by James Wilde
‘Please,’ she whispered, swimming in the scent of sweet incense from the silver bowl, ‘bring Marcus back to me.’
She set the flatbread and green olives on the offering plate. After a moment’s pause, she added, ‘Bring Lucanus back to me too. Watch over them both. Keep them safe.’
She felt a pang of guilt. Whatever the harsh reality of her married life, it still seemed as if she was betraying her husband, even though there were times when she lost herself in dreams of retribution, yes, and even cold-blooded murder. The touch of Amatius’ calloused fingers on her smooth skin sickened her. The brush of his thin lips, the trace of his spittled tongue upon her cheek, her breasts, her belly, all of it made her gorge heave.
His fists, in some perverse way, were lesser torments. They only harmed her body, and the pain and the bruises faded. With each blow, her loathing hardened, and that gave her strength to fight on.
One murmured word of thanks, and then she stepped out into the cold morning.
The garden had been swallowed by white, the ghosts of paths and beds and box hedges waiting to rise up. Finding a smile, she looked up to the grey sky. This was her time of year, when the air was sharp as a knife and the ground like iron. On days like today, her father would call her the Winter Queen, with a gentle laugh and a twinkle in his eye. It was a more affectionate nickname than wolf-sister, which had been used as much to wound as it had to celebrate her heritage.
‘Catia? Catia?’
She flinched at the sound of Amatius’ voice and crouched behind a mulberry bush. Her husband was wandering along the rear of the villa, wearing the scowl that he always hid behind a jovial smile whenever he met others.
His dogs bounded at his side. She gritted her teeth as she watched them run. He would have told the slaves he was taking them out to stretch their legs. But she knew, if there was no one watching, her husband wouldn’t think twice about setting them on her to bring her down. She’d run from him on more than one occasion rather than give in to his fists, and she was light on her feet, perhaps as fast as Mato. Amatius had soon learned the dogs were the only way to keep his power. She’d lost count of the number of bites she’d had to bathe.
So much misery and pain would be saved if she allowed him to guide her back into the house. But to torment him? That felt like a victory, however small.
Creeping to the door in the garden wall, she opened it a crack, and once she was sure the way was clear she slipped out and hurried along the path down to the township, plumes of snow rising from her heels.
Shortly after she’d been born, during the coldest winter they’d known in those parts for many a year, she’d disappeared from her crib. Grumbling soldiers had been brought out of the barracks into the vicious night to help with the search. Neighbours had told her of how they had stood at the gates and watched a river of fire rush out of the fort, breaking up into a constellation of orange stars drifting into the vicus, along the tracks and up to the wall.
A babe could not survive long in that bitter chill. And then a trail had been found heading out into the Wilds and the final torch of hope seemed to have been extinguished.
For three days the search party had plunged into deep valleys and dense pine forests, descending on villages, demanding to hear gossip of a stolen child, or a new babe that had not been expected, or anything. Just when they were about to give up, the tolling of a bell had echoed through the vast forest, so the legend said. Five times it rang out. The men were cold and hungry and exhausted and determined to return home to the fort. But their leader was convinced the ringing had been a signal from the gods.
They pushed on until they came upon a wolf pack surrounding a new mother suckling her cubs. And there she was. Even now, so many years later, she still smiled in amazement at this miraculous story. The wolf-sister, kept warm and fed in the harsh midwinter by a pack of wolves.
The soldiers must have seen it as some kind of blessing from the gods too. By all accounts, they fought like devils against the savage pack to take back that child. Three men died that day.
So many mysteries still remained, ones that now would never be answered. Who had taken her, and why she had then been abandoned.
And one more thing, that still troubled her more than most. When she had been returned to her parents, they had found that a mark had been branded into her back, a dragon curled into a circle, eating its own tail.
Catia reached behind her to touch her left shoulder blade. As she’d grown, the brand had become distorted, but in the scar tissue the ghost of it still remained. What it meant no one knew, nor why such an act of cruelty had been inflicted upon a babe. But she’d always taken it as a mark of a secret destiny, a sign that she was special.
