by H. B. Ashman
Chapter Eleven
T he elegant wooden carriage squeaked as it slowly rolled over the sunny cobbled road in Gaul. The march from Vetera to Lugdunum had been a stroll through a scenic countryside for Domitia, compared to the untamed woods of Germania. Rome had a strong hold on the lands on the other side of the Rhine River; it was where the real Roman world began. The soldiers’ feet were dry from the wide stone roads of Gaul, and the forts they stopped at were like flourishing market towns instead of army barracks. The mud from the horrific forests of Germania had finally fallen off, but still her dress was dirty, her hair oily. Her fading makeup made her look old and tired.
Head leaning against the red fabric of the upholstered wall of her carriage, Domitia’s bored gaze settled on Gnaeus. He was sitting across from her and wolfing down grapes like a pig. Next to him were her two frightened slave women, trembling at his presence.
Domitia flinched at the sight of purple juice running down the side of his mouth. She curled her lips. “Do you have to ride in here with me?”
Gnaeus froze, grapes inches from his mouth. “It’s more comfortable than the horse.”
“Lugdunum is really not that far now. A Roman broad-striped tribune surely can bear that much.”
Gnaeus looked at her as if she had just given him a spanking. “Why are you so capricious? Marius is riding to Lugdunum with us, and Germania I should already be close to the mountain chain by now, just like you and father wanted.”
Domitia frowned. “Is Marius angry with me?” As much as she hated it, she cared about what he thought of her.
“He wouldn’t say around me. For some reason he does not trust me.”
Domitia spat out a high-pitched laugh. “Nobody does.”
“Mother does!” Gnaeus swallowed hard—a load of anger no doubt. “Can’t you tell me now why we are marching to Lugdunum? What is all this about?”
She shook her head with a grin. “It’s better not to burden you with adult matters. Besides, even the donkeys know by now.”
Gnaeus’s nostrils flared, but Domitia couldn’t care less. He was afraid of her, and rightly so. When they were children, she forced one of the slaves to beat Gnaeus’s beloved dog to death after it had growled at her.
Domitia pulled the silken curtain aside and leaned out of the window to look for Marius. She found him riding ahead of the legion, next to that barbarian Arminius, and beside him was his slave woman. Never had Domitia seen a stranger woman before.
“What is it with this slave woman and Arminius? Does she pleasure him at night?” Domitia asked. Gnaeus shrugged, crunching again at his grapes. Domitia studied her. She was wearing the most peculiar blue pants and mud-covered fabric shoes. Her hair was wrapped together on her head in a primitive ball. It was blond like most of the savages—a rare color in Rome, but it was the barbarians’ most priced item.
“He hasn’t even sold her hair for coin,” Domitia said.
“So?”
“What do you mean so? You don’t find it strange? She is rather peculiar, even for one of these animals.”
“A Germanic whore. Who cares?”
Domitia tilted her head. For once, her simpleminded brother might be right, and yet there was something about that one that Domitia couldn’t quite make out. “Hmm.” Her eyes watched Marius move his horse next to the slave woman. Domitia’s eyes narrowed. Not one word had he spoken to her in days. He avoided her, and his eyes filled with disregard whenever he saw her. Seeing him talk to the slave filled her with a burning sensation. A lot of women in Rome fancied him. He was as victorious as he was glorious, as honorable as he was loyal, not to mention handsome and unmarried. But, to Domitia, Marius was more than a girl’s childish fantasy. Years ago, when she was just a child, he’d been kind to her when nobody else was—something she would never forget.
“You,” Domitia said, throwing a curt nod at the young slave woman trembling next to Gnaeus. Like all her servants, Domitia knew the way her brother treated slaves, especially women slaves.
“Y-y-yes,” the slave girl stuttered as her large deerlike eyes grew bigger.
“Tell the driver to take me to the legate.”
“Yes, Domitia,” the slave woman said and rose quickly.
Domitia raised a hand to knock it on the ceiling of the carriage, signaling the driver to stop.
