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Carfulena Delia

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Marcius

Marcius

Tribune
Carfulena Delia

Colonia Patricia Corduba, Baetica, c. 120 AD

I

Iunia Latina

Comes Crispus could well have drank more wine from Asta Regia, yet on that scorching summer day in Corduba he, a Roman eques and a new member of the staff of the provincial governor, wanted to keep his head clear. Proconsul Dolabella was expecting him for dinner later, and the comes didn’t want to wake up the next day feeling as if a Roman cohort had been trampling on his brain all through the night.

Had Crispus indulged himself and refilled his cup once or twice before walking out into the unforgiving Baetican sunshine, the tall, slim girl talking to Marullus the gaoler next to the prison door might not have attracted anything more than prurient interest on the part of the eques, his trusty freedman Menander and the two slaves escorting the comes, eliciting not even a hint of recognition.

Still, the girl was guaranteed to attract the attention of men wherever she went. The wide, low neckline of her simple peplos-style sleeveless tunic of coarse linen that hung just below the knees, its white fabric setting off her tanned skin, showed the lovely swell of her full breasts which attracted the hungry stare of Marullus. She was barefoot. Must be a whore, for no honesta femina would stoop to flirt with our ape-like Marullus.

‘I was just wondering whether I could ask patronus if I can visit the pottery workshop on the road to Carbula, for quite a lot of their amphorae have been with fault of late . . .’ Menander started.

The girl pulled the brown palla off her head and shook her long curly dark hair.

‘Wait, wait. Have a look at the girl over there,’ Crispus interrupted the freedman. ‘I think I know her from somewhere.’ The comes stopped to have a better look.

The gaoler was babbling some inanities, yet the girl laughed lightly and melodiously. Yet she was incessantly fingering the palla and nervously twirling her right foot, the grey-black sole ingrained with the summer dust, the strong, muscled calf tense . . .

The girl turned her head to glance at Crispus. Those large almond eyes, those full lips . . . Hard to forget.

There was a spark of knowing.

‘By Jove! Menander, I’ve just remembered it!’ Crispus said quietly. ‘Seize her!’ he commanded his slaves, who broke into a run, heading as fast as they could for the girl. ‘Marullus!’ he cried.

The girl gasped and made a dash for the narrow street leading away from the gaol, her dropped palla floating through the air. One of Crispus’ slaves caught her by the arm and pulled her back, yet she wrenched away from his grasp. Still, the struggle broke her stride, and the other one along with Marullus soon had her pinned to the wall holding her by the shoulders.

‘How did you dare to run away, servola?’ Crispus addressed the girl.

‘I was afraid of your slaves, dominus, and I am no slave,’ the girl said quietly, her eyes downcast.

‘What are you, then?’

‘My name is Gesatia Ocellina, dominus. I am a Iunia Latina, freed last autumn inter amicos by the late Titus Gesatius Frontinus.’

The girl claimed to have been liberated informally according to the Augustan lex Iunia, receiving the mere form of freedom which allowed her to live as freedwoman but die as a slave.

The girl gulped and continued.

‘I . . .’

‘Enough, liar!’ hissed Crispus. He took her by the chin and raised it, forcing the girl to meet his eyes. ‘I’ve recognized you. You were a Iunia Latina once, that is true. Marullus, take her to the cells and put her in chains. And don’t touch her until I come!’ he added, glancing at the gaoler’s hand which had slid towards the heaving breasts. Crispus paused, looking in her dark chestnut-brown eyes. ‘And . . . Marullus, call her Delia.’

Crispus saw a flicker of terror pass across her beautiful face. The girl moaned in despair.

* * * * * * * * *

The beginning of a story set in the early reign of Hadrian. The times are good, but alas! not for everyone.

My English is non-native, but I'm trying.
 