She winced at the thought. In the end, all that she had come to be was the property of Amatius. That felt like the grandest betrayal of all.
A scarlet banner emblazoned with a falcon in flight fluttered above a vast amber tent. That could only be the merchant Varro’s, Catia thought. A bonfire blazed in the centre of the camp. A few slaves wandered around, but the rest of the men seemed to be in one of the ten smaller tents, keeping warm.
Her gaze drifted past the settlement, to the blue sky, and beyond. She’d heard stories of distant Rome from travellers like these. In her mind’s eye she could see across the green and purple moors, past the wind-blasted highlands and the sapphire sea, to the city of gleaming marble, vast monuments and soaring towers. The majestic golden eagle, ablaze in the sun. She could hear the talk of learned men, wise in their debate, and the tramp of immense armies keeping the empire secure.
There was a world where women could win respect and power and were not treated like beasts of the field. Where her mother was.
She wondered sometimes if the sour emotions that had their origin in that time when she had been taken had been responsible for the rift that had developed between her mother and father. Whether in some way she was responsible for all that had come to pass. For her own dire fate.
‘I would not venture closer, if I were you.’
Catia whirled at the voice at her elbow and looked down on the dwarf who had taunted her when Varro had arrived. His conical Phrygian cap was pushed back from his face.
‘Am I not allowed to visit our new guests?’
Beckoning, the dwarf hopped away out of sight of the camp. When he found a sheltered spot, he said, ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ He pulled off his cap and wrung it in his hands. ‘Poor wretch. Myself, I see as a … giant among men. A warrior of the byways. Others … only as a scavenging rat.’ He dropped his head as if he were being crushed by the weight of sadness. ‘I am harmless, see.’ He did a little dance, kicking up clouds of snow, and ended it with a deep bow. ‘My master calls me fool. Bucco, the fool.’
Catia bowed in turn. The dwarf had irritated her when they first met, but she’d understood he’d been playing up to his master and Amatius. Now he seemed amenable enough. ‘Why aren’t you by the fire, keeping warm?’
‘Sad life, sad life. But no, I must not burden you.’ Then, ‘But if you insist. My master wants me hard. To deal with life’s travails. So he beats me. Morn, noon and night. Beats me so I cry like a babe. Like a babe, lady. One who has not been fed. A cosy fire in bitter winter? Softens the mind. I need to be hard. Hard.’ He slapped his cheek, and again. It glowed red.
Catia felt a wave of pity for this poor soul. ‘If I could help you, I would.’
‘I carry misery in my wake. It’s my curse. Oh, how I hate myself.’ Fat tears rolled down his cheeks.
‘Please, don’t,’ she begged.
Bucco dried his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘What kindness you show me. A helping hand to a drowning man. What kindness! My heart sings. See?’ He crooked his fingers in the corners of his mouth and pulled it wide in a show of a cheery grin. ‘Why would a kindly woman like you visit this foul place?’
‘It is a long way from Rome,’ she agreed, looking over the dwarf’s head as she ordered her thoughts.
One thing had drawn her here, a whispered conversation she’d half heard on the day the merchant had arrived.
‘In one way. Not another.’
‘How so?’
‘Men and women want the same things. There, and here. Here and everywhere. Power. Gold. To be spent.’
Catia felt herself blush. ‘Your master is building his own empire. He wishes to reach agreement to trade with everyone along the wall, I hear.’
‘That, and more.’
‘More?’
Bucco shrugged. ‘He always wants more. More food, more gold, more women.’
‘Yesterday morning I heard him asking my husband about boys. What did he want, I wonder?’ She hoped that perhaps Varro had heard something about Marcus. A rumour, gossip, anything that could ward off despair.
‘Not boys for his bed. No, no. Not his tastes. Girls. Women! Rose blossom. Ample thighs. Honey kisses. Ends well? Not always. Very rarely. Some weep, some bleed. Some die.’
