Her Roman Protector

by Milinda Jay

  They walked through the villa past the lararium, the family altar that, in most Roman homes, was dedicated to the household gods. But in this home, Annia now knew, the altar was dedicated to the one God. They reached the inner garden surrounded by the marble-columned peristyle. The porch formed a shady area around the inner garden, protecting the rooms surrounding the garden from the harsh July sun.

  In the outer garden, past the living quarters of the villa, was a second pool, this one much deeper and clearly meant for bathing or swimming.

  She loved swimming. There was a river close to her home in Britain fed by a warm spring. She and her mother had loved bathing and swimming along its banks when the weather warmed. She hadn’t been swimming outside since she was a young girl. The possibility filled her with joy.

  They walked through to the rear entrance of the villa. It opened out onto a large field.

  Basso pointed to her right. There was a small pasture with a nice-size herd of sheep. Just below it was a round pen with three sad-looking sheep.

  “We aren’t very good with sheep, it seems,” Basso said wryly, pointing to the three penned sheep. “I’m pretty sure these are badly in need of shearing.”

  Annia laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Beyond the sheep pen was a stream, fairly swiftly running. It eddied and swirled, and there were places where it grew large and then narrowed again.

  “The stream is perfect for washing the wool,” Annia said.

  “Really?” Basso said. “So far, it has been good for nothing but overflowing its banks during storms and giving us all a lot of extra backbreaking work.”

  Annia could hardly wait to get started.

  A young woman trailing a toddler walked up to her as she headed for the sheep pen. Annia stopped to greet her.

  “I was hoping I would get to meet you soon,” the young woman said, her green eyes sparkling, her hands out to welcome Annia. She was a little taller than Annia, with bright red hair and a sprinkling of freckles. “You’re new. I’m so glad you are here. My name is Lucia. And yours?” Her words tumbled one on top of the other.

  “Annia,” she said. “And this is Maelia.” Annia opened the sling, revealing the sleeping infant.

  “Oh, she is lovely. I know you must be so proud.”

  “I am,” Annia said. She looked around, surveying the walled garden, the vast fields, the stone fence.

  “You are worried you were followed?” Lucia asked.

  “Yes,” Annia said, “aren’t you?”

  Lucia laughed. “No, not really,” she said. “This is Julius.”

  Julius was a sturdy tot, well into his second year. He darted away from Lucia and ran as fast as his chubby legs would carry him to the sheep.

  “You can’t imagine the trouble he’s gotten into,” Lucia confessed. “He’ll make a great soldier, though. He fears nothing. I named him Julius after the great conqueror and emperor.”

  “He is wonderful,” Annia said, and meant it. Julius reminded Annia of her own two boys, and her heart pulled so hard that tears rose to her eyes.

  Lucia didn’t notice. She had a watchful eye on Julius.

  “Are you going to help with the sheep?” Lucia asked.

  Annia nodded and smiled. “Yes, I’m eager to see them.” She arranged a soft bed for Maelia beneath the shade of an olive tree, using the baby sling for both cushion and cover.

  Lucia led Annia to the pen. She opened the rickety gate and waited while Annia inspected their coats. They were well past shearing time.

  “I wasn’t sure when to shear them,” Lucia said apologetically.

  “Do not worry,” Annia said. “We will just need to take our time combing the wool.”

  Lucia nodded solemnly.

  The sound of dogs barking sent shivers down Annia’s spine. The sound continued. She looked at Lucia.

  “They bark every time there is a visitor,” Lucia said. “You would be surprised at how good their hearing is. Why, I’ve been way back out in the olive grove, surrounded by the dogs, and the next thing I know, their ears are pricked up and they are bolting to the front entrance, barking the entire way.”

  It hadn’t taken Janius long to find her, was all Annia could think. Maybe not. Maybe it was just a street vendor. Why would Janius want to find her anyway? Hadn’t he ordered her away and the baby disposed? Annia looked over at Maelia and then looked around for a safe hiding place.

  But just then Annia heard a splash, then a plop. She recognized the sound, and then she heard thrashing. “Where’s Julius?” Annia yelled, torn between saving her own child from Janius and Julius from drowning.

  Annia ran for the stream, looking for Julius. She thought she saw a tiny hand and ran for it. She yanked off her stola and stripped down to her linen shift.

  She ran into the water and swam for the child, who had now disappeared under the water and was only visible by his thrashing.

  The current had dragged him to the center.

  Annia swam hard, then dove underwater where she thought he might be. The spring was clear, and the baby was struggling, his eyes open. He was paddling like a tiny dog trying to make his way to the top.

  Annia snagged him and pulled him up, laughing with relief at the surprised look on his face.

  He coughed a little, then tried to head back into the water. The little fish.

  “You saved him,” Lucia said, snatching him up and hugging his sopping body to her chest, soaking her stola and nearly suffocating the child in the process. “I can’t swim,” she said to Annia. “He would have drowned if you hadn’t been here.” She began sobbing, and the little boy cried with her.

