The journey to Rome had been long and arduous, taking almost a month. His movement severely restricted by the difficulty of using crutches on deck, Quintus had spent most of his time in one of the cabins at the stern. Built for the crew, they were often rented by those who could afford it, hoping to make a sea voyage a little more comfortable. With only a straw-stuffed mattress and a few pegs in the wall, it didn’t help much but it was better than sleeping on the deck and did afford him some privacy. He could avoid the awkward conversations about his crutches and his scar.
The captain, an old man with a bald head and sun-browned face, had said they would reach the port of Ostia by midday. An afternoon’s carriage ride would take him into Rome.
Mater would be happy to see him.
But Pater?
It seemed Pater couldn’t have been happier to see him go fourteen years ago. Had more or less told him to stay in the army, even after his required service was completed. Make it his career. For life. And he had. He could have been done years ago.
Would Pater change his mind now, seeing his condition? Allow him to come home? Or instead say he deserved it?
The captain steered the ship into the harbor, coming alongside a long stone dock. Emperor Claudius had upgraded the port considerably while Quin was away.
When the hustle of off-loading cargo subsided, he asked one of the crew to take his bags ashore and secure a raeda for him.
He tried to ignore the dread building within him as the four-wheeled carriage flew along the road to Rome. Sooner than he was ready, they pulled up to the gate of the Valerius estate, and the driver jumped off. He rounded the side and opened the door for Quin while he climbed awkwardly down.
“Shall I carry your bag up to the door?”
“No, just leave it here at the gate. I’ll send someone for it later.” He dropped three coins into the man’s hand.
The driver dipped his head and hurried off.
Quin sucked in a breath of courage and started up the long walk to the house. He hadn’t made it halfway when a slave, blade in hand, hustled out to meet him.
Jupiter, please let him believe me. Quin stopped and raised his hands.
“You will stop, right now, or I will kill you.” The husky slave had at least twenty libra on him and was a head taller.
“I have stopped.”
“Who are you, and why have you entered the Valerius estate without invitation or permission?” His accent marked him as Egyptian.
“I am Quintus Valerius, son of Julius Valerius. I have returned after six years in Britannia, fourteen years in Rome’s army.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I have been here only five years. I cannot verify this.”
He sighed. “Is my mater home? My pater?”
“They are at the forum.”
“What about Attalos? My slave?”
The blade lowered just a bit. “Attalos? He was yours?”
“Was?” Air left his body like he’d been punched in the chest. Had Attalos died? Been sold? “Is he . . .”
The slave’s eyes widened and he lowered his blade. “No, no. Do not fear. He’s well. He has charge of all household slaves. I’ll send for him.”
The weight fell off Quin’s chest. “No. I’ll go to him.”
“But—”
Quin raised a brow, and the slave hushed. “My bags are at the gate.”
The layout of the estate hadn’t changed, and he made his way to the slaves’ wing west of the main house quickly enough. He raised a fist and rapped on a closed door.
“Who is it?” Attalos barked from inside.
“It’s me, Attalos.”
A stool scraped the floor, and quick footfalls followed. Tumblers fell as a lock unengaged and the door swung wide. Attalos’s face lit up like a sunrise, his smile wide. “Domine! Come in. What are you doing here, in Rome?” His eyes moved slowly over Quin’s frame, head to toe, resting briefly on the ugly scar on his leg, but his smile did not dim.
“I wanted to see you.”
“You should have sent for me. You know this is not proper. Domina Julia would be terribly upset. At me, no doubt.”
“No doubt. My mater always insisted on propriety.” He stepped inside and stopped short before the old man’s worktable, covered with parchments and silver coin. “Attalos, did you rob a workshop this morning?” Quin laughed.
“I control all the household accounts.” He led Quin to a stool and brought another to sit beside him. “I was quite wealthy before the Romans annexed my town and took my land. I’m very good at this.”
“I’m certain of it. You taught me everything I know.”
“You were an exceptional student, Domine.”
“Please call me Quin. I am no longer your master.”
“You are still a Roman, and I am still a slave. It would cause . . . hard feelings, at the very least, among the others, not to mention your mater.”
“Then at least while we are in here.”
“I’ll try. Now what happened? Why have you returned?” Attalos poured them both a goblet of watered wine while Quin recounted the events of the last two months.
The Greek was quiet a moment. “I would hear of you now and then, while you were gone. I’ve always been so proud of you. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do. Pater wasn’t. But I always knew you would be.”
He shrugged. “Your father means well. He’s just blinded himself to the truth.”
“If you say so.” He looked toward the main part of the house. “I’m not anxious to see him.”
“You must respect him as he is your pater but be proud of who you are. Not arrogant, not ashamed. And you need to concentrate on healing. That is enough of a task for now.” He patted Quin’s good knee. “When it comes time to deal with him, the right words will come.”
His friend’s serene face warmed—and calmed—Quin’s heart. Attalos had never given him bad advice. Surely this time would be no different.