“No! Don’t stop!” Gnaeus said, his eyes wide in excitement. “Let her jump out of the moving carriage.” He laughed. The slave woman peeked over her shoulder at Domitia, her eyes begging for help, but Domitia waved, signaling her to do as her brother asked. It was better to pick her battles. The slave woman opened the carriage door with a shaking hand. The carriage wasn’t moving fast, but she hesitated.
“Jump I said, or I will push you!” Gnaeus shouted.
With another moment of hesitation, the girl jumped. But instead of landing on her feet, she fell and rolled harshly into a ditch. A loud cry of pain slipped from her lips. Gnaeus burst out into laughter, slapping his knee. Domitia cursed herself. Why did she allow her brother these little cruelties? A wounded slave was a useless slave. But the slave woman shot to her feet, dirt and small rocks falling off her. She tried to run to the driver, but she was limping, which made her trip and fall once more. Gnaeus’s laugh intensified. “Again, slave, again!” he shouted.
“Jupiter help me,” Domitia said, rolling her eyes in annoyance.
Every time the legion stopped at another fort or town on their march to Lugdunum, Amalia worried she was about to be traded or sold. And why wouldn’t she be? She wasn’t useful to Arminius or the legion like the other slaves. The other day she was ordered to bake bread and found herself in front of wheat and water without the slightest idea what to do. The end result was a disgusting paste that Cassius’s cohort still had to eat because they couldn’t waste their rations. She was surprised that one of the soldiers hadn’t killed her that night.
Amalia was certain Arminius would sell her at the first decent offer he got from one of the monstrous slave traders in the markets. She’d seen them swinging their whips at the poor souls in shackles, moving them like cattle.
At first, the markets they had encountered were primitive, muddy, and filled with Germanics loyal to Rome, selling their livestock and honey mead. Even though these were supposedly her own people, she got nothing but curious stares from them. But the farther they marched south into Gaul, the larger and more sophisticated the towns and forts became—and the rarer the Germanic people were.
It was at one of these small Gallic villages, surrounded by charming vineyards and rolling hills, that Arminius decided to take Amalia into town with him, despite not marching through it but camping rather far away. Her breath quickening with every step, Amalia scanned the village’s market booths and grey stone houses for signs of slave traders. She was about to ask Arminius why he’d brought her when an older centurion grabbed her by her hair. It felt like her scalp was going to tear from her head as tears sprang to her eyes.
“How much?” the soldier asked.
Amalia slapped his hand away with a threatening growl.
Wide eyed, the man tumbled backward. Arminius laughed.
The centurion gathered himself. “The hair . . . to make a wig for my wife.”
Arminius declined the offer and walked on. Amalia glared over her shoulder at the confused centurion as they made their way down the market to a small booth with clay mugs lined up on wooden carts.
“He wants my hair?” Amalia asked Arminius, still amazed by what had just happened. He nodded as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Blond hair is the most valuable item on the market. The Roman elite use it for wigs.”
“And I imagine I’ll fetch a better price to a slave trader with a full head of hair,” Amalia said, not bothering to hide her anger.
“Calm yourself,” he said, grabbing one of the clay mugs to smell it. “I told you before that I shall not sell you for a few coins.”
Amalia crossed her
arms. “I see. So you’re just waiting for the right price?”
Arminius put the mug down and grabbed another one to smell it. “Who said that I will ever sell you? Maybe I want to make my own wig of your hair.” He threw her a boyish smirk before walking over to the merchant. “Four of these,” he said to the man and handed him some coin.
Amalia was not the least bit amused. “Then why did you bring me here?”
Smiling again with that annoyingly perfect face of his, Arminius grabbed two of the mugs, one in each arm, and then nodded over the two remaining ones. “To help me carry the legate’s wine.” He strode past her, back down the way they had come from.
Amalia stood in disbelief. “You have thousands of men at your disposal, but it comes down to us two to carry the legate’s wine?” she hollered after him, over the buzzing sounds and movements of the market.
“I thought you might enjoy getting out of camp,” Arminius hollered back at her without stopping. Amalia sighed and leaned over to pick up the mugs. They were long, skinny, and heavy, almost the size of baseball bats.
