Daughter of the Sea

by Mira Zamin

One week. It had been one week since Calista’s life had shattered, but she looked no different. Sadder, perhaps. Red scars crisscrossed her arms from the fight in the attic, but the bruises were beginning to fade from her neck. She thought that there should have been some physical manifestation of the grief that tore through her. In one fell swoop, she had lost her father, her home, her freedom…her security. She had seen her father burned to ashes on the funeral pyre, just one of the nameless dead.

  Father. Dead. Those were two words she was unable to connect. Like a sundial, her mind always circled back to his death. Her heart paused, clenched, gasped for breath, as if her soul was drowning. She would never see those warm, dark eyes again or feel his arms encircle her. A wheezing sob welled in her throat but she stifled it roughly for fear of awakening her napping mother and brother.

  Nuala had disappeared. Dead, run away, Calista did not know but she wished her the best of it. General Cornelius and his surviving lieutenants Aloysius and Trebonius had refused to accept capitulation and had met their end in the coliseum as part of the general spectacle. She could still hear the fickle crowd’s cheers.

  And just like that, it was all gone.

  She drew a breath. Not all was gone. She would not let the gods catch her in thanklessness. Pyp and her mother slept beside her on her bed. Yes, they were prisoners—she tried not to think of the time she had been forced to spend alone with Avaritus—but they were alive and they were together. And she had managed to convince her mother nothing had happened on those visits. She was even managing to convince herself.

  Avaritus occupied her parents’ chambers, relegating them to detention in Calista’s room. Calista had brooded over his actions, searching for a reason, as if she were picking at a fresh red scab. Greed obviously drove him. He is well-named, Calista thought bitterly. But he could have lobbied the Senate or the Emperor for a few estates if he so desired. He wanted more, that was clear. What will the Senate, what will the Emperor do? she wondered. They cannot let this usurpation simply happen. It would set an example that bore the potential to tear the entire fabric of Rome. Surely Avaritus has realized this? Through his skillfully orchestrated invasion, he had proven he was no fool. So why this? It was a puzzle.

  In it lay the definite understanding of his character. If it was simply her he had desired, they were arranged to marry in a year. If he could not have waited, kidnapping was a far easier option. He could have saved hassle and lives if he had wed Calista after abducting her. Certainly, her father would have been given him anything to ensure her safety. But she could have sought a divorce…At any rate, that would not have satisfied his taste for brutality. Perhaps he was not a landowner in Rome and had hoodwinked her parents in a plan to gain Terronensis. Yet, the Senate assigned the ruler of the province, every decade or so; it was not inherited land. Was he relying on distance to ensure that the Senate would sit idle? Rich bribes? That would be folly. Sooner or later, the Senate would respond to this travesty. He had made sure to kill her father. That was important. If only she could cobble the answer together. Sighing, Calista reclined against the bed, blue eyes pensive.

  Calista’s mind wandered to the moments after they had been locked into her now-looted chambers.

  Pyp, Olympia, and Calista lay on the bed together, silent but huddling beneath the blankets. Pyp’s drew the deep, even breaths of sleep but Olympia gasped shakily every few minutes. They were uncertain of her father’s fate, but they feared the worst. Calista knew that she herself trembled like a lone leaf on the wind, her face sticky with tears. She buried her head in her mother’s bosom.

  “Calista,” she said suddenly. “I must tell you something.”

  “What, Mother?” Calista’s stomach clenched in anxiety, cold billowing through her.

  Olympia’s face screwed with determination that was evident even in the weak starlight. “I am to have a child.” Her words shook.

  Calista gaped, a thousand thoughts and emotions moving furiously through her. “Did father know?” she finally inquired.

  Olympia’s voice held steady. “Yes. We were so pleased…

  “When will it be born?” Calista whispered.

  “Less than half a year. And you must not speak of this to anyone, you understand? Not to Pyp, not to anyone.”

  “As you command, Mother.”

  The next morning, Olympia and Calista were escorted by a pair of soldiers to Avaritus’ newly occupied chambers. The rooms had not been altered in the slightest, but Calista could not shake the feeling of hollowness, as if the chamber had been burned raw.

  The procurator Bodenius slipped past them, and Calista leveled him a look of fury: his daughter, Cornelia, had been one of Calista’s dearest friends before Lucretius had arranged her marriage to the brother of one of Calista’s former suitors. They had done well out of that match and now look at Bodenius, toadying to Avaritus. Calista was gratified by his shamefaced scuttle.

