***
SHE WOKE THE NEXT MORNING to find the strange woman sitting on the stool watching her. The woman pointed to her pack. “Knife?”
She blushed. She hadn’t meant to steal the knife. She wanted protection in this strange place. She reached under the thin pallet, retrieved the item, and handed it over hilt first.
With a set mouth and raised eyebrow, the woman put the blade back in the pack, evidently trusting her not to take it again. A name floated from the darkness.
“Afra?”
The woman smiled. “Yes,”
“I am…” She shook her head, trying to loosen the memory of her name.
“No…” Afra pointed to her own head…“memory?”
“I’m…” she shook her head, straining for the name that would not come.
“Leave be. Memories return when you’re strong enough to bear them.” Afra beckoned. “Come.”
They left the stable and went around the corner. Afra pointed to a trough of water and handed her a sea sponge. “Wash.”
She shrugged off the rough slave garment. Afra picked up a wooden bucket, dipped it in the water, and poured it over her head. She gladly scrubbed herself from face to toes, removing some of the fetid sweat and dirt. Another bucket and she felt almost human. She picked up the soiled tunic with finger and thumb, frowned, shrugged, and put it on. It was that or nakedness; and there was a chill in the air.
She ran her fingers through her hair in a vain effort to sort out the tangles. Afra handed her a wooden comb. Between them, they managed to unsnarl the worst of the knots. Afra looked her over, smiling. She smiled back, amazed to realize that the woman’s approval meant something to her.
***
AFRA SMILED AND NODDED. She was a far cry from the mad girl Marcius had left her with. He would be pleased at the transformation. She handed the Briton a pair of worn, much-patched sandals.
With the girl in tow, Afra entered the city gate and strode down the pedestrian side of the Via Stabia. Wagons lumbered by, piled high with amphorae; baskets of produce; and cages of live fowl destined for the busy markets in the central part of the city. Shops opened for business on the first floor of the buildings, mingling the enticing scent of baking bread with the acrid stench of human piss used by the fullers to whiten cloth. She was used to the Roman architecture now, but suppressed a smile as the girl craned her neck and stared at the several-storied brick buildings.
They approached the inn where Marcius and Clio lodged. Although once painted a striking red with yellow trim, the colors had faded to the shades of thin wine and pallid fish bellies. Marcius stood in the courtyard arguing with a rat-like man with a sharp nose and several rings on his fingers. Marcius shrugged then stuck out his hand. “Done.”
The man grasped Marcius’ arm briefly, forearm to forearm. He handed over a small bag of clinking coins which Marcius put into a belt pouch without counting.
Afra’s jaw clenched as she approached. “Another moneylender?”
“An investor.” Marcius’ eyes went wide at the sight of the Briton. “You are a wonder worker, Afra. I never would have known this was the same girl. How much does she understand?”
“She knows trade talk, but there are holes in her memory.”
“Her name?”
“She doesn’t remember.”
“Probably for the best to have a new name in a new life.” He made a twirling motion with his hand and finger. “Turn around. Let me see you.”
The Briton hesitated. When he repeated “turn” and his hand motion, she turned in a circle.
“Very good! With a little training we can pair you two up as faux gladiators—the ones who entertain the crowds during breaks in the action. We’ll call her Britannia.” He spread his hands apart from in front of his face. “I can see the signs now: ‘Britannia, Barbarian Princess versus Afra, Ethiopian Queen. A Battle of the Provinces.’ ”
“Kush.” Afra stiffened. “And I am not a Kandake.”
“To Romans, all black-skinned people come from Ethiopia.” Marcius smiled. “A few months ago, you didn’t want to be a venatore. Now you don’t want to be a queen?”
“I won’t caper for the amusement of Romans.” Afra snorted. “Why train her to fight? Better a dancer.”
“She’s a Celt. They all fight. Look at her arms and those scars. She’s seen battle. What do you think, Britannia? Would you like to fight?” He chucked her under the chin.
The girl slapped his hand away, snarling like a spitting cat.