“You could have at least brought your horse,” she huffed, catching up to Arminius. He chuckled and disappeared ahead of her into the market crowd. For a moment, Amalia turned around, looking back the way they’d come. Could she run? Make it far enough to escape? But who would help a runaway slave? And where would she go? Wherever this was, it was not a world she could survive in without help.
“I thought you Germanic warrior women were stronger than two mugs of wine.” Arminius’s voice tore her out of her thoughts. He had stepped out of the crowd again. Amalia rolled her eyes and walked up to him. Strangely enough, now that she knew she wouldn’t be sold, she was able to relax a bit, even enjoy this little trip to the market. And yet Amalia didn’t trust Arminius. He’d barely spoken to her during the endless marches, always occupied with something—sick mules, rotten grain, arguing soldiers, broken fort walls. If it weren’t for Cassius, she wouldn’t have had anybody.
And so the marches went on until even the last bit of dense forest was replaced with the Gallic countryside, tamed by villages and farmers who were working in their fields. The locals didn’t seem fazed by the sight of the endless line of Roman soldiers marching by. They weren’t enemies of Rome—not anymore, at least.
Amalia had tried for days to figure out exactly where she was, but Arminius was always too busy to talk, and Cassius had no interest in educating her. Amalia had already given up when, in the far distance, the mighty stone pillars of the Aqueduct of the Gier rose high above the land. Her stomach dropped at the impossible sight. It’s not possible, she thought. Several thousand feet high at its tallest points, the aqueduct’s slope stretched for miles. In her Latin class she had seen pictures of the parts of the aqueduct that had survived its two-thousand-year lifespan, but what stood in front of her was not its remains. It was fully intact.
“Lyon,” she said to herself. Lugdunum was modern-day Lyon. Looking at the aqueduct, a statement of Rome’s power and intellect, panic spread through her. Right here, in front of one of Rome’s greatest marvels, Amalia was forced to face the truth. It had never been a question of where she was but when! The answer was two thousand years in the freaking past.
“How . . . how is this possible?” she mumbled to herself as she heard hoofbeats approaching from behind. She turned and saw Marius Vincius followed by Arminius, both on horseback.
“This is the true face of Rome,” Marius’s said, looking from the aqueduct to her. His silver armor shimmered in the sun.
“Truly incredible,” she said, her voice small. The engineer in her woke up from a long slumber. “How did they secure a steady slope all the way to the city?” she asked before she could stop herself. Marius and Arminius exchanged confused looks, then broke into loud laughter.
“A Germanic woman who speaks Latin and fancies mechanical problems,” Marius said. “Tell me, are all the women in your tribe as unusual as you?” Marius met her gaze. He was not as flawlessly handsome as Arminius; his nose leaned slightly to the left, as if it had been broken one too many times. But he had a kind face and soft chestnut-brown eyes.
Amalia bit her lip. Was this an insult, a sincere question, or a harmless joke? She turned to Arminius, looking for help.
“You can answer the legate’s question. Are all women in your tribe like you?”
“Um, I—I don’t know.” God, she sounded stupid.
Marius frowned and turned to Arminius. “We will turn the legion here. Take Germanicus and some of the cavalry to escort Domitia the rest of the way to Lugdunum.”
“You are not coming?” Arminius asked.
“No. My father has sent word from Augustus. We have his permission to continue our way to Illyricum over the Pannonian Mountains. Quintus and I will march the men east. We will save two days by not riding to the city’s gates.”
“So he has forgiven us then?” Arminius asked.
“I am forgiven, yes. You’ve done nothing that needs forgiving.”
Arminius smiled. “Your father truly has ears everywhere, and a golden tongue as well.”
Marius sighed. “May Jupiter have mercy on me. Can you not be more like Germanicus, obedient and quiet?”
As if on cue, Germanicus rode up to them, his horse rearing a little before it stood still. He smiled at Amalia before turning to Marius.
“I have ordered the men to change direction. They are marching toward the mountains.”
“Their spirits?” Marius asked.