Marcius said:
Carfulena Delia

Colonia Patricia Corduba, Baetica, c. 120 AD

I

Iunia Latina

Comes Crispus could well have drank more wine from Asta Regia, yet on that scorching summer day in Corduba he, a Roman eques and a new member of the staff of the provincial governor, wanted to keep his head clear. Proconsul Dolabella was expecting him for dinner later, and the comes didn’t want to wake up the next day feeling as if a Roman cohort had been trampling on his brain all through the night.

Had Crispus indulged himself and refilled his cup once or twice before walking out into the unforgiving Baetican sunshine, the tall, slim girl talking to Marullus the gaoler next to the prison door might not have attracted anything more than prurient interest on the part of the eques, his trusty freedman Menander and the two slaves escorting the comes, eliciting not even a hint of recognition.

Still, the girl was guaranteed to attract the attention of men wherever she went. The wide, low neckline of her simple peplos-style sleeveless tunic of coarse linen that hung just below the knees, its white fabric setting off her tanned skin, showed the lovely swell of her full breasts which attracted the hungry stare of Marullus. She was barefoot. Must be a whore, for no honesta femina would stoop to flirt with our ape-like Marullus.

‘I was just wondering whether I could ask patronus if I can visit the pottery workshop on the road to Carbula, for quite a lot of their amphorae have been with fault of late . . .’ Menander started.

The girl pulled the brown palla off her head and shook her long curly dark hair.

‘Wait, wait. Have a look at the girl over there,’ Crispus interrupted the freedman. ‘I think I know her from somewhere.’ The comes stopped to have a better look.

The gaoler was babbling some inanities, yet the girl laughed lightly and melodiously. Yet she was incessantly fingering the palla and nervously twirling her right foot, the grey-black sole ingrained with the summer dust, the strong, muscled calf tense . . .

The girl turned her head to glance at Crispus. Those large almond eyes, those full lips . . . Hard to forget.

There was a spark of knowing.

‘By Jove! Menander, I’ve just remembered it!’ Crispus said quietly. ‘Seize her!’ he commanded his slaves, who broke into a run, heading as fast as they could for the girl. ‘Marullus!’ he cried.

The girl gasped and made a dash for the narrow street leading away from the gaol, her dropped palla floating through the air. One of Crispus’ slaves caught her by the arm and pulled her back, yet she wrenched away from his grasp. Still, the struggle broke her stride, and the other one along with Marullus soon had her pinned to the wall holding her by the shoulders.

‘How did you dare to run away, servola?’ Crispus addressed the girl.

‘I was afraid of your slaves, dominus, and I am no slave,’ the girl said quietly, her eyes downcast.

‘What are you, then?’

‘My name is Gesatia Ocellina, dominus. I am a Iunia Latina, freed last autumn inter amicos by the late Titus Gesatius Frontinus.’

The girl claimed to have been liberated informally according to the Augustan lex Iunia, receiving the mere form of freedom which allowed her to live as freedwoman but die as a slave.

The girl gulped and continued.

‘I . . .’

‘Enough, liar!’ hissed Crispus. He took her by the chin and raised it, forcing the girl to meet his eyes. ‘I’ve recognized you. You were a Iunia Latina once, that is true. Marullus, take her to the cells and put her in chains. And don’t touch her until I come!’ he added, glancing at the gaoler’s hand which had slid towards the heaving breasts. Crispus paused, looking in her dark chestnut-brown eyes. ‘And . . . Marullus, call her Delia.’

Crispus saw a flicker of terror pass across her beautiful face. The girl moaned in despair.

* * * * * * * * *

The beginning of a story set in the early reign of Hadrian. The times are good, but alas! not for everyone.

My English is non-native, but I'm trying.
Click to expand...

A great beginning. Keep writing! :)
 
Marcius said:
glancing at the gaoler’s hand which had slid towards the heaving breasts. ...... Crispus saw a flicker of terror pass across her beautiful face. The girl moaned in despair.
Click to expand...
A gaoler's hand on heaving breasts and a look of terror across a beautiful face with her moaning in despair. All the makings of a classic story and Pp, for one, has no trouble reading this English even with his own poor grasp of that language :D.

