CHAPTER IV
Alysia sat up, awakened by a rough hand upon her arm. She recognized two of the yard slaves crouching in the predawn light.
“What do you want?” she demanded, half-asleep and more irritated than alarmed by their presence.
“You are to come with us, by order of the legate.”
“For what purpose?”
The men seemed nervous and apparently had no liking for the errand they had been set upon. “We don’t know,” said the older one, a small, wiry man with a dark, seamed face. “You are to make haste.”
She looked from one to the other and couldn’t see their expressions clearly. As her mind cleared from the fog of sleep, a vague feeling of trepidation stole over her.
“Shall I be allowed to dress?”
The slave shook his head. “The legate said to come at once.”
She threw back the linens and followed the two men from the room, wearing only a white, short-sleeved nightgown. They went quietly past Selena, who didn’t stir, and passed the garden room, a formal dining room with wall murals depicting various flowers and plants, and the smaller dining room where last night’s disastrous supper had been held. They went through the peristyle, with its colorfully painted colonnade, its graveled pathways and flower beds lined with box and other well-trimmed shrubs. This connected with a larger version of the portico that stood at the front of the house, and outward from the portico spread a large court with benches and a fish pond, and a fountain in its center.
The slaves stopped. Alysia looked up; a low wall surrounded this back area of the house and beyond it the legate stood waiting. The sun had begun slanting over the distant hills, casting a golden glow upon his tall frame. Some distance away she could see his horse saddled and waiting. When she saw his expression, her sense of impending doom was complete. If they had been cast in stone his features couldn’t have been more cold and hard.
Wordlessly he handed a length of rope to the older slave, while the younger gently pushed her backward until she stood beneath two close-set columns of the portico. She looked at the men, puzzled, but they avoided her gaze. They took her arms and stretched them apart, tying them deftly to the slim columns on either side of her.
Alysia looked at Paulus and read her sentence in his eyes. He reached inside his tunic and withdrew a sheet of papyrus, through which a string had been drawn and tied with a knot. He walked closer to her and held it up for her to see. “Can you read this?”
The words were written in Greek: “Guilty of Disrespect”.
“I hate you,” she gritted through clenched teeth, her eyes filling with tears of rage and humiliation.
“You will stand here until sunset,” he said dispassionately. “Perhaps after today you will display more prudence.”
He placed the papyrus over her shoulders, causing it to hang down over her chest. She closed her eyes for a moment so she wouldn’t have to look at him. He was going to leave her here to swelter in the sun and suffer this indignity—she had been a fool to think he was different from any other Roman!
The other two slaves melted away into the shadows. The legate remained behind her. “Don’t move,” he said. She heard a sound like a knife slipping from its sheathe and felt him lift away the back of her nightgown. She couldn’t have moved; she was paralyzed with fear. The cloth of her gown ripped as he slit it with his dagger.
He said, close to her ear, “It will look as though you have been lashed. Play the part well, Alysia.” He strode away from her, mounted his horse, and left without a backward glance.
Alysia stood stiffly erect, too outraged to pretend to be the drooping victim of a whipping. The stone steps before her led down to the pond. The fountain splashed merrily; it was made like the head of a bearded man, or perhaps a god, with water gushing from its mouth and running down different levels of bronze steps into the pond. It seemed to grin at her. A huge carp swam lazily among the water lilies; the minnows flashed back and forth, glinting in the sunlight. She watched them for a while, until the house came alive. As word of her punishment spread, almost all the slaves came out to view her shame. She stared straight ahead as if oblivious to everything and burned with mortification.
By mid-morning she had begun to sag against the rope. It bit into her flesh relentlessly, scraping it raw. Gnats began to swarm over the sores. By mid-day not a thread of her gown remained dry as the heat bore down upon her. Her hair curled wetly about her face. The arch above the portico partially shaded her from the sun, but there was no relief from its heat. Every muscle in her body screamed to be relaxed; every bone seemed ready to pierce through her skin.
She had finally ceased to be the center of attention. The slaves now seemed to be avoiding the courtyard as if not wishing to be reminded the same thing could happen to them. But when she heard Lucius’ voice inside the house, something inside her shriveled; panic surged up from the pit of her stomach and flooded across her mind. Then the hatred returned, a hatred of all Romans, and the panic evaporated.
She heard footsteps cross the tessellated pavement behind her. He came around and a shadow fell over her. Lifting her head, she looked directly into his eyes.
