CHAPTER II

 

Even had she managed to concoct some plan of escape, it would have been impossible under the steely gaze of the two men who carried the heavily curtained litter. They wore tunics rather than uniforms; Alysia didn’t know if they were soldiers or part of the police brigade, or even slaves. Within, she sat on a hard cushion and braced herself against the constant jostling. It was hot; she pushed back a corner of the curtain and a welcome breeze rushed in to cool her, swirling her gown and hair.

It seemed to take a long time; she heard the sounds of people rushing past, women talking, men yelling, dogs barking, the slap of sandaled feet against the fitted stones of the pavement—all the noise of city traffic. She could tell when they began ascending a hill. Peeking past the curtain she saw a long, tree-lined road, at the end of which stood a large house of brick and stucco with a red-tiled roof.

She felt the men lower the litter to the ground. The curtain opened, but no one extended a hand to help her. Alysia got stiffly to her feet and glared at the men, but they only stared stoically back at her. Not wanting them to see how anxious she was, she didn’t hesitate but made her way to the small portico, with stone steps and four stone pillars. She was about to knock on the door when it opened unexpectedly. A man looked down at her in surprise, tall and swarthy with curly black hair and dark eyes that, in spite of his surprise, managed to convey a look of perpetual boredom.

As he noticed her attire one eyebrow went up and a subtle smirk touched his handsome mouth. “What have we here?” he drawled, his eyes lazily taking in everything from her bare, chalk-whitened feet to her wind-tossed hair. She stood uncertainly and wondered how she was to address him, noticing that he wore the uniform of a military tribune.

“I have just been purchased by the legate for his sister. I am to see Calista.”

“Ah,” he said, without moving. “The new slave. Slaves use the side entrance.”

She raised her chin and was about to turn when he gave a low laugh. “Wait. Just this once, we shall make an exception.”

Still, he made no move to allow her to pass. Did he expect her to squeeze past him? Well, he could stand there staring all day as far as she was concerned. She was in no hurry! In fact, she would rather seek the other entrance, and was about to do so when a horse trotted up the drive. She turned to see the legate dismount easily, handing the reins to a slave. Alysia sensed the man next to her stiffen and draw back.

“Hello, Paulus. I suppose you’ve come to look over your new—acquisition.”

The legate replied with a chill in his voice that did not escape Alysia. “I’ve come to instruct Calista about the disposition of the slave before Selena returns tomorrow.”

His words stabbed like a knife as the realization struck her that these men did not regard her as a person, but as a piece of property. She was the “acquisition”. She was “the slave”. They talked about her as if she weren’t there, as if she were a dumb animal!

“I’m glad you’re here, Lucius,” the legate was saying. “You can tell Magnus Eustacius to keep his head. She’s my sister’s property and he would do well to stay away.”

“What has Magnus to do with her?” the dark man asked.

“You’ll know soon enough. I don’t anticipate any trouble from old man Eustacius, but Magnus is a fool. Come with me, Alysia.”

Lucius was forced to step back as Paulus went through the doorway, leaving Alysia no choice but to follow him. “I suppose you mean an altercation of some sort. If she has insulted Magnus, the slave will have to answer for it,” he said, all traces of civility wiped from his face. “If you won’t see to it, Paulus—I will.”

The legate turned to look at the other man. Alysia stood between them, and in the pause that followed, knew that something passed between the two men…something ugly and almost frightening. Then Paulus gave a slight shrug and said, “I won’t tell you how to be a good tribune, Lucius—and don’t tell me how to be a good master.”

The scene froze for a moment, and then broke apart as the legate gestured for her to follow him. She tossed a glare over her shoulder at the scowling man as she hurried forward, and wondered at the look of unconcealed hatred on his face.

 

* * * *

 

“You’re pale,” the legate said unexpectedly. “Are you unwell?”

Alysia could only marvel that he would ask such a question. He must have some idea of what she had experienced in the past weeks, and yet he thought it strange that she didn’t look well! It was on the edge of her tongue to give him some bitingly sarcastic reply, but the truth was she did feel extremely tired and ill. However, she would die before saying so.

