by J. D. Moyer
“I swear that we will not hurt you. We are not the savages you think we are.”
“Why did you kidnap us?”
“For our own safety. The Gallic Empire has fallen and we are once more part of Rome. But with the wife of a famous centurion in our possession, we gain a bit of leverage. Titus Vitelius will hesitate to attack us.”
Filumena spat in the dirt, a glob of mucus mixed with blood. “What if your plan goes awry? Titus had no need to attack you until now. You have signed your own death warrant. His gladius will slice open your bowels, like you did to that old man.”
Corius glanced at the huge man who had carried her like a sack of grain. “That was unfortunate and perhaps unnecessary. We didn’t plan to kill anyone.”
The Gauls walked quickly but Filumena had no trouble keeping up. She was used to walking long distances in Bosa and her body seemed to function as she was used to within the world of Maro’s game. But after several hours Hadriana began to complain.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?”
“I don’t know,” Filumena answered. “Maybe to Avennio.” From the position of the sun, she could tell they were heading west, or slightly north-west. Every now and then she caught a distant glimpse of the great aqueduct that channeled water from the Eure springs to Nemausus.
“Why would they take us there? Avennio was never part of the Gallic Empire. Why aren’t they taking us east?”
Soon the Pons Vardo came into sight, where the great aqueduct crossed a wide river. Though she had never before seen it, Filumena instantly recognized the multi-tiered bridge as one of the greatest engineering feats in all of Gallia Narbonensis.
They crossed the Vardo at a shallow point, but still the water came up to her waist, and several times she nearly stumbled. By the time they reached the fortified town not far from the northern bank, it was dusk, and both Filumena and Hadriana were cold and shivering.
Tall wooden gates were opened for the raiding party as soon as they came into sight. Townsfolk greeted them with raucous cheering. Filumena and Hadriana were quickly ushered into a large hall with stone walls and a high thatched roof. Corius, who had treated them with gentleness over the course of their journey, roughly marched them forward and forced them to their knees. Exhausted and still shivering, Filumena glanced around the room. It was not crowded – only their captors and a few guards armed with short spears and brightly painted oval shields. Seated above them in an enormous raised chair was a white-haired man with a cudgel laid across his lap.
“Lukotorix,” Corius said, “I present to you Filumena, wife of the centurion Titus Vitelius. The other woman, Hadriana, is from a patrician family. We captured them at the baths.”
“Very good,” said Lukotorix in a low rough voice. His long white mustache only half hid his frown. He was pot-bellied, with thick forearms but wiry legs. “You will be amply rewarded.”
“You have made a deadly mistake,” Hadriana said. “My family will rescue me. You will all be slaughtered.”
Filumena felt a stirring of rebelliousness hearing Hadriana’s brave words, but it was quickly quelled by hunger and fatigue. She felt utterly drained. There was something she needed to do, somewhere else she needed to be. But what, and where? For the life of her, she could not remember.
Chapter Twenty
Filumena strolled among the market stalls, pointing to the foodstuffs she wished to purchase. Ida, her Frankish slave, purchased the food with silver coins. Soon Ida’s basket was filled with eggs, olives, herbs, and other ingredients for the patina Filumena planned to bake for the feast celebrating her husband’s return.
She had been married to Corius for three years.
Titus Vitelius, her previous husband, had never come for her. And in time she discovered she did not care. She enjoyed life in the Gallic town near Pons Vardo. Corius, a wealthy warrior, had courted her for a full year. It had taken less time to warm to her captors than she had expected, and now she considered herself a true Gaul of the Volcae Arecomici tribe.
She was still Roman, of course. They were all Roman, officially. The Gallic Empire was a dream that had lasted a single generation, a dream that had died with the defeat of Tetricus by the Roman emperor Aurelian. But they still lived as Gauls, drinking spiced wine, hunting boar, and worshipping the old gods.
