“Filthy bitch!” He scampered back as she heaved again.
“Fine impression you make on women!” His colleagues laughed and made gagging sounds.
His face reddened and he left the two women, shaking vomit off his feet, muttering curses under his breath. Cinnia couldn’t tell if he cursed her or his friends, but didn’t much care as long as he went away.
She had remembered her name and what happened to her.
She immediately wanted to forget.
***
CINNIA WATCHED FOR AFRA in the courtyard. She needed to see her, needed her comforting presence. Clio’s eyes were cold when they looked at her, like her snakes’. Afra’s were warm, welcoming, but would they still be when she told her? She spied Afra and Marcius as they passed the gate.
“Afra!” Cinnia leaped up and fairly flew across the courtyard. She grabbed Afra in a hug that belied her feelings of weakness. “Thank the gods, you’re back!”
Afra held her at arms’ length. “Are you ill?”
Cinnia pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, faltering. “My stomach. Clio took me…”
Afra frowned. “Bad food? You shouldn’t eat at the Persian’s stall. He leaves his fish in the sun too long.”
“I remember my name.” Tears pooled in Cinnia’s eyes. “And all the horrible things…”
“Hush.” Afra pulled her close and stroked her back. “You’re safe now.”
Cinnia mumbled into her chest. “No. You don’t understand…”
She shuddered until Afra tipped up her face and asked in a soft voice, “What are you called?”
“Cinnia.”
“Does it have meaning?”
“ ‘Beauty,’ but…”
Her bloody sword…Row after row of stakes…Roman women impaled, their own breasts stuffed in their dead mouths…Chanting Iceni as the druids led the rituals.
Afra put a finger over her lips. “You are well named.” She turned to Marcius. “She’s ill. I’m taking her back to the stable.”
Cinnia clung to Afra’s hand as they walked through the back alleys of Pompeii in silence.
They exited the Stabian Gate and made their way past the tombs of the dead. Rich family graves were marked with miniature temples, marble statues, beautiful vases; poorer ones with a simple stele giving a name, an occupation.
“Afra?” Cinnia pulled her to a stop among the dead. “Have you ever killed? A person, I mean, not a beast.”
“I’ve caused death,” Afra’s face stilled, “That’s why I serve Marcius.”
“I’ve killed many.”
“In battle?”
“I was raised to be a wife, though I wanted to be a storyteller,” Cinnia whispered. “But the Romans took our lands and goods. They killed my father, desecrated our holy places, and beat our queen. I became a warrior. When we took their cities, we killed everyone.”
“Women and children?” Afra looked out into the distance.
“I did what I had to, but…” she faltered, “I fear you might judge me.”
“Your tribe fought for your land.” Afra shrugged. “That is the way of war. I would do the same.”
“The Roman gods proved stronger in the end. My family is likely dead.”
“As is mine.” Afra’s voice cracked. She turned Cinnia’s hand over and ran a thumb over the calluses, sending a sweet thrill through her body. “We could make new families in this strange land.”
“Take husbands? Have children?”
“No. We could be…sisters to one another.” A tear tracked down Afra’s cheek and she turned it away from Cinnia. “Or more…?”
The other woman’s pain touched something in Cinnia. She reached up to wipe away the tear. A jolt run up her arm, like when she rubbed a fur then touched someone, but a hundred times more. She longed to run her hands over Afra’s beautiful face and taut muscles, but she pulled back. Sex among her people was natural and frequent, but also a sacred act insuring the fertility of the land. Women chose their own mates and could divorce them if they failed to provide her with children. Some women took lovers rather than divorce, if their husbands were good providers but couldn’t satisfy them in bed.
She knew a woman could feel that need for another woman. There were two among Boudica’s female guard who shared more than their blankets, given the moans that issued from underneath. Did sex between women affront the gods by denying fertility? Her gut clenched and blood warmed. Her gods had forsaken her and her people. Why should she look to them for guidance? Besides she had no wish to make the Roman lands more fertile. If she could, she would blight their fields with black rot, insects, and hail.