  Avaritus lounged easily but left Olympia and Calista standing, enjoying their discomfiture. A fine pair of women, as different from each other as night and day. His eyes raked over them calculatingly. “How do you find your lodgings?”

  They had remained fastidiously silent, looking at him with darkly glowering eyes.

  Avaritus had tried again. “My dear Olympia, it grieves me to inform that your husband has passed.”

  Not a flicker of emotion crossed their faces.

  Calista’s mother drew herself up then. “Domina Olympia,” she had corrected.

  Avaritus barked a laugh. The rings on his fingers had caught the light. “I announce the death of husband and you stand on niceties? Perhaps you wish to know the manner of his death? I am a gracious host: I would not deny you.” A lean man emerged seemingly from shadow. “Lucretius was a fool to fight among his men. Did he think himself Hektor, a hero? Well, he is dead, now. A dagger to his back, courtesy of Panos here.” His tone was casual. He very well could have been asking after the recipe of a cheese spread.

  “Do you intend to make yourself Proconsul of Portus Tarrus then?” Olympia demanded coldly.

  Calista admired Olympia’s nerve: to hear the manner of her husband’s death and then take it so calmly. Although Calista’s face was impassive, she was ready to weep and knew that she could not be trusted to speak with any modicum of composure.

  “After a fashion. First, this conquest, next, marriage to your lovely daughter, Calista. That and lining the pockets of a few well-placed senators can never hurt a man’s cause.”

  If Calista had not been practicing studied calmness, she would have jumped at that. Instead, she quietly said, “I refuse and there is no force on Earth or the Heavens that can force me to relent.”

  “You know nothing of forces!” Avaritus snapped. “I have your mother, your brother in my hands. Do you wish me to prove how quickly I can make you renege on your vow?”

  Calista blanched. “No,” she said in a small voice. She wished she could be as courageous as her mother, to spit defiance in his eye.

  “You are my prisoners.” His lips curling into a satisfied smile, relishing the sentence like a sweet wine. “You, Calista, will attend me tonight.”

  “No!” Olympia exclaimed.

  Avaritus was gratified to have broken her composure at last. “Yes, Olympia?” he replied solicitously.

  “Allow me to attend you, Proconsul.” Olympia’s posture was tight but she looked into Avaritus’ face directly, eyes blazing.

  Calista’s body reverberated with shock. Her mind refused to click the pieces together; understanding of the exchange hovered just out of sight.

  Avaritus permitted himself to appear to consider the offer. He gave a slight smile. “No, but I thank you for the offer Olympia. I will bear it in mind. You are dismissed.”

  Calista abruptly snapped back to the present, startled by her mother’s sudden movement.

  Dark circles rimmed Olympia’s eyes, grey lines framed her mouth. The grief-stricken woman barely held any resemblance to Calis
ta’s fiercely defiant mother of only a few nights ago.

  “I will be getting medicine for you tonight, and you will feel better,” Calista murmured to her mother, trying to reassure her. “Mama?” she whispered tentatively when Olympia remained unresponsive.

  Her mother closed her eyes, for all the world appearing asleep.

  This was enough. Her mother was with child, obviously ill, and she needed help. Calista resolved to speak to Avaritus about the matter and stubbornly avoided the warning shiver that trickled down her spine.

  She had wondered about Claudius, several times after the capture of Portus Tarrus. It would have been unbearable if Claudius had died, along with her father, like another piece of her flesh carved away. She hoped he had managed to sail away and was somewhere hot and safe where there was good trade to be had. So many gone: loving Nuala, gruff Cornelius who had always had a sweet for the younger Calista, and Trebonius, brave to the end.

  A flame-haired slave woman stepped through the door. With her tousled hair and precariously slipping tunic, she might have just emerged from bed. Which, Calista thought spitefully, is likely the case.

  “Calista, Proconsul Avaritus requires your presence.” Older than Calista, perhaps her mother’s age, the woman’s tone was decidedly neutral.

  It did not placate Calista. “Domina Calista, slut,” Calista snapped. Stubbornly, she ignored the foreboding which trembled in her stomach. Standing up, she shook wrinkles from the stola, the same one she had been wearing for the past three days.

