by Mira Zamin
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Blinded by tears, Calista wobbled, ran, crashed to her room, ignoring the startled slaves. She careened onto the bed, stifling her whimpers in a pillow. She did not know how long she muffled her howls but after a while, the onslaught of grief ebbed. Taking a few shaky breaths, Calista rested her forehead against the icy glass of the window. It frosted under her warm breath.
So soon, why so soon? And to him? Calista was sensible—she had expected marriage and had expected little say in whom her parents chose but she had also expected it to be later and to some, (and she could admit it freely to herself now) young, dashing man from a good family whom it would not be burdensome to marry. How could her mother and father, who showed the most discerning of tastes otherwise, have failed so miserably in the selection of her husband? Guiltily, she wondered if this was her punishment for not having decided earlier, for not having wedded earlier. Daughters do not belong to their parents, and yet she had selfishly clung to them, even as a line of suitors, young, friendly, and moderately handsome, had approached her for marriage.
Sighing brokenly, Calista mused that this sort of match occurred often. A few of her friends had been wedded off to older men without their opinions taken into account, yet none had possessed the implicit understanding which lay between her and her parents. Perhaps it was so implicit, that they did not realize that we had an agreement, she thought with another croaking sob.
“Caly, what happened?” Pyp’s voice, trembling with tears for his sister’s agony, rang out from the archway of her bedroom. His small figure was silhouetted by the soft light from the hallway.
“Get out Pyp. Please leave,” she answered tiredly, pulling the covers over her head as she leaned against the curve of the headboard. She knew that she would not be able to withstand the onslaught of his inevitable sympathy without crumbling once more into a mess of tears.
“But—”
Calista cut him off. “You’ll find out in the morning,” she said, trying to infuse her works with briskness.
“Well, night then,” he said uncertainly, clearly uncomfortable with leaving her. “I love you, Caly.”
Lifting her head from beneath the covers, she answered, “I love you too, Pyp.”
Leaving his sister’s room, Pyp realized that Avaritus had proposed to Calista and his prediction had come true. He had never thought his parents would accept. He was such a nasty old man. Pyp hadn’t liked the way he’d been eyeing their home and his sister. He did not understand why, but it raised goosebumps on his arms. Calista could not marry him. She could not. Then, an idea struck him. He would plague Avaritus to such an extent that simply to escape him, Avaritus would flee Portus Tarrus. He grinned—he was brilliant.
Pyp tiptoed down the hall of the slave’s wing to the room on the far end. His eyes adjusting to the dark of the room, he found a boy of twelve lying on a pallet and tossing a small sphere in the air.
“Maro!” Pyp called in a whisper.
The boy hastily stood up, capturing the stone neatly in his hand before it could clatter to the floor. An easy smile flashed across his face. “Yes, Domino Nicetius?”
Scowling at the name, Pyp said in his fierce fashion, “No one is around, so don’t call me Nicetius, or I’ll call you Marius. I need you to do me a favor, Marius.”
A few slaves stirred on their pallets and Maro and Pyp quickly scarpered out the door and onto the moonlit terrace.
“Oh Pyp,” replied Maro in mock despair, “Never call me Marius: Never!” He cast the rock somewhere into the town.
Pyp giggled. There were two people in his life on whom he could always count to make him laugh and to take care of him: Maro and Calista, and for them, he would do anything.
“What can I do for you, Pyp?” Maro asked. When Pyp wanted a favor it was usually something interesting. Maro loved serving a master, who, at six years old was easily influenced by his older and equally roguish slave. Not that Maro would ever use that influence inappropriately. Certainly not. He simply introduced Pyp to the alternate art of mischief, which Maro felt was woefully absent from the traditional patrician curriculum.
“Help me put the biggest crab, the hungriest we can find in that Avaritus’ bed. A cranky one. One that bites.”
Maro rubbed his hands together. “I like your style,” he cackled.
Careful not to rouse the sleeping villa, the two slipped into the night to comb the beach for obliging crustaceans.
CHAPTER III
