by H. B. Ashman
“By the gods, if I see one more of these, I shall scream,” Julia barked.
Livia rolled her eyes. “These fools always use the younger generals for their art, you know that.”
She signaled the slave trader to bring the woman closer. He jerked the chain around the slave’s neck so harshly, the woman gasped for air.
“Don’t leave marks, you idiot!” Livia snapped at him. He bowed his head, blubbering an apology.
“Lucius shall become praetor of Gaul sooner than later,” she said to Julia, as she ran her hand over the woman’s smooth, dark skin. “So soft!” She beamed.
Julia turned to Livia, her eyes wide. “Praetor of Gaul? Has our Augustus said so?”
“Not yet, but he will.” Livia smiled.
Julia’s excitement vanished. “But when? I can hear Marcus’s laughter following me everywhere. While his son relishes his new praetorship in Illyricum, my husband is rotting in the cursed forests with savages. Nobody hates Germania more than I do.”
“My dear Julia,” Livia said, still staring at the slave woman, “have you forgotten that I lost Drusus in Germania?” Livia felt a pressure building behind her eyes.
Julia grabbed Livia’s arm, her face a mask of horror. “I—please forgive me. I am a fool.”
Livia’s lips curled into a smile. “To be honest, I find this portrait rather accurate,” she said, nodding at the poster of Marius. “Unlike your husband, Marius Vincius fought alongside his men honorably. Handsome and strong, just like this poster depicts.”
Julia bit her lip, her face going tomato red. Livia knew she would not dare protest this blow to her pride.
“Yes,” Julia said, “very handsome and honorable indeed. Yet,” she said with a smile, “he remains unmarried. I guess something is not right with him after all.”
Livia turned to Julia. “Unmarried for now. Nothing draws our sex more than victories at war . . . and gold. And Marius Vincius has lots of both.”
Julia shook her head. “My dear Livia, where are you heading with this?”
“Down a path your husband has tried and failed to walk.”
“And where is that?” Julia tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“The road to Illyricum, of course. Men think that wars are fought and won on the battlefield. What fools.”
Julia’s frown melted away as realization dawned. “By the gods, are you jesting?”
“Your husband has proven incapable of rebuilding the glory of your name. You have remained in the back of the theater too long. It is time to step onto the stage. Augustus has planned a trip to Salona in the spring, to award Marius the first praetorship of Illyricum. I’ve heard Illyricum is lovely in the spring. Don’t you think Domitia, your lovely daughter, would like to see it?”
Julia frowned. “But how would we even—”
“I said don’t yank on her!” Livia yelled at the sight of the slave woman falling to her knees at the hands of the slave trader. “Don’t just stand there,” she barked at her guards. “Go get her before she looks like a bruised peach.”
Livia swirled around to Julia, her face calm and pleasant once more. “The matter is settled then?”
Julia bit her lip, then nodded in silence.
“I thought so.” She turned and watched the guards take the chains of the woman who would warm her husband’s bed tonight.
The turquoise waters in the bay sparkled like thousands of little disco balls. Its light reflected off the armor of the soldiers marching ahead of Amalia. The city of Salona rose in the distance. The curving shores were lined with cream-colored stone buildings and wooden structures. Seabirds made their circles, scouting for fish among the fishing boats. A warm, salty breeze caressed Amalia’s face.
“Germanica,” said one of the soldiers marching behind her. He handed her a piece of bread. “For you.” The man nodded at her and kept on marching. This had become a regular occurrence since the battle in Pannonia. The soldiers spoke to her, made room for her at the campfires, and shared what little they had of food and drink.
“Thank you,” Amalia said with a smile. She took a bite of the bread as she shielded her eyes from the sun to get a better view of Salona’s dreamlike landscape. By now, she had no doubt that this was the Adriatic Sea, which meant she was somewhere in modern-day Croatia.