3
“[She] had a spirit by which she predicted the future. She earned a great deal of money for her owners by fortune-telling.”
Acts 16.16
Tia refused to say the words, even to herself.
She’d known what was happening ever since the soldiers had invaded their village. She’d simply refused to think about it, acknowledge it.
Until now.
The room they’d been brought to was composed of bare, white stone walls. A cold, white stone floor. Square windows, all in a row.
A spindly man, hunched over with age, entered the only door at the far end of the room carrying an enormous basket of fresh bread. Behind him trailed a string of young girls with pitchers in one hand and cloths in the other. No sooner was the food and drink placed on the table in the center of the room than it was attacked. The old man barely escaped in time.
He shuffled toward the door, amusement written all over his face.
Let him live on a piece of bread half the size of his hand each day for two months and see how he acts.
“At least the bread is fresh this time.” Tancorix smiled, always finding the good in every situation.
She tried. She just couldn’t. “Do you know where we are?”
He shrugged. “Near Rome. I heard them talking as we pulled into port.”
After splitting the room into men and women, the young girls circulated in pairs. One had a bucket of water, the other wet cloths. Filthy tunics came off, water dumped over them, faces and bodies scrubbed down. New, gauzy tunics were provided.
Tia shoved down the implications.
The door slammed open and several older men and women barged though. They began questioning the captives, scratching on small pieces of animal skin with a reed dipped in a black liquid, leaving interesting marks behind. It reminded her of the way the men applied tattoos to skin back home.
A silver-haired man with a brisk walk and a sour face approached Tia. He began spitting out questions. Did he have to talk so fast? Her Latin wasn’t that g
ood. “How old are you? What can you do? Cook? Clean? Sew? Read and write Latin?” He grasped her face and turned her head side to side, pulled her jaw down and looked in her mouth. One finger nearly jammed down her throat. Was he counting her teeth?
Her gaze darted around the room searching for Tancorix, but the man had a firm grasp on her head, leaving her unable to move.
He lifted the hem of her tunic and felt her legs. Her breathing sped up, her heartbeat tripled as his hands crawled higher.
Brigid, my goddess, help me.
He frowned and marked numbers on the tablet, then hung the piece of skin around her neck with a string.
One woman crawled around the room with a large block of white chalk, thoroughly covering one foot of each person in white. Some sort of sign? The soft stone scratched her already tender foot, and she started to pull it away. The woman tugged it back and continued.
When everyone had been questioned, marked, and tagged, the inspectors gathered near the door. There they chatted and stared, shaking their heads, arguing, scowling, marking again on smooth pieces of wood, and then they left.
A new guard checked the manacles around their feet, as had been done on the ship before they walked down the gangplank to the street. They filed out of the room into an open courtyard, then up a short set of stairs on the north side. The morning sun shone in her eyes.
The stone under her feet still held the cold of the night, and it crawled from her toes through her body to her head. She shivered, though her shaking was as likely due to the suggestive stares as to the temperature. What had happened to the warm, beautiful cloak Mamma had made for her, the one she was wearing when she was taken? Likely it was now on the woman of the centurion, keeping her warm instead.
An enormous square area lay before them. Columned walkways lined the other three sides. Behind those stood massive buildings. She turned to look over her shoulder. A huge, long stone structure with many doors. There were even doors far above her head. How would you even get up there to enter through them? Everywhere she looked, there was stone. No grass. No trees. No flowers. How did people live in such a cold, artless place?
“As long as we stay together we’ll be safe. We can protect each other.” Tancorix’s voice was soothing. “They’ve kept us in one group so far. I can’t see any reason to split us up now. We’ll be fine.”
It was sweet he still tried to make her think he believed that. Such a good bratir.
An ugly man with rotting teeth and thinning hair swaggered to the bottom of the steps and faced the crowd. He walked back and forth, pointing to each of them in turn and talking. She’d always hated their language. It was harsh and without music. When shouted in anger, it was even worse.
A taller, wide-shouldered man strutted behind them, a whip in his hand. A shudder ran through her body every time he flicked the end against the stone, just enough for a crack to resound and remind them he could inflict severe pain at any moment.
When the man with the teeth reached the last one in line, he returned to the beginning. The guard grasped the arm of the first girl and jerked her forward, toward the edge of the step. She was one of the youngest of the group, or at least the smallest. Her body trembled, her shoulders drooped.
Tia lifted her chin. She would not show her fear. That would only make them treat her worse.
The men called out Latin words she recognized as numbers, one after another. Finally the trader pointed to the last man who had spoken out. “Sold.”
The word hit her like an enemy arrow. The thought she had refused to entertain for so long finally demanded to be heard.
She closed her eyes. Felt the grass beneath her feet. The wind in her hair. Heard the waves against the cliffs. Ignored what was happening.
Warriors don’t cry.
The big man’s hand landed on her back and she was propelled forward. She looked over her shoulder at Tancorix.
Help me.