Lucius’ gloating grin froze and disappeared when he saw her face filled with loathing, and recognized in her eyes an obvious and barely restrained desire to kill him. Lucius had never been the recipient of such a look, especially from a young woman. His eyes narrowed until they were two dark slits, and his lips curled back in a sneer.
“Good afternoon,” he said mockingly. “But the fair Alysia is looking a bit bedraggled today. Perhaps you didn’t sleep well. Or perhaps this beautiful Italian sun does not agree with you?”
She stared at him unflinchingly, remaining silent. He stood quite close, and with her feet unbound it would be a simple maneuver to give him a swift kick in a tender spot. But, he wasn’t worth dying for!
He stepped quickly away as if reading her mind. “From now on, slave, you will obey commands, and if you ever insult a friend of mine, you will answer to me. I will not be so lenient with you.”
She didn’t answer, refusing to rise to his baiting words. He gave her a last, cold perusal and walked away. Alysia became aware for the first time that the Egyptian slave, Omari, had been standing across the portico, half-hidden behind a cypress tree. When Lucius departed, Omari also took his leave, unfolding his arms and disappearing into the depths of the house.
She forgot them both as her discomfort became acute, almost wrenching a groan from her. The moments wore on until her entire body became numb. She ceased to care about her bleeding wrists or her swollen feet or the humiliation she had endured. She felt no hate, nor anger, nor fear. Time no longer existed. She had always been tied to these columns and always would be…
Much later, she felt a cool hand upon her cheek. With an effort she opened her eyes and focused slowly on the Egyptian. Something cold and wet touched her lips, and she drank as swiftly as her benumbed muscles would allow. When she had drunk all the water, she looked up at the other slave.
“You will bring trouble upon yourself,” she said hoarsely.
“The legate instructed me to watch over you,” he answered. He loosed her bonds and she was allowed a brief respite before he tied her again and left.
Was the legate never going to come? Did he intend for her to die as a lesson to all rebellious slaves? Well, she wouldn’t do it! She was going to live and she was going make certain he was sorry he had ever done this to her. Let the dull-witted Romans tie her up to bake in the sun. She was no puny weakling, and the blood of Greek warriors flowed in her veins!
Her head drooped forward again as evening approached. She was dimly aware of the night sounds of insects and frogs. The frogs began such a clamor of croaking and chirping that she couldn’t hear anything else. The moonlight gave the white stone of the portico an eerie cast.
At last she collapsed against the rope and felt it dig afresh into her wrists. She hung there, half-fainting, until a strong arm came around her waist, supporting her as the rope was cut. She fell into someone’s arms, and she didn’t have to open her eyes to know it was the legate. He carried her across the courtyard and into a place that smelled of hay and horses. She felt herself being lowered onto a pile of straw. The relief at being able to lie down was so great she felt tears begin to slide down her face.
Only half-conscious, she realized he was rubbing salve on her bleeding wrists, and he helped her drink water from a tall cup. She must be delirious. Surely none of this was real. As soon as her head touched the straw again everything went black and she knew no more…
* * * *
Alysia opened her eyes, aware of unfamiliar sounds and smells. A horse whinnied somewhere near.
“Name of the gods,” she thought, staring at the sunlight through the wooden rafters over her head, “what am I doing in the stable?”
Then the blurred images crowded back into her memory. She moaned and attempted to sit up. Her body felt as heavy as a wagonload of bricks. Cautiously she tried turning her head and saw a water pitcher where the legate had left it. She reached for it and drank thirstily, not even using the cup.
So last night hadn’t been a dream. Odd that she could feel no hatred for him now. All she felt were intense humiliation and a bitter sense of injustice. Magnus, who had been the cause of the whole sorry business, went on his merry way, whereas she—being innocent of any crime—was made to suffer what should have been his punishment!
Footsteps sounded outside the stable door and quickly she closed her eyes, feigning sleep. Someone knelt beside her for a moment, and then an arm slipped beneath her shoulders and another beneath her knees, lifting her. Immediately she came to life, pummeling the arms that held her and writhing from their grasp. She looked up into the legate’s sea-colored eyes.
“You jackass!” she cried before she thought, but he looked more amused than offended. She knelt on the straw glaring at him. Unexpectedly, he sat down on a stool next to her.