  “Your title was stripped along with your holdings,” the slave replied woodenly, green eyes hard against an olive complexion. She was not gloating; she was reciting facts. Calista did not know which was worse.

  “Only the Senate can strip my family of either.” Turning her back to the woman, Calista ordered, “Tell Avaritus I will be along shortly.” Whatever her situation, she refused to see him while looking like a kitchen slave. If she appeared strong and self-assured, perhaps he would believe it—and maybe she would believe it too.

  Surprisingly, the woman complied and departed. Instantly, Calista regretted indulging her frustration on her. She seemed reasonable and Calista could have used a friendly face on the opposition. She could feel her father’s reproach: he was always firm with the slaves but calm and even-handed, saying that a man’s character could only truly be judged by how he interacted with his inferiors.

  Another lesson her father had imparted to her once, when she was young, came to mind. Ceremony is everything, Daughter, Lucretius whispered in her mind, and for a moment she could almost feel his presence. People are impressed by splendor and ceremony: always use custom to your advantage. Of course, he had been referring to her future role as a hostess for her husband’s events, but the words fit just as well here.

  She knew that if she dressed herself too finely, her clothing and jewelry would be removed. It is not as if there is much left. Still, a few plain clothes remained, although her silk vestments had all been looted.

  She washed her face, neck, and arms before stepping into a tunic followed by a stola of fine peach wool with sleeves gathered at the shoulders. Ivory comb stolen, her fingers quickly brushed her damp hair and hastily braided and twirled it into a coronet around her head.

  A guard escorted Calista to her father’s office. She refused to refer to anything as Avaritus’. Vaguely, she toyed with the idea of breaking the guard’s nose and running away but promptly dismissed it. If she managed to overpower the guard, she would still have to pass the soldiers who patrolled the grounds of the manor and the city with her mother and Pyp. Impossible but such a lovely fantasy. Better than seeing what had passed on the villa.

  Absolutely ransacked during the battle, the manor had seen little effort to put it to rights. Calista gaped at the brownish-black splashes on the floors and wall frescoes: blood. The guard looked at her in askance but she smiled weakly and shook her head. The mercenaries were cold and violent men in the majority but there was no reason that there could not also be those that were good.

  Her eyes drifted back to the blood. It was as if Avaritus wanted a persistent and visible reminder of the means he had used to achieve power, a warning to any who would counter him. Spotting a few familiar slaves, she deliberately smiled at them. Whatever her situation, if she presented an illusion of strength publicly…well, she did not know what it would accomplish but it would certainly be better than crumpling and weeping every few steps.

  They stood at the office, the room where her father spent hours poring over provincial records, discussing matters with the procurator and others, issuing orders, and corresponding with senators and proconsuls. Calista wondered if any unsent letters remained in the drawers. Oh, she would give anything to read his last words, the last products of his loving mind.

  The door opened.

  Dismissing the guard with a flick of his fingers, Avaritus did not look up immediately. Irrationally, Calista longed for the man to stay. He afforded some illusion of protection against Avaritus. The door whispered shut and it was just the two of them.

  “You requested my presence, Avaritus?”

  He seemed distracted. He did not even spare a moment to eye her appraisingly as was his habit. “I have called to inform you that we will be wedded in four days’ time. That is all.”

  Ignoring the sensation of ice sinking in her stomach, Calista instead observed loudly, “I see you are finding governorship to be a bit of a chore. Of course, you must do it well for the Senate to allow you continue in the position but it does leave very little time for whoring.” She tutted sympathetically. In spite of his stormy countenance, Calista plowed on. “My mother is quite ill and requires a physician’s services. I doubt the Senate would look kindly on you if she perished in your care, upstart that you are and her brother, my uncle Bellicus, a senator.”

  Avaritus’ mouth tightened, but he called for a slave. “Have a physician sent for,” he said blandly.

  Calista tried to keep her face unruffled at the sight of Maro. Let Avaritus think she saw him as nothing more than a slave. By the gods, she was thankful to see him well. They did not allow a flicker of recognition to pass between them.

  “Yessir,” nodded Maro and hastily backed away from the room. To her chagrin, she noted that while Maro seemed healthy and clean—at least Avaritus understood the value of caring for slaves—there was an oddly un-Maro-like, placid gleam to his eyes. It was unsettling like seeing an ugly Venus.