Catia felt revulsion but no surprise. She watched Bucco tap his chin with his forefinger, making a play of reflecting. ‘Sly boys, shy boys. Brave boys, cowardly boys. Ones that thieve, and ones that fight. By the boy do we know the man. Do you have one? A boy?’
Catia flinched. Worries about Marcus rushed back in and she swallowed.
‘Have I saddened you?’
‘My boy has been taken by the barbarians beyond the wall.’ She forced a smile. ‘But he will be returned to me, I have no doubt of that.’
Bucco bowed his head. ‘What a beast I am. To stir up such sadness in you.’ He began to beat his chest.
Concerned, Catia held out a hand. ‘Please. Don’t blame yourself.’
She could see the dwarf squinting at her from under his lids. ‘Thank the Lord. Oh, thank Him. But what a poor wretch I am, still. The misery-bringer. Every word.’ He paused. ‘You wonder if my master knows? Something about your son? If so, he has not said. But I will ask him.’
She shuddered, and not just from the cold. But here was hope, however thin. She turned back towards the villa, ready to face whatever awaited her.
At the house, Catia slumped on to a sella with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. After a while she plucked up a needle and began to sew the spiral design on the breast of her new dress. Her fingers slid across the fine silk that had been imported from the east and collected from the merchant only three days gone. There was a time when she would never have imagined such luxurious cloth against her skin. So many comforts in that house, yet she did not feel comforted.
Around her, the shadows lengthened. She thought about calling one of the slaves to light the lamps, but the growing darkness was a place to hide away from all that assailed her.
When a figure loomed in the doorway, she winced.
Amatius strode into the centre of the room. He was smiling, his arms thrown wide as if he were a loving husband greeting his wife. ‘A kiss,’ he murmured. ‘And then to business.’
‘Business?’
‘I’m taking you to see the merchant Varro.’
‘What concern is he of mine?’
Amatius smiled, the hateful smile she knew so well, cruel and cold. ‘Why, any concern of the husband is the concern of the wife, is it not? And you are a dutiful wife, yes?’
Catia did not reply.
She saw that Amatius had been holding her cloak, and now he tossed it to her feet. ‘Put that on.’
A wave of weariness washed over her. ‘It’s bitter out, and night is drawing in. Would your business not be better conducted by daylight?’
‘Perhaps I didn’t explain myself clearly,’ he said, watching her. ‘The business has been concluded. Now it is time for the payment.’
Catia furrowed her brow, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Before she could reach any conclusion, he lunged, snatching her wrist and yanking her to her feet. She cried out, despite herself.
‘With this, our fortune will be sealed.’ He seemed to see the confusion in her eyes, for he shook his head in clear contempt. ‘You are the payment, you slow-witted sow. You. A night with the merchant Varro, for him to do as he pleases. And tomorrow our bargain will be struck.’
As realization dawned, dread crushed her heart. Was her husband truly capable of this? Of course he was.
A shadow appeared at the door: her brother Aelius. For a fleeting moment, she thought that he might rush in to save her, but how could he? Amatius would beat him to his knees. He slipped away before he was seen, and she felt relief that he at least would be safe.
‘I would not wish to present you to Varro covered in bruises,’ her husband said. ‘But you will be presented, one way or another.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Serpent
LIGHTS WERE FLICKERING to life across the vicus and a howling wind threatened more snow. Beyond the humble dwellings, silence hung over Varro’s camp and now only embers glowed in the fire in the centre of the circle. Catia could see shadows moving across the cloth of the tents. From entrances that still hung loosely open, blades of light from the oil-lamps carved across the slush.
Amatius pushed her up to the large amber tent and called Varro’s name. The merchant boomed for them to enter.
Inside, a brazier hissed, the coals red, and Catia choked on the spicy incense the merchant was using to mask the fire’s acrid reek. Sheets of silk drifted in the air currents, dividing the tent into smaller rooms. She winced as Amatius slammed a hand between her shoulder blades to guide her through them, past mountains of cushions, to the heart of the tent, where a low bed lay. Catia tried not to look at it.