Germanicus, who had stuck to her like glue since the battle, had been walking with her. Thanks to him, Amalia had learned quite a bit about Germania, Rome, and everything else that could be of interest to her, although nothing so far seemed to be of any help with her time-travel predicament. The closest she got was when Germanicus spoke of his father, who happened to be named Drusus. But all Germanicus had to offer about his father were glorious tales of his quests and war, nothing about time travel. But it must be connected.
“You see now why the legion hates Germania so much?” Germanicus said with a smirk on his boyish face. He reminded her of a puppy with its tail wagging. She nodded and smiled but didn’t agree entirely. Despite the ghost tales the men told about Germania—and, granted, the wild Germanic forests looked like they were carved out of Middle-earth—it didn’t rain in Germania all the time. It had four solid seasons, the allied tribes’ farming communities were beautiful, and the Alps were stunning. But in all fairness, those marching tents and sandals didn’t do well in the rain, and the constant feeling of wet clothes sticking to your skin was unbearable.
Marius appeared, riding his horse behind them. “We hate to admit it, but we dislike the fearlessness of the Germanic warriors more than the rain. Is that not so, Germanicus?” He was on his beautiful black stallion, his clothes clean but worn, his armor glittering under the sun.
Germanicus mumbled in agreement, then mounted his horse.
Marius looked at Amalia, scanning her head to toe. His gaze landed on her worn-out shoes. One sole had come off miles ago, and she had tied it back on with rope. Her jeans had several holes, and her sweater was missing the lower part of its left arm. Her cheeks turned red as she hid her left arm behind her back. She looked awful.
“In Salona, we will get you new clothes and shoes,” Marius said. “If it were up to me, we would have done so sooner, but since the men have been marching in their dirty clothes and broken shoes as well, I—”
“Of course. No. I’m fine, really.”
Marius nodded. “When we get to Salona, I shall have you sent to my villa. You will join the staff. If you wish so, that is.”
“Yes. I do,” Amalia said quickly. She’d been worried about what she’d do once she got to the city. If she stayed with Marius, she’d have food, shelter, maybe even money to spend. It was a start.
Marius’s attention turned to a group of riders charging toward them and leaving behind a cloud of dust. Arminius was among them, but the others Amalia didn’t know.
They stopped a few feet away from Marius.
“My Legate!” shouted a man in a red cloak and lavishly decorated armor. He was smiling wide. He must have been around Marius’s age, but was short and rather ugly. “By Mars, we are filled with pride and joy over our legate’s victory!”
“Thank you, Atticus,” Marius said, leaning forward in his saddle.
“We have grown fat and bored here without you,” Atticus said.
“A struggle you deserve and should cherish. We might see battle sooner than you think. The rebellion might have stirred the fire in some Illyrian hearts,” Marius said.
“We shall be ready,” Atticus replied.
Arminius rode his horse closer. “The men would like to know if they can have the rest of the day to themselves once we arrive in Salona.”
Amalia glanced at him, then looked away quickly.
“Tell the men they have today and tomorrow. Legio Eight will take over their shifts for the time being.”
“Yes, my Legate,” Atticus said. “What does our legate wish to do with the new men arriving by ship? We placed them in a temporary camp outside the city walls.”
“New men
? So soon?” Marius asked.
“Yes, my Legate. They have been arriving for days. Legio Seven is almost back to full capacity. All Roman citizens too, no auxiliary troops. Augustus must be very pleased with our legate. All of Rome is.” Another of Marius’s loyalists, Amalia thought.
“I will greet them soon. Arminius, when can the wounded be transported to their retirement towns?”
Arminius adjusted the reins of his horse. “That depends on the amount of ships we have at our disposal.”
“Let’s find out then,” Marius said, as he urged his horse into a trot and down the hill toward the two stone towers guarding the gates of Salona. The group of riders, including Germanicus, followed Marius, but not Arminius. He stayed behind with Amalia, that awkward silence swallowing them once more.
“I would like to speak with you later,” Arminius said, his gaze focused on the town ahead of them.
“That’s fine,” Amalia said. Arminius nodded, not meeting her eyes, then rode his horse down the path after his legate.
