by Mira Zamin
Calista awoke to Pyp’s pendant burning at her throat. When she tried to pull it off, it scalded her hands. Just when she could bear the heat no more, it cooled. Her breathing steadied as she tried to capture the last moments of her dream. The pendant was a part of it, of that she was sure. And obsidian columns floated prominently in her memory. Odd colors and sensations dominated as well. Chanting. Crying. A child called Claudius. An infant with her name. A woman wailing.
She shook her head free of the absurd images and saw that her mother and Pyp were already awake, playing a game they had recently contrived that involved the few odds and ends left around the room. Opening her mouth to ask how to play, she was interrupted by Gualterus’ entry. He was followed by a young woman hooded in grey.
“This is the physician’s daughter,” he introduced briskly before ducking out.
When she lowered her hood, she revealed a mane of hair, perhaps a bit more flaxen than Calista’s and eyes of a deeper blue. Although they were not particularly alike facially, the similarities in their coloring and build spawned a frenzy of ideas in Calista’s mind.
Olympia rose weakly and walked to the woman. “His daughter?”
The girl flushed slightly but responded with dignity. “I am Rusonia. My father is otherwise occupied, but he has taught me much and if I encounter an issue I cannot handle, I will consult with him. Fear not, you are in good hands with me. Proconsul Avaritus has given me an hour, so if I can urge you Domina Olympia, to lie on the bed so I may examine you.”
Calista did not miss Rusonia’s delicate shudder at the mention of Avaritus. She tucked the information away. She could not believe that Rusonia’s father had so cavalierly sent his daughter to this house teeming with mercenaries.
Noticing Pyp’s frightened face, Rusonia added confidently, “Not to worry, little one.”
As the doctor’s daughter worked, Calista mulled over whether or not she should do as she planned. She would be asking much of Rusonia; it would even be risking her life if they were apprehended. Could she stomach the woman’s blood on her hands? That was a definitive no. But what if this were a trap? What if Avaritus had found Rusonia for just this purpose, to lure Calista into revealing herself openly? She snorted, much to her mother’s and Rusonia’s astonishment. Had she not, just a few days ago, promised to see Avaritus dead? He knew where she stood and a trap would be superfluous. Besides, Avaritus was much too occupied with managing Portus Tarrus to squander his time with such tricks. And he still needed her.
Sufficiently convinced that the girl was just a girl, Calista watched her. Rusonia’s movements were crisp as she kneaded Olympia’s stomach and checked her mouth and eyes.
“Ah, you are with child?” Taking Olympia’s silence for assent, Rusonia knelt on the ground and extracted herbs from her satchel. “I will not tell Avaritus,” she whispered.
Trusting the moment, Calista inquired as nonchalantly as she could, “What do you think of Avaritus?”
Olympia’s voice was stern. “Calista! You do not have to answer that,” she said to Rusonia, shooting Calista an admonishing look.
Pyp watched the unfolding scene with interest. Like Maro, he had absorbed a disconcerting quietness into his manner, a gravity much too severe for the age of seven. However, it was somewhat lightened by the anticipation of seeing what his sister planned.
Calista spoke in a rush. “I am going to ask of you a favor, one much too great to ask of someone I have known for scarcely fifteen minutes, and yet I must.”
An apprehensive light flickered behind Rusonia’s indigo eyes but she stayed mute.
Deciding to frame her request as an innocuous question, she requested, “May I borrow your cloak?”
Rusonia’s face clouded dubiously. Her lips thinned. “What for?” she asked, her manner as crisp as when she had been examining Olympia. Olympia echoed Rusonia’s sentiment and while Calista, at any other time, would have applauded her mother’s rally of spirit, irritation coursed through her, followed speedily by shame. She was a wicked daughter. Instead of being thankful that her mother was recovering from her malaise, she was annoyed.
An image of being forbidden to do as she knew she had to floated before her eyes. Her mother would advocate, had advocated, waiting for the Senate to rescue them. After all, her mother did not know the full extent of what had transpired between her and Avaritus. Her mother was pregnant: she wanted security not worry. A part of Calista thought she was underestimating her mother but she would not risk it with the complete truth. “I just need the opportunity to be about Portus Tarrus unattended—”
Shooting up, Olympia chastised, “Do not be a fool, Calista! You risk not only yourself but Rusonia. I cannot understand what possessed to think that you could imperil so much for such a fancy.”