“You are more than a sister to me, Afra.” Cinnia clutched the other woman’s hand tighter and ducked her head, cheeks burning. “Let us leave the dead to the dead.”
***
AFRA SENSED THE CHANGE IN CINNIA. For weeks the Briton had been uncertain, searching but afraid of what she’d find. Occasional flashes of memory gave her hope. Now there was sadness in her eyes; but anger, as well, in the set of her shoulders, clench of her jaw; an insistence—no, confidence—in leading them through the cemetery. Afra feared that, knowing the past brought Cinnia more sorrow than joy. Would she grieve excessively? Brood over the horrors done to her and by her? Would she turn her gaze outward, scorn Afra’s affections as unnatural?
It was the last question that caused Afra to shake her head. She should be happy that Cinnia found the memories she sought, but a tendril of dread threatened to choke her joy.
Everything changes.
Cinnia turned her head, smiling.
Afra’s heart leapt.
They returned to the stable shortly before dusk. Most of the work animals rested in their stalls, eating hay. Afra peered through the bars of the stall where the cubs napped. Britannia—no, Cinnia; she had to get used to her new name—joined her, shoulders touching. Afra’s muscles twitched and she drew in a quick breath.
“They’re funny cats.” Cinnia pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Their legs are too long and feet are too big. They sound like birds and act like dogs.”
“Some Romans believe they are dogs, but dogs don’t purr. Their legs are long and feet big, because cheetahs are swift. Over short distances, I’ve never seen anything outrun one. They are also friendly and easy to train, unlike many big cats. My Kandake kept a hunting pair. She let them roam the palace, unchained.”
“Will you be sad to give them up when they’re grown?”
“Yes. They have been my only friends in this strange land,” Afra’s voice softened, “until....”
“Until?” Cinnia put her arm around Afra’s waist and dropped her head to Afra’s shoulder.
“Until I found you.” Afra reached up to stroke the shining blonde hair. “I believe the gods sent you to me.”
“Mine or yours? As punishment or reward?”
“You say such strange things, sometimes. But it doesn’t matter.” Afra cupped Cinnia’s chin in her hand. The shadows deepened and she couldn’t see her eyes. “Come to bed.”
Afra led Cinnia this time. They lay their straw-stuffed pallets on the dirt floor, side by side, and faced each other on their knees.
“Is this what you want?” Afra put a warm hand on Cinnia’s cheek. “You have only today come back to yourself.”
“I don’t know.” Cinnia trapped the hand with own and kissed Afra’s palm. “I know only that I am new born today. I thrill to it. You have been my savior, my friend. Afra, you give me joy.”
They fumbled in the dark; pulling off their tunics, finding each other breast to breast, thighs entangled on the pallets.
Afra stroked Cinnia’s back and kissed her eyes. She tasted salt tears and pulled back.
“Why do you weep?”
“I’m happy.” Cinnia pulled her face down into a deep kiss. “I am happy your gods sent me to you.”
Afra laughed deep in her throat, almost a growl. She nuzzled Cinnia’s breasts, alternately sucking and biting on her
nipples. They sprang up hard under her urging tongue.
Cinnia groaned.
An insistent ache spread from Afra’s groin.
Afra dropped lower, tongue flicking across Cinnia’s taut belly. She buried her face in the thatch of curly hair between Cinnia’s legs taking in the alluring scent of a sea creature, salty, ripe, reaching for the wet cave she knew was waiting.
“No!” Cinnia stiffened and curled her hands in Afra’s short hair. “Not there!”
Afra rose on her arms. “I’ll do nothing you do not wish.” She crawled back up to hold Cinnia in her arms as the younger woman sobbed.
“I’m sorry…the soldiers…”
“Hush.” Afra crooned, her need subsiding. “I know. When it is time, I’ll replace those memories with good ones.”
Cinnia shuddered in her arms. “I’m so ashamed.”
“Don’t be.”
They fell asleep clasped in each other’s arms.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AFRA UNTANGLED HERSELF at first light the next morning. Her arm tingled where it had rested under Cinnia’s shoulder. She lightly kissed the sleeping girl and rose.
