Marcius nudged her with his toe. “Mother, do you know if Clio lives here?”
“The snake woman?” Spitting in the dust, the old woman held up her index and little fingers in the sign to ward off evil. “What business do you have with her?”
“That’s none of your business, old woman.” The tightening of Marcius’s jaw deepened the creases around his mouth and eyes. “Is she in?”
“At this time of day?” The hag squinted at the lowering sun with her good eye. “You might find her in the next square outside the Inn of the Jackal dancing with her cursed snake.” As Marcius walked away, Afra heard the old one mutter, “Or more likely inside the inn dancing on her back.”
Afra followed Marcius. He typically babbled like a stream in spate, telling far more than she was ever curious about. Now, he remained silent, as he plowed through the crowds.
“Who is this Clio?”
“My wife.”
“You never spoke of a wife.”
“We didn’t part on the best of terms. She might have divorced me.”
Afra waited, but he said no more. They left the shadow of a narrow street for a small square with a public fountain. A few women clustered around the stone basin waiting their turn to fill jars with fresh water. The music of a flute drifted from a corner shaded by a twisted olive tree. A crowd—mostly men, but a few children—watched a woman dance with sinuous fluid movements.
As they moved closer, Afra gasped. The woman wore a sheer linen tunic over her full figure. Lustrous black hair cascaded down her back. Her hips gyrated to the erotic sounds of the flute. A large python coiled around her waist and drooped over her shoulders. The snake’s head swayed with the music, its forked tongue flicked the air.
Marcius smiled. “A beauty, isn’t she?”
Afra thought Clio’s face a bit hard, with thin lips, a knife-blade nose, and too much makeup, but her lush body unexpectedly roused her.
The music took on a more urgent note and Clio pulled the snake between her legs, rubbing, riding the muscular body. Clio whirled, caressing the snake and being caressed in turn as it flowed between her legs and over her breasts. As the flute hit a high note, she cried out in seeming ecstasy, stiffened in a pose with her arms raised, and threw her head back to reveal the milky column of her throat.
Many of the men in the crowd reached for their genitals and rubbed vigorously. Marcius stood slack-jawed, blood draining from his face. Afra had to shake off the snake woman’s spell, as well. She shrugged and took a deep breath, willing the blood throbbing through her veins to slow. The exquisite ache in her groin ebbed slowly.
One of the better dressed men approached Clio as the flute player passed a basket for money. Marcius muscled his way through the crowd, Afra in tow.
“…for your services?”
Marcius swung the man around with a rough hand. “She’s my wife and not for sale.”
“Are you sure, friend?” The man smiled, revealing small crooked teeth. “She seems most willing.”
“Marcius, you son of a diseased whore.” Clio advanced, both fists clenched at her side, the snake peering over her shoulder. “How dare you come back, after leaving me in this shithole without two denarii to rub together?” She drove a fist into his stomach, sending the air whooshing from his lungs.
Afra grabbed Clio’s arm before she could scratch Marcius’ face with her talon-like nails. Clio bellowed like a hippo and turned on her. Afra let go and stepped back when the python hissed and bared its fangs. Clio stood, panting with anger. Marcius stood, panting for breath. Clio’s erstwhile customer looked back and forth, between the two.
“Leave us.” Afra glowered at the man. He backed away as he took in her imposing form, disappointment warring with laughter on his face.
The rest of the crowd drifted a short distance, waiting to see if there would be more entertainment. Marcius turned to them, brandished a fist, and bellowed, “Show’s over. Go.”
Clio turned her rigid back on them and coaxed the snake into a basket.
Marcius approached. “Clio, my love. I told you I would make my fortune and I have.” He pulled a jingling pouch from his belt. “Now we can go to Rome. I can buy you all those pretty things you want.”
Clio turned, pursed her lips, and eyed the pouch. “That doesn’t look like enough to get us passage, much less set us up in comfort.”
“The money isn’t all. I also have her.” Marcius gestured at Afra.
“ ‘Her’?” Clio’s mouth tightened as she surveyed Afra’s muscled arms and flat chest. “You went to Kush to get gold and come back with a female slave? And not even a pretty one. If you had to get a female, at least you could have got one we might rent to the brothels.”