“Perhaps you would have preferred a flogging,” he said conversationally. “Tell me, have you ever seen a Roman flagellum? I thought not. It’s made up of a number of straps, each of which are weighted with bits of lead and bone. It can tear a man’s back to ribbons in less time than it takes to tie the laces of a shoe.”
She said nothing and he cocked an eyebrow at her. “Or you could have been banished to one of Decius’ farms, where you could grind at the mill all day. Perhaps you would have liked being branded. Or would you have preferred hanging? Maybe that would have been more dignified.”
She leaped to her feet in a high rage, forgetting her stiff and sore muscles. “I should have been let alone! It was Magnus Eustacius who—”
“Magnus is a Roman citizen,” he interrupted smoothly. “You are a Greek captive. A slave. You chose to commit—”
“I didn’t choose anything! I simply defended myself.”
He rose and stood looking at her thoughtfully. “Alysia, heed my words. Eustacius is not without influence in the Senate, and if he decides to pursue this matter there is little I can do about it. You assaulted his son—this is punishable by death. As it is, he will hear of your punishment and perhaps that will satisfy him.”
Her resentment faded as she looked up at him; she felt suddenly overwhelmed by his presence. It was too quiet here in the stable, too isolated. She began to back slowly toward the door, her heart hammering against her ribs. “May I go?”
“No,” he said, halting her surreptitious retreat. “I hope you have learned a very serious lesson.”
She answered without hesitation, “I have learned there is no justice in the world, and I can trust no one.”
“Bitterness is not becoming in one so young.”
“The Romans have robbed me of my youth!”
Something passed between them, almost like a shared knowledge, but it was tenuous and slid quickly away. Paulus said slowly, “And so you will know this, Alysia—slaves have not only been killed for what you did, but all the other slaves in the household along with the guilty one. I don’t think you want to be responsible for anyone’s death, do you?”
She swallowed nervously. He added, “Also, it is customary to make the guilty one hang suspended with weights attached to his feet. As much as you may hate me for this, it could have been much worse.”
“Then I shall try to be grateful that you lessened a barbarous custom on my behalf, my lord. Just as I will take comfort in the knowledge that slaves in this house are never abused. May I go?”
He paused and inclined his head. She met his eyes for one last moment, and turned to leave the stable. Her entrance into the house didn’t seem to be noted by anyone; the slave girl with the sour face (Alysia still didn’t know her name) was digging around an herb garden in the peristyle; the two kitchen boys were quarreling. Selena wasn’t in her room and Alysia wondered why she cared—surely she could expect no sympathy from her owner, who no doubt had given approval to her brother’s idea of discipline.
The bronze tub was in the room, filled with water. Alysia didn’t know if it was intended for her or Selena, but she was going to use it. She pulled a screen around the tub, bathed herself, dressed, didn’t know what else to do and sat waiting for Selena to come back.
“Oh, here you are.” Calista bustled into the room, not meeting her eyes. Calista had been one of the few who hadn’t come out and stared at her. “Master Paulus said to give you this.” She set a platter on the dressing table and scampered away. Alysia looked it over; there were figs, cut-up pieces of watermelon, and a small loaf of bread. She thought about sending it back to the kitchen. But then, the Lord Legate Paulus Valerius Maximus had probably left by now and would never know about her little act of defiance. And she really was very hungry.
* * * *
The sun blazed down from a flat, blue-gray sky as Alysia walked briskly down the street toward the shops and markets. The heat of late summer had become almost intolerable. Decius owned a villa in the country to which his family usually escaped, but she had learned that a new wing was being added and they would have to forego its comforts this year.
The legate also owned a villa, but though Megara went for a few weeks he stayed in the city. On the few occasions she saw him she sensed a tenseness about him, almost as if he were waiting for something to happen. The hostility she’d detected between him and his stepbrother was now a tangible thing. They had become like two preying animals—lion and panther— circling each other, each deliberating on the right moment to pounce.
She’d heard Decius and Antonia discussing in low tones the fact that Magnus’ father had complained loudly in the Senate about “that slave’s” behavior toward his son, but he was swiftly assured by his colleagues that the legate had severely punished the slave and that certainly ought to be enough to satisfy the senator—after all, Magnus had assaulted the property of the legate’s sister and that sort of behavior was not kindly looked upon in aristocratic families. Do what you liked with your own slave, but leave your neighbor’s alone.