Shrugging into her tunic, she went to check the traps by the grain bin. Two contained rats. Four sat empty. She frowned. Pickings were getting slim or the rats were getting smarter.
Maybe I should trap close to the sewers. There are always rats scurrying about there.
She snapped their leashes on and took the cubs out to a fallow pasture beyond the cemetery.
First she let them run. The cubs chased each other, tumbling, racing. She smiled. Hardly cubs anymore. They were more than half grown. The only part of their baby pelt left was a ruff of fuzzy fur on the back of their necks.
She called the cubs back, “Mari! Cari! To me!” They raced to her feet and sat, panting slightly. Afra loosed a rat from a cage. It ran a few feet and froze. The cheetahs stayed, but she could see their muscles tighten, their tails twitch with excitement.
“Mari.” Afra gave the hand signal for “go” and the cat leaped forward. The rat fled at the sight of sharp teeth and spotted fur, but it was no match for the speed and flexibility of the cheetah. Mari twisted with each turn and reached out with her front claw to trip up the rat. She stood, her foot on the struggling rodent, but didn’t kill it. Mari looked back at Afra for another signal. Afra had her release the rat and catch it three more times before giving the signal that Mari could eat it. A small meal for a big cat.
She repeated the ritual with Cari. Once fed, the cubs wanted to sleep, so she took them back to the stable. She would need bigger prey soon. A single rat or two wasn’t enough to sustain the cubs for much longer. Plus, they needed to learn how to bring down hares, deer, and pigs.
As she put the cubs away and called to Cinnia, Marcius entered the stable talking with another man. Cinnia, hair sleek from a dunking, grinned when she saw Afra.
“Afra, Cinnia, come meet Paetus.” Afra reluctantly left the cubs; she usually groomed them after a hunt.
Marcius clapped her on the shoulder. “Paetus will teach you the gladiator moves you’ll need for the act.”
The stranger looked the part of an ex-gladiator—stocky, well-muscled, with a scar the length of his left calf. He limped up to the women. “Let me look at you.”
Afra stood still as he circled her, but didn’t care for his tone. She was used to Marcius affording her some respect, in spite of her slave status.
Paetus looked at them with the eye of a shepherd about to cull the herd. He returned to his place beside Marcius. “I might be able to do something with them. Half now and the rest at the end of the month.”
“Done.” Marcius smiled, turning over a small bag of coins.
“What’s this?” Afra took Marcius aside. “I thought you sought another to pair with Cinnia?”
“I have to go back to the original plan.” He ran a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture. “I haven’t been as…uh…successful in my other ventures. I can’t afford another slave right now.”
“ ‘Ventures’ as in tali and chariot races?”
“You sound like Clio.” Marcius’ face went red. “I don’t need another nagging female in my life. Trust me.”
“That is getting harder, my friend.”
“I paid off the Roman moneylender!”
Afra knew he owed money to men in Pompeii, but decided not to push. Marcius had managed to juggle all the balls…so far.
“Fine. Cinnia and I will train as play gladiators. Will she get a cut of the contract?”
“Not as much as you, but something.”
“Good.”
***
PAETUS TOOK THEM to a dusty courtyard just inside the walls, furnished with a stake and a pile of battered armor. “You’re entertainers, not real gladiators. The crowd wants to see skill, but they also want to see drama. First one is winning, then the other. A falter, a slip, a comeback, these are all planned. The real blood comes in the afternoon.”
He handed each a heavy wooden sword. “Now for the stake. Five hundred thrusts.” Afra hacked at the stake until her arms burned with the strain and the sword shook in her grasp. Cinnia proved more adept at this exercise, having practiced with a gladius and used it in war. Afra’s muscles were tuned to the bow, not the sword. Next, they practiced shield blocks as Paetus thrust and hacked at them. Here, Afra’s longer reach had an advantage.
Finally he had Afra lifting heavy rocks, while he practiced sword and shield with Cinnia.
“Lift with your legs, not your back!” he barked, looking over Cinnia’s shoulder at Afra.
She threw her stone to the ground. “Why do this? It has nothing to do with fighting.”