Look forward to more Marcius.
 
Primus pilus said:
a look of terror across a beautiful face
Click to expand...
... also a girl who is terrified to be called by her true name ... (spoiler, we'll meet one such in my story too..., she pays on the cross)
Marcius said:
The times are good, but alas! not for everyone.
Click to expand...
Sometimes it's necessary that times are bad for a few so the rest can enjoy :D
Anyway as someone who's using English as a second language too I don't see anything to worry about with your writing.
It's a very good start and with the detailed Roman setting a nice contrast to those stories set in diffuse fantasylands ;)
 
Marcius said:
Carfulena Delia

Colonia Patricia Corduba, Baetica, c. 120 AD

I

Iunia Latina

Comes Crispus could well have drank more wine from Asta Regia, yet on that scorching summer day in Corduba he, a Roman eques and a new member of the staff of the provincial governor, wanted to keep his head clear. Proconsul Dolabella was expecting him for dinner later, and the comes didn’t want to wake up the next day feeling as if a Roman cohort had been trampling on his brain all through the night.

Had Crispus indulged himself and refilled his cup once or twice before walking out into the unforgiving Baetican sunshine, the tall, slim girl talking to Marullus the gaoler next to the prison door might not have attracted anything more than prurient interest on the part of the eques, his trusty freedman Menander and the two slaves escorting the comes, eliciting not even a hint of recognition.

Still, the girl was guaranteed to attract the attention of men wherever she went. The wide, low neckline of her simple peplos-style sleeveless tunic of coarse linen that hung just below the knees, its white fabric setting off her tanned skin, showed the lovely swell of her full breasts which attracted the hungry stare of Marullus. She was barefoot. Must be a whore, for no honesta femina would stoop to flirt with our ape-like Marullus.

‘I was just wondering whether I could ask patronus if I can visit the pottery workshop on the road to Carbula, for quite a lot of their amphorae have been with fault of late . . .’ Menander started.

The girl pulled the brown palla off her head and shook her long curly dark hair.

‘Wait, wait. Have a look at the girl over there,’ Crispus interrupted the freedman. ‘I think I know her from somewhere.’ The comes stopped to have a better look.

The gaoler was babbling some inanities, yet the girl laughed lightly and melodiously. Yet she was incessantly fingering the palla and nervously twirling her right foot, the grey-black sole ingrained with the summer dust, the strong, muscled calf tense . . .

The girl turned her head to glance at Crispus. Those large almond eyes, those full lips . . . Hard to forget.

There was a spark of knowing.

‘By Jove! Menander, I’ve just remembered it!’ Crispus said quietly. ‘Seize her!’ he commanded his slaves, who broke into a run, heading as fast as they could for the girl. ‘Marullus!’ he cried.

The girl gasped and made a dash for the narrow street leading away from the gaol, her dropped palla floating through the air. One of Crispus’ slaves caught her by the arm and pulled her back, yet she wrenched away from his grasp. Still, the struggle broke her stride, and the other one along with Marullus soon had her pinned to the wall holding her by the shoulders.

‘How did you dare to run away, servola?’ Crispus addressed the girl.

‘I was afraid of your slaves, dominus, and I am no slave,’ the girl said quietly, her eyes downcast.

‘What are you, then?’

‘My name is Gesatia Ocellina, dominus. I am a Iunia Latina, freed last autumn inter amicos by the late Titus Gesatius Frontinus.’

The girl claimed to have been liberated informally according to the Augustan lex Iunia, receiving the mere form of freedom which allowed her to live as freedwoman but die as a slave.

The girl gulped and continued.

‘I . . .’

