WOMAN OF SIN
CHAPTER I
Within the tent Alysia stood dazed and silent, her face set in lines that gave little hint of the emotions surging beneath it. Outrage wrestled with utter disbelief. This was a nightmare from which she couldn’t seem to awaken. Slow-moving scenes played over and over in her mind, shrouded in the fog of horror: her father taken away, the slave ship, the gradual realization that her life, as she had always known it, was over.
Frantic activity surrounded her as other female slaves, skilled in the arts of fashion and hairdressing, prepared these for public sale. Her clothes had been snatched away but she stood straight and perfectly still, not cowering and crying as some of the others were. She was too dazed to cry, too humiliated to even acknowledge those who came and looked, whispered together, and left. From the noise that assaulted her ears there must be hundreds in the crowd outside. A man’s sweating face appeared at the edge of the curtained alcove in which she stood.
“Are they ready?” he barked impatiently, a glint appearing in his eyes as he thought of the hefty profit he would make this day. Some of these women possessed beauty and grace; others had a look that bespoke of a lifetime of hard work and discipline. Each, in her own way, would serve her master well.
“Almost,” replied one of the hired women. “You haven’t told us, Felix, which ones to send out.”
The slave merchant stepped into the alcove. He was bald and wore a dull white toga. His gaze roamed over the naked bodies, then he pointed at Alysia. “That one. The red gown.”
Someone thrust a freshly laundered garment into her arms. Alysia hurriedly put it on. Its cut was close and clinging, with the left side drawn up and draped over her shoulder, leaving the other shoulder bare. Another woman stepped forward and rubbed rouge onto her face and lips, then arranged her long, softly curling black hair to sweep over the bare shoulder.
“You are to be in the private sale,” the woman said, giving her a slight push. Alysia and two other slaves were ushered through a rear opening and guided through a maze of tents to a huge, canopy-covered platform surrounded by a high wooden fence. On the platform, separated from the spectators by a long, heavy curtain, stood a dozen or so women ranging from about thirteen to twenty years of age. Even the private auction, open only to the wealthiest citizens, would be held outdoors today because of the fine weather and the unusually large number of potential buyers.
Alysia had thought, in those first unbelievable days, that she must be in the grip of some strange and powerful hallucination. Could it have been only a month ago she’d been in Athens, in her own home—spacious and comfortable, filled with fine furniture, employing half a dozen loyal and indulged servants? She couldn’t remember now what she’d been doing when the soldiers came to the door, speaking in a crude mixture of Latin and Greek that she could barely understand. Her father had joined her. She heard the word “treason”, and gradually began to understand they were accusing her father, a physician, of aiding a wounded revolutionary. He did not deny it and had gone with them quietly, saying to his daughter with dignity and ominous finality, “The gods have mercy on you, my child.”
Bewildered, Alysia followed him to the door, calling after him. Then two more soldiers appeared and dragged her outside, thrusting her ruthlessly into a horse drawn wagon covered with wood siding and a leather roof. A tiny window allowed for ventilation. She was allowed to take none of her belongings—what became of them, and of her house, she never knew. Probably the entire estate was sold and the money placed in the imperial treasury, a treasury now bloated with the assets of “traitors”.
The short, bumpy ride ended at the harbor, where a Roman ship rocked and creaked upon the swells of the Aegean Sea. Two brawny arms lowered her into the dark hold of the ship. Thin rays of light showed through the planking above her head. She was not alone. The compartment reeked of close-packed bodies, human waste, and the results of violent seasickness.
Even then she couldn’t believe it. A mistake had been made, and soon some official would appear to claim her and to beg her pardon. She could not be on a stinking slave ship bound for Rome with these—these criminals! She was the only child of the most sought-after physician in Athens. She had done nothing wrong!
By the time the ship made port at Ostia she was half-starved and covered with filth. Stunned and blinking in the sunlight, the slaves were herded out from the bowels of the ship and transported in wagons—these were completely covered in leather with only a slit for a window—to a building somewhere in the depths of the city, and for three days they were fed and groomed for the sale. The same wagons took them to the Forum where a long row of gaudily colored tents had been hastily assembled. Alysia had wished for a storm, or an earthquake, or some other catastrophic event—but the sun rose on Friday as surely as it had risen since time began.
After she and the other two women had climbed the steps of the platform, a small, wiry man came forward and directed the slaves to form into a line. A woman waited for them with a bucketful of white chalk which she began pouring over their feet, marking them as imported goods ready to be sold. Beyond the curtain, the slave merchant’s voice rumbled out the attributes of the first woman, who had looked as though she were about to faint.
“From Sparta comes this pretty damsel! An innkeeper’s daughter, she knows well the art of serving…”
Alysia heard men’s voices calling out bids; a drunken voice demanded a closer view. She tried to draw a deep breath. Someone behind her gibbered a hasty prayer to the gods. Another young girl was wailing over the loss of her amulet, a bit of papyrus on which was written a charm to protect her from sickness. Alysia heard a distinct slap and the girl was silent. She had never believed in amulets or magic, and she no longer believed in the gods…for she had beseeched them to save her and they had not listened.
“This is a dream,” she told herself, closing her eyes for a moment. “I will wake up and it will have been—just a dream.”
Then someone shoved her forward into stabbing sunlight. The front of the platform faced the back of a building, so that no one could view the sale but those prosperous looking Romans within the ground-level enclosure.
“A beauty from Athens,” Felix called loudly, consulting a roll of papyrus he held in his hands. “A virgin, cultured and educated in all the womanly virtues, what will you bid for this daughter of a Greek physician? No ordinary physician, but one of great learning and repute!”
Raucous voices belonging to faceless bodies answered, calling out bids. Alysia felt something touch her leg and looked down from the platform to see a man fumbling at the hem of her gown. When she tried to pull away, the cloth parted with a loud ripping sound. The man gave a high-pitched chortle and grabbed the gown again, deliberately tearing it to above her knee.
Without thinking, Alysia placed one bare foot against the man’s head and sent him toppling backward, leaving the white print of her foot upon his forehead. His comrades surrounded him and tried to hold him up, some stifling their laughter and some guffawing unashamedly. Other, more sedate looking men, merely frowned at the spectacle.
The slave merchant came toward her in a fury. “You fool! He is the son of a senator!” He drew back his hand to strike her.
A commanding voice called out over the laughter: “Cease!”
The man whirled, his hand upraised. A Roman soldier had approached the side of the platform, just outside the fence. He sat tall upon a magnificent dark gray horse, his tawny hair ruffled with the breeze. He returned Alysia’s defiant stare with indifference, then fixed his eyes on the merchant.
“Since when, Felix, have you felt the need to beat your slaves into submission?”
“Legate!” Felix began to sputter. “I—you do not understand! She has assaulted the son of Senator Eustacius!”
The soldier regarded the wronged party with an expression of wry amusement mixed with contempt. The oaf rocked dizzily back and forth