by Milinda Jay
Could she understand if he tried to explain that he had a safe place for her baby? The fury in her voice and the steely anger in her eyes told him what he needed to know.
Perhaps he could take her with him. No, that would be too dangerous. She was beautiful.
And that very beauty would be noticed. Someone would see him accompanied by such a lovely slave carrying a baby.
No, he had to take the baby and leave her here. He would come back for her later.
It should have been easy. He thought back over his plan. It usually worked. It had worked many times before. He went into the house in the dark of night. He took the baby. He sent his young recruits to rest at the local eating place under the auspices of needing to be alone while he exposed the baby at the vegetable market.
But what really happened, that is, what really happened on every night except for tonight, was that instead of taking the baby to the vegetable market to be picked up by slave traders, he took the baby to his mother.
His mother took the teachings of the Master very seriously when He said to care for widows and orphans. She left the widows up to someone else, but she set it as her life’s mission to care for orphans, specifically the babies that would most certainly become slaves or die if left on the rubbish pile.
And her strong, handsome son, home from the war and conveniently placed as the commander in charge of the Vigiles, was the perfect accomplice.
But Annia was different. He had never come in contact with a mother who fought so immediately for her baby. Usually, the husband ordered the wife drugged with poppy juice so that she was unaware of exactly what was taking place.
Of course, this was the first baby he had taken from a divorced woman. It was also the first he had taken so long after birth. Usually, the marriage was intact, and the husband simply did not want to divide his wealth with another child. The child was taken at birth, and the wife complied because she feared losing her marriage.
A stomp on his toe brought him back to the very real woman in front of him. He was going to have to render her unconscious. He knew this, but he did not want to follow through. It was the only way he was going to be able to get her baby to a safe place without attracting any further notice.
He would have to act quickly. He placed his fingers on her jugular and pressed. He held her other arm down, and kept the arm on the baby.
He caught her when she fell, untied the baby and left the woman there. He knew she would awaken very quickly, and he had to be gone when she did.
The baby slept, but Marcus took no chances. He sprinted through the dark back streets of Rome as if he were going to the market. But, instead of turning at the road leading to the forum, he doubled back around the baths and ran as quickly as he could to his mother’s house.
He had no time to explain why he was dumping the baby unceremoniously in the ostiarius’s arms. The elderly man who watched the door was accustomed to such wriggling bundles.
Marcus couldn’t let the woman stay on these streets alone at night. She could be captured or worse. Anger filled him at the thought of the things that could happen to her.
He had to reunite her with her baby.
He turned as quickly as he could and sprinted back to where he had left her.
She was gone.
Dear God, he prayed, please let her be safe.
He passed street after street with no sign of her. He tripped over a family sleeping outside in one alley and scattered a group of young street urchins in another.
Where could she have gone?
He retraced his steps, this time more slowly. Had someone taken her? Had he gone past her? Did she know a different way to the place where babies were exposed? Was she thinking of another place of exposure?
And then he realized that she had probably already reached the forum and was searching in the offal for her child.
How could he be so stupid? He had seen how quickly she ran. Why hadn’t he gone there first?
Now it was he who was sprinting as if his life depended on it. What made this woman so important? He tried to convince himself he would have done the same for anyone, but he knew differently. Something about her haunted eyes, her quick-thinking ruse. Here was a woman who gave it all, held nothing back.
When he heard a group of men laughing and heard her scream, he moved swiftly in.
The men were circled, one holding her by the hair, another holding a lantern up to her face.
“What have we here?” the man holding her asked. He was large, probably a blacksmith or shipbuilder, someone accustomed to using his body for hard work. His muscles glinted in the firelight, and the group of men surrounding him waited.
But they waited like hyenas who watch prey caught by a lion. They would take their turn only after he had his fill.
Marcus knew he would have to be very careful.
“So there you are, you little minx,” Marcus said, striding into the center of the circle, his voice as deep and loud as he could make it.
It had the intended effect, startling the men with its volume.
Even the blacksmith, or whatever he was, jumped a little, but he maintained his grasp on her hair.
“Running from me once again. You thought you could get away this time, did you?” Marcus strode into the group of men breaking through them as if he were the emperor himself.
“Thank you, sir,” he said to the blacksmith.
Marcus grabbed Annia roughly and jerked her away. Fortunately, in his surprise, the blacksmith let go of her.
Marcus pulled her away, berating her all the way, “You curly-haired vixen, what did you think? Were you thinking I wouldn’t catch you? You wait until I get you home....”
Annia let out a small yelp when he pretended to slap her face, and the men circled around them and laughed.
“Thank you, sirs,” Marcus said, putting a hand over Annia’s mouth. “This little one has run away one too many times. I may have to sell her at market.”