Amalia watched the men as they disappeared inside the city.
For the time being, she felt hopeful. She was free, in a city, and protected by its commander. Things could be worse.
Salona was incredible. Its harbor was buzzing with trade, and the cobbled stone streets were filled with merchants, cheerful soldiers, and locals. The buildings looked like the Mediterranean medieval town centers in her time, with lines of cream-and-white stone townhouses. Salona even had a bathing house and an amphitheater.
Marching with the merchants, Amalia didn’t receive the same reception from the gathered crowd that the legionnaires and Marius did, but still the excited hollers and shouts were loud enough to make her believe they were cheering for her too. Some threw flowers. Others handed food to the soldiers. It was like a parade.
Most of the men in Salona were dressed in Roman tunics, while most of the women wore ankle-length dresses in different colors.
To her right, Amalia saw what appeared to be an ancient version of a pub. It had stone bars and bar stools, with locals sitting and eating their food as they watched the soldiers.
Amalia was tempted to look inside when she scouted Primus pushing his way through the crowd of soldiers. He walked right up to her and pointed at a building with a sign that read Latrine in Latin.
“Bring your own sponge,” he said. Amalia took a closer look at him. Countless times had she seen Primus from far, but this was the first time he actually spoke to her.
“Is this a public toilet?” Amalia asked.
“Yes. And it will be your worst nightmare if you don’t mark my words.” Primus turned toward a small side street along a row of cream-colored houses.
“Come,” he said without looking back. “I shall take you to our legate’s villa.”
Amalia rushed after him, almost losing him in the fast-moving crowd.
He took her through several smaller backstreets that reminded Amalia of Italian alleys. Red and white flowers sat on stone windowsills. People milled about, chatting to one another. Most of them were wearing a lot of colorful makeup. Some of the women were dressed in short green tunics, while others wore white togas. Every ethnicity one could possibly think of was present.
A young man with bright red rouge on his cheeks stepped out of a doorway and blocked Amalia’s path. He held up a plate of cookies in front of her and said something in Vulgar Latin she didn’t understand. Amalia looked at the honey-colored cookies. It took her a second to realize that the cookies were shaped like penises. She frowned and shook her head. The man rolled his eyes and stepped aside when, suddenly, a woman wearing a white toga and green shoes grabbed Amalia firmly by her ponytail.
“How much,” she asked, pulling Amalia backward by her hair.
“Not for sale,” Amalia said. She grabbed the woman’s wrist. When the woman tightened her grip, Amalia twisted her arm. The woman gave a high-pitched squeal and let go of Amalia’s hair.
“I said not for sale,” Amalia said again. She looked up to find Primus staring at her as if trying to figure out what dark hole she’d crawled out of.
“This way,” he said, and turned again. Amalia followed him down several more streets and up wide cobbled stairs until they arrived in front of a large walled-in stone building with enormous wooden gates. Its roof was red tiled and pitched, the walls high and plain.
“The Villa Vincius,” Primus said. The gates were opened from the inside by two younger men. Primus walked Amalia through an atrium with a big open central court. In the middle of the atrium was a shallow pool sunken into the floor. Its walls were decorated with mosaics of Roman and Greek gods.
As more and more of the staff tagged along, Primus led Amalia through a short hallway and into another atrium. This one was a little bigger, with a garden in its middle instead of a pool. Plants and flowers were lined up next to white marble fountains depicting animals and humans alike.
They stopped next to a shimmering white statue of a man in armor holding a sword.
The servants, men and women of all ages, gathered around Primus like a class of schoolchildren.
Amalia looked at their faces. Never had she seen a more diverse group before. Some looked African, others European. There were even two Asians among them. Were they all slaves? Sold from the farthest corners of the Roman Empire?
Primus raised his chin. “This woman is a freed slave and from this day employed at this house. Back to your work. Our legate will arrive any moment.”