She did not look Gaulish, with her olive skin and comparatively short stature. Her husband was tall and pale, with a nose that took up half his face. Everyone was taller and fairer than her, including her slave Ida, who was bigger than even the Gallic women. Ida reminded her of someone from her distant past, someone she had known only briefly.
Much had happened in the four years since Corius had dragged her away from Nemausus. Hadriana had died of a terrible illness, her skin erupting in pustules before she succumbed to fever. Filumena has sickened as well, but had survived with only a few scars. She’d nearly died of an infection a year later. A fishhook had pierced her left index finger, leaving the digit swollen and oozing green pus. Corius had neatly amputated the diseased finger with a sharpened axe, cauterizing the wound with the flat edge of a red-hot poker. She had fainted from the pain.
But slowly her life had eased. She was friendly with Ida, though she did not trust that she could truly be friends with a slave. But the tall Frankish woman chatted with her amicably, saving her surreptitious resentful stares for Corius.
Not that her husband was around much. Corius was gone eight months out of the year, conscripted into the Roman army. Most of the village men were legionaries now, serving under a centurion whose name she did not recognize. The raid on Nemausus – her kidnapping – had either been forgotten or forgiven or somehow paid off. The Roman empire was in flux. Aurelian was dead, assassinated by his own Praetorian Guard. Tacitus, his successor, had lasted less than a year before his suspicious demise. Florianus, half-brother of Tacitus, had then proclaimed himself emperor, only to be murdered by his own troops months later. Probus was the new emperor, solidifying his power with a grinding campaign against the Alamanni, Longiones, and Franks. Probus was just as successful a military commander as Aurelian, but less cruel and more popular.
Corius had returned home from a campaign in Swabia. He had new scars, including a red slash across his brow and cheek that had healed poorly and sometimes oozed. His hair had grayed and he dragged his left foot. She embraced him upon his return, hoping to give him comfort (she felt no love for him, nor had she missed him, but he had always treated her fairly and had never beaten her). But he pulled away quickly and asked for wine. He spoke little. At night he came to bed late and was always awake well before the sun, or Filumena, had risen. When she asked where he was in those dark hours he said he was inspecting his vineyards. She wondered if his words were false – had he taken a lover? But when she pressed her face to his chest she smelled only his own sweat, and loam and grape leaves.
She baked the patina custard, adding fish sauce and a dash of expensive cumin for flavor. Ida slow-roasted a seasoned leg of boar in the outdoor brick oven. For dessert Filumena roasted pears with honey and wine. She hoped the food would comfort Corius and whet his appetite. He was dangerously thin, with sunken cheekbones.
Cooking reminded her of something, a part of her past that she treasured but could not clearly remember. Her mind offered glimpses of a frail old woman – maybe a relative – along with feelings of tenderness but also guilt. Another memory: sand beneath her feet, cold ocean mist tickling her skin, a woman in her arms, a playful kiss. Fondness and regret.
Who were these people? Another life.
“Tell me about your life before you were a slave,” she asked Ida.
“I have told you many times, Filumena.”
“Tell me again.”
Ida sighed but dutifully recounted a few stories from her childhood. As she did so, the Frankish woman stood up straighter and looked fearsome, her voice loudening and deepeni
ng, a transformation that fascinated Filumena. Ida told of life in a village on the shores of a vast, long lake, situated in a wide valley to the north of mountains so high that the peaks were hidden in the clouds. She told stories of dogs protecting sheep from wolves, of making fresh cheese from sheep’s milk, of weaving woolen garments thick and warm enough to protect against winter cold that would freeze your breath.
“Would you go back, if you could?” Filumena asked.
“There is nothing to go back to. The soldiers of Postumus killed my parents and brothers.”
Several legionaries who had served with Corius in Swabia joined them for dinner, along with their wives: strong, pale women nearly the height of Ida. Filumena served wine from the krater to each guest’s two-handled skyphos, and they all drank deeply, complimenting Corius’s vineyards.
