by H. B. Ashman
Amalia wanted to sink into the ground. Marius hadn’t evicted them; he’d saved them, from starvation and more.
“Now will you excuse me? I have work to do,” he said, walking around his desk. Amalia wanted to move out of his way, but somehow couldn’t. She was frozen in shame, paralyzed like a deer in headlights. Would he throw her out now? Despise her for her disrespect?
Marius was in front of her when she finally stepped aside. Right at the same time he sidestepped to avoid running into her. And before either of them could prevent it, they crashed. His body pushed against hers. She stumbled backward, tripping on the rug. But before she fell, Marius grabbed her just above her elbows and pulled her upright, their bodies pressing suddenly together.
“I-I am so sorry,” she stuttered, avoiding his gaze.
But instead of letting her go, Marius stood still, their cheeks nearly touching. She slowly raised her head. Their eyes met as Amalia’s heart hammered against her chest. She could smell him—olives and lavender, like Arminius, but different. It made her dizzy.
His dark brown eyes looked soft, deep, kind, and there was something else in there, some sort of longing or pleading, an emptiness that stretched down to the center of him.
Suddenly, he shook his head and let go of her. Without another word, he strode past her and through the curtains.
Amalia was still paralyzed, her whole body on fire. She took a deep breath, trying to gain control of herself. She’d never felt anything like this before. But what was this anyways? Anger? Fear? Lust? Love? Was she in love with Marius Vincius? Was that why she was afraid of him, why she tiptoed around him, and why she was disappointed when he left and relieved when he returned?
Tomorrow, she had to talk to him. Not about love. God no. She wasn’t an idiot. She was still a barbarian in Marius’s eyes. Tomorrow she would apologize for her behavior. Marius was one of the most prominent generals in Rome. He was honest, honorable, strong, and—she realized now—kind. He did not deserve the way she had accused him today.
Tomorrow she would set things straight.
In the early-morning hours, the thundering noise of hooves woke Amalia once more. Marius was gone. Hours turned to days and then weeks, without a sign from him.
Arminius had gone with Marius, so it was Germanicus who visited her and accompanied her on her visits to the library. Unlike Arminius, he actually enjoyed the library and read some of the scrolls while Amalia spoke with Asinius.
It was disheartening, but the woman who had left the mysterious scroll had not shown again. But Amalia had somewhat of a breakthrough when Asinius recommended she read the prophecies of the Tiburtine sibyl, a Roman prophetess who was believed to speak the messages of the gods. Those prophetic scrolls were a hot commodity among scholars and citizens alike, but with patience—and with Germanicus telling people to stop reading and hand them over— she managed to go through them all.
At first, Amalia found nothing in those scrolls but nonsense. But then she stumbled across an odd passage in a leather scroll that Asinius said had been added to the library many years ago:
A winged messenger
A woman that rises from the darkest depths
Her breaths without time
A love that must die
The goddess demands a grave sacrifice
Not that this prophecy was a detailed manual on how to get back or how she got here, but Amalia could not help but obsess over the part that talked about a woman without time. That was her! A woman without time! And rising from the darkest depth? That lake was pretty deep and dark. But the rest of the words were gibberish.
Amalia sighed and put down a scroll full of unrelated prophecies she had been studying for the past hour or so. The library was quiet today. Germanicus was sitting next to her on one of the white stone benches, reading a scroll about military discipline.
“That sybil of Tiburtine, is she still alive?” Amalia asked.
He looked up from his scroll. “She is. Why?”
“How could I speak to her?”
Germanicus laughed out loud. “You can’t. She is well guarded and holy and speaks only to kings. Even Augustus has fallen onto his knees in front of her.”
Amalia frowned. Another dead end in her hopeless search for answers.
“Why would you want to talk to her? Are your worries so crushing?”
Amalia shook her head. Germanicus could not even begin to grasp the predicament she was in, so why waste time and energy trying to make him understand?
Germanicus placed his scroll on the bench next to him. “This scholar you are looking for, have you tried locating her?”
“Locating her?”
“Yes. I would start with taverns and guest houses. A woman scholar is rather rare. If Asinius can describe her to us, we might be able to find her.”
Amalia shot to her feet as the scroll on her lap glided to the white stone floor.
“Germanicus! You’re a genius.”
Germanicus lifted his chin. “I can be rather cunning at times,” he said with a big grin.
“Exactly what I need.” Amalia rushed back to the wooden shelf to put the scrolls away. “Let’s go find her!”
Germanicus and Amalia stopped in front a rundown lodging house near the harbor. Its stone façade looked dirty. Dark streaks ran down the faded yellow walls, and the smell of urine and alcohol lingered in the air.
Amalia pinched her lips. This was the last place on Germanicus’s list of where to find this woman. They’d spent much of the day going through taverns and guest houses with no luck.
A drunk prostitute stumbled from the building next to the lodging house, her hair wild and her clothes unruly. She straightened the moment she saw Germanicus and smiled at the sight of the young, tall soldier in uniform.
Germanicus shooed her away with his hand. She frowned but turned and hurried away.
