“She’s asleep.”
“Good enough. I hope she’s worth it. Clio nearly ripped my balls off when she found out.” He rubbed his jaw. “I came out here to give her time to settle.”
“Your wife might like to have another woman’s hand to help.”
“Clio sees every female as a rival. She’s even jealous of you!” He roared with laughter. “She hasn’t figured out yet that I should be the jealous one.”
Afra blushed under her dark skin. “Your wife does not appeal to me.”
“There’s no need to be celibate, Afra.” He patted her arm. “I’ve seen how you watch other women. You’re a slave. No one cares what slaves do in their beds. Maybe your Briton will be of a similar persuasion.”
Marcius rolled a wooden ball across the dirt floor and laughed when both animals chased it. One cub caught the ball and the other leaped on her sister. They tumbled, hissing and scratching.
“No, Cari!” Afra grabbed the cub that had jumped on her sister, tapping her sharply on the nose. The cub blinked twice, settled on her haunches, and started grooming herself.
Afra gave a soft chirping cry. Both cubs ran to her. She ruffled them behind the ears and looked up at Marcius. “I hope they are not destined for the games.”
Marcius snorted, looked closely at the cubs, and shook his head. “I’ll try to find a private buyer. A rich Roman noble. A pair of hunting cheetahs will be a novelty.” Marcius shook his head and walked out. He stopped in the door. “No guarantees.”
“I understand.” Afra stroked the cubs. They curled up for sleep next to her. Her thoughts turned to the sleeping girl in the stall. Was her spirit broken or licking its wounds in a dark place?
The Briton thrashed and groaned in her sleep:
***
SHE FOUGHT IN A BLOOD-RED MIST, mud sucking at her feet. Dark shadows flickered at the edges of her sight. She turned and turned again. The shadows kept teasing her, leading her on in the ruddy fog. Pain flared in her head. She dropped to her knees from the blow, her head throbbing to the beat of her heart. She crawled a few feet in the muck, planted a spear in the ground and levered herself up.
She shouted, “Let me see your face!”
Mocking laughter came from her left.
She put the pain aside and lunged after the shadow, uphill, out of the mire. She drew closer. The shadow wore a ragged cloak that flapped in a non-existent breeze. The laughter turned into a raucous caw.
She burst through the mist into bright light at the top of a rocky hill. She shaded her eyes, letting them adjust. The light seemed to be coming from a tree, half on fire; half green, untouched by flame.
Joy flooded through her, washing away the pain and fatigue. “I died the good death. I will be reborn!”
The ragged shadow laughed again as it flew overhead and landed in the green branches. It preened its feathers and turned a cold eye on her.
“Let me pass, hag. It is my due.”
“Hawwwww!” the crow cawed. “Your queen is dead, your tribe broken. The gods turn their heads away in shame.”
The flame in the tree went out. The green leaves fell to the ground leaving the crow sitting on a dead twisted limb. A sharp keening rose around the hilltop. Out of the mist crawled people from all the tribes—men with horrible wounds, holding their own guts or severed heads in their hands; women carrying mutilated children, their own limbs showing bone and dripping blood. Old people, young: they all moaned or screamed in horror as the black crow grew bigger, rose from the tree, and covered them with the shadow of its wings. In the darkness, her soul shriveled in despair.
***
“IF YOU DON’T MAKE HER STOP, I will.” Marcius raised a hand to slap the keening Briton as she rocked, eyes wide and unblinking.
Afra caught his wrist. “No.”
“Let go, Afra.” Marcius grimaced, rubbing his bruised wrist. “You’ve had three days. We can’t keep a mad girl. If you can’t bring her to her senses, I’ll have to sell her as beast fodder in the games.” He left, mumbling about the waste of money.
Afra studied the moaning rocking girl, gave her another sleeping draught, and left.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AS WITH MOST LARGE CITIES, Pompeii forbade gigs and chariots on the streets, so the stables were outside the walls. Afra followed the wall to the southern gate, the entrance onto Via Stabia which bisected the city from north to south. She joined the throngs of merchants, travelers, and the occasional noble, in from his country villa, entering the city. A guard stopped her. She showed the papyrus with Marcius’ mark. That precious scrap gave her permission to walk through the city on her master’s business without him.