‘Enough, liar!’ hissed Crispus. He took her by the chin and raised it, forcing the girl to meet his eyes. ‘I’ve recognized you. You were a Iunia Latina once, that is true. Marullus, take her to the cells and put her in chains. And don’t touch her until I come!’ he added, glancing at the gaoler’s hand which had slid towards the heaving breasts. Crispus paused, looking in her dark chestnut-brown eyes. ‘And . . . Marullus, call her Delia.’

Crispus saw a flicker of terror pass across her beautiful face. The girl moaned in despair.

* * * * * * * * *

The beginning of a story set in the early reign of Hadrian. The times are good, but alas! not for everyone.

My English is non-native, but I'm trying.
Click to expand...
Endorse all the other comments - your English is fine and your story is starting very well!
 
Marcius said:
Carfulena Delia

Colonia Patricia Corduba, Baetica, c. 120 AD

I

Iunia Latina

Comes Crispus could well have drank more wine from Asta Regia, yet on that scorching summer day in Corduba he, a Roman eques and a new member of the staff of the provincial governor, wanted to keep his head clear. Proconsul Dolabella was expecting him for dinner later, and the comes didn’t want to wake up the next day feeling as if a Roman cohort had been trampling on his brain all through the night.

Had Crispus indulged himself and refilled his cup once or twice before walking out into the unforgiving Baetican sunshine, the tall, slim girl talking to Marullus the gaoler next to the prison door might not have attracted anything more than prurient interest on the part of the eques, his trusty freedman Menander and the two slaves escorting the comes, eliciting not even a hint of recognition.

Still, the girl was guaranteed to attract the attention of men wherever she went. The wide, low neckline of her simple peplos-style sleeveless tunic of coarse linen that hung just below the knees, its white fabric setting off her tanned skin, showed the lovely swell of her full breasts which attracted the hungry stare of Marullus. She was barefoot. Must be a whore, for no honesta femina would stoop to flirt with our ape-like Marullus.

‘I was just wondering whether I could ask patronus if I can visit the pottery workshop on the road to Carbula, for quite a lot of their amphorae have been with fault of late . . .’ Menander started.

The girl pulled the brown palla off her head and shook her long curly dark hair.

‘Wait, wait. Have a look at the girl over there,’ Crispus interrupted the freedman. ‘I think I know her from somewhere.’ The comes stopped to have a better look.

The gaoler was babbling some inanities, yet the girl laughed lightly and melodiously. Yet she was incessantly fingering the palla and nervously twirling her right foot, the grey-black sole ingrained with the summer dust, the strong, muscled calf tense . . .

The girl turned her head to glance at Crispus. Those large almond eyes, those full lips . . . Hard to forget.

There was a spark of knowing.

‘By Jove! Menander, I’ve just remembered it!’ Crispus said quietly. ‘Seize her!’ he commanded his slaves, who broke into a run, heading as fast as they could for the girl. ‘Marullus!’ he cried.

The girl gasped and made a dash for the narrow street leading away from the gaol, her dropped palla floating through the air. One of Crispus’ slaves caught her by the arm and pulled her back, yet she wrenched away from his grasp. Still, the struggle broke her stride, and the other one along with Marullus soon had her pinned to the wall holding her by the shoulders.

‘How did you dare to run away, servola?’ Crispus addressed the girl.

‘I was afraid of your slaves, dominus, and I am no slave,’ the girl said quietly, her eyes downcast.

‘What are you, then?’

‘My name is Gesatia Ocellina, dominus. I am a Iunia Latina, freed last autumn inter amicos by the late Titus Gesatius Frontinus.’

The girl claimed to have been liberated informally according to the Augustan lex Iunia, receiving the mere form of freedom which allowed her to live as freedwoman but die as a slave.

The girl gulped and continued.

‘I . . .’

‘Enough, liar!’ hissed Crispus. He took her by the chin and raised it, forcing the girl to meet his eyes. ‘I’ve recognized you. You were a Iunia Latina once, that is true. Marullus, take her to the cells and put her in chains. And don’t touch her until I come!’ he added, glancing at the gaoler’s hand which had slid towards the heaving breasts. Crispus paused, looking in her dark chestnut-brown eyes. ‘And . . . Marullus, call her Delia.’