“Let’s hope she’s here,” Amalia said. She stepped over a drunken man sleeping in front of the lodging house’s entrance. His tunic was pushed up, revealing his naked, hairy butt.
He woke and rubbed his eyes, then exposed his rotten teeth with a grin. “How much, my Germanic flower?” he muttered. Amalia could smell his rotten-egg breath from where she stood. She covered her nose.
“Don’t talk to her!” Germanicus shouted at him, and stepped in front of Amalia. The man’s head jerked toward him, his eyes widening in fear.
“M-My Tribune, please forgive me!” the man begged as he fumbled to a sitting position.
“Leave,” Germanicus growled.
“Yes, of course.” The man stumbled onto his feet and fled, swaying left and right before turning the corner.
Amalia shook her head in awe of how a boy like Germanicus, barely a young man, could hold such power. She refocused on the door, gripped the round metal ring, and knocked.
An old woman’s rough voice came from behind the door. “I’m coming!” Moments later, the door swung halfway open, and an old woman with unkempt grey hair and a dirty wool dress appeared. Germanicus was hidden behind the door, so the woman sneered at Amalia.
“Rooms are two coppers per night. Whoring costs extra,” she growled, her wild grey hair moving with the light breeze through the cracked open door.
Amalia opened her mouth, but Germanicus was faster. He tore the door open all the way.
“What in the name—”
“We have questions,” Germanicus interrupted her, in a cold military tone. The woman’s attitude changed the moment the shiny Roman armor caught her eye. She licked her hands, then frantically combed back her hair.
“Tribune, forgive me. I was not feeling well,” she said.
“Has a female scholar been staying here?” Amalia asked.
The woman did not have to think about it. “Are you here to pay her coin? Ran off overnight. Left nothing but air.”
Amalia sighed. “Did she say where she came from or where she was going?”
“Who knows with these barbarians. Probably came from
the underworld if you ask me.”
“Barbarians?” Amalia raised her eyebrows.
The woman’s eyes settled on Amalia’s hair, then wandered over to Germanicus. She smiled.
“I have misspoken. Forgive me. The great scholar did not leave such information to me.”
Amalia wanted to ask what she looked like, but a baby started crying in the back of the house.
“I have to go. The baby,” she said. She waited to see if Germanicus would order her otherwise, but when he said nothing she closed the door.
“Another Germanic woman who can read and write?” Germanicus said as they walked back through the small alleys behind the busy markets. It was a sunny day, and the flowers in the apartment windowsills spread their colors toward the warmth of the sun.
“I have to find her, no matter what,” Amalia insisted.
Germanicus stepped in front of her and blocked her path with a wide grin on his face. “All this passion for a scholar. I am glad she is a woman, or I would be jealous.”
Amalia smiled back at him and gave him a little slap on his muscular arm. “Don’t be silly.” She walked around him, and he followed her.
“Why would that be silly?”
She turned to make a joke, but she saw that his face was dead serious. His smile vanished.
“Why would it be silly?” he repeated. “I am a man of rank and noble Roman blood. What else could a woman possibly hope for?”
Amalia panicked. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Was Germanicus seriously indicating a romance between them?
“Germanicus . . . you can’t be serious?”
“Why not? I have never met a woman who can build bridges and fight with her hands and read and write like a philosopher. Your short hair and manly ways don’t bother me.”
Amalia almost laughed at his words despite the uncomfortable situation. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just . . .” How could she possibly get out of this?
“What, Amalia? I am of the First Citizen’s family. I am honorable. You could not strike a better match.”
That was very true. She would never strike a better match than Augustus’s great-nephew, but that was only if she cared about her status, or planned on staying in this time period at all.
“Too good of a match,” she said, hoping to hit home. His family would rather have her killed than see Germanicus married to a freed barbaric slave! His heart was young, easy to impress.
“I am a man. I do as I please. I hate that you look at me as if I were merely a boy.”
“No, that’s not how I feel. It’s just that . . . that . . .”
He waited a moment longer, hopeful. His dark brown eyes stared into hers, but all Amalia said was his name, softly, like an apology. “Germanicus.”
He flinched as if she’d slapped him. “I see,” he said. And just like that, he turned and strode off.
“Germanicus!” she shouted after him, but he did not stop. “Scheisse,” Amalia muttered.
Life had, yet again, thrown more rocks onto the already obstacle-filled road ahead of her. She had managed to anger and repel Arminius, Marius, and now Germanicus too. She bit her lip as she stared at the cobblestone road under her feet. Now what?
Like a cow returning to its barn, her feet started walking back to the villa—with no answers, no scholar, and now no friends.
Amalia froze the moment she saw Marius’s horse in front of the villa. A servant was petting it, calming the black stallion before walking him to the stables.
Heart pounding, Amalia walked through the atrium. She had barely made it into the garden when she saw Marius standing beside the white fountain with the sculpture of the soldier, Primus right next to him. Marius was in his uniform, his red cloak stained with mud.
Primus was first to look at her, then Marius followed his gaze. Amalia noticed his neck and tunic sleeve were covered in blood. She would have been worried had he not been standing so casually next to Primus. The blood wasn’t his.