Paulus hadn’t spoken to her since the day in the stable. But whenever he was in the house her stomach began to flutter and she became so nervous she dropped everything she picked up. Although everyone was affected by his presence; everyone’s attention went to him as soon as he walked into a room with that long, military stride. Selena and Antonia were drawn to him like plants leaning toward the sun. Decius obviously enjoyed his company, even more so than his own son’s; in fact, he didn’t seem to like Lucius very much. All the more reason for Lucius to hate his stepbrother, she thought.
Today Selena had sent her to purchase a bundle of Chinese silk for a shawl she wanted to make. Alysia spent more time than was warranted in the shop, poring over the beautiful things she once would have purchased for herself: tinted glass figurines and exquisite linens from Alexandria, spices and perfumes from Arabia, fragrant Sicilian herbs, combs inlaid with African ivory, Egyptian necklaces and bracelets…luxuries she had taken for granted and, she supposed, would never be hers again.
When she left, she saw with a feeling of dread that the sun had disappeared behind a mass of leaden clouds. She hurried past the brightly colored signs of the shops, looking carefully about to make sure she wasn’t lost. The first time she’d ventured into the city without Calista she’d taken a wrong turn and found herself in the insula , a large section of cheap, multi-storied buildings so close-packed she could barely tell where one ended and another began. There were people idling about and even lying in the streets. The air stank of hot, dirty pavement and unwashed bodies.
She had hastened to retrace her path, and for days afterward she’d felt humbled as she considered that she was far better off than those poor wretches in the tenements. But in time she managed to overcome this moment of weakness. At least they were free to go out and earn their own living, if they chose, whereas she must ever bend to the will of another.
Finally she reached the private, uphill road that led to her owner’s house. A gusty wind began to blow, snatching at her long skirt and pulling at her hair. Loosened from its pins, it tumbled in black waves down her back. A few large drops of rain pelted her, and she tucked the package into a fold of her skirt.
It seemed as if the sky opened; torrents of rain poured down and a rumble of thunder vibrated the ground beneath her feet. She began to run. Hearing swift hoof beats behind her, she stopped in exasperation so that the horseman might pass. Instead, he reined in so quickly that the animal rose on its hind legs, pawing the air. She looked up through the drenching rain and recognized the legate.
“Give me your arm!” he shouted over the downpour.
“I cannot! I’m only a slave!” she replied, unable to control the defiance in her tone.
His brows drew together and he reached down, skillfully controlling his great horse at the same time. He took the bundle from her and tucked it into a leather bag that hung from his saddle, then caught her around the waist and hoisted her roughly to sit sideways before him, his arms braced on either side of her, holding the reins. He urged the horse forward at a trot. The well-trained animal moved so smoothly she hardly bounced at all, though she held tightly to the bar of the saddle at her side.
“May I speak?” she asked, raising her voice over the rain and intermittent bursts of thunder.
“Please do.”
“Aren’t you afraid of what people will say?”
He shrugged his wide shoulders negligently. “Whatever they say won’t be within my hearing, I assure you.”
She reflected that there was no haughtiness in the remark; it was a mere statement of fact. Unlike Lucius, she’d never known the legate to display arrogance or conceit.
She twisted her head to glance at him. “Are you so feared then, my lord?”
“If men fear me it is because they don’t know me—they know only what they have heard.”
“The stories of battles in faraway places, and all the crowns you’ve received—they’re true then? Is that how you got that scar?” She nodded toward the white line that traced from the throat of his tunic to his left ear.
The rain began to slacken and Paulus lowered his voice. “Stories of battles often get greatly embellished in the telling, especially if they’re told by a younger sister, and I’m assuming it was Selena? As a soldier I’ve had a duty to perform and have done it to the best of my ability.” He paused and added, “The scar is the result of a boyish overconfidence that nearly cost me my head.”
She raised her eyebrows. “If you were so successful in the army, why did you leave it?”
“I haven’t left it. The emperor gave me my current appointment, but I’m still in command of my legion.”
Her mouth fell open. “You’ve spoken with the emperor?”
“On occasion.”
He must be far more important than she had realized. She didn’t know anyone who had even seen, much less talked to, the reclusive Tiberius. The conversation seemed to have ended, so she tossed about for another topic. She knew slaves weren’t supposed to gabble on, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“I’ve been wondering why your sister isn’t married.”
“She’s been betrothed since childhood to our cousin, Cornelius. He’s a tribune. They plan to be married when he obtains a civilian position. It’s taken him a bit longer than most, that’s all.” She felt him looking down at her. “And you? I assume you were betrothed as well?”