Crispus saw a flicker of terror pass across her beautiful face. The girl moaned in despair.

* * * * * * * * *

The beginning of a story set in the early reign of Hadrian. The times are good, but alas! not for everyone.

My English is non-native, but I'm trying.
Click to expand...

:goodjob: Great story so far! :goodjob:
 
WARNING: Pure backstory, all talk.

II

Serva poenae

‘Carfulena Delia,’ repeated the governor of Baetica. ‘Why do you think I should care about this or that freedwoman, Crispus?’

‘She was involved in the Chaldean plot,’ Crispus said uneasily, knowing that the subject was certain to displease the proconsul. They stood in the cool, wide atrium of white marble. Crispus had arrived early to discuss the newly arisen criminal matter.

The accession of Hadrian to the purple not so long ago was followed by the summary execution of four senators, all of them former consuls. Even though Palma, Celsus, and Nigrinus, the ones killed in Italy, were themselves not accused of anything astrology-related, some of their hangers-on were denounced as having consulted astrologers regarding the welfare of Emperor Trajan, Hadrian’s predecessor.

The case quickly turned into a welter of confusing details, accusations and counter-accusations. There were stories of poisonings, knife murders, forged wills, illicit sex, and robberies involving aristocratic tearaways, simple citizens, freedmen, slaves, prostitutes, tavern keepers, Egyptians, Jews, and a sole frightened cymbalist. What it did not involve was a single Chaldean, the name of the people standing for the profession of astrology. The peak of absurdity was reached with the case of actor Jason. It was alleged that he had returned from the dead after drowning in the Fucine Lake and decided to celebrate his resurrection with several stabbings, all of them performed while wearing a gladiator mask. Even though the poor Greek insisted that he had only swallowed some water while swimming and that the gladiator mask had been intended for a play, Jason ended up burnt in a tar-soaked sack.

‘Hm? I had no desire to know anything about that sordid plot,’ scoffed the governor. Dolabella was amongst the majority of the Senate greatly displeased by the violent death of four senators, in his case vocally. Crispus wanted to add that the governor had no desire to know anything about a great number of things. Then again, it was the total lack of political ambition (and abilities) coupled with his affability that had made him so well-liked in the Senate, and it was just as likely that Hadrian sent him to Baetica to keep him away from Rome as it was that the Emperor honoured one of the few remaining senatorial representatives of old patrician families with the administration of the Caesar’s native province.

‘Delia is the only daughter of the late Marcus Carfulenus, an astrologer, by a Greek slave. She was tried for assisting her father―’

‘I say, Crispus, how do you remember all that?’

Crispus smiled. The governor had never tried to study a single tract on Egyptian laws concerning irrigation, whereas Crispus . . . Now, who amongst the ambitious equites did not dream of becoming the augustal prefect in Alexandria?

Marcus Carfulenus, a well-born but impoverished Roman who had turned to astrology as a means to supplement his meagre income, was to be accused of divining the date of Trajan’s death and supplying poisons to a couple of would-be widows when he himself swallowed a rapid-acting poison himself. It was known that Delia, his young daughter, whom he had freed inter amicos (full liberation impossible until the slave was reach the age of thirty according to a law by Augustus), was helping her father/patronus from time to time, and she became the target of Roman justice instead.

The daughter of a slave who died in childbirth, Delia had grown into a beautiful young woman who led something of a wild life on the margins of Roman society. She tried acting (not only on stage; during his father’s divinations, she was Diana the Huntress for certain gullible clients) and sports (it was said that she even trained some athletically-inclined daughters of senators in running, discus throw, and ball-tossing). Not in a hurry to marry, Delia freely took lovers of either sex. And freedwomen defying the established social order of Rome were so vulnerable . . .