“Disappointed to miss the whorehouses and gambling taverns of Lugdunum, but they’ll get over it. The mountains should still be clear of snow if we march quickly. I imagine the ones who have women in Illyricum will march faster than the others.”
Marius nodded. “Good. Promise them extra coin when we get to Salona to help move their tired feet.”
“But the chest of the military treasury is empty, my Legate,” Germanicus said.
“I will pay them from my own estate.”
Even Amalia, with all her social inadequacies, could see the love in Germanicus’s eyes when he looked at Marius. The young soldier nodded and then rode off to execute the orders.
“Obedient and quiet,” Marius told Arminius.
“Yes, my Legate.” Arminius’s grin was wide and beautiful as ever.
Marius looked at Amalia once more, then at Arminius. Suddenly, it hit her. Lugdunum was no fort; it was a real city. A big one. Next to amphitheaters, forums, and bath houses, there would be a slave market. She panicked. If Arminius was going to sell her, it would be here.
“My Legate,” Arminius said. He leaned down and grabbed her by her wrist, pulling it up to expose the blisters on her hands. Marius watched with a lifted chin and narrowed eyes. “The slave woman is working hard to make things easier for the men,” Arminius said. “It would be beneficial to have her march with us a little longer—to help with the workload. She will fetch a few thousand extra aurei at the slave market in Salona, where blond hair is rarer.”
Amalia hated being treated like an object, but she couldn’t help but feel gratitude for Arminius. She would rather build tents and march her feet bloody than be some pervert’s sex toy. More time with the legion meant more time in relative safety, and more time to find a way home.
Exchanging glances with Amalia and Arminius, Marius tilted his head at them. Did he think they were lovers?
But then Marius shook his head. “Arminius, I can’t have my tribune—”
“I have many talents, my Legate,” Amalia said. She couldn’t stop herself from interrupting. The desperation in her voice sounded foreign to her. “To answer your earlier question,” she added, “I can build things, I eat little, and I have improved the process of fixing the legion’s sandals.”
“It is true,” Arminius confirmed. “The men are saving a great deal of time thanks to her organization.”
Marius frowned.
“I work hard and don’t complain,” Amalia said. She felt like h
er legs were about to give way beneath her “And . . . and . . . I can fight!”
Arminius’s gaze snapped over to her, eyes wide.
“Not the Romans,” she added. “I’m not a threat to your men.”
Marius lifted an eyebrow at her. “First port in Illyricum, no farther, you hear me?”
“Yes, my Legate,” Arminius said.
Amalia sighed, eyes meeting Arminius’s. He had a thin smile playing on his lips.
“Marius!” a female voice called. They all turned to find the carriage of the Roman noblewoman—Domitia, Arminius had called her—approaching. The wooden wagon came to a halt, and Domitia stepped out of her carriage with the help of one of her slaves. She was young and beautiful, her facial features elegant and feminine. Her green silken dress had fine golden stitchwork on it and so did her shoes.
“At least we can rid this legion of one woman,” Amalia heard Marius mumble, his gaze fixed on Domitia. “Domitia! How can I be of service?” he called to her, riding to meet her halfway.
“What is the meaning of this? The men are turning.” Domitia pointed at the legion of men marching away.
“Yes, they are turning,” Marius said. “The cavalry will escort you the rest of the way to Lugdunum. The pleasure of your company, unfortunately, ends here,” Marius said.
Domitia’s eyes widened. “But . . . but . . . I thought you were riding to Lugdunum.”
“I was. Close enough, that is.”
Domitia opened her mouth, but then she closed it again, her jaw trembling. “What about your promise to accompany me to the theater?”
“I made no such promise.”
“You said mayhap.”
Marius turned his horse away from her and toward his legion. “Another time, Domitia. I am a soldier of Rome, not a wet nurse. Give my regards to the praetor of Gaul—that is, not your father. It appears he is distracted elsewhere.”
Marius rode off. His beautiful black horse kicked up dust and little rocks as it carried its master away. One of the servants rushed to Domitia’s side to offer her a cloth to wipe the dust, but Domitia slapped her right in the face.