It being a little after the noon hour, the crowds began to thin. The business day was nearly over. People sought the baths or their own homes. Afra crossed Via Stabia on the stepping stones that allowed wagons to pass to the market and rain water to drain to the sewers while keeping citizens’ feet dry. Those wagons—coming from the country laden with produce, leaving with finished goods—wore deep grooves in the stone street. At the third intersection, she turned left and approached the Temple of Isis.
The building was but a tenth the size of the Temple of Venus, off the forum, but to Afra, it was a piece of home set down in the middle of a foreign land. The Great Goddess was the same whether in Kush, Egypt, or Italia. Egyptian priests cared for this temple. Afra had been surprised to find that most Roman temples had no full-time priests, although they did have full-time staff to care for the buildings and tend the shrines. Roman nobles themselves conducted the ceremonies and sacrifices.
She looked through the gate in the high wall. The daily public ceremony had yet to start. Good. Ibises, sacred to the Egyptians, wandered the small courtyard. A priest prepared a sacrificial fire on an altar in the middle of the space where ordinary people could watch. Great stone sphinxes flanked the colonnaded entry to the temple. Afra could see the shadowy figure of the Great Goddess within, holding her sistrum in her right hand, and an ankh, the Egyptian symbol of life, in her left.
Afra walked up the stairs, head bowed. When she reached the top, she abased herself before the marble statue. The Great Goddess stood tall, a kind smile on her face. Afra could feel the warmth of her love through the chill of the stones.
“Oh, Great Mother, source of all wisdom. A woman, like me, came from the ends of the Roman Empire. Like me, she searches for herself. Help me, Isis, Mother of Gods, Giver of Life. Help me do Your work and give this woman’s life back to her.”
“My daughter.” A priest touched her shoulder. When she looked up, the man gave her a kind look. “The ceremony will soon begin.”
“Thank you, Blessed One.”
Afra retreated down the steps and joined the small crowd that gathered for the regular afternoon ceremony. Acolytes lined the stairs, shaven and dressed in traditional Egyptian garb; a white pleated linen gown that hung from under their armpits to their bare feet. At a signal from the priest presiding over the fire, a piper began an ethereal melody as the acolytes shook sistra and chanted.
The high priest came out of the temple and held up a vial of water. “Behold the holy water of the Nile, giver of life by the grace of Isis, Queen of the Heavens; Wife of the Great Osiris, Ruler of the Underworld; Mother of Blessed Horus, King of the Living. The holy river Nile feeds and nourishes our land. Let us praise the Holy Trinity, Isis, Osiris, and Horus. May they protect us in this foreign land.”
The altar priest added the cones of the stone pine to the sacrificial fire and fanned the flames. Afra breathed deep of the aromatic smoke, swaying in time to the chants of the acolytes. The ritual usually gave her a feeling of renewal and peace, but, by the end of the ceremony today, she was still troubled.
She dropped a small coin in the collection jar, left the temple, and turned into a web of narrow allies abutting the city wall. A few moments brought her to the shop of an old woman with white hair, black eyes, and quick bird-like movements. Afra eyed the clumps of dried herbs, bo
ttles, and charms lining the shelves.
“Grandmother, I have a special need.”
“Most do when they come here.”
“Of course.” Afra blushed under her dark skin. “I’m caring for a girl who is lost in her mind. She comes from a far-off land. I fear she has been beaten and abused.”
“Raped?”
“Most likely.”
“Pregnant?”
“She shows none of the signs.”
“A blessing, that. What have you done for her?”
“A sleeping draught of poppy juice and wine.”
“Good. Sometimes sleep, rest, and time is all they need.”
“I have no more time. “
“Hmmm.” The old woman raised a quizzical eyebrow then turned to peruse her store of goods.