Not so many numbers were shouted for her. The placard around her neck didn’t have as many marks; she was not as skilled as some of the other girls. She had spent most of her time deep in the woods with the old ones, learning to hear the goddess instead of practicing cooking and mending. The other girls had teased her. Her grandmother had often told her to ignore them, but maybe they’d been right.
Her heart raced.
Tancorix let out a sharp whistle, beckoning the trader. He leaned forward. Whispered something. The trader’s face lit up, and he turned and announced something to the crowd.
Suddenly, men were clamoring for her. What had her brother said? She looked to him.
He smiled.
“What did you say?”
“I told him about your gift. And I told him I was the only one who could help you use it properly.”
“You did what? Why did you do that?” she hissed.
He smirked. “I just saved your life. And I made sure we could stay together. A little gratitude would be nice.”
“Sold!” the ugly man crowed, pointing to a man in the crowd. But which one?
Tancorix meant well, but at this point, was her life really worth saving? Perhaps she would be better off dead.
Then again, at least they were together.
And together they could do anything. Even escape.
Quin rubbed his hip as he entered the triclinium. “Mmmm. Something smells good.”
“Thank you, Tribune.” His parents’ kitchen slave set platters of wheat bread and cheese on the table in the center of the dining couches.
“He is no longer a tribune. Do not address him as such.” Julius Valerius strode into the room and reclined on a lectus.
“Actually, I have not yet been officially discharged, and when I am, I will retain my rank since I will be leaving due to injury.”
Loaf in hand, his father sniffed, a sign the conversation was over. No need to try to explain further.
They ate in silence. When the quick meal was over, Julius sat up. “Have you decided what you will do next?” His face was impassive as always, his voice, expressionless.
Quin may as well talk to one of the statues in the hallway. “I’m not sure yet.” Three days of rest, delicious food, and a soft bed had helped considerably, but his leg still wasn’t as strong as it had been.
“I cannot help you. You must be aware of this.” He stared at the wall beyond Quin. “You are the fifth son. My firstborn will, of course, inherit the estate. The others will inherit parts of the business.” He pursed his lips. “I did not plan on five sons. This is why I told you to stay in the army even after you had completed your required service. I have nothing for you.”
“I know, Pater. You never have.” He wandered down the hallway and out to the garden. After six years in gloomy Britannia, the bright summer sun was mercifully warm. He’d never been as cold as he had on that perpetually damp island. One more reason to avoid Camulodunum. Macedonia—if he ended up there, and it was looking more and more certain that he would—was reportedly sunny. If he had to wait somewhere for the truth to come out, it might as well be there.
The garden fountain majestically shot water high into the air from a stone bowl almost as high as his shoulders, sending droplets far beyond the edge of the stone basin. From the sides of a wider bowl beneath that, lions’ heads spat more water. The cooling spray felt good in summer’s heat, and he took his time passing through it.
At the far edge of the garden, Julia Valerius rested in the shade of an enormous tree. He joined her, grunting as he dropped onto the bench next to her.
“Have you eaten?”
“I ate a little. With Pater.”
She cringed. “How did that go?”
“About as well as you’d expect. I think he’d be happier if I never came home.”
She cradled his hand in hers and rubbed the back of it.
“Why does he hate me?”
She closed her eyes as a tear fell.
“I’m not his, am I?”
She squeezed his hand and stared at
him with wide eyes.
“That’s why my hair is lighter, and my eyes are gray.”
“You think so too? You think that little of me?”
Could he feel any worse? “I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”
“My brothers have lighter hair and eyes, and his uncle does as well. Your looks are legitimate, and so are you. But he won’t believe. He jumped to the same conclusion you did.” She looked away. “At least you had his hatred of you to lead to such a lie. He had no reason at all to think such a ghastly thing of me, no reason to suspect I had been unfaithful. But he has punished me—and you—ever since.”
“Even when you pointed out my uncles, and his?”
“Even so.”
“No wonder he wanted me gone.” All the distance and punishment his pater had inflicted on him now made sense. Painful sense, but sense nonetheless. “Was it any better once I left?”
“Slightly. As long as I never mentioned your name.”
“But my sister also has light eyes.”
“Yes, and he knows she cannot possibly be anyone’s but his. After you were born, he made sure I was followed any time I left the house, which was almost never. But by then it didn’t really matter.” She brushed a tear from her cheek. “I think in his heart he knows the truth, but he just can’t bear to admit he’s wrong.”
“I’ll leave as soon as I can. As soon as the doctors give their permission.”
“How is your leg?” She pushed up his tunic slightly as she drew her finger along the end of the fading red scar. “Does it hurt?”
He shook his head. “Not really. Sometimes it flares up, but mostly it doesn’t bother me.” That was a complete lie, but there was no need for her to know how much it bothered him. And how little sensation he had in his foot. She would worry forever.
She gently touched the other scars on his arms, his legs. “My beautiful son, so broken and beaten.”
He chuckled lightly. “It’s all right, Mater. They are all from years ago.”
Sold Into Freedom Page 3