“I’ll buy her,” the blacksmith said. “How much will you take?”
“Well,” Marcus said, “she actually belongs to my father. But give me your name and where you conduct your business, and you will be the first one to know when we put her up for sale.” Marcus shot the man a charming smile. “I would shake your hand, but as you can see, mine are quite full.”
The men parted to let him through.
“Suetonius Rufus,” the blacksmith called. “My shop is three streets over near the baths. I’m a blacksmith,” he continued.
“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said. “I will remember you by your red hair.”
The man touched his hair, and Marcus pulled Annia safely away around the corner, out of the man’s line of vision.
When they reached the safety of the baths, Marcus took his hand off her mouth.
“You did me no favors,” she spat. “I would have escaped on my own.” And she unsheathed a tiny dagger to prove it.
“Really?” he said, pulling her into the dark recess of the inner fountain. “Well, domina, next time, I will let you defend yourself.”
She was shaking and held the dagger to his stomach. “Where is she?” she hissed. “Where did you take my baby?”
“Put the dagger down, and I will tell you,” he said.
Chapter Two
He must take her for a fool. How many other women had this handsome man lured into believing he was saving their babies, when in truth, he was selling them into slavery?
She had to be very careful with this one. He was strong, he was smart and he seemed determined.
Well, she had fought fierce warriors in Britain, hadn’t she? Surprising them with her strength?
He would not be surprised. He had already gauged her strength. She would have to be very clever with Marcus Sergius Peregr
inus. Very clever indeed.
“So tell me,” she said, sheathing her dagger, “where is this place you have my baby?”
He looked into her eyes, gauging them for sincerity, she suspected. “If you will come with me, I will show you. I don’t have much time. I have to get back to my men soon.”
“Ah,” she said. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”
He cocked his head, a question. “You are coming with me, yes?” he said.
“Certainly,” she said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “How else could I get to my baby? Only you know where she is.”
They walked civilly, side by side, down the dark street. It was a few hours before dawn, and the streets were now quiet. Even the merchants’ carts had stopped, having already delivered their wares.
The only light came from the uncertain moon and the pitch-smeared torches illuminating sacred images at a few street corners and crossroads.
She didn’t trust this man. She knew better than he where her baby was. He had taken her to the place of exposure where the slave traders circled like hawks. Annia meant to get there.
She had to get away from him first.
The silence was broken by the cascading water of a neighborhood fountain. When they reached the fountain, the statue of a small boy—his arms reaching out in supplication, a stream of water flowing from his mouth—was illuminated by a single flame placed strategically at the water’s edge.
During the day, this same fountain was busy with women, children and slaves taking turns filling their wash buckets and water jars to carry back to their homes.
But tonight, it was eerily silent, the only sound the soft rush and gurgling of the water.
“Are you thirsty?” Marcus Sergius asked.
Annia was thirsty, incredibly thirsty. She ignored his offer of help and reached up to the trickling water, cupping her hands and drinking deeply.
Marcus waited for her to drink her fill and then reached up to drink.
When he did, she took her chance. She ran.
Apparently, he had expected her to run and he caught her before she even reached the pavement at the edge of the fountain.
They both went down on the hard stone, he on his back and she atop.
He grasped her arms, and she kneed him in the stomach. She pulled away and unsheathed her knife.
Both on their feet, they circled each other. His breathing was heavy, as was hers.
She jabbed, but he pulled back and then reached for her knife.
But she was quicker.
His eyes widened. She was used to it. He hadn’t expected her to be this good with a weapon. What proper Roman matron could wield a knife with such dexterity?
The look on his face now was one of respect. What had he recognized? Before she could move again, he had countered. He seemed to know exactly what she was going to do before she did it, and now he was holding her wrist, tightening his grip until she was forced to drop the knife.
“Trained in the wilds of Britain, as well?” he said, his voice ragged.
Now it was her turn to stare wide-eyed at him.
Fury strengthened her. She poised to run as soon as she had the chance.
“I would rather not do this,” he said, “but you leave me no choice.”
With the dexterity of a battle-trained legionary, he caught her wrists in a leather thong and pulled it securely. Her wrists bound, she was forced to walk humbly behind him.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked. “I know your type,” she said. “Ready to make a gold coin off anything possible.”
She could tell from the set of his shoulders that she had angered him. He said nothing.
“I have money,” she said. “I can buy my child from you. I can get you all you need.”
“I don’t want your money,” he said.
“I’ve yet to meet a soldier who didn’t want money, who wasn’t willing to buy his way to the top so that he could stop fighting and send other men in to do the bloody work.”