Amelia frowned. Was that it? He turned his back to them and walked off. Then the group of servants spread in all directions, leaving Amalia in the garden by herself.
“Great,” she said to herself in German. “Now what?”
Chapter Twenty
A malia was given a bed in a small room, which she shared with a woman around her age from Egypt named Anat. Their Latin was so different that they had a hard time communicating. While the legionnaires mostly spoke High Latin, around here, everyone spoke Vulgar Latin. So Amalia had to learn almost from scratch.
Their room was modest but surprisingly clean and comfortable, which beat the hell out of the wet ground and cold tents she’d experienced in Germania.
On day one, she was given a few white woolen dresses and leather sandals. Nothing fancy, but clean. Her bed was a wooden frame with a simple mattress, beside which sat an oil lamp on a small wooden desk that had a few belongings for her: a clay bowl, a cup, a twig for brushing teeth, and, yes, a sponge.
Anat laughed and nodded when Amalia had taken it out and pointed down to her butt. As funny as it was, it was a very welcome change from leaves in the woods. The two couldn’t speak, but they did get along.
With Marius still absent, Amalia wandered around the villa, hoping for someone to give her work, but nobody ever did. It wasn’t until the third day that the cook, a short older lady and one of the few true locals, asked Amalia to get cabbage from the market.
It was the most exciting day for her thus far. Amalia was able to witness the most amazing things on the way to the market. She saw an ancient version of a rottweiler. Its black-red body was muscular and boxy, and it was pulling a cart like a horse.
Farther down the street, Amalia caught a few glimpses of a comedy play in the amphitheater. The actors on the stage went back and forth as if they were fighting, then suddenly a short man jumped out and spanked both of them with a wooden sword. The crowd erupted into laughter—Amalia couldn’t help but join in.
The day would have been perfect if the cook hadn’t been so disappointed when Amalia returned from the market with only two heads of cabbage and no change.
Anat translated the cook’s grumpy mumbles with a smile. “Cheated.”
“Tell her I’m so sorry,” Amalia apologized, but the cook had already stomped back to the kitchen. She wanted to follow her to apologize again when Primus called for her from the garden atrium.
She rushed over to find him next to Arminius and Germanicus. They were both out of the
ir military uniforms and dressed in white tunics with a purple stripe.
“Germanica,” Germanicus said, smiling.
Arminius rolled his eyes. “He trotted after me the moment he learned I was seeing you,” Arminius said, nodding toward Germanicus.
“I was on my way to see you anyways,” Germanicus countered, walking toward Amalia.
Primus excused himself and left to the back of the house. There was an awkward silence for a moment.
Arminius cleared his throat. “Germanicus, would you mind telling Primus about Marius’s orders to prepare the injured legionnaires for their travels to Italia?”
“He knows them,” Germanicus said, completely oblivious.
Amalia looked at him with a soft smile. Though she’d seen him taking lives with his own hands, he was just as clueless as any boy his age.
“Well maybe you can just give me a few moments so I can talk to Amalia in private then?” Arminius said coldly.
“Oh, yes, of course,” he said. “I will talk to Primus and catch up with you in the garden.”
They both watched him disappear after Primus. They stood in silence, listening to the splashing fountains.
“It is a beautiful villa, is it not?” Arminius said. He started walking toward the fountain of the white marble soldier, past a line of blue flowers and small olive trees in terracotta pots.
“Yes, it is.” Amalia followed him. The perfume of sweet flowers lingered in the air, and the large green plants gave the garden a greenhouse feel despite the atrium’s roof opening to the bright blue sky.
Arminius stopped in front of the fountain.
Looking at him, Amalia noticed for the first time that he had a small wound on his forehead right under his short brown hair. No doubt from fighting the rebels. It didn’t distract from his good looks, however. She almost wished it had.
“I never got to apologize,” Arminius said. “For enslaving you. I know how important freedom is to you Germanics.”
“You mean to any human being?”
Arminius bit the inside of his cheek. “Can we put the past behind us? Form a new relationship from here on?”