  Even through the cacophony of the wailing sobs, Annia could hear the dogs barking. It was Galerius Janius after her. She was sure. She snatched up her clothes, wrapped Maelia in her sling and ran.

  Chapter Four

  The dogs signaled his arrival at his home. He heard them start their clamor when he was at the front of the villa.

  His mother cleverly drugged the dogs on the nights he planned to bring home an exposed baby.

  But at all other times, the dogs were loud and seemingly aggressive, though not really. They barked but then almost broke their backs wagging their tails and licking whoever walked through the front entrance.

  Marcus looked over the tiled rectangular pool with its myriad fountains straight through to the tablinium, his father’s formal office and reception room. Framed on either side by marble columns, the peristyle garden formed its background. The impressive office was built by his grandfather during the reign of Augustus and was the place where clients came to speak with his father each morning.

  Some came to borrow money, others came to lend, and some simply came to socialize. They sat in the long marble benches on either side of the impluvium, often lulled to sleep by the tinkling of the water as it trickled from the roof and flowed through the many fountains.

  Marcus strode over the blue-and-white floor mosaic tiles and straight in to see his father.

  “Ah, Marcus,” his father said, beaming when he saw him, rising from his massive ebony desk with its mother-of-pearl inlays and coming forward to embrace his son. “I will be glad when you can allow yourself to fully retire from the service,” he said.

  “I would hardly consider being the head guard of the night watchmen service,” Marcus said.

  “But you chose this profession,” his father responded.

  “If there is ever anything I can help you with here...” Marcus started to say.

  But his father held his hand up to stop his words. “No, no, my son. All of this I have under control. You choose your own life. Do not feel burdened by the obligations here. As of yet, there are none. I am hale and hearty and easily manage.”

  And it was true. His father, Pe
tronius Sergius, at fifty-seven years, managed very well on his own. His hair was white, but his body was in perfect shape. He exercised daily at the baths and was proud of his physique.

  “Here,” his father said, “sit.” He pointed to one of the folding stools, and Marcus unfolded it and placed it in front of his father’s massive desk.

  He sat and enjoyed the view of the brightly colored painting on the wall beside his father. The painting reached across the entire wall and featured a woman playing a lyre with her little boy looking over her shoulder.

  “Your mother would like to have you home more, but I say build your own life. Any word of the new position?”

  “I’ve heard nothing yet,” Marcus answered. “I’m starting to ask for favors from a few men who I think might be able to put in a good word with the emperor.”

  “Be wary of those from whom you ask help,” his father said. “Remember, you will be in their debt.”

  Marcus studied his father. Had word traveled back so quickly, then?

  “I’ve enlisted the help of one Galerius Janius.”

  “I’ve heard of the man,” his father said. “Cousin to the emperor through his new wife. Divorced his first wife on charges of adultery. What did he ask of you in return?”

  Marcus looked down. How could he tell his father the truth? What had sounded like an easy deal at the time now seemed somehow corrupt.

  “He asked that I take the baby born to his first wife to be exposed.”

  His father tried to mask his shock. “And you agreed?” he asked, gripping the sides of his desk.

  “I brought her here. It seemed harmless,” Marcus said. “If I exposed the baby, I knew the baby would live. If someone else did it, the baby would die.” He felt the blood rise to his face.

  “And indeed, in a sense, it was harmless. But do you understand that your harmless idea may have endangered every woman and child in this house? Do you understand that a man like Galerius Janius trusts no one, as he himself is not trustworthy?”

  “I’m sorry, Father. I had not considered the risk,” Marcus said. How could he have been so thoughtless?

  “Were you followed?”

  “No, not home,” he said. Had he been followed? He was certain he had not. Possibly to Gamus’s shop, but nowhere else.

  “You are an experienced soldier. I trust that you know when you are being followed. I trust you to protect this house.”

  “Yes, Father. I am sorry,” Marcus said.

  “We will hope that there will be no repercussions on this particular escapade,” his father said. “We will speak of it no more.”

  “Thank you, Father.” His father was the paterfamilias and was owed respect. Marcus had no trouble showing that respect. He felt it deeply.

  “Eventually, this place will be yours,” his father said, his tone no longer chastising.

  Marcus was relieved. “Yes, I know that, Father, but you and Mother have many, many good years left.”

  His father laughed at this. “Your mother would like nothing more than to spend the rest of her days here saving babies. I can’t say that I blame her. Her work is good.”

  Marcus raised his eyebrows at this. His father noticed.

  “Father, I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’m not sure that saving a few babies is going to make a dent in the thousands of babies that are taken into slavery.” The words that had been swirling around in his brain had finally found a voice. Marcus felt uncertain about his thoughts.

  “You may be right,” his father said, without judgment. “But we are called to help those within our reach. If everyone could just help those that are put in front of them, think of what a wonderful world we would live in.”

  Marcus considered his father’s words. Was he right?

  “When I was a young man,” his father continued, “I felt the same way you do, son.”

  Marcus’s eyes widened in surprise. It made him feel better that even his father had doubted.

  “But as I get older,” his father said, “I understand God’s call on our lives to be less grand and, instead, very personal. We are called to minister to the ones God puts right in front of us. And we are wrong to give up because we can’t save the entire world. We may not end infant exposure in the Roman Empire, but each life we save is precious.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” Marcus said.

  His father nodded. “I hope one day to retire to the estate in Britain. I wouldn’t mind going home to finish out my days.”

  His father had been born in Britain, where his father’s grandfather had arrived with Julius Caesar and decided to stay. His grandfather had established a thriving trade between Rome and Britain, and maintained a villa in both places. Marcus’s father brought his mother to Britain to help manage the estate built on land that had been bought with olive oil. He liked the simplicity of life in Britain.

  “How was our villa in Britain when you saw it last?” his father asked.

  “Prospering,” Marcus said. “The crops were thriving, the sheep reproducing and making enough wool to make an army of capes.”

  “If only we had someone who knew the secret of making those capes,” his father said. “We could make a fortune.”

  They strode out the back garden and into the field beyond. Marcus wanted no listening ears around when he spoke with his father about Annia.

  But his father was called back by a client and was forced to return to his office.

  Marcus would have to wait.

  He looked out over the fields, hoping to catch a glimpse of Annia. He wasn’t certain, but he had a feeling she would be drawn to the fields, and not to the work inside the house.

  “Are you looking for something, master?” It was Basso. Her wise old eyes missed nothing.

  “The young woman I brought in last night. Is she well?”

  “Yes, your mother set her to work with the sheep.” Basso smiled.

  “The sheep?” Marcus asked. It seemed an odd assignment.

  “Yes, at her request. It seems she was raised in Britain and knows something about sheep.”

  Marcus remembered the street skirmish. She had fought like one of the blue-skinned warriors, though minus the poisoned darts. He scanned the field but didn’t see her.

  “Thank you, Basso,” he said. “Your flowers are, as usual, the pride of the family garden.”

  She smiled appreciatively. “It’s a tricky business,” she said, “tending medicinal herbs. Some must flower to unleash their healing powers, and some must not. I have to be aware of each individual plant, and watch them as if they were a yard of two-year-olds.”

  Marcus laughed, and Basso turned back to tend the flowering medicinal herbs in the inner garden.

  He was glad she turned. Marcus didn’t want Basso to see his fast gait and guess how much he wanted to see the girl again.

  But nothing escaped the notice of Basso. “Why so eager?” she called out to him.

  Marcus had to smile.

  “I like sheep,” he said, laughing.

  “Is that it?” she said, and chuckled. “Go along with you, then.”

  He walked to the sheep pen, but the only one there was young Lucia and her waterlogged toddler, Julius.

  “Well, little Julius,” Marcus said, bending down to talk to the little boy who seemed not the least bit disturbed by his sodden state. “What happened?”

  The boy stuck his thumb in his mouth and gazed solemnly back at Marcus.

  “He fell in our spring-fed stream, and thank God, Annia can swim. She saved him.”

  Julius sucked his thumb and nodded, waving his fingers for emphasis.

  Marcus laughed, but was immediately sober. “How frightening that must have been for you,” he said to Lucia.

  “Not really,” Lucia
said. “The truth is, I didn’t even realize what had happened until Annia fished him out.”

  “Where is Annia?” Marcus asked as casually as he could muster.

  “I don’t know. She gave Julius back to me, said something about dogs barking and then snatched up her baby and sprinted for the olive groves. The woman is like no one I’ve ever met. She swims like a fish and runs like the wind. Who is she, really, and where is she from?”

  “That, my friend, is a very good question,” Marcus said. The less the women knew about one another, the safer they all were.

  “Well, when you find her, let me know,” Lucia said. “I need her to teach me how to take care of the sheep.”

  “It looks as though you’ve got your hands full looking after your own little lamb,” Marcus said, indicating Julius. “Are you sure you don’t want to find something inside the inner garden to do? Might it be safer there for your little one?”

  ”Perhaps I should consider harvesting the flax. That field is the farthest away from the water,” Lucia said, shaking her head.

  Marcus laughed and headed toward the olive grove. The silvery-green leaves and gnarled trunks comforted Marcus. He had spent many happy boyhood days in the shady grove, imagining himself a soldier.

  “Annia?” he called, but there was no answer. He walked among the trees. Where could she be, and why would she be hiding?

  The olives would not be ready to harvest for another two months. What could she be doing out here?

  He thought again about what Lucia had said about Annia hearing dogs barking and understood her fear.

  Just then he heard the baby cry, a tiny mew, followed immediately by Annia. “Shh,” she whispered, “it’s all right.”

  She was very close.

  “Annia,” he said, and heard her sharp intake of breath. “I am alone. No one else is here. The dogs bark at everyone who comes to the front gate for my father. No one knows who you are but my mother and me. Please don’t be afraid.”

  Annia crept out from behind an olive tree, her infant in her arms. He wanted to comfort her.