“Afra is one of the best hunters I’ve seen. She’ll earn us her price many times over. I promise.”
Afra stiffened. “What of my fr--”
Marcius pulled Clio into a hug, shaking his head at his slave. “Later,” he mouthed.
Clio broke loose from the embrace and grabbed the basket from the flute player. She carefully counted the coins. “Not what that crowd should have brought in.” She frowned. “You’re bad for business, Marcius.”
“You won’t have to do any business from now on, my love.” Marcius stroked her hair. “I’ll take care of you.”
Clio batted his hand away, pointedly pouring the coins into her own money pouch. She tossed a couple of the smaller ones to the boy flute player, who deftly snatched them from the air, grinned, and scampered off. She pointed her chin toward an open air food stall. “I’ll let you buy me a meal and consider your offer.”
They approached a small shop with a large opening onto the walkway. Four clay pots with lids set into the wide counter, from which the proprietor ladled food for the crowd of ill-dressed patrons who flocked to his window. He seemed to do a brisk business, so his food must be good, cheap, or both. Afra’s mouth watered at the savory smell of cooked onions, garlic, and cardamom. Clio pored over the pots, finally settling on a dish with a few shreds of lamb in lentils and onions, served in a hollowed loaf of brown bread. Marcius bought portions for them all, and escorted Clio to a small table behind the counter, out of earshot.
Afra eased her pack from her shoulders, squatted in the dusty street, and broke off a piece of bread for dipping. Fatigue, heat, and a full stomach had her nodding within seconds of finishing her meal.
I hope Marcius won’t be long.
***
“AFRA.”
Someone shook her shoulder. She started out of a comforting dream. The humid heat was wrong; the smells of unfamiliar spices confused her. Asata? Memories of Asata came flooding back, but the pain was more distant, less insistent than in weeks past. She regretted that. Her love was slipping away. She looked up at a rugged male face and a frowning female one. She remembered where she was.
“Is she simple?” Setting her hands on her ample hips, Clio regarded Marcius with suspicion.
“No.” Afra rose and stretched, muscles cracking.
“ ‘No, Domina.’ That’s the proper address.” Clio gave her an appraising look and shoved a covered basket into her arms. “Here. You carry Astarte.”
“Astarte?” Afra hefted the basket.
“My snake.”
She nearly dropped the basket, as the snake shifted its weight. Clio gave her a vicious smile. Afra was beginning to dislike this woman.
“Clio, don’t be a harpy.” Marcius draped an arm around his wife. “Afra’s no ordinary slave. She saved my life.”
“As any slave should.”
“Before she became my slave. She’s a skilled venatore, not a house servant.”
“What’s the use of having a slave, if she won’t carry my things?” Clio sniffed and removed Marcius’ arm. “Let’s go home. I’m tired.”
By the time they reached the crumbling mud-brick tenement, Afra shouldered a jar of wine, olives wrapped in grape leaves, and a small round of hard yellow cheese; as well as her pack and the basket.
The building, a hollow square of four floors, stood hunched and dark on the side street. Small balconies overlooked a narrow shaft in the middle, which provided light and air to the rooms on each level. The lowest levels suffered a perpetual twilight except at noon. Afra eyed the rickety stairs wearily.
“My room’s at the top.” Clio smiled. Marcius leered at his wife and patted her on the bottom.
They trudged upwards. Women sat nursing babies on the landings outside their rooms. Children shouted as they chased each other up and down the stairs. The fetid stench of human waste wafted from the center shaft; it was obviously used as a communal midden. When they finally reached Clio’s room, Afra heartily longed for the rough camps and fresh air of their journey.
Clio pushed aside a flimsy mat covering a doorway to reveal a small room filled with a pallet and a stout locked chest. Soot from an illegal brazier streaked the once-white walls. Afra deposited her burdens in the empty corner.
“I’ll take that from you.” Marcius grabbed the jar of wine and his wife. He motioned with his chin to the balcony.
Afra left to make a rude bed of her cloak outside the door. She fell asleep to a chorus of squeals, grunts, and giggles from within.