At this, he turned on her, yanked the leather cord down, savagely squeezing her wrists so tightly that tears smarted in her eyes. He pulled her close.
“You, domina, have no knowledge of what you speak. Close your mouth, and let me take you to your baby before I change my mind.”
The struggle in his face was palpable. She had struck a chord in this man. A deep one. The pain in his face spoke of unspeakable horrors. She was embarrassed and ashamed, but she was not certain why.
He was her enemy. He had her tied with a leather thong. Why did she feel such compassion for a man who had sold her baby and was now leading her to be sold?
She almost apologized but held her tongue.
She had no choice but to allow him to lead her to the place of enslavement. Perhaps, if she was blessed, she would at least be enslaved with her baby.
They stopped in front of a row of shops separated by a high wooden double door replete with bronze doorknobs.
Annia recognized the front door of a grand villa.
In the center of each door was a giant bear’s head holding a large ring in its mouth to be used as a knocker.
A bear’s head on a Roman door? Odd. Usually, the door carried a wolf, or even a lion, but rarely a bear.
Was it a sign? In Britain, bears meant strength and survival.
Characteristic of very wealthy Romans, this villa rented its street-front rooms to various shop owners, their signs barely visible in the darkness. There were four shops on either side of the door. Annia leaned back to see how many floors this villa held.
Three stories high. She guessed that the shop owners lived directly above the shop, and perhaps the floor above that was rented out to other tenants.
She had been the mistress of just such a villa.
Marcus lifted and dropped the knocker.
It sounded her doom.
Immediately, the door opened.
Annia felt her fate closing in on her. Why? Why had Janius been so determined to get rid of her baby girl? Did he fear having to provide a dowry for her? Did he fear he would have to divide all his new wealth with his youngest daughter?
And if he was so quick to get rid of this newborn, what would keep him from getting rid of their two young sons?
Surely Janius would not harm his own flesh and blood.
And yet he knew this newborn child to be his, and he had no qualms about exposing her.
Annia closed her eyes and whispered a prayer. Protect me, Lord. Protect my child.
“Mother,” Marcus said, his voice registering warm surprise. “Why are you up?”
“I had a bad feeling about this one,” a woman’s voice responded, “but you have brought her home safely?”
Home? Annia wondered. Home for whom? But she had no more time to ponder this question.
“Annia,” Marcus said, “I would like for you to meet my mother, Scribonia.”
Annia felt slightly off-kilter. Such a formal greeting for a would-be slave?
And Scribonia? Wasn’t that the name of her midwife? Surely not the same woman.
When Marcus moved out of her way, the lanterns lighting the atrium were directly behind the woman, blinding Annia and reducing the woman before her to dark, shadowy outlines. Annia could not make out the woman’s face or even the color of her clothing. She seemed tall, taller than Annia, and very thin.
Annia couldn’t tell if this woman was her midwife or not.
The woman seemed to be reaching for her.
Annia was frightened. What did the woman want of her? She wished that she could see better. She glanced at Marcus, but he had already moved forward, into the atrium behind his mother. He brushed past her.
“I must go now, Mother,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek.
“Already, I fear the men may have left their duty and gone home.”
“Be careful, son,” his mother said, and then turned her attention to Annia.
Annia recognized the voice now. It was the midwife. She held something in her arms, and she was reaching to hand it to Annia.
When Annia held her hands out in response, the soft bundle placed there was none other than her baby girl.
Marcus gave a satisfied nod before closing the door behind him.
* * *
The night was black, the black that happened just before dawn. Marcus knew he’d better hurry if he was going to catch his men at the eating place before it closed.
Why had she been so stubborn? Why hadn’t she believed him? In spite of himself, Marcus was confused. He liked to be trusted. She hadn’t trusted him.
But then again, why should she have trusted him? He came into her house in the dead of night demanding to take her baby to be exposed.
How was she to know that he really didn’t mean to do it?
Could she learn to trust him?
Why did he care? What did it matter? His brain felt twisted in knots.
He couldn’t stop thinking of her.
He was back in Rome and looking for a wife, not the divorced mother of three children.
But there was something about the woman, something fierce, something beautiful, something that made him yearn to protect her.
It was late, and he was tired. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be thinking such thoughts.
When he arrived, his men were waiting as instructed. They were the last customers.
Trained to be as faithful as Roman soldiers in the field, the Vigiles sat around a long table, their mead cups before them. When one nodded, his neighbor clouted him awake.
The penalty for sleeping on guard in the field was death by stoning. The men were loyal to one another as well as to their sergeant.
“Sir,” one of his men said, “we feared for you.”
“We thought to come after you,” another broke in.
“But the order,” a third said, “was to stay here until you returned.”