It was Calista’s turn to look incredulous. “What possessed me? Allow me to think. Father died. Our home was conquered. We are prisoners and Father’s murderer is living here happily. What has not possessed me?” Turning to Rusonia, she implored, “Avaritus has given us an hour. If anyone asks, I will be you and say that I need herbs or to counsel with your father.” Even as she said it, she recognized the sheer stupidity of her intentions but her desperation was such that if Rusonia denied her, she would the cloak away with her own fingers. For good measure, she added, “If I should be caught, I will say that I threatened and forced you to it; you need not worry about that.”
“Very well.”
“What?” Calista asked blankly. She had already begun planning exactly how she was going to physically coerce this hale girl into giving her the cloak. Rusonia’s assent was surprising and frankly mad. But Calista would not question it. It was deeply selfish of her and she was vaguely disgusted by herself, but she would reconcile her conscience later. “I thank you, profoundly,” she said, folding the heavy felt cloak about her.
“You’re welcome.”
Olympia watched Calista with disapproving eyes as she slipped out of the door, avoiding the questions of the guard with a roughly muttered, “I will return soon.” All the while, she ducked her head meekly, even as the mercenaries called out rude and shocking suggestions. She was surprised to realize that they curbed their tongues in her unmasked presence. She supposed that whatever else, she was their employer’s betrothed.
Treading softly down the stairs, she crept to the white stone kitchens. The mosaics depicting women cooking and men baking were some of the most beautiful in the house and gleamed as ever.
Her awkward hovering was noted by the cook, Koisis, who had worked in Portus Tarrus’ kitchens since her grandfather, Antonius Tertillius Volusus. “You are not permitted to be here. You may exit this way.” He gestured towards a narrow door which led to the vegetable gardens.
Calista approached him cautiously, eyeing the working slaves who were barely aware of her presence. She whispered, “Koisis.”
Recognition flashed in his dark eyes but his face was smooth. “Ah, stranger, you do not know the way. Let me guide you,” he announced loudly. “Fidelus, oversee the kitchens while I see this lost stranger out.”
While Calista inwardly cringed, Koisis led her through the garden where green remnants still clung tenaciously to the soil. Although it was an overcast day, Calista reveled in the unadulterated daylight. “How are you Koisis?” she murmured.
He gave a small frown and unleashed a verbal torrent. “I’ve been better but seeing you has lifted my spirits. How did you escape? Why? Where are your mother and brother? I am sorry for your father.”
“I need to go into the city but I am not escaping. Yet. Mother has been ill—not too seriously!” she added at the alarmed look in Koisis’ eye. “—And Pyp is a bit down. Do you know if the merchant’s ships have departed yet?” Fervently, she hoped they had not.
If Koisis was confused by the question, he did not let on. “They have stayed on to trade with the mercenaries, not all but most.”
“Do you know of Captain Claudius?” Despite her worry, she noted inconsequentially jus
t how stupid the alliteration sounded. She lost her footing on the rain-smooth flagstones, but Koisis caught her arm.
“Not that I know of. If I’d had the chance, I would’ve left. I can’t condone what the bastard’s done but a man needs a roof over his head.”
“I understand. And your words are truer than you think,” Calista said, seizing on the moment and a most convenient transition.
“What?” Koisis leaned towards her eagerly, always ready to hear an interesting piece of gossip.
Calista dropped her voice to a barely discernible hiss. “He is a bastard, in the literal sense of the term. Perhaps you should let the word spread to others but do nothing that will risk you or anyone else.” She had jeopardized Rusonia but by the gods, she would not risk more than she had to. More than she had to. She shoved away how hard that sounded.
“You can’t mean…?” Koisis gaped.
Sighing despondently, Calista saw they had reached the end of the walk and she felt a heaviness extend from her stomach to her feet, a symptom of her reluctance to leave Koisis. “He hoodwinked us into believing he was a man of good birth and honor. We, being so out of touch with Rome, believed him. The privacy we so prized proved to be our downfall.” Calista’s eyes, nearly grey in the cloudy silver light, flickered unhappily.
An image of the baby Calista in some queer watery hall suddenly blossomed in her mind’s eye without provocation as if someone had tugged it out of the recesses of her brain. It was another scrap from her dream, and it lodged into her mind, not like a dreamt wisp, but as something true and solid: a memory. “Koisis? Were you here when I was born?” she asked abruptly. She drew the grey cloak further over he face as a pair of soldiers glanced at her inquiringly.