She used a staff with a hook to loosen three clusters of herbs from the ceiling and picked a dusty brown bottle off a shelf. She proceeded to grind sprigs of two of the herbs in a bowl with a pestle, releasing the cooling scent of mint. The old woman mixed the powder with the contents of the bottle. The overpowering scent made Afra’s eyes water.
“What is this concoction?”
“Powder of peppermint and marigold, mixed with camphor oil. Put it on her chest. It will ease her spirit.” She handed Afra the third bunch of herbs. “Take this rosemary. Make a strong tea. Dose her as often as you can. It helps with memory.”
“Thank you, Grandmother.” Afra put the items in a string bag and paid the woman. She turned to go.
“For an extra coin, I can give you a charm for good health.” The crone held out a tiny sheet of lead, rolled into a scroll. “Put it under her bed for best effect.”
Afra fingered her slim peculium and sighed. It was no time for half measures. She handed over the coin and put the charm in her money pouch.
***
AFRA RUBBED THE PUNGENT OIL on the girl’s chest. She had fine rounded breasts, marred by fading bruises. Afra smothered a sneeze caused by the camphor smell. She said a prayer to Isis and put the charm under the girl’s pallet.
The Briton slowed her rocking and blinked her eyes. Tears flowed down her cheeks. Her keening wail subsided to a moan.
“Drink this.” Afra put a cup of the rosemary tea to the girl’s lips. She gulped it as if dying of thirst. She took another cup.
Afra sat knee to knee with her and turned the girl’s face to hers. “Your spirit is deeply wounded, my sister, but fight the darkness.”
The Briton’s eyes rolled up in her head showing the whites:
She heard her own voice join the wails of all her people turned away from the glorious afterlife. No feasting in the sunny halls with gods and heroes. She was not worthy. She crawled down the rocky slope toward the slime. A sharp rock cut her knee. The pain streaked through her. She cried out. Tears welled in her eyes, but she dashed them away, streaking mud on her face. She looked at her muddy hands and shook her head. “I am not a worm to crawl on the ground.”
She stood and looked back up the hill. The red mist thinned. “If I am to roam the earth as a shade, I will know why!”
She rose and strode toward the blasted tree. The crow looked smaller.
“Why do you return? Go away,” it cried.
“Why did the gods abandon our cause? Was defending our land and Queen not just? Did we not honor them with sacrifices and praise? Why turn away those who died in honorable battle?”
“Go away!”
She felt strength return to her limbs. She approached the crow. It ruffled its feathers but now it looked no bigger than a normal bird. She grabbed it by the neck. “Tell me, you ill-figured hag. Why?”
The crow pecked viciously at her hand, tearing away a piece of flesh.
“You can eat my hand to the bone, but I won’t let you go.”
The crow rolled its eyes. “There are no answers here. You must seek elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“In the world.”
“But I’m dead.”
“Not yet.” The crow turned to ashes in her hand.
Darkness smothered her senses.
Afra wrapped her arms around the Briton. She felt shivers run through the young woman’s body. Afra murmured a few British words she learned from a trader, “Follow me,” over and over, in a sing-song chant.
The girl cried out, Afra stroked her back. “Let go your fear. You are strong. Come back.” She gave her another cup of tea.
She felt as if she floated in nothingness—no light, no sensation of weight or touch. “The gods have abandoned me.” For a moment she felt their loss, a hollow in the pit of her stomach, a chill in her heart, despair in her soul. She almost gave in to the despair, when a small spark of outrage flared.
“What faithless gods are these?” Her feet touched solid ground.
“Why should I fight and die for strengthless gods that cannot win against the Romans?” The air moved, chilling her flesh. She shook her fist at the black heavens.
“I will seek my answers elsewhere.”
A light appeared in the distance. She saw a tall figure holding a lantern high. The figure was black as night, but it was not a crow. “Come,” it cried in a soft voice with a musical accent. “Follow me.”