Corius seemed happier than he had been since his return from Swabia. Even if it was only a brief reprieve from his melancholy, Filumena was glad for him. She was happy when those around her were happy, and that had always been true, even in her previous life – that life that dissolved like mist whenever she looked directly at it. Those memories were always there on the periphery, comforting her as much as they haunted her.
The next morning Corius slept in, his snores sounding like the grunts of a foraging boar. The eating area was a mess: overturned goblets, spilled wine, gnawed boar ribs on dirty plates already attracting flies. There was much cleaning to do, but she would do it later when both Ida and Corius were awake and ready to help. Filumena donned a cloak and stepped outside. The cool air smelled like pine needles.
It was just before dawn. Filumena passed through the open town gates and walked along trails until she reached her husband’s vineyards. As the sun rose, she removed her cloak and folded it under her arm. The vines were fat with next year’s grapes; Corius would have enough to sell to merchants in Nemausus. Roman patrician families were always thirsty for Gallic wine and purchased it by the barrel.
“Filumena.”
She turned to see a man twenty paces away. He looked familiar. He was short in stature, like herself, with bronze-colored skin. He was dressed as an off-duty legionary, wearing a tunic, woolen trousers, and a broad dagger at his belt.
“Cristo,” she said, though she did not know where the name came from.
He seemed surprised to hear the name, and stared at her dumbly for a few seconds before speaking. “I promised Titus Vitelius I would find you,” he finally said. “I only learned of your whereabouts last week.”
“You’ve been following me?”
“Only this morning. I’ve been watching the gates.”
“Titus – what happened to my husband?”
“I served under Titus. We embarked on a campaign against the Sassanids under Emperor Aurelian. On our way to Thrace we were attacked by Gallic rebels. We slaughtered the rebels, but Titus took an arrow to the throat and died the next day.”
Filumena searched her heart, but she felt no sorrow upon hearing this news. She had only the vaguest recollections of her husband. No fond or romantic memories, no moments of tenderness or passion. Shouldn’t she feel something? Even satisfaction, if he had treated her poorly?
For Cristo, however, she did feel tenderness. Though she had never met him, he was deeply familiar to her, like a brother or close cousin.
“I was told that your name was the last thing Titus uttered, before he died.” Though Cristo had seemed shy at first, now his words came like a flood unleashed by a broken dam. His expression now animated, Cristo recounted the harrowing details of his journey along the coast of Dalmatia: being attacked by Illyrian pirates; the execution of a centurion by Aurelian for poor discipline; a fever that decimated their ranks. When he was finally silent the morning sun was bright on his face, accentuating the wrinkles around his eyes and the creases near his mouth. His bare arms were covered in a latticework of scars, some old and some fresh, and a streak of bare, hairless skin cut back from his left temple where a blade had slashed his scalp. One eye had a dark spot in it, a blood clot or scar, that made her tears well up when she looked directly at it.
“You’re missing a finger,” he said.
“A fishhook.”
“I know your face from seeing you in Nemausus,” he said. “You were famous, and all the legionaries admired your beauty and envied Titus. But I feel that I knew you even before.”
“That’s not possible,” she said, feeling the same thing.
“Come with me back to Nemausus. Right now. I’ll provide for you.”
There was something in his eyes she didn’t trust. Lust, maybe, but something more than that. A desire to possess her.
“No. There is nothing for me there,” she said, remembering Ida’s words from the previous day. “My husband is dead. My friend Hadriana died with me here.”
“But you’re a prisoner. You would be free again.”
“I’m as free as I want to be. Is anyone free? Are the Gauls free? Are the plebeians free? Are you, as a soldier, free?”
Cristo averted his eyes, crestfallen. “Is there nothing I can say to convince you?” he asked, already defeated.
She embraced him and kissed his forehead. “I’m sorry you went to so much trouble to find me. Maybe we will meet again someday.”