The man started at the question and nervously fiddled with his stained tunic that strained over his potbelly. “Yes.” His voice wavered.
His reticence to answer was enough. The question sprang into her mouth fully-formed. “I am not Mother’s daughter am I?” Calista murmured wanly. It felt as if the bottom had dropped out of the world and she was being simultaneously compressed and pulled through a knothole.
“It was around when your grandfather was still proconsul here and the story they put about was that your mother simply did not grow during the pregnancy.” He appeared momentarily uncomfortable, scrubbing his fingers through grey-brown hair. “But slaves talked and not a one of us believed the tale. Still, they were so happy.” His gaze suddenly grew distant. “I remember when your mother first named you. I was there, serving breakfast a day or so after you came to us and it was as if she had been struck by Cupid’s arrow, such a look of divine inspiration came into her eye.”
“How did they find me?” She thought that by asking more questions, she could make it more real. She understood it theoretically, but the news that she was not her father’s daughter seemed to apply to another Calista. Not her. A portion of her knew she was wasting valuable time for a trifle when compared to everything else at stake but something in her demanded that it was every person’s right to know where they came from. Their love is what matters, she told herself firmly. But as she mentally tallied what had befallen her, she was ready to curse the gods. Everything she had mentioned to her mother, somethings she had not, and now discovering her parents were not her parents. It was far too much. She wished she had not asked Koisis. She wished he had lied.
“Koisis,” A woman appeared from the arches. “Avaritus is commanding his meal and, pardon me, wishes to know whether, ‘Your fat arse has gone and eaten all the food.’”
Calista held her breath, waiting for the slave to recognize her but the woman’s dark-eyed gaze flicked over her disinterestedly. As much as Calista wanted to know more she realized her time had grown thin. “Thank you...Koisis, is it?” She nodded, vaguely cordial for the benefit of the slave woman. She left the pair, a mêlée of thoughts roiling in her mind.
Her leather sandals churning up mud from the alley, she noted the effects of the battle lingering. Blood stained trees, torn shreds of clothing shivering in a bush. Remnants of lives, of people, now only marked by things which had been theirs. Calista shivered. People still hurried around the city and their homes seemed largely undamaged if occasionally charred. Calista bowed her head to avoid recognition.
The path shifted to smooth stones and disregarding appearances, she skidded down to the harbor. And there, lit up against the moonbeam sea, was a figure as familiar to her as Pyp’s. She dared not hope but hastened her pace, stubbornly wading through the beach gravel. The golden hair was undeniable. Eyes focusing on the scene, she saw that Claudius was speaking to a pair of sailors but she only had to hover before a few moments before he dismissed them. After that, she was shocked at how rapidly her feet carried her to him.
“Claudius!” she cried, feeling sudden relief as his colors resolved: the sage green of his tunic, the cerulean of his eyes, the blush of his lips.
“Calista!” He wrapped her in a tight embrace. “How…?” he trailed off wonderingly.
Breaking from his arms, she wrung her hands and spoke urgently. “I have little time, but I have to come to ask if you would be willing to sail with me and my family? Soon? I am afraid I can offer you no definite recompense, but we have property in Rome and a few farms in the countryside.” She peered at him hopefully.
He stared pensively at the ocean. Calista watched him, her heart ready to crumble at the sound of his refusal. No, she admonished herself. If he says No then I will find another way. Oh gods, let him agree but if not, help me to find another way.
Calista drew a breath as Claudius answered, “Trade with the mercenaries is lagging since their loot started dwindling and my men are growing restless. Smuggle your family out within a week and we will be ready to sail but I can promise you no more than that. And you must remember that I cannot give you more than a week. Is there anything else you require?”
Unexpectedly, Calista realized that they were in plain view on the beach but she quashed the instinct to hare off. A person on the beach was not odd. A person running off like their hide was on fire? That would be notable. Aware of just how stupid she was about to sound, Calista sucked in a cold breath. “I also came here because, well, I had a dream.” The next words came as a nervous torrent. “A most realistic dream. I do not recall much but you and I were together, that I remember. We were children. And there was a wall, only it was not of stone or concrete but rather of—“
“Water,” Claudius completed. He looked shocked at his words and the way they clicked into place with her sentence.
“Yes!” she exclaimed excitedly. Again, she was putting her history above her safety and Rusonia’s well-being, but the pull was irresistible.