Afra felt the Briton slump, as if her bones melted. She laid her on the straw and noted the deep even breathing of natural sleep. She smiled, stroking the girl’s hair. “Sleep well, my sister. You are strong and will overcome.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE BRITON WOKE IN THE DARKNESS with an insistent urge to urinate. I’m alive, but where am I? Her nose told her she was in a stable, or barn, near horses or mules. There was a sharper scent—musky. Cats? Probably to keep the mice out of the grain.
She rose to her knees and nearly toppled from dizziness. She clutched her temples and cursed.
A soft voice came out of the dark. The girl didn’t understand any of the words but she recognized the voice from her dreams. Her dreams?
The voice came again, but this time accompanied by a flair of lamp light. She blinked, covering her eyes.
“Come. Follow me.”
“What? Who are you? Where am I?” The insistent urge grew stronger. She looked around the stall for a place to piss, shifting from foot to foot.
The dark figure approached, beckoning. From its height, the girl thought the figure male, but as she got closer, she smelled that peculiar scent women have when their moon time is upon them. The strange woman tugged at her arm and said again, “Come.”
She let the woman guide her to a large pot outside the stable, the use of which was apparent from its odor. She pulled up her rough tunic, squatted, and let loose a long blissful stream. It gave her time to study the strange woman. The lamp light glistened on skin as black as charcoal and eyes like two holes in the night. Her people became deeply brown during the summer, but no one she knew had skin this dark.
My people? How do I know this? Who are they?
She searched her mind for faces, names, memories. She found vague grayness, shifting like fog. Frightened, she stood and raised her hand to touch the strange face to make sure it was real. The woman stood completely still, letting her fingers roam over the planes of her face, the full lips, flaring nose, the skin as soft as a baby bird’s down. She dropped her hand.
The woman beckoned again, leading the way with the lamp to a tiny room—barely enough space for a narrow bed and stool. She gestured for the girl to sit on the pallet, put the lamp on the stool, and disappeared out the open door. A well-worn cloak hung from a peg on the wall; a pack hung from another. The girl rose, looked quickly out the door, and pawed through the pack—a patched spare tunic, worn sandals, a new pair of knitted socks, a sharp knife with a beautifully carved ivory handle, and a clay votive figure of a seated woman with a baby on her lap.
At the faint sound of rustling straw, the girl resumed her seat, secreting the knife under the pallet. The woman came in with a tray of bread, oil, cheese, olives, and wine. Not her usual meal of stew—c
ooked grain, chunks of lamb or deer, flavored with onions—and frothy beer. How did she know that? Why could she remember the food, but not the one who cooked it? Her stomach rumbled. She set aside her worries—momentarily.
She nearly spilled the lot, grabbing the tray from the woman’s hands. For the first time a frown furrowed the dark face. She stuffed the bread in her mouth. The stale stuff nearly loosened a tooth. She dipped the rest in the oil to soften it. The cheese was better, sharp, pungent with a nutty taste. The olives, small, black, and bitter, puckered her mouth, but she doggedly chewed, spitting out the pits.
The woman watched her closely as she wolfed down her food. When she spat out the last olive pit and wiped her mouth on the back of her arm, she got a good whiff of her own strong odor. She wrinkled her nose. Her body smelled of stale sweat, urine, and a hint of shit. She wanted to take a bath or, at least, dump a bucket of water over her head.
The woman smiled—a white flash of teeth that seemed to light up her dark face. “How much Roman you know?”
“A little.” She indicated a small amount with her thumb and forefinger. “Trade talk. You?”
“More.”
“Where?” She threw her arms wide and looked around.
“Pompeii.”
She frowned and shrugged.
“Italia.” The woman pointed over her shoulder. “Rome.”
“Rome?” Her jaw dropped and eyes went round. A trickle of anger and fear crawled up her spine.
Cold water…burned bodies…toppled trees…desolation…death.
She stiffened, shivering.
The strange woman pointed to herself. “Afra.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. White ringed her irises. Her eyes started to roll up in her head.
“No!” Afra clasped her body close and rocked till the girl’s rigid body relaxed. “Drink.”
She gulped another cup of tea through chattering teeth. She lay in Afra’s arms twitching. Her eyes grew heavy—something in the drink?—and lapsed into sleep.
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