  “I hope you are keeping our family slaves well,” she drawled. She hoped he would not be able to hear through her feigned nonchalance.

  Avaritus chuckled, seeing through her thin guise easily. He straightened his fine crimson toga: the red was so deep, it bordered on violet but even he dared not cross that line. Yet. “A fickle bunch. Took to me quite easily.”

  Calista released a sigh of relief she had not even realized she had been holding. “Tell me of your family, Avaritus. You know everything of mine and if we are to be man and wife…”

  “Shut up, bitch,” he spat venomously, his apparent good humor vanishing with alacrity.

  “Who are you really, Avaritus Spurius? A bastard son of a patrician family, disinherited for the scandal he caused?” Even as her eyes mocked him, her voice was carefully modulated.

  Avaritus’ fingers tightened around the parcel of papers he had been studying. “Whatever I was, I am now the Proconsul of Terronensis.” He smiled privately, as if he had been struck by a most pleasurable notion.

  A chill pricked her arms. “Not for long Avaritus. The Emperor, the Senate will hear of this soon and I doubt that either will let a bastard rule Terronensis, after coming to power, not through their command but through his own impetus. Were you really such a fool to believe that if you succeeded in conquest, the Senate would permit it?”

  “You assume too much and know too little.”

  Calista bit her tongue. Let him illuminate her. She would find a way to use the knowledge.

&nb
sp; “Lucretius and I signed a contract in which he allowed that in the case of his incapacitation and young Nicetius not yet of age, I would, through marriage to you, take on the duties of the Proconsul of Terronensis until such a time the Senate could appoint someone else. And, as it happens, I have recently heard that the Senate looks favorably upon my appointment.”

  Nearly fully confident he was bluffing, she told him so bluntly.

  “If the Senate finds me willing to take on this burden—” He pulled a face; the childish mannerism did not suit him. “—They will not likely disregard me. I have already sent my case to be presented before the Senate.”

  Anger swelling within her at the thought of Avaritus occupying her father’s position through the legal support of the Senate, she snorted, “I hardly think the Senate will by sympathetic to you plea. ‘Dear Senate, using mercenaries to rape, ravage, and pillage Portus Tarrus I gained control, but now can I have the position?’ Pah!”

  Shaking his heard with condescension, he replied coolly, “You would be an idiot to believe that I sent to the Senate a true-to-life account of what occurred.” At the sight of her mutinous glare, he added, “And an imbecile to believe that I will allow you any means to send a messenger. You are dismissed.”

  Calista did not move.

  “You are dismissed,” he repeated curtly.

  With frigid gravity, Calista announced, “I swear to you, on the legacy of my father and the lives of my mother and brother that one day I will see you dead.” Stately, she glided from the room, knowing without peeking that she left a shocked Avaritus in her wake. If he had thought he had cowed her with his brutality, he would learn that she was of more resilient stock than that.

  The mercenary guard, who revealed his name to be Gualterus after a cordial inquiry, escorted her back. Calista pointedly smiled at and greeted all she encountered. Slaves or mercenaries, she did not discriminate. Inch by inch, she resolved to win the esteem and sympathy of her captors.

  “Do you have a family, Gualterus?” she asked warmly.

  Surprised at the question, Gualterus paused before informing her of his wife and three children but found himself thinking that it was a pitiable situation that the girl he was guarding had found herself in and he resolved to be kinder to his prisoners. After all, Avaritus had never taken such an interest in little Medullina’s fascination with conch shells.

  Calista permitted herself a small smile as Gualterus locked her in the room with an apologetic light in his brown eyes.

  She was going to need every bit of goodwill and luck she could gather. This meeting had proven that she could not wait for senatorial forces to arrive and set things aright. She was going to have to escape. The thoughts of freedom occupying her mind left little room for the darkness of the past few days to take precedence.

  Avoiding jostling her mother and Pyp, both of whom looked so utterly at peace asleep, she settled onto the bed and mentally outlined her successful escape from the home she had clung to with all her might. She refused to think of how the situation could have been avoided if she had not so foolishly rejected proposals, tenaciously gripping Portus Tarrus and her family, her father. That he might still have been alive if she had but played her role of a dutiful daughter...

  No. She denied the thought even as it threatened to overshadow all else.

  CHAPTER VIII