Varro wheezed as he lumbered to his feet, his bulk draped in a long white robe like the kind the traders from Africa wore. Rolls of flesh rippled beneath. As he swayed towards them, he plopped black olives into his mouth from a small bowl nestled in the chubby fingers of his left hand.
In one corner, Bucco the fool squatted on a stool, his twisted face blackened by a scowl; a child chastised by his mother. Varro handed the bowl to the dwarf and turned to face his guests. His grin was broad, but Catia thought how cold his eyes looked.
‘Amatius,’ he said. ‘And the fair Catia.’
The merchant’s gaze slipped past her husband, and she shuddered as it swept up and down her body, drinking in every part of her form. Then he grasped her hand and kissed the back of it. His lips lingered a moment too long.
Catia gazed straight ahead, not even deigning to look at him. She would not be cowed, whatever was to come. Her husband’s fingers fumbled at her cloak and it fell to the floor. He had insisted she wear her finest dress, silk from the far east, dyed the amber of the merchant’s tent.
Varro flicked his fingers and Bucco scampered to pour a cup of wine. He presented it to Amatius with a low bow. ‘Deep draughts, drift away. Wonder and madness beckon.’
Amatius took the wine and flapped a hand to dismiss the fool. ‘We have much to discuss. A shining future.’ A greasy greed oiled his words. Catia felt disgust.
‘Aye, we do,’ the merchant replied. ‘But not this night. This night is for wine, and pleasure.’ He eyed the dwarf. ‘And for other things too, if the gods are willing.’
Bucco raised one hand high. ‘The gods are smiling. Their light shines down. Glory. Revelation. Twisted bones, dwarf bones. But they feel it, deep. Yes, they do.’
Catia watched her husband frown. He had no idea what the man was saying. Nor had she, but none of it mattered. This night would end the same way.
She looked around the tent for something she could use to fight the merchant off. She would never succumb willingly, even if it cost her her life. But there was nothing, and she was too slight to repel a mountain like Varro.
The merchant pushed Amatius’ cup to his lips. ‘Drink,’ he said, ‘and be gone.’
Sickened though she was, she couldn’t help but smile at that demeaning dismissal.
‘Have no fear,’ the merchant continued. ‘Our bargain stands. You and that dull-witted soldier will be my
sole agents here in the north. For that prize, I would have demanded a coffer of gold. But you have brought me something of much greater value.’
From the corner of her eye, Catia could see Amatius’ sly grin as he handed his empty cup back to Bucco. ‘Then we will meet again in the morning and celebrate the rising of a new dawn.’
Catia watched her husband slip out though the folds of silk, knowing that he was thinking only that he had got all he wanted. She crooked her fingers into claws, waiting for her moment. ‘I do not wish to be here,’ she announced, ‘and you would do well to let me go.’
‘Your husband says otherwise.’ Varro poured another cup of wine and offered it to her.
Catia made no move to take it.
Faster than she had ever seen a man his size move, he hurled the cup aside and lunged. His stubby fingers dug into the delicate silk of her dress and he ripped it free.
She cried out and clutched at the material to keep her nakedness covered, but Varro was still moving. Grabbing her shoulders, he spun her round.
‘See, Bucco, see,’ he exclaimed. ‘We have found her.’
Catia wrapped her arms around herself, bracing for another attack, but Varro seemed spent. Wheezing from the exertion, he unfurled his fingers from her shoulders and stepped away.
‘The Ouroboros.’ The merchant’s voice hissed with glee. She felt him trace the pink outline of the brand upon her back and she flinched, but there was almost tenderness in his touch. ‘The dragon eating its own tail. Here … here … The eternal return. The phoenix that always rises. How long have I searched? How many broken women? How many dismal failures?’ She was surprised to hear him choke back a sob, and wrenched herself away from his touch.
‘Lay your paws on me again and I will kill you.’
‘You have been marked, little sister. By the gods, or their agents. You have become a part of something greater. The Great Plan. The cycle of all the heavens. Rebirth!’
Varro wheeled away from her, rubbing his chubby hands together. She saw his eyes sparkle as he lumbered round the tent.