“See? I told you.” Marcius laughed.
Afra pushed the girl behind her and frowned at Marcius. “She’s not ready.”
“Afra.” His eyes grew tired. “She is my property. I’ll train her as I see fit to get my money back. Besides, the fights aren’t real, there’s no danger.”
Afra folded her arms across her chest. “And me?”
“I’ll try to buy someone else to pair her with.” Marcius frowned. “You’re worth more to me as a venatore, anyway. But Afra, don’t test me. I allow you far too many liberties, as is.”
Afra knew he was right, but it didn’t settle her sour thoughts.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out two brass coins. “Take these. Buy her clothes. Have a good meal tonight.” He wrinkled his nose. “And take Britannia to the baths.”
***
BRITANNIA STAYED CLOSE TO AFRA as they threaded their way through the crowds. Afra was her anchor in this strange sea. Until she knew herself, she needed the woman for knowledge, safety, and comfort.
They stopped at a shop selling second-hand clothing. Afra pawed through a pile of women’s garments, pulled out a tunic of sensible brown wool and began haggling with the shop keeper. They reached an impasse until Afra pointed to a red cord belt. The woman nodded. Afra handed over one of the brass coins.
So clothing was as dear as in her land. Raising and shearing sheep; days spent carding, spinning, weaving, dying; her mother’s best gown her most prized possession.
She shook her head in frustration. How did she know this and not her own name?
A picture floated in her mind. A young woman at a loom with a baby crawling at her feet. Her mother? Sister?
Her hands clenched as she tried to see the face. The harder she tried, the hazier the picture became. She realized she was holding her breath and let it out with a sigh.
***
AFRA, NOTING THE GIRL’S AGITATION, put a gentling hand on her shoulder. “It will come.” She folded the garment, securing it with the belt. They continued, crossed several smaller streets, and approached a large building faced with pink marble. Tall columns graced the entrance providing shade to three loiterers, playing dice until the men’s hours started.
They crossed an outer chamber where women played games on painted boards or gossiped while hairdressers arranged their tresses in intricate braids and curls. Frescos, advertising the kind of sexual services that could be had in the brothel attached to the bath, adorned the walls. Britannia’s eyes widened as she studied the pictures.
Afra hid a grin. She had had a similar reaction the first time she came to the bath. The women must be quite limber to achieve some of those positions. In the next chamber, they stripped, stored their clothes in a niche, and Afra gave the attendant—a wizened old woman—a small coin. They exited to a room filled with steam, one of Afra’s favorites.
After a few minutes, the Briton started gasping and turned as red as a pomegranate. Afra tapped her on the shoulder, “Follow.” At the other end of the room a large fountain coursed with water. Afra dipped a cool cup of water.
“Thanks.” Britannia gulped the water, dipped a second cup, and fanned herself with her hands. “Hot.”
The next room provided a cold plunge, which the Briton seemed to enjoy more. Finally, they entered a room with a large warm pool where women swam or talked in corners, occasionally laughing. In each room, Afra named things as Britannia openly gawked.
“Pool. Warm.” Afra sighed as she sli
pped into the warm water. She had gotten little sleep these last few days. The water soothed her. Shaking her head to relieve the sleepiness, she pushed away from the side of the pool, using an efficient stroke to reach the other side.
When she looked back, the girl followed using a more awkward stroke, trying to keep her head above water. She likes the cold water and she can swim, but doesn’t do it often. Another clue.
They left the pool for an open air courtyard surrounded by a colonnade. Vendors hawked food and drinks to the women lounging on padded stone benches and folding camp chairs. The sun shone brightly and warmed the still air, but most women wore a wrap of some kind against the slight chill. Afra found it refreshing after the warm pool. She walked to a fountain and cupped her hands under the stream of water issuing from a stone imp’s mouth. Britannia did the same. Afra turned at the sound of giggles and girlish shouts. Girls, in soft leather breast bands and loin cloths, exercised and played ball in the open area.