Alysia shook her head. “My father wouldn’t go against my wishes, and there was no one I wanted to marry.”
The rain stopped as they arrived at the stable. Paulus dismounted easily, then reached up to swing her to the wet ground as if she weighed no more than a feather.
“My thanks, Legate,” she murmured, and started to move past him, completely forgetting Selena’s parcel. His hand on her arm detained her.
“Alysia,” he said, his voice serious. “I would have a word with you.”
“Yes?” In spite of herself, her breath quickened at his touch and her voice came out in a whisper.
“Selena tells me she is unhappy with your attitude, that you seem resentful and cold. She’s uncomfortable. She believes that you hate her.”
Alysia stiffened. “I didn’t know that I was expected to love my enemies.”
“She’s not your enemy,” he said earnestly. “She wants to be your friend, or as nearly a friend as possible, under the circumstances. She can’t live with your hatred. She owns you. You could find yourself once again at the slave market.”
Alysia stared at him dumbly, unable to think of a suitable retort. She couldn’t believe she was being rebuked for not showing affection toward the very people who had wrecked her life!
He watched her, seeming unaware of her mounting indignation. “I can see that you won’t take my words to heart,” he said, then added pointedly, “but you do realize there are people who do not treat slaves well.”
Suddenly, everything hit her with such force it was like a physical blow…her fear and helplessness, her sense of loss, her mixed feelings for this Roman soldier, the utter injustice of her predicament. As always, rage wiped all caution from her mind.
She kicked him, barely feeling the pain as her foot struck the iron hardness of his leg. “You dare say that to me after what you did!”
He caught her thrashing fists in his hands. “Stop, you young tigress,” he commanded, struggling with her. She writhed violently, furious tears stinging her eyes. For this moment she didn’t care if she lived or died, and now that she had let loose her wrath it refused to be stilled but poured forth in a torrent. She stamped her foot like a bucking calf, splattering mud over both of them. He fought to restrain her, for she was strong and in her temper like a young Fury. She twisted so that he couldn’t keep a grip on her, and he swore when she sank her teeth into his hand.
“Go ahead, flog me!” she cried, her body contorting to escape his binding arms. “Beat me until I’m dead, I do not care! Kill me! I want to die, you—you—” She couldn’t think of a scathing enough insult. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she had completely lost control, but it was too late. She made a tremendous lunge, unable to move forward.
“Stop it, have you lost your senses, woman? Stop, before I—” His words were cut off as her hand laid resoundingly across his face. Without hesitation he grabbed both her arms, pinioning them to her sides. This time he wasn’t lax in his grip. He pulled her so close she could barely move. Then he bent his head and his lips came down upon her own.
There came a rush of wind, and it was as if the wind were inside her, soaring through her nerves, touching her everywhere at once. Alysia felt the wild anger die, replaced by a new emotion, something different and yet just as violent and uncontrollable. Paulus placed one hand behind her head, closing it over her streaming hair.
A sudden crack of thunder shattered the stillness, and a flare of lightning briefly illuminated their merging figures. The rain began again in a steady deluge. Alysia pulled away with a gasp, and meeting his gaze for a fleeting moment, whirled to run toward the house. Paulus was upon her in an instant, his hands catching her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.
“Alysia, wait!” he shouted over the tumult of the storm, his eyes blazing.
“No! Leave me alone! I hate you! Don’t ever touch me again or I will kill you, do you hear? I would rather die, I would rather rot in jail than have you touch me!”
He stared at her silently, and his hands dropped slowly from her shoulders. She turned and walked away from him, her head up, her shoulders straight. She entered the house through one of the side doors; she walked, dripping, through the center hall and up the stairs, into Selena’s empty bedroom, and went as if in a trance to the unshuttered window.
Paulus had just mounted his horse and swung around toward his own house. Alysia watched him pause and look slowly up at her, as if he knew she would be there. Without conscious thought her hand moved to her still pounding heart. She was struck by the gravity of his expression and wondered, with a strange detachment, what it meant.
She kept standing there long after he was gone. For the first time since her trouble began a tear of grief rolled down her cheek, and then another, and she wept…wept for her murdered father, for the loss of her home, her freedom, and for the loss of her own will. He was a Roman soldier, he was her enemy, and yet she had lied when she said she hated him. And he had known it was a lie.