“I am perfectly well,” she answered, refusing to look at him.

He paused, and then continued leading the way through the door into a short hall, his footsteps ringing on the mosaic-tiled floor. The interior of the house was dim and cool. They entered the large atrium, its walls covered in frescoes and extending to a great height. Marble columns supported the roof, and its open center poured sunlight into the brightly colored, rectangular pool below. An artfully draped statue bent over the pool, holding a marble vase. Grecian urns and large potted plants, reposing on ornate pedestals, occupied every corner except the one with a little table bearing images of the household gods. Chairs of citrus wood, tables inlaid with ivory, alcoves from which peered statues and busts, all filled her vision in the moments it took to follow the legate across the atrium.

Other rooms were visible from here as well; all the curtains and latticed doors had been thrown open to allow the cooled air from the atrium to circulate throughout the house. From a turn of the passageway a petite, elegantly clad woman came toward them. Her stola flowed about her, accented by the brilliant jewels adorning her neck, wrists and ears. Her blonde hair was arranged with three rows of braids at the crown of her head, with the rest braided and piled on top, and it too was interspersed with jewels.

“Paulus, dear!” she exclaimed.

“Hello, Mother.” The legate bent to kiss the woman on the cheek.

Antonia Pulchra smiled at him with affection, and then glanced at Alysia, cutting her eyes back toward her son with a raised eyebrow. “Who is that?”

“Her name is Alysia. She’s Selena’s new handmaid.”

“Did you get her? Where is she from?”

He answered his mother’s questions while Alysia stood motionless, forgetting to feel resentful as a strange sensation of warmth began to spread over her body; her head began to swim and she took a deep breath. She hadn’t been able to eat much that morning, in spite of the fact that she’d been ravenously hungry for weeks.

Antonia looked sideways at the slave, privately judging her too thin and pale, though most slaves looked like that when they first arrived. But her eyes were exquisite, blue-violet in color and almost startling against the blackness of her hair. The girl’s face wouldn’t be considered perfect by Roman standards, for it was elliptical in shape and her features were slim and finely molded. Round and plump faces were the favored look these days. And generous noses were preferred over slim ones.

Antonia was nothing if not a woman of fashion. Since it wasn’t fashionable to remain unmarried, she had recently acquired her third husband, Decius Aquilinus, who had lost his own wife when a drunken slave drove her coach over a cliff. (Paulus’ father had died while giving a particularly heated address in the Senate, and Antonia’s second husband had languished with a lung ailment before dying six months ago.) She’d also acquired a stepson whom she did not like; he was a tribune and spent his days idling about and doing the gods knew what—she only knew he made much of his title and did little, if anything, to earn it. He’d been appointed by Sejanus and served in some sort of administrative role; oh dear, everything was so irregular these days!

She knew Paulus didn’t bother to hide his contempt for his stepbrother. Staff tribunes had little or no military experience but loved to strut about and give orders to their subordinates. Lucius was no exception; he wore the uniform of the military tribune and seemed to have some authority (also bestowed upon him by Sejanus) but it was ambiguous in nature and no one seemed to know how far it extended. Lucius contented himself by keeping the lower-ranking officers running hither and yon on various errands, and created an illusion of being much more experienced in military matters than he actually was; in reality, he had never seen a battle although he was extraordinarily gifted in the use of a sword…something he proved often in mock exhibitions of swordplay in the arena.

Lucius’ relationship with Antonia’s daughter, Selena, fared little better, for Selena bestowed no cordiality upon anyone who failed to admire her brother. It was an unhappy situation, to be sure, but Antonia had no idea what to do about it. She had simply shrugged mentally, turned her attention to her prize-winning gardens and frequent parties, and prayed to the gods to keep them all from killing each other.