She turned and walked back toward the walled town that was her home, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder. How had she known the legionary’s name?
Chapter Twenty-One
Maro caressed Filumena’s cheek, administering the contact sedative. It was a chemical that Livia had designed, one that caused only transient drowsiness in himself, but to which Filumena was genetically susceptible. Within moments she was unconscious, and would remain that way until transported to surgery.
It was essential to remain calm. Things were going poorly, but the situation was salvageable. Discreetly disposing of Cassia’s body posed a significant problem. As strong as he was, she was too heavy to lift on his own. He would need help from Aina, and possibly Livia as well.
Entangling Livia was not ideal. He trusted her and loved her, and she admired him and perhaps loved him as well. But Livia might not tolerate being implicated in the cover-up of a murder, and he had no interest in exploring the limits of her loyalty. Livia appreciated and understood Ancestral Realism, but that didn’t mean she was willing to sacrifice herself for Maro, or enslave herself to his ambitions.
“Aina!” he called out. “Come here immediately!”
He heard someone on the walkway. Was Aina trying to move Cassia’s body already? Her programming was imbued with some level of initiative, but it would be unusual for her to act without consulting him when faced with such a large anomaly. And Cassia was large indeed.
The senator had managed to stay standing for a full twenty seconds after Faustus’s fangs had injected her with the nerve toxin. She had swayed, her face taking on a blueish shade that Maro thought complemented her green hair quite nicely. She’d lumbered toward him, reaching for his throat with her meaty paws. He’d stepped back deftly, savoring her enraged expression.
And then she’d toppled, smacking the marble floor with her face and forehead.
“Aina, is that you? What are you doing?”
Filumena still lay supine on the bed, her expression relaxed and peaceful. He checked her pulse and found it slow but stable. He looked in the hallway, which was empty except for Faustus’s small, limp body. A smear of blood marked where Cassia’s head had hit the floor.
“Aina, where are you? What have you done with Cassia?”
The cybrid stepped onto the walkway. “How can I help you?”
He was struck, as he often was, by Aina’s uncannily lifelike appearance. Her pale skin and bright green eyes appeared perfectly real. And they were real, of course, real organs laced with real capillaries nourishing cells hosting millions of mitochondria. But her quantum neu
ral network ‘brain’ was not human, not sophisticated enough to imbue her with consciousness. And yet Maro had to remind himself of that, constantly, or else be slightly embarrassed at the way he treated her.
“What did you do with Cassia?”
“Who is Cassia?”
“Senator Cassia – her body was right here a minute ago. Where did you move it?”
A look of concern overtook Aina’s features. “Is Faustus injured? Should I seek medical assistance?”
Maro closed the distance between them in a few long strides and slapped Aina hard enough to snap her head to the side.
She raised her hand to touch her reddening cheek. “Have I angered you?”
It didn’t help anything to slap the cybrid – it wouldn’t make her any more sensible or make her explain what had happened any faster. But Maro was frustrated and it felt good to hit someone.
“Faustus is dead. Don’t worry about it. There was a body – a large female human body – right here in the hallway. Tell me what you did with it.”
“I didn’t see any body. I was bathing when you called me.” Looking more closely, he saw that the fabric of her shirt clung to her damp chest. She was telling the truth. The cybrid’s skin accumulated sweat and dirt just as a person’s would. “I came as quickly as I could,” Aina added.
A pit of dread formed in Maro’s stomach as he realized what had happened. Cassia was still alive.
***
The next few hours passed in a blur. Cassia would strike as soon as she was able, potentially at any moment. With Aina’s help, Maro transported Filumena’s unconscious body to the medical facility where the robotic surgeons would install her implants. He notified Livia that Filumena had finally consented and that they were on their way. Livia and the technicians were there, ready and waiting to begin. “Prep her immediately. Keep her unconscious until the procedure is complete and she has recovered.” The accelerated process would be hard on Filumena, but the girl was young and strong.