“Those images have haunted my dreams too,” he exhaled. “I would not have remarked upon the matter if you had not mentioned it. Surely, if you too can see them, they are not mere fancies?”
“What in the name of Neptune have we stumbled into?” she muttered, feeling buffeted by confusion from every angle.
Before Claudius could reply, a scruffy sailor ran to them. A shot of panic surged through Calista.
“Claudius, that girl, Calista, is missing and Avaritus has men searching for her.” The lad carefully averted his dark eyes from Calista and she immediately understood—if asked anything, he could honestly plead ignorance. Certain that Claudius had understood, he dashed away, not eager to linger.
If this boy has seen me than how many others have too? She nearly fainted in fright at the thought and cursed herself ten times for a fool. “I must go. If Avaritus discovers me with you…He will hurt—” She broke off. “Thank you, Claudius.” Sarcastically, she chuckled. “That is all I offer anyone. I risk their lives and offer my sincerest thanks.”
“If I were you, I would wallow a little less and run a bit more,” Claudius advised wryly.
“I will see you within the week,” she promised. “Thank you again.”
Calista set off. A sheet of sheer
mist allowed her an inconspicuous excuse to draw the hood of her cloak up. She was very nearly at the villa when she leapt behind a bush waving with tattered and bloody scraps. A small flock of mercenaries marched closer.
“Where’s the damn wench gotten to?” cursed Deodatus, the mercenary captain. An unprepossessing man, he was stocky with only a shock of red hair to hint at the vicious temper which boiled underneath. His clear blue eyes, like a babe’s, belied any such temper.
“Could be anywhere in this gods-forsaken fog sir,” called one of the men. “She might even be inside, enjoying a goblet of warm wine while we’re tramping around in this haze.” His voice was wistful and Calista barely contained a snort of hysterical laughter.
Deodatus’ eyes narrowed. They were not precisely cruel—hard described them more aptly. “Nolus, if you don’t have a good answer, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.” He vowed to himself that he would never take children on campaign with him. “Weak stomachs, weaker minds,” he grumbled.
A misty gust rattled the shrubbery, whisking the hood from Calista’s head. Even as she scrambled to replace it, her sunny locks winked like a beacon.
Spotting the signal, Nolus approached to investigate. In the moment his earthy brown eyes met Calista’s, she thought her heart would stop. She sprang away, making for the manor.
“There she is, Captain!” Nolus exclaimed, shocked at his own initiative.
“Don’t just stand there! Get the damn girl!” If the situation had been any less important, Deodatus would have rolled his eyes.
The mercenaries dashed after her and Nolus found himself pulling ahead, his heels pounding on the paved road. Within minutes, he was at Calista’s side, his hand tight around her elbow. Her head and heart were near to bursting and regret for Rusonia filled the parts of her which were not on the brink of explosion. I deserve whatever they do to me, she thought and halted in mid-step. Nolus tripped over her and both hurtled to the ground. She heard her chin crack against the pave stones. A hot, wet burning sprang forth.
“Up you,” grunted the mercenary as pulled her up roughly. “Proconsul Avaritus’ going to be pleased to see you.”
Calista stared at him blankly.
Disconcerted by the sudden emptiness in his quarry’s face, Nolus swung her up on his shoulder and toted Calista to his captain. Proudly, Nolus strode over to the group and Deodatus nodded in pleasure. He slapped Nolus on the back. “You may just be able stick around longer if you keep showing this kind of initiative.”
“Thank you, sir.” His chest puffed out in pride.
“Carry the girl to Proconsul Avaritus. Who knows? You may be rewarded.” Deodatus lowered his voice. “I hear he gives women to the soldiers who please him.” Of course he had heard no such thing (women had been taken independently but they had not been gifted) but it would amuse him to hear of this hapless man’s reprimand.
Nolus’ grip around Calista tightened not inconsiderably and Deodatus, spying the direction of the man’s thoughts, reproved, “Not her. She will reach Proconsul Avaritus safely.”
“Yessir.” Eager to claim his prize, Nolus lowered Calista perhaps a bit too handily but Deodatus allowed that to slip.
Calista was led into the villa through a smaller side door, not unlike the garden door through which she had escaped. Had she been less inclined to soak in her guilt and misery, she might have seethed at the sight of the dilapidated walls or drawn heart from the discreetly sympathetic looks the slaves tossed towards her. However, she was startled from her morose trance by the sight of a hastily carved marble bust of Avaritus which skillfully captured his thin lips, and, in Calista’s opinion, the mean squint of his eyes. Even his presumption could not jar her for long and soon she retreated again, not even feeling Nolus’ roaming hands.
