Daughter of the Sea

by Mira Zamin

Pyp slowly woke on the cold lumpy ground as he had every morning for what seemed like forever. His mother was sleeping next to him, an arm wrapped around her son for warmth. They slept in the cellar, where Avaritus had imprisoned them after Olympia had refused to wed him. He hoped the cold and dampness would break her spirit for him. The cellar was stacked high with barrels of wine and Olympia and Pyp were rarely left alone by the tipsy mercenaries. Whenever Pyp heard their stumbling steps, he and his mother would hide. The soldiers’ tempers were volatile, and alcohol easily set them blazing. Nor did it help that they were never far from there gladii and were liable to take a swipe at whomever they pleased.

  …Now, what was that dream… Pyp scrunched his eyes but all he could remember was a great deal of green and white. And…a dark woman, with gold eyes? Strange. She had been talking to Calista…

  But what does it mean? He had dreamt of his dead sister before, and each dream was more peculiar than the last. He wondered if she were stretching her hands beyond the Underworld to send her younger brother a message, counsel in these dark times. He liked those dreams. In those dreams, his sister was alive.

  “If only I could go to a sibyl,” Pyp muttered aloud. “They would know how to interpret the dream.” He remembered Nuala telling him of the oracles in her village and he wished Portus Tarrus had seers of its own.

  He let out a loud sigh. Carefully untangling himself from his mother’s arm, he climbed up the heavy wooden barrels to the single tiny window in the whole cellar. It let in only a narrow line of pearly grey light.

  Pyp heard the lock turn and footsteps pound down the cellar steps. After nearly three full moons, Pyp was accustomed to his new life’s customs: the boredom, the depression, the fall from the grace of the gods. Moments before, a guard had made his circuit. Right now, Flora, the red-haired woman, was coming down the steps with his and his mother’s breakfast.

  When Pyp had asked his mother who Flora was, she had replied that the slave woman was Avaritus’ good friend. In spite of that, she was kind to him and made sure their food was fresh and hot; not that Koisis, the cook, would allow anything less. His stomach grumbled fitfully. Last night they had not received their cena. That is, if the tasteless, but soft bread they generally ate for every meal could be called that.

  “Nicetius? Olympia?” Flora whispered. She appeared at the foot of the stairs, her vibrant red hair swept up in a lazy bun, and her body draped carelessly in a scarlet robe. She placed a pitcher of water and the clay bowls of bread beside Olympia’s blue wool blankets.

  “Flora?” Pyp said nervously. An idea had quickly formed in his mind, and while it wasn’t much of a plan it was better than nothing. Pyp’s heart beat furiously. It was no less than Caly would have done.

  “Nicetius, where are you?” Flora peered around the cellar.

  She was in no hurry. Avaritus had been up late last night, managing the funds of Portus Tarrus and would still be abed. While a conqueror, Avaritus still wanted Portus Tarrus to be a profitable venture, especially since he was not so well liked among the citizens, and people would not think twice about taking advantage of his unfamiliarity with the province. Indeed, Avaritus had already sent several men to the lions of the small Coliseum; they had been heard telling the tale of Avaritus’ bastardy. Such talk was not taken lightly and Flora felt he had been quite right in sending the men to the lions. Even the slightest crack in his armor could inspire revolt.

  Even though the folk of Portus Tarrus did not much like Avaritus, they could not help but enjoy the spectacle. The lions had been freshly imported from Africa and when the townsfolk watched the displays of the coliseum, their blood pumped hot and furious through their veins and Avaritus won their temporary approval. They were reminded that Lucretius had been too gentle: only ten men had been sent to the Coliseum in the years of his rule. In this way, Avaritus earned the esteem of some and made examples of others. His years of observing politics in Rome were serving him at last.

  It did not occur to most of the townspeople to wonder by what right Avaritus exercised his power. Rulers came and went but the boats would always have to be sent onto the sea to come back with fish, the salt mined, the fabric woven. Any who would contest Avaritus’ rule were rendered silent by the mercenaries lodging in the barracks.

  Pyp carefully clambered down the barrels and stood in front of Flora. With the grey light shining on him, the child looked like a shade, stretching his fingers from the Underworld. Flora shivered. He was pale as snow. Flora could make out the blue veins crisscrossing beneath his skin. Months of malnutrition had melted the weight off him and his shoulder bones jutted through his tunic like bird’s wings.

  “Flora, I’d like to go out.”

  Flora looked at him incredulously. “Out? Eat your bread.”

  Pyp sat down obediently, shredding the bread between his hands. He swallowed and was pleasantly surprised to find his bread was baked with currants. He ate it quicker, enjoying each surprising burst of flavor.

  “What would you like to go out for?” she asked, relenting a little.

  He stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in thought. He knew that he very well could not say ‘Oh, so I can run away and go to Nuala’s village and then to the sibyl that she told stories about so that she can help interpret a dream I had about Caly.’ So, he said, “To see the ocean and the sun. Please, please, please Flora. I haven’t been out in so long. It would only be a quick peek. You can come with me!”

  “That is right I will come with you. Very well, Nicetius, you and I shall go out but only for a moment.”

  He beamed with delight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He surprised Flora by giving her a hug. She looked pleased by this show of affection, and awkwardly but warmly, patted Pyp on the head.

  Exhilaration coursed through Pyp as he reached the threshold of the steps. Excitedly, he opened the door. His limbs trembled with apprehension, with thrill. He was escaping! In his energized state, he did not think to tell Olympia where he was going, or consider his mother’s response to discovering her last child was gone.

  The outside air was chill and the wind blew hard and cold, but he felt more awake and alive than he had in months. Pyp scampered ahead enjoying the whip of the sea breeze against his face and the feel of the chill morning sun on his body. Under the light, the hollows of his body looked less well-defined. Pyp ran to the beach with Flora following steadily behind. For a few seconds he allowed himself to bask in the fresh, unspoiled air and the touch of the waves lapping like icy licks at his feet.

  When he saw that Flora was close behind him, he jumped away from the beach and his sandaled feet pounded against the stone road. He could her calling out for him. He was running away, away, away, and no one would stop him. This was his land, and there was no one who knew it better.

  CHAPTER XVIII