Delia was thrown into prison. As an accomplice of her father, she could expect the cross or the arena. Her insolence in court – she noted that Trajan did indeed die around the time her father allegedly expected him to and that the Oriental potions she fetched to Roman ladies were supposed to make them slim and not their husbands dead, all that said while looking at the old, corpulent urban prefect – might have doomed her.

Until her lawyer spoke.

The times of silver-tongued court orators ended along with the Republic, the courts being a preserve of time-servers, yet one of her former lovers stumbled at perhaps the only chance to keep her alive and hired a certain Gaius Carvilius to represent the girl.

Gaius Carvilius was far from the best lawyer in Rome, but he had no equals in the matter of pure obstructionism. It was said that he could make the judge to condemn himself, only to stop the flood of questions, hints, insinuations, counter-accusations and pure insanity. Gaius Carvilius was forbidden from pleading in the Centumviral Court after disputing the will owing to the presumable intent of the dead man to be his own heir, and that was a fact.

Crispus was among the audience listening to his speech. After dismissing each accusation as a spurious invention, the lawyer launched into the arcane questions of her status. If Delia had been a slave while supposedly assisting her father, she was to be tried as slave. Yet the exact date of her liberation, however conditional, was unclear. Also, was she not supposed to obey her dominus, patronus, and (insinuated) father in everything?

Crispus pitied the distinguished urban prefect who had to listen to this juridical waterfall. When Gaius Carvilius stopped juggling ancient laws of the Republic and recent decisions by Caesars, both deified and damned, the old, totally confused Verus groaned and pronounced his decision.

He was to submit the case to the ruling one.

There was enough snickering amongst Hadrian’s retinue about the urban prefect who could not condemn a single freedwoman when the courier brought Verus’ missive, Crispus supposed. Yet the Lord of the World, slowly making his way towards his capital, approached his task with diligence, in part resolving the procedural doubts in favour of the girl and dismissing the poisoning charges along with his general desire to end the unwelcome Chaldean business, the sooner the better. Delia was to be regarded as freedwoman in the eyes of the law, given the conflict over the date of her liberation. Yet she was found guilty of divining the date of the previous Emperor’s death – the exact circumstances of Trajan’s death being a forbidden subject, acquittal was not desirable politically.

The law providing for ‘death or some other severe punishment’ in this case, Delia was sentenced to become a serva poenae, ‘slave of the punishment’, for life. When the Imperial constitution was brought into Rome, the relieved urban prefect ordered to send the girl to the mines in Hispania in ministerium metallicorum, ‘for the convenience of convict miners’, as an example of private misery and public clemency.

‘Excellent, Crispus,’ said the governor. The dinner guests arriving one by one, he was in a hurry to wrap it up. ‘Well, why then is this slave running around my city instead of sucking miners’ cocks dry?’

‘There was a slave break-out at the Nova Carthago mines, and she was one of the runaways.’

‘Any kind of clemency is wasted on their servile nature!’ the patrician noted with great distaste.

‘Most of them were caught by the powers of Hispania Tarraconensis. I have no doubt that she was with the band of latrones destroyed by our auxiliaries on the banks of Baetis a fortnight ago.’

‘I have sentenced four captives to the cross, which was done promptly, and another four to be thrown to the beasts on the Imperial Day, didn’t I? She must have wanted to set the prisoners free by means of some trick,’ the proconsul mused out loud, taking pride in his investigative abilities.

‘Most excellent, Governor! I shall question her as to―’

‘Wait. There’s a matter of sentencing that, erm, Delia. A runaway serva poenae. “She appears to have done it,”’ the governor pronounced the ancient formula for the guilty verdict with relish. ‘Well, let us dine, and see to her crucifixion tomorrow, Crispus!’

‘But what if there are others―’

‘Nonsense! The latrones were utterly vanquished that day by our fine auxiliaries!’

He must have already reported the destruction of the gang to Rome. Oh well. It was even worse when we fought the insurgents in Mesopotamia. Still, there’s time to question her.