Alysia knew the older woman was scrutinizing her, but she suddenly felt too sick to care. Without warning the room seemed to darken and the floor dropped away. The legate turned as she began to fall and instinctively reached out to catch her. Through the fog of semi-consciousness she heard the woman say, “Don’t touch her, Paulus—I hope she isn’t sickly …”

She was floating, the walls were gliding past her, and the legate’s hard leather cuirass was pressing uncomfortably into her side. Her arms dangled awkwardly but she refused to raise them to his shoulders. He didn’t look at her; he seemed almost angry about something. He easily climbed a short set of stairs, entered another room and lowered her onto a couch. She scrambled up and tried to get to her feet, but again the world seemed to reel and she stood swaying as he grabbed her and set her down again.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said impatiently. “Be still.”

Her eyes fell upon the knotted red sash that hung down the center of his cuirass; she stared at it as if hypnotized. She had no idea what to expect now—or what was expected of her.

“Master Paulus, your mother said you have need of me.”

A plump, elderly woman with tight curls all over her head stood in the doorway. She looked at Alysia and then moved toward her, clucking like a hen. “Oh, but that gown, my dear. We shall have to get you some clothes. The other maid’s things won’t fit you at all. She was much heavier in the—”

“Calista, may I have a word with you?”

The legate walked back to the door. Alysia’s eyes flitted over the room, noting the fine, colored panels of the walls, the rich wood of the chest, the bed with its linen covering, and the shadowed antechamber that would no doubt be hers. She sank back against the cushions of the couch, still half-believing this was a dream. Here she sat, in a strange land, in a strange house, no longer a person but the property of Romans.

Romans had taken her father. Romans had destroyed her life.

Calista scurried toward the legate, and though he spoke in low tones, Alysia could hear everything he said. His words didn’t leave her with any great feeling of reassurance.

“Give her something to eat. Let her rest until tomorrow.” He hesitated, and his eyes went over her in an absent, thoughtful way. “Above all, see that she is kept away from my stepbrother and his friends.”

 

* * * *

 

She woke abruptly, alarmed by the quiet solitude in the room. She wasn’t accustomed to quiet. She climbed out of the narrow bed and stood blinking in the tiny, almost dark room. Now she remembered; she’d eaten what Calista had brought her—bread and some kind of fish soup—and then she’d fallen asleep in the bedroom of her new owner, whom she had yet to meet. Someone (the legate?) must have carried her into this room and placed her on the bed.

Alysia peeked into the adjoining bedroom. No one was there. She moved lightly to the window and threw open the latticed shutters.

The late morning sun slanted through the window and she leaned far over the sill to take in the view. Because the house topped a steep hill, she thought she must be able to see half the city. Markets, temples, the red tile roofs of other mansions, aqueducts, trees and paved roads spread in all directions below. Looking toward her right, she could see the glint of the Tiber River, and there was a breathtaking view of the hills beyond. A narrow road, apparently for private use, ran almost directly beneath the window and appeared to connect with another house some distance away.

Rome wasn’t at all like Athens, she decided. Athens was a peaceful place, tranquil, lost in its memories of days gone by. There the agora was a place where men who had nothing better to do gathered to discuss the exploits of Pericles, the philosophies of Plato, Socrates, Aristotle. She had been to Corinth once, and it was like Rome—all noise and activity, overpopulated and abused. She’d disliked it intensely.

She stretched and was about to move away when she heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on pavement. Looking downward, she saw the legate in full uniform, a dark red tunic over which he wore the leather kilt and cuirass. She’d always thought men of high rank wore white tunics with purple borders, but he seemed to prefer the crimson. His hair shone in the sun, a light, tawny brown with pale streaks from much time spent outdoors. It was somewhat longer than the current fashion of close-cropped curls, and was straight with a natural fullness.

The sleek horse and the man moved with rhythmic precision, and there was an air of mutual respect between the two. There was, she thought reluctantly, something of the strength and grace of the man that reminded her of an animal. Once, in one of the agoras of Athens, she’d seen a captured lion on display. The beast had awed her in its magnificence, its sheer power. The Roman, too, was strong and agile and proud. She remembered how he had carried her as effortlessly as if she were a child. No doubt he was as fierce and deadly as a lion; no doubt he had killed many men.