Paetus stalked over to stare up at Afra. “Marcius told me you hunt.”
Afra nodded.
“Do I tell you how to track? Which shot to take?”
Afra shook her head.
“I am the doctore, the instructor. You do as I say.”
“I want to know why I do what I do.”
“To what purpose? To challenge me?” Paetus sputtered, face turning a deep red.
Afra stood, arms across her chest, staring down at the man. He was right. She wanted the knowledge to argue against his commands. That was not her place. She picked up the rock.
By the mid-afternoon break, Afra felt bruised, battered, barely able to stand. To her consternation, Cinnia seemed less fatigued. She chatted easily with Paetus about technique as they shared a jar of water.
“She didn’t spend hours lifting rocks,” Afra muttered to herself, rising from a crouch, stretching her back.
Paetus took a drink of water from the jar, swished it around his mouth, and spit it out. He glanced at the sun. “No more today.”
He eyed Afra’s tired and dusty frame. “Go to the baths. Get a massage. Back here tomorrow, second hour.”
Afra groaned. Cinnia shot her a sympathetic glance as she helped Paetus gather the wooden swords and shields. They left the rocks in the dirt.
“It gets easier,” Cinnia promised as they walked toward the baths. “You’ll feel better after a steam and massage.”
“But why the rocks?”
“Paetus knows.” Cinnia grinned. “He’s a good doctore. Listen more. Complain less.”
“I don’t complain!”
“If you say so.” Cinnia raised an eyebrow. “Learning a new skill is hard. I’ve spent months practicing the sword. Today was your first day.”
A thought struck her dumb. Am I envious of Cinnia’s skills? Of the two of them, Afra was always the leader, the one with experience and knowledge. Cinnia depended on her. Until today. Afra ducked her head. Tomorrow she’d do better.
***
AFTER A WEEK of sword and shield drill—and a few more hours lifting rocks—Paetus moved on to the most challenging part of the training—the fight as a dance. He taught them to thrust and parry, retreat, circle, feint, and lunge. By the end of the month they had mastered several combinations and were deve
loping their own routines.
“A bit rough, but with practice you’ll do.” Paetus slid the coin pouch into a fold of his tunic on the last day. He departed without a glance.
Marcius watched his retreating back. “Did he smile once during the training?”
“No.” Afra shook her head. “He barked orders, thumped us with the flat of his sword, and grunted.”
“He’s an odd one, but he got the job done. You two will put on a good show. Tomorrow’s a feast day. You’ll perform in the Forum.” He flipped Afra a coin. “Go to the baths. See Clio afterwards. She’ll have your costumes.”
***
AFRA WATCHED AS CINNIA brushed imaginary dirt off her red tunic and admired her wrist bands. She looked beautiful, her long golden hair shining and braided. Afra’s heart skipped a beat when Cinnia’s white teeth flashed in a smile.
“Cinnia, you’ll do, but Afra…” Clio frowned, walking, observing her from all angles. “The yellow coloring suits you, but I wish you looked more like a woman.”
Afra’s normally relaxed stance stiffened. She clenched her jaw, sorry echoes of her step-mother’s criticism ringing in her head.
“Maybe a wig?” Clio bent over her open wooden chest, rummaging. She straightened, holding a shoulder-length wig of tiny black braids decorated with blue faience beads. “I picked this up in Alexandria.”
“I won’t wear that.”
Clio’s mouth pinched to a thin line. “Marcius! Tell her!”
Afra hid a smile behind her hand. Clio had given up threatening her with beatings when Marcius pointed out how valuable she was.
“Put it on, Afra.” Marcius took a drink from a goblet while he lounged in bed. The room reeked of sex and sour wine. “You’re supposed to be an Ethiopian queen.”
“How can I fight with that thing sliding into my eyes and clacking around my ears?”
“A diadem will hold it in place.” Clio turned again to the chest. This time she retrieved a thin white ribbon embroidered with gold thread. “Sit.”
Afra sat on the room’s one stool while Clio tugged the wig over her short cropped hair, tied the ribbon across her forehead, leaving the ends dangling from a knot at the back.
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