*********

The Chaldean Plot is pure invention, even though the killing of four senators is not. Trajan, Hadrian, Dolabella, and Verus are historical, although Dolabella almost certainly didn’t serve as the Baetican governor in the early years of the reign of Hadrian (his name is unknown).

Latrones is pretty much impossible to translate, ‘bandits-pirates-rebels-revolutionaries'?

The story of Jason is just me having fun (pity the Romans had no Fridays then :)), and, speaking of Mesopotamia . . . All kinds of Romes seem to have insurgency trouble over there.
 
Last edited:
malins said:
... also a girl who is terrified to be called by her true name ... (spoiler, we'll meet one such in my story too..., she pays on the cross)
Click to expand...
I'm going to have a look at it. :)

Sometimes it's necessary that times are bad for a few so the rest can enjoy :D
Click to expand...
Hadrian would've certainly agreed. :) As far as I know, he was one of the best men among endowed with absolute or near-absolute powers in the course of history -- Wen of Han, him, Marcus Aurelius, Henri IV of France, Catherine the Great -- not a man, but okay :) -- that's pretty much the whole list. All of them were people of their times who presided over cruelties unimaginable today for 'good statesmen', but we have to compare them with their contemporaries.
 
III

Sola

Delia sat on the stale straw hugging her knees to the chest, her manacled arms prickled by goosebumps. She was alone in the small, pitch-dark cell.

Setting up escapes for slaves and prisoners was risky at the best of times, if there was such a thing, but to be recognized was the height of mischance. To hold back angry tears, she tried to think about the happy days. Games with slave boys in her father’s domus, falling in love for the first time and giving her body a gladiator hacked apart in the Colosseum nine days later, acting for the first time in front of the crowd, outrunning Varro, a senator’s son, at the villa of the Visellii, listening to his words of love – all this came to her.

Then came the rest. Praetorians dragging her off to the Lautumiae, absurd charges, threats. Her body stretched on the table for the enjoyment of the guards. It took five men to subdue her, and the first to take her remarked that she would soon be stretched on the patibulum.

The madness of her trial and her unexpected return from the court followed by the long wait for the Imperial response. Even the gaolers left her alone in the meantime.

The narrow, stinking hold of the ship taking her in chains to Hispania. The stones, dirt, and dust of the silver mines. Hauling baskets full of ore or, on a lucky day, gutting fish at the kitchens. Then lying on the stone bed under one miner after another, a slave of the slaves, until the last one was sated and it was time to drift off to sleep, sore and desperate.

Day by day, until that chilly winter morning when the tall Moor with a brand on his forehead roared and strangled a guard with his bare hands. She looked at the fish knife in her hand; a heartbeat later she drew the blade across the eyes of another guard. Blood, chaos, and mayhem.

Two men, the Moor and the Syrian, and one woman splitting away from the other runaways at the tomb of a Roman general. Walking west by night, impelled by the dream of taking a ship from Gades to somewhere outside the Empire, the dream stoked by the Syrian born in the port city.

The Syrian going to find some food and not coming back. Trudging along the Via Augusta just to stay ahead of the slave hunters.

Two brigands from the band of Ambatus stumbled upon their hideaway. She and the Moor joined the latrones from Montes Mariani, stealing pigs, robbing travellers, or breaking into a lone villa. Getting back her strength, the horrors of Rome and the mines receding from the memory. After the sweaty nights of soreness and bruises came the soft eyes of a fellow runaway from the gang, their bodies joined from lips to hips for the first time under the stars.

Soldiers surprising them on the bank of Baetis, Ambatus and her lover struck down by the swords, she jumping into the river, screaming in utter despair.

Heavy footsteps outside. Was it for her?

It was. Marullus creaked the heavy door open. Another gaoler held up a guttering, smoky torch.

‘On your feet, whore!’

*********

(More backstory, I know; the chapter TBC)
 
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