He spoke cheerfully to someone on the grounds, and glanced up at the window as he passed, as though he could feel her watching him. Their eyes met. She made herself look away and retreated slowly until the diminishing hoof beats told her he was out of sight. She felt her heart beating hard with anger and resentment.

“My brother is very handsome, is he not?” A proud, feminine voice spoke from behind her.

Startled, Alysia whirled and stared at the voice’s owner. She was a young woman of her own age, of the same tall stature and slender form. She had golden hair piled atop her head and woven into intricate curls, gaily decorated with ribbons to match the pale rose and cream gown she wore. Large dark eyes regarded her solemnly, but in their depths something much like mischief sparkled.

“I am Selena. My real name is Valeria, of course, but no one ever calls me that.” The girl moved with liquid ease further back into the room, as if expecting her slave to follow. “And you are Alysia. The name suits you. I don’t expect I’ll change it.”

Alysia remained where she stood, her eyes on the floor. Change her name, indeed!

“I allowed you to sleep late because my brother said you were ill yesterday. You are feeling better?”

“Yes.” Alysia struggled with a wave of rebellious thoughts. She was accustomed to servants doing her own bidding, and now she must take orders from this girl, this Roman !

“I have arranged for you to—” Selena paused delicately, “bathe. I shall go through some of my old clothes and select some for you. I don’t like my slaves going around in dark colors like everybody else’s. I’m sure they’ll fit you. My other maid—the one who died—was much shorter of stature.”

Alysia was silent. She certainly did not owe these Romans her thanks! Selena seemed unperturbed by her lack of gratitude.

“Tell me, what sort of things do you do?”

Alysia looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Do you sing, dance? Tell stories?” Again, mischief sparkled in the dark brown eyes. “What can you do to entertain me?”

“My father, before he was murdered, was a man of means. His daughter was not versed in the art of entertaining. If you think I am going to amuse you, you’d best send me out to work in the fields.”

“Oh, but you do amuse me!” Selena seemed to restrain herself from a burst of laughter. “And believe me, you wouldn’t be happy working in the fields.”

“As happy, I’m sure, as I will be serving you.”

The young woman gazed at her for a moment, the hint of laughter disappearing. “You may address me as ‘lady’. I’ll leave you alone now. Calista has brought you a light breakfast. I’ll send someone in with a tub and water.” As she was leaving she said over her shoulder, “We will discuss your duties later.”

Alysia ate the bread and cheese, drank the water lightly laced with wine, and felt a little better. The bronze tub was brought in and filled with water by two youths. A sour-looking young woman left a linen towel and a pile of clothes on a table. She looked as though she’d been sucking lemons. Alysia wondered if she looked that way, too.

Hastily she stripped off the red gown and stepped into the water. Though she had been vigorously washed by the women preparing her for the auction, she scrubbed again at her sore skin as if she might erase every trace of the slave ship. She washed her hair, pouring clean water over it from a pitcher. When she had dried herself with the towel she examined the clothes. There was a sleeveless shift of an off-white color, a tunic of pale green, and an outer skirt—the Romans called it a palla—of deep sea green. A soft leather girdle bound her slender hips and there were dark green sandals that fit her narrow feet perfectly. Alysia supposed that wearing the cast-offs of the legate’s sister she would be the best-dressed slave in the empire.

She quickly plaited her hair, allowing the waist-length braid to hang down her back. On the table where the clothes had been was Selena’s mirror, a large, round bit of pottery into the center of which had been poured metal and glass; it was one of the best in quality Alysia had ever seen. She lifted it carefully and stared at her reflection.

It was a striking face, remembered by those who beheld it. Finely-sculpted cheekbones gave balance and distinction to her slender features; her eyes tilted slightly upward and were accented by curving black brows and a thick fringe of long dark lashes. Her lips were full and well-shaped, and (once upon a time) could curve into an engaging smile. Her teeth, in spite of their recent neglect, were even and white and showed no signs of imminent departure.

Somehow she was surprised by the familiarity of her face. How could she remain unchanged, after all that had happened to her?

The door to Selena’s bedroom opened. “Come, Alysia,” Selena said, smiling. “There is much to teach you.”