketplace of Rome. Except it wasn’t so much a place as it was a violent assault on the senses. The crush of people and animals was terrifying—so loud, I thought my eardrums would burst—and that was while I was still hidden away in one of the covered wagons Charon transported his slaves to market in.

  The men and women I’d traveled with for weeks, while not all given the same kind of elaborately costumed treatment as Elka and me, had at least been polished up to some degree. One or two of the handsomer lads wore only loincloths with wide, ornamented belts, and they had been oiled so that their muscles gleamed. I saw that the girl with dark hair who had given me her slippers was wrapped in a sheath so sheer that the sunlight shone through it. I was happy to see that she also had new leather sandals that laced up her calves.

  As the wagon rattled along, the wheels clattering over the paving stones of Roman streets, I could hear the wagon drivers shouting at the buyers and sellers crowding the Forum to make way. The tumbled strains of many different kinds of music floated over the general chaos—bells and drums and flutes, voices raised in song—and, again, I was torn between fear and curiosity. I peeked out between the curtains and saw what awaited us.

  Market day.

  The wagon rumbled to a stop, and I could see that a raised wooden stage and temporary wooden seating had been built along one side of the plaza. The stands were already full to capacity. In the back row, people were shaded from the morning sun beneath colorful fabric awnings suspended on long poles held by slaves. The whole scene boasted a kind of festival air that reminded me of Lughnasa and made me long for home. I could feel waves of anticipation surging off the crowd, as if they waited for a troupe of performers.

  Gruoch shouldered me aside so she could also peer through the gap in the curtains. She made a little noise in the back of her throat and muttered, “Huh. The Collector is here. That should make for an interesting bit of bidding.”

  “The Collector?” I asked. “What’s that?”

  “Not what. Who. His name is Pontius Aquila.” She pointed with one gnarled finger at a man with sharp features and silvering hair seated in the second row of the stands. He sat beneath a fringed shade, tended to by an oiled, muscular slave. Aquila’s robes were also fringed and banded with a purple stripe. He glared above the heads o
f the audience as if their presence were not worth acknowledging.

  “He’s a politician with a fancy title, the so-called Tribune of the Plebs, but he’s as base as they come.” She snorted. “No manners, and rich off other people’s money. But he knows a valuable piece of flesh when he sees it. And he’ll stop at nothing to add to his collection once he does. I’ve seen his bullyboys start brawls at the auctions if he’s outbid.”

  I only understood half of what she was saying and couldn’t tell if it was truth or just gossip. But my stomach turned queasy at the thought of a man like that haggling over the price of my life. Not that there was anything I could do about it in that moment. As the audience settled themselves, a portly man wearing an outlandish wig of bright orange curls and a voluminous robe stepped forward onto the stage.

  “Citizens!” he boomed. “Gather and feast your eyes on this banquet of flesh and fancies! Premium lads and lasses from all corners of the known world.”

  He prattled on and on, his speech flowery and rapid-fire as he luridly described his wares—us. Eventually, I tuned out the auctioneer and concentrated instead on watching the parade of slaves and the crowd of wealthy Romans who sought to buy them.

  The orange-wigged auctioneer skillfully badgered and cajoled the crowd into bidding higher and higher sums for each new slave as Charon himself wandered among the patrons, chatting amiably, extolling the virtues of his wares alongside the whistles and bids from buyers and catcalls from onlookers standing at the fringes of the crowd. If Gruoch’s satisfied muttering was to be believed, they all sold for more than the asking price. Charon had clearly seen something in each one of us that I hadn’t.

  I wondered what he’d seen in me.

  The dark-haired girl—the one who’d told me she’d been a slave all her life and preferred it to a life of uncertainty—surprised me most of all. She’d been kind to me, and I don’t know why, but that made it a shock to discover that, according to the auctioneer’s leering patter, she’d actually been raised in a preeminent whorehouse in western Gaul.