When Nolus pushed Calista to the door, she came to herself. Efficiently, he knocked on the door, arranging his hands tidily about his own person. The door was opened by a buxom woman, the same one who had issued the summons to Calista. Attempting a tentative smile, Calista was disappointed to see no flicker of empathy in her olive eyes.
“Who is it, Flora?” Avaritus called.
“A soldier and the runaway Calista,” she replied in a soft, seductive voice: quite different from the one she had used to address Calista.
A smile wove through his words. “Let them in.”
This was but the third time she had entered these rooms and each time she perceived something newly transformed. Today, she realized that the scent of myrrh still lingered in the rooms but it was faint, tinged with sour pungency; a dream of a fragrance that had stayed beyond its time.
Avaritus emerged from the chambers within. “Look Flora, it is my beloved and missing betrothed.” His lip curled as he lowered himself onto the long golden couch.
Turning his attention to Nolus, Avaritus said, “Thank you for returning my betrothed. You are dismissed and may report to Deodatus that I am pleased with your performance.”
“Please…can I…may I…?” the man stuttered tentatively, eyeing Calista appraisingly.
“Get on with it man,” Avaritus demanded.
Nervously, Nolus licked his lips. “A reward,” he requested, suddenly fearing that he had overstepped.
Avaritus was silent and for a moment, fright sparked across Nolus’ face. “You are quite…forward. Flora, here.”
Sashaying over, she did not balk at being summoned like a dog. Calista was not sure if she would have the control to answer to Avaritus like that if she did not manage to escape. A serpent of disgust coiled in her throat.
“I am sure this man here will have a few directions for you. Follow them. His daring has been pleasing. This once.” The warning was clear.
“As you wish,” she assented but her eyes were hard with aversion as she led a startled Nolus from the rooms.
Now alone with Avaritus, with not even a barrier of slaves, anxiety surged through Calista. Then, the need, the overwhelming need to ensure that no harm had come or would come to Rusonia shattered it entirely. Carefully, she gathered her words to launch her defense. Cicero, she chanted, Cicero. “I hope you have not harmed the girl. She is innocent of any collusion and I coerced her—”
“What girl?” queried Avaritus. He sounded bemused.
“What girl?” Calista echoed stupidly, not daring to hope that Rusonia had somehow managed to escape and that kindness to Gualterus had borne fruit.
“Yes, ‘what girl,’” he demanded impatiently.
“No girl,” Calista said quickly.
Avaritus looked dubious. “If there were no girl, then why would you ask after her?”
Giggling nervously and then damning herself for it, Calista fabricated, “I never said ‘girl.’ I said ‘mother.’ You must have misheard me.” Fervently, she prayed that Avaritus would take her words for the sun’s own truth.
“Your mother?” he questioned, the doubtful light receding from his eyes and Calista could not figure if he believed her inventions.
“Yes, Avaritus. And my brother. I forced them to lower me through the window.” She would not dare allow him to think that Gualterus had allowed her through.
“And how did they lower you?” His face was a mask of courteous disbelief.
Still standing, she shuffled nervously as darts of pain raced through her legs. “Tied robes,” she elaborated and then throwing caution to the wind, pled, “Do not harm them. Not for my foolishness.”
Surveying her calmly from the couch, Avaritus swiftly lunged forth and pressed her against the wall. Before she could draw a breath, he pushed a pillow against against her mouth. He was so close to her she could count the creases in his face: four framing the corners of his mouth, five straddling his forehead, two running parallel between his eyebrows and another two creasing the corners of his eyes. Minutes seemed to stroke by with each count. Struggling to draw breath, she tried to tear at the cushion with her teeth. Futile efforts. Her screams strained through the pillow but for all her will, she g
enerated as much sound as a mouse.
“I expected audacity from you but never such cowardice. To run away without your family and leave them with the fall out? Know this though, one more such incident and your brother dies, another and your mother will meet the same fate. I will not expect a third. And Calista, we wed at the end of the week.”
Avaritus took the sudden faraway look in her eyes and a vague hum as confirmation of her understanding and summoned a soldier to take her away.
He did not know that the distant stare was not confirmation of his edicts but a strengthening of her resolve: she had to orchestrate an escape in one try. The prospect for error had been crowded aside by the certainty of death.