Marius was still looking at her as Primus’s eyes darted between Marius and Amalia, but then Marius turned away again, focusing on Primus. No smile, no nod—nothing.
Amalia rushed along the wall and into her room at the end of the hallway. She wished she had a door she could close, but she had only a curtain. Anat was in the room, mending the servants’ tunics. She smiled as Amalia entered.
“The praetor is back,” she said, her big brown eyes turning back to her mending.
Amalia sighed. “Yes, Anat, thank you,” she said, and picked one of the tunics from the nightstand to help Anat with her task.
As Amalia sat down, she couldn’t help but notice a satisfied smile creep onto Anat’s face as she worked.
All day, Marius had ignored her. She was waiting impatiently in her room, her leg restlessly moving up and down as her hands stitched more holes in her fingers than the damn dress.
But in the late afternoon, while Amalia was washing the tunics in the backyard of the villa near the stables, the shadow of a tall figure swallowed her from behind. She jerked around. A wave of heat rushed through her when she realized who it was.
“We shall train,” Marius said. Amalia rose quickly, dropping the tunic into the wooden bin in front of her.
“If it suits you,” he added, in a softer tone.
“Yes, of course,” Amalia replied.
Marius nodded, then strode into the villa, closely followed by Amalia. They walked down the hallway and through the atrium until they reached the small exercise room. Marius opened the curtain and held it open for Amalia.
The room seemed tiny all of a sudden, the heat in it unbearable.
“Have you been well?” he asked, as he took his usual position in front of her, his legs and knees at the perfect center of gravity. He’d improved dramatically since they started, and she wasn’t surprised. He was an excellent soldier, after all.
“Yes, my Praetor, I have,” she replied. Marius nodded, then stepped closer, inches away from her. They had been this close many times before, but this time it was distracting.
Marius grabbed her by her arms, ready to perform a basic hip throw. Usually Amalia would break free to make it harder on him, but not this time. Instead, her body—which had always responded, always moved instinctually during training—remained still. She was literally paralyzed from touch, her skin on fire.
Marius drew his brows and stepped back. His eyes scanned her red face. She dropped her gaze and could have slapped herself. Snap out of it!
“Are you not well?” he asked her, his kind eyes searching her face.
“I’m sorry.” Amalia felt her cheeks glowing. “Please try again,” she said. Marius nodded, stepped in again, inches away from her, but instead of going into her basic position, she just stood there, breathing heavily.
Marius relaxed, but he didn’t step back. She felt his hand on her chin, gently lifting it.
“I . . .” she said, but her voice broke off. Without realizing what she was doing, she placed her trembling hand onto his cheek. Never had she felt more vulnerable or scared to be rejected. But Marius didn’t push her away. He watched her, his eyes focused.
Amalia could barely breathe as, slowly, she closed the gap between them and brushed her lips against his. His lips responded.
His hands, which were always so steady, were shaking as he reached up to hold her face. Then he pulled away, looking at her.
“I know only war,” he whispered.
Amalia gently pressed her forehead again his. “Nobody knows only war.”
Marius pulled her hesitantly into his arms, then pressed his lips to hers, passionately but tenderly, as if he were scared she could break under his touch.
“By the gods.” Marius groaned as he lifted her off her feet. Amalia wrapped her legs around his waist. Without parting lips, Marius carried Amalia out through the atrium and straight into his bedroom.
And as he carefully placed her on the soft silken sheets of his bed, Amalia felt what she could only descri
be as true happiness. She had never experienced anything like this before, never thought it was even possible to feel this way. Was this why she had traveled here? Not to suffer, not to kill, not to force Arminius to follow his destiny, but to fall in love, to have something for herself?
And that was the last thought she had before Marius followed her onto the bed, and she was incapable of thinking anymore.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Four years later. Around A.D. 4. Salona, Illyricum.
T he squeals of a little boy shattered the peace at the Villa Vincius. Little Marcus, an image of his father in looks and character, ran through the garden in delight. His long brown hair bounced as he flew through the summer air.
Only moments later, he was scooped up by Marius, who swung him over his shoulder like a sack of flour, the boy laughing even louder. Servants’ heads turned, and the cook let out a cheerful sigh watching the idyllic scene. It would have been a normal day in the villa of a happy family if Marius hadn’t been dressed in full war attire.
“Are you running from your lessons again?” Marius asked, his grin growing wider.
“He is indeed,” Amalia said, stepping into the garden, followed by Marcus’s teacher, an old man in a white tunic and an even whiter beard.
Marius turned to look at her. She was wearing a fine silken dress, and her long golden hair was hanging loosely over her shoulders. She looked absolutely beautiful. Although the jewelry he drowned her in was missing again.
Marius walked over to Amalia, little Marcus bouncing on his shoulder.
“That is unfortunate,” he said loudly so Marcus would listen. “I cannot take a boy with me to camp who does not know his Latin.”
“No! I will study, Father, I promise!” Marcus said.
Marius put him down and leaned over to place his hand on Marcus’s little shoulder. Marcus’s hand ran over the leather scabbard of Marius’s sword, then he softly grabbed his scarlet cloak to feel its fabrics between his fingers.
“Will I be like you when I’m big, Father?” he asked.