***
AFRA STOOD ON A DOCK, waiting for Marcius, as the treasures of Africa flowed into ships bound for Rome. Slaves hauled amphorae of oil, olives, and wine. Others bowed under loads of ivory, bales of animal skins, and boxes of ceramic goods. Most numerous of all were wagons groaning with grain. A constant stream of slaves hauled bags of wheat and barley harvested from the banks of the Nile to the waiting grain fleet—huge boats, twice the size of most of the ships moored in the double harbor. Marcius claimed the grain more precious than gold, as it fed the ever-hungry hordes of Rome. Nearly as tall as the Pyramid of Khufu, the famous Pharos lighthouse brooded over the scene, watching the wealth of Egypt pass out of its sight.
An elephant’s fearful cry preceded a general uproar further down the wharves. Curiosity piqued, Afra walked toward the shouts. A boat specially built to hold large animals—deep keeled with built in cages and thick iron rings for chains—floated at a dock. A stout wooden ramp leading from the dock to the boat bobbed from the gentle waves. A young female elephant, her legs shackled in massive iron chains, balked at the ramp. A burly man hauled a chain to guide her onto the boat, while a red-haired man poked her from behind with a barbed spear. The elephant was obviously terrified of the swaying ramp and refused to move, trumpeting her distress.
Afra approached the man on shore. “Turn her around.”
“What?” he snarled, prodding harder with the spear.
“Back her up the ramp. She won’t see the swaying.”
The red-haired man stopped poking, looked her up and down, while wiping his sweating face with a dirty rag. “What do you know about elephants?”
“Enough.” She shrugged. “They are intelligent creatures. If you saw danger ahead, would you walk into it?”
He grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “I suppose not.” He turned to his partner and yelled instructions. They soon had the elephant on the boat, where she stood shifting from side to side straining against her chains. The burly one locked the chain to a stout beam.
“Do you have any food for her?” Afra asked.
“Over there.” Red pointed to a basket of partially rotting fruit.
She picked up several dates and approached the animal, fruit on open hand. “Great one, take this humble offering from your sister.”
The elephant stopped swaying and turned her massive head toward the sound of a kind human voice. Afra drew closer. The animal tentatively picked a date from her hand with its sensitive trunk and popped it into her mouth. The elephant ate another and another, until they were gone, then used her trunk to explore Afra’s face, snorting sticky date juice into her hair.
Afra laughed and caught the animal’s trunk, patting it. “You are a playful one.”
“Are you as good with other animals as with this one?” Red asked. “I have an ailing cat.”
He motioned toward a covered cage on the dock. Afra clambered down the ramp to the cage and whipped off the heavy cloth. A cheetah panted on the floor, her fur patchy and eyes glazed. Three small spotted cubs shared her cage. One didn’t move. Flies gathered at its mouth and crusted eyes. The other two butted their mother’s belly looking to suckle, but getting nothing.
“Special request, worth a great deal of money to me. The cubs were born on the trip down the Nile.”
Afra stroked her chin. “She’s in a bad way. In this heat she needs fresh air and lots of water. Cats eat meat. Mothers eat more.”
“If I get rid of the cubs will she recover faster?”
Afra reluctantly nodded.
He looked Afra over, noting the iron slave collar. “Who do you belong to? I could use a good animal handler.”
“She’s mine, you pirate.”
“ ‘She’?” The man turned.
“Afra.” Marcius nodded at her, then the other man. “Rufus.” Marcius grinned and punched the other man on the shoulder. “Trying to take my venatore?”
Rufus scowled, “Who’re you to call me a pirate, you thief.”
“Fatherless son of a cheap whore.”
Afra stood puzzled while the two men continued to call each other names, until they roared with laughter and pounded each other on the back.
“Afra,” Marcius gasped. “Rufus works for my former association. We’ve had many a good night together drinking and whoring.”
“ ‘Former association’?” Rufus laughed. “Did they get smart and kick your sorry ass onto the street?”
“No. I’m starting my own business. With what I can earn from Afra, I’ll build a troop. The Emperor’s agent for the games is looking for acts—venatorii, beastiarii, comedy—you know—everything except the gladiators.”
