What seemed like hours, and might have been moments later, Afra heard voices approaching—a deep husky voice blended with a lilting female tone she recognized—Mesbat, her step-mother. The door swung open and she slouched unsteadily to her feet. “Mother?”
The woman advanced, raised her hand and struck her a ringing blow on the ear with her open palm. “You demon spawn!” She struck again with her other hand. “To be cursed with such a snake in my home!” Afra covered her head with her arms and ducked; letting her step-mother rain blows and curses on her burned skin.
Finally, Mesbat stopped, shaking with anger and fatigue.
“Asata?”
“Dead…and the babe.” Mesbat’s face twisted in grief. “My only child!”
Tears filled Afra’s eyes and closed her throat. She stifled a sob and reached for Mesbat’s shoulder.
The woman hissed like a cat and slapped her hand away. “You cursed her. You drove her mad! You should be dead, not my beautiful girl.”
“I loved her!”
“But not as a sister should!” Mesbat’s eyes blazed with hatred. “May Ammit eat your bones and your ba be forever lost. But I hope you don’t die too soon. I want you to suffer each and every day…cold, hunger, thirst, pain. I want your flesh scourged and your soul damned.”
Afra sat, arms over her head barely listening to the stream of curses.
Asata, my light, my love, my sister. I would give my life for you.
A sharp kick in the ribs brought her back.
“The Kandake is too merciful. You’re condemned to slavery in the stone quarries. Your past service saved you from death.”
Mesbat stalked past the guard who had witnessed everything. Afra thought she saw a glimmer of pity in his eyes.
“Please…” Afra reached toward the retreating back.
The door clanged shut in her face.
***
AFRA BEGAN TO DESPAIR of ever leaving her reeking cell. At least, they had given her a slop bucket and increased the water ration, although thirst continued to torment her. The darkness not only clouded her vision, but invaded her soul. She had always been better at living in the present than planning for the future or dwelling on the past; but the present was too horrific and the future too hopeless to contemplate. Her mind turned again and again to her girlhood.
Running in the hills. Bringing wounded animals back to the house. Once she had a pet lizard that lost its tail and miraculously grew it back. But her favorites were always the cats. Sacred to Bastet, they roamed the streets of Meroe and patrolled the granaries. One particular beauty, black as scribe’s ink with five white hairs on her chest, frequented their garden. When Afra set out food, it stood on its hind legs, begging to be picked up before eating. Asata named her Sheba and carried her around the garden inspecting the plants; talking about her dreams.
One day Sheba didn’t come. Afra hunted for her through the alleys and granaries, but found no trace. Asata cried for days until Afra brought her a yellow tabby kitten, a bedraggled little mite whose mother was killed by a dog. They fed it goat’s milk and he grew into a fierce mouser, bringing his kills back to Asata and Afra for approval. Asata screamed the first time he brought her a dead mouse…
“Asata!” Afra sobbed.
She remembered the first time they lay in each other’s arms, giggling, exploring their bodies. Touching their secret places. Mesbat thought Afra’s body too tall, too thin, too flat, but Asata loved her the way she was. They fondled each other’s breasts, kissed softly, and fell asleep clasped in each other’s arms. Family and friends delighted in their closeness, remarking how well the two different girls got on.
If Mesbat hadn’t arranged that horrible marriage…
If Piye hadn’t been a brutal man…
If I could have raised the money earlier…
There was no comfort for her body, heart, or mind. She slept to forget.
***
ON WHAT SHE THOUGHT was the fourth day of her captivity; the guard pounded on the door, warning her away. Afra crawled to a corner and slumped against the wall.
“Afra?” A familiar gruff voice. “Jupiter’s beard, girl. What have they done to you?”
She squinted up at the dim figure. “Marcius?” she croaked.
“Come out here.” He offered a hand and Afra surged to her feet, joints stiff and muscles sore from the cramped position. Even stooped from her confinement, she topped the Roman by half a head.
He led her out of the cell. The lamp held by the guard blinded her and Afra blinked away tears. They walked down a narrow corridor of stout wooden doors to stairs that led up into light. When they reached the top, she knew where they were—the guards’ barracks. She had been here many times and not suspected the cells underneath.
They continued to a large room fronting onto the palace grounds where a clerk looked up from his papyrus. “This the one?”
Marcius nodded and presented a folded paper. “Signed and sealed.”
The clerk looked closely at the writing, then squinted at Afra. “You understand? By the queen’s order you are condemned to slavery. This Roman…” his gaze strayed back to the document, “Lucius Marcius has bought you. Go with him and serve him well. He saved you from the quarries.”
“This way, Afra.” Marcius put his hand under her elbow. “First a bath, then food. I’ll explain.”
***
AFRA TUGGED AT THE IRON COLLAR that marked her a Roman slave as she ate boiled grains flavored with shreds of meat of dubious origin. She could swallow with ease, but the fact of the collar choked her. Her stomach tightened and the food lost what little taste it had. She looked across the table at Marcius, who watched closely. “Why?”
“You saved my life.”
“Then free me. I did not keep you in bondage after dragging you from that sink hole.”
“I wish I could, Afra.” Marcius shrugged, “But—as you’ve pointed out to me—there is little in Kush to recommend to my backers. They will be unhappy, but your hunting skills will make me a rich man.”
“I thought your association already had suppliers.”
“I’m not talking about collecting animals for the arena. You’ll make a first class venatore in the games.”
Revulsion rippled across her face. “I won’t kill for the entertainment of Romans.”
His face hardened. “I saved your life. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I saved yours and already regret it.”
“You’d rather rot in that cell or die working in a stone quarry?”
“Perhaps. Death is not to be feared.”
The blood drained from Marcius’ face at the prospect he might lose his investment. He must have paid a high price for her. His voice took on a tone of desperation. “Unless your soul is weighed with sin. Are you ready to meet your gods?”
Afra chewed her food in silence. Did she want to die? Maybe. Asata was beyond the cares of this world. Afra knew that such a gentle soul as Asata’s would be welcomed in the golden halls of Osiris, but she missed her with a pain that stopped her breath. Maybe slavery was the price demanded by the gods for her actions. Mesbat certainly thought so. She tugged again at the iron ring.
“Afra, slavery doesn’t have to be forever.” Marcius ran a hand through his hair. “Many in the provinces sell themselves into slavery to get the opportunity to go to Rome and become affiliated with a powerful family. Many of the Emperor’s most trusted advisors are freedmen.”
“So?”
“Skilled hunters are in great demand for the games. You could earn a good deal of money—buy your freedom.”
“For what purpose? I no longer have a family…” Her voice caught in a sob which she turned into a cough. “My Kandake has turned her back on me. Maybe death is preferable.”
“Don’t throw your life away before you’ve lived it.”
“Will you permit me to seek advice from my gods?”
“Your gods have no influence with me. However,” Marcius raised an eyeb
row. “If they reconcile you to your fate, I’m willing. I’ve invested a lot of money in you, Afra. I want it back.”
***
MARCIUS WAS AS GOOD AS HIS WORD. He even bought incense in the market as a votive offering, before delivering Afra to the temple of Isis for prayers. The Mother’s temple was smaller than others, but built solidly of stone, and decorated with rich frescos of Isis searching the reeds of the Nile for the scattered parts of her husband/brother. A prominent fresco showed Isis suckling a Kandake, giving her blessing to the female ruler. A gilded and painted stone effigy of the goddess sat on a marble throne in the farthest recesses of the temple. Worshipers could come as far as the outer courtyard and first two rows of columns.
Afra prayed, unrolled a reed mat, and fell into an uneasy sleep. She dreamed.
The god Horus stood on the top of Taharqa’s pyramid tomb and shot an arrow north. It flew beyond sight into darkness that filled her with dread. The sky goddess Nut appeared and filled the darkness with stars and a full moon that reflected a bright path on the calm water of the upper Nile.
Afra stepped on the path and slid, like a child sliding on mud down a hill to the river, going faster and faster until the speed tore her breath away. She did not land in water, but sand soaked with blood. A wall surrounded her and the smell of death rose from the ground. Horns sounded faintly, a great distance away.
An opening appeared in the ground and Osiris, God of the Dead, came up flanked by a large dog-like creature, the Roman’s called a wolf, and dog-headed Anubis with his scales. From another opening—this one in the wall—Isis, the Mother Goddess, appeared flanked by a great lioness and the dwarf god Bes in his feathers, playing a bright song on his pipes. A roar like rocks sliding down a mountain came from beyond the walls.
The lioness and wolf leaped at one another, biting and clawing, until both lay panting in the sand, bleeding from many wounds. The cat dragged itself to Isis and collapsed at her feet. Bes played a song and the cat was cured of its wounds. Anubis put the wolf on his scale which clashed to the ground. Osiris picked up the wounded wolf and carried it into the dark. Its frightened howling lasted until the door shut in the floor.
Afra came to Isis and bowed at her feet. The goddess lifted her up and put a hand on her head filling her with strength. The lioness stared with golden eyes, and then stood on its rear legs, its paws on Afra’s shoulders. She felt no fear. Warmth flooded her body and her heart felt light. Isis smiled. Bes played a lively air while they walked away into the darkness.
Afra woke on her thin mat, turned to the north and stared as if she could see through the thick stone wall. When an ancient priest came to light the morning lamps, she dropped onto the floor in a deep obeisance. “Honored one who serves our Mother Isis, I need guidance.”
“In what, daughter?” His black eyes sparkled with concern.
“My dominus—my master…” she stumbled over the term and continued, “wishes to take me from Kush to a far land. I am unsure.”
He eyed the iron ring. “You are a slave?”
“Once free. Now a slave to a Roman merchant. He purchased me from the prison.”
“Your life belongs to another now. You owe a debt of service.”
“I don’t believe so.” Afra shook her head and tugged at the iron ring. “I saved this man’s life. I believe the debt paid and my life my own. I have no family left here. Maybe death is the better path.”
“There is honor in death for the right reasons, but you have given me none.” The priest looked on her with compassion. “Why were you in prison?”
Afra hung her head. “I caused the death of a loved one.”
“So a life debt is owed.” He frowned. “The gods sometimes exact punishment in this life so you may enter the next free of burdens. Did you dream last night?”
“Yes.”
The priest listened carefully as Afra described her dream, nodding at key moments. “It seems you are fated to go on this journey. There will be pain and many trials, possibly death; but if you persevere, Isis will smile on you and Bes give you joy. Your debt will be paid.”
“I don’t believe I can ever feel joy again.” Her chest tightened with unshed tears.
“You are young, my daughter, and have much to learn from life.” He smiled and patted her hand. “Trust the gods. Serve them well wherever you travel.” He hesitated, then took a small amulet strung on a cord from around his neck. “Take this with you to know that the Great Mother, Queen of All Gods, Goddesses, and Women looks after her own.”
Afra stared at the small wooden carving of the goddess, smooth and worn from much use.
“I can’t…”
He curled her fingers around the talisman. “You can. I give it freely to a daughter in need.”
She bowed her head. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER SIX
Britannia, Land of the Iceni
WHEN CINNIA RETURNED, the queen’s oppidum was in turmoil. The gate stood open, broken. Ruined goods littered the ground. Old women wailed before their huts. Boudica sat on the steps of the shrine cradling her youngest daughter. Maeve whimpered like a beaten dog and covered her face with a once-fine cloak, now ripped and covered with blood. Brianna leaned on the wall of the temple for support. Her hair hung wild; her face white, blank. Dried blood stained her ripped gown and crusted her legs.
“What happened here?” Cinnia muttered.
The crowd hissed and moaned. The old women tore at their hair and scratched their faces. The men bellowed curses and shook their fists in the air. The noise escalated until Boudica stood, clasping her daughter to her breast. Her face set in a terrible cast, rigid with fury, she shouted, “The Iceni are no longer allies to Roman. The procurator took your wives and daughters as chattel, stole our goods, and claimed our lands for the greedy Roman Emperor. When I, as queen, protested, he had one of his lackeys do this.” She turned so all could see her flayed back.
Cinnia gasped and the crowd moaned. Boudica’s wounds were horrific but not fatal…unless infection set in. Bloody stripes crisscrossed her back where the skin had been peeled away with a whip exposing the muscle below. Blood soaked her ripped gown.
Boudica turned to face her people again, her eyes flashing. “The cursed Romans held my daughters down and raped them again and again, forcing me to watch.”
Cinnia felt like throwing up. The two fawns? I wasn’t here to protect them. Was that the task the gods gave me in my dream? Could I have done anything against all those Romans?
Maeve shivered in her mother’s arms, whimpering. Low moans came from the crowd. The queen raised her daughter’s body over her head as if offering a sacrifice to the sky gods. “On the heads of my ravished daughters; on the grave of my dead husband, I swear to you, the Romans will pay for this day’s blood with rivers of their own. The Iceni are at war with Rome!”
Cinnia joined the crowd as it roared settling into a chant. “Boudica! Boudica! Boudica!”
***
BOUDICA SENT RIDERS TO ALL THE ICENI VILLAGES—round up the breeding stock, pack up preserved food, hide the grain stores, destroy the rest. Leave nothing for the Romans—not coin, grain, beasts, metal or leather. Boudica and her clan melted into the hills and forests. Men retrieved hidden arms. The smiths packed up their forges and ingots; merchants their wares. Distant valleys rang with the shouts of children and the clang of swords, battle axes, and spears being made.
Cinnia stayed with the queen. An old woman healer worked her magic with spells and poultices, but healing was slow. Boudica held her back stiffly. Maeve could barely walk, much less ride a horse. The old healer had a cart fitted with a pallet for the girl and Cinnia stayed close, heeding her dream.
A dozen other women, mostly young, but two older—with the ropy muscles of hard work and sword training—joined Boudica. They brought their weapons and formed an informal body guard for the queen and her daughters. One loaned Cinnia her second best sword until she could get one of own. When they camped in the deep woods, the mo
re experienced male warriors trained the farmers—and any women who cared to learn—the arts of war. In a generation of peace, the tribe had lost some skills with sword and shield, but not their fierceness of spirit. Most nights Cinnia went to bed aching and bruised, but content.
One morning Boudica called her guards and advisors together. “I intend to unite the tribes to drive the Romans from our land. Tomorrow we ride southeast to treat with the Trinovantes.”
***
CINNIA WALKED WITH HEAD HELD HIGH in Boudica’s train as they entered the meeting house of the Trinovantes. The king stood among his advisors as Boudica and her women trooped into the open space. All waited as a young druid burned food and offered prayers to the gods at an altar in the far end. The familiar rites sent a prickle of tears to Cinnia’s eyes and raised a lump in her throat. She coughed, pretending the wood smoke irritated her throat, while tamping down her feelings of loss.
“Boudica, Queen of the Iceni.” The king of the Trinovantes approached her queen. “News of the Roman outrage has reached us. Do you seek sanctuary here among our tribe?”
“Sanctuary?” Boudica spat. “I seek vengeance!”
“Seek among the Romans who caused you harm.” The king’s voice reflected ice to Boudica’s fire.
“I also seek alliance. You have suffered from the cursed Romans as much as we. The Roman colonia at Camulodunum have treated your people like slaves, taking their land and forcing them out of their homes to starve. The Romans not only set up a temple to a false god, but charged you ruinous taxes to build it. Join us in defeating them. Let us push the cursed Romans back to the sea…together.”
“The Romans have also taken our arms and razed our villages as punishment for past rebellions. Why should we risk their wrath again?” This loosed a wave of mutters and frowns among the Trinovantes nobles.
“Because they are divided and vulnerable. Paulinus is mired in the West. Cerealis and the Ninth are in winter quarters in the North. More tribes join me every day. Combined we are a vast number. Far more than the Romans can muster. Now is the time.” Backed by her female guard, Boudica leaned on a spear looking each Trinovantes noble in the eye, one by one. Some cast their eyes down, others grinned a wolfish smile, most mirrored their king’s impassive face. “I have no doubt you have arms hidden in the woods and the hay stacks. We did. Tomorrow I return to my tribe. The day after, we go to Camulodunum to destroy the cursed temple of Claudius and revenge our people. Will you let the Iceni gain all the glory?”
Sword of the Gladiatrix Page 5