Britannia snorted, obviously not impressed with the girls’ performance. “Why ball? Why not...” She mimed clenching a sword and thrusting.
“Not warriors.” Afra pointed at Britannia’s well-muscled arms. “You?”
“No, I…” She screwed up her face in concentration. “…maybe…?” She shook her head in defeat.
Afra nodded at the giggling girls. “Roman women work beside their husbands in fields, shops, or crafts. The noble Roman women move through the city in closed litters. I’ve never seen either kind with knife or spear.” Afra rose and stretched. “Men rule in Rome. In my land, the Kandake rules equally with the Qore and the Great Mother Isis commands the heavens and the gods.”
The girl frowned and shook her head
Too many words, Afra thought.
“My queen…” Tears welled in her eyes.
Afra grabbed the girl’s arms and shook her, before she could go inside herself. “That is past. This is now.”
The girl drew a sharp breath. “My queen…Boudica.” She turned a tragic face to Afra. “Sadness. Fear…”
Afra put her arms around the shuddering girl and held her tight, while she cried on her shoulder. “Crying eases the heart. Time heals it. I know.”
Her heart ached for the girl’s sorrow, but gradually she became aware of another feeling—an insistent, joyful, forbidden feeling. She looked around, to see if any noticed them. All seemed occupied except an aging matron who frowned at them from the next bench. She called over an attendant and whispered in her ear.
Afra held the girl at arm’s length. “Time to leave.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BRITANNIA LET HER SEWING FALL TO HER LAP. The meager fire in Clio’s brazier chased the winter chill from her room, but her fingers felt cold and clumsy. Afra, Marcius, and the cubs were gone again, this time to a local villa for the Saturnalia. They earned extra coins, which they always seemed to need. Marcius liked to play dice, the game the Romans called tali. Each time he returned with an empty purse, Afra became more silent and Clio more vocal.
Today, Clio did sums on a small wooden counting frame. Sharp creases furrowed the older woman’s brow as she moved the little beads in the grooves with lightning speed, and wrote the results on a waxed tablet with a stylus.
With a final, “Ha!” Clio closed the wax tablet and looked at the younger woman. “Are you ill-wishing me?”
“No, Domina! I wouldn’t curse you.”
“You’ve been watching me all morning like an angry harpy ready to pounce.”
“Harpy?”
“Never mind,” Clio stood and put her hands on rounded hips. “Have you finished the mending?”
Britannia lifted the tunic she was trying to patch. “I’m not good with a needle.”
But she was good with languages and after four weeks could speak as well as Afra, although with a distinct accent. The thought of the tall African brought a smile to her face. They had little time together during the day, but at night…Afra liked to comb out her long blond hair and braid it for the night. The soothing strokes brought peace to her troubled mind. During the day she served Clio, cleaning, mending, carrying packages, running to the food and wine shops. Sometimes she sang for Clio when she danced with her snake. But that only happened on market days and when Marcius was away. The music stirred memories, but none that she wanted.
Clio inspected the sloppy stitches and sighed. “What girl doesn’t learn to sew? Were you raised by wolves in that wild forest of yours?”
Britannia clenched her jaw, but stayed seated. For all she knew she was raised by wolves. Why did the memories dance in and out of dreams, teasing her, just out of reach?
“You’d like to slap me, wouldn’t you?” Clio smiled.
Britannia’s face flushed red and she snapped, “Yes!” before she could curb her tongue. She wasn’t really angry with Clio, but frustrated at the hole in her memories.
“At last, a little spirit.” Clio poked her in the chest with a sharp fingernail. “Marcius has plans for you, now that you’ve regained your strength. The gods know you make a lousy servant. It’s time you earned your keep.” She unlocked her chest and shook out a short, sleeveless, red tunic. “Try this on.”
Britannia caught the garment suppressing a shudder. “What’s this?” The tunic was the color of fresh blood, the material much better than her brown wool—thinner, softer to the touch, with a shiny finish.
“Your gladiator costume. At least part of it. The laws forbid slaves running around the city with a sword or spear, but this will give the crowd a thrill.” Clio gave a satisfied cluck when she pulled out a stunning black leather belt, studded with brass. “Here, use these.” Clio held out matching wrist guards. The belt and wrist guards flashed in the sun. Britannia reached up to finger the iron slave ring on her neck.
She donned the tunic and brass-studded leather. She smoothed the rich red fabric over her hips and tugged at the hem that barely reached her knees. “Too short. I’ll be cold.”
“You’re a northerner. You’re used to the cold.”
“We wear furs, trousers, and socks during the winter.” An image of an underdressed Roman on a litter floated to the top of her mind. She frowned. Two winters ago?
“Here.” Clio tossed her a wool cape. From a distance, it looked fancy, dyed a deep blue and edged with red embroidery, but Cinnia could see the worn spots and frayed thread up close.
“You’ll accompany me on my errands. Men will look, women will be scandalized, but all will talk. When Marcius puts up his placards you’ll be a bigger draw. Try frowning a little—look fierce.”
“This is a costume? I’m not really expected to fight in this?” The idea of performing felt right, but the clothes were too fancy for battle.
“Of course. We’re entertainers.” Clio pulled a slender bag of coins from the chest. “Come with me.”
Clio made a show of traveling the crooked streets of the old quarter to the Forum where the local people congregated. They did, indeed, gape and talk behind their hands. At first Britannia blushed to the roots of her hair to be displayed in such a manner, but she soon fell into playing the role with natural fervor. She growled at a band of children following them and grinned as they ran away squealing in pleasurable terror.
They wended their way to the Samnite Palaestra, an enclosed athletic area used by the gladiators housed in a nearby complex for training. Three ranks of wooden benches allowed spectators to observe the gladiators’ practice. Clio led her up the steps to sit near the top. A crowd of rowdy young men passed a wine skin around further down the benches.
“Pigs.” Clio sniffed. “They have nothing to do but drink and goggle at the gladiators.”
“What are we doing?” Britannia raised one corner of her mouth.
“This is different.” She sat and patted the bench next to her. “We’re here so you can learn. Watch close.”
Two men slick with oil and sweat, lunged at wooden stakes with heavy wooden swords. A third twirled a net over his head then toss
ed it at another stake.
“Those are Thracian and myrmillo.” Clio pointed at the swordsmen. “See the blades? The Thracian’s is curved. It’s a sica. The myrmillo uses the gladius.”
The gladius, sword of the Roman army. Short, deadly, stabbing, drenched in blood.
Sunlight glinted off the swords, rank after rank.
“What’s the matter, girl?”
Britannia heard teeth clacking and realized they were hers. Her body was racked by shudders, she seemed unable to stop.
Roman soldiers…searing pain, blood, the blessed relief of blackness.
“You, there, bring me that wine skin if you have any left,” Clio shouted at the rowdy men.
“You want a little taste of this?” A swarthy man with stained teeth, pursed his lips making kissing noises. “Or maybe this?” He grabbed his crotch, while his colleagues laughed. “Much better than the meat in the ring.”
“Only the wine, you clot head, for the girl. Can’t you see she’s ill?”
One of the younger men cuffed the swarthy man on the head and grabbed the wine skin. “Can’t you be a gentleman occasionally?”
Britannia watched the young man ascend the steps, trying to still her shivers. She could see the look of calculation in his eyes as he looked her over from head to toe, her legs and arms bare. She pulled the cloak around her shoulders and closed her eyes, but the stench of sweat, sour wine, and garlic gagged her as the man drew closer.
She straightened. “I’m all right, Domina. I need no wine.”
“Are you sure?” Clio fanned her with a kerchief. “You look ill.”
“Here, girl, try this.”
Britannia started when she felt his hand on arm. Her skin crawled.
Hands held her down; breath foul with wine and garlic panting in her face; pain beyond bearing as man after man....
She leaned over and vomited on his feet.
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