“That’s quite an undertaking.” Rufus whistled. “If you need a partner…”
“Why would I want a lazy pile of shit like you working for me?” Marcius put his arm around the man’s shoulders. “Come, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Let me take care of this cat first.” Rufus called over the burly man. “Put her cage in the bow, with one side uncovered, so she’ll get a breeze. Make sure she has plenty of food and water and get rid of the cubs.”
The burly man, reached in to take the live cubs. It was a sign of how far gone the mother was, that she didn’t take his hand off. He dropped the mewling cubs into an empty grain sack.
“What will he do with them?” Afra pointed at the sack.
Rufus shrugged, “Feed them to one of the other animals, probably. They always appreciate fresh meat.”
“Such a small meal for a large animal.” She shook her head. “Marcius will buy them. His wife keeps a snake which likes live prey.”
“What?” Marcius stood gaping.
She pulled him aside. “Buy the cubs. I’ll train them for you.”
Marcius frowned. “No.”
“Two fully trained hunting cats. How much will they be worth?”
His eyes gleamed. “How long?”
“Less than two years till they are fully grown.”
The frown returned.
“They will cost little as snake food. I worked with the royal animal trainer. They will more than pay for themselves.” Afra couldn’t explain her sudden need to rescue the cubs, the emptiness in her chest when she thought of the helpless creatures, alone, ripped from their mother.
Marcius studied her face. “Fine.”
He strolled over to Rufus. “What will you give me to take those cubs off your hands?”
They haggled briefly. Marcius turned over several small coins. He handed the wriggling sack to Afra.
“I’ll need money to buy a goat.”
“What?” Marcius’ face turned red.
“The cubs will need milk for a while. A goat is best.”
“Here.” He gave her a large brass piece. “They better be worth it. Buy milk i
n the market. We’ll talk later about the goat.” Marcius turned back to his friend. “Come on, Rufus, before Afra costs me more money.” They sauntered off the docks toward a wine shop.
Afra grinned, put the brass in her pouch, and left with the cubs.
***
AFRA WOKE TO CLIO’S HIGH-PITCHED COMPLAINTS. “Keep it down, woman!” Marcius growled and clutched his head.
“Where have you been?” Clio hissed through clenched teeth, “I send you out in the morning to book us passage and you come home after dark, stinking of wine. Did you gamble away our money as well?”
“Got our passage. Day af’er ’morrow. An’ I got somethin’ for you…here somewhere…”
“And wild cats! That crazy slave of yours said you bought them.” She screwed her thin lips into a moue of distaste. “I can’t abide cats. The cursed Egyptians worship the flea-bitten things or I would drown every single one I could catch.” Clio’s eyes blazed. “How much did you pay for them?”
“Almost nothin’.” Marcius vaguely patted at his body. “Here!” He pulled a blue faience necklace from a pouch. “Jus’ for my lovely wife.”
Clio grabbed the necklace and frowned. “Cheap tourist stuff.”
“I paid good money for that!”
“You were robbed.”
Afra rose and checked on the cubs sleeping in a small box lined with straw. Marcius and Clio would either argue, make love, or both. Either way she wouldn’t get much sleep that night.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CINNIA SPIKED HER HAIR WITH LIME. Another woman blackened the area around Cinnia’s eyes with soot, drew protective spirals on her arms in blue woad, and decorated her cheeks with parallel blue lines. The fierce face Cinnia saw reflected in her sword thrilled and disturbed her. So much had changed since she started on that journey to the Sacred Isle, months ago. Her life, her dreams swept away. She couldn’t see beyond the next day.
Today they would meet the Romans in battle—maybe the final one. General Paulinus had failed to defend Londinium and Verulamium. Both lay in smoldering ashes. The Iceni had chased Paulinus, the XIV Gemina, and the XX Valeria to this hill. Not only did Cinnia’s people have the advantage of greater numbers, but they held the high ground, ranging their baggage wagons across the crest of the hill. The Romans had their backs to deep forest. There would be no escape. Cinnia sighed. Maybe they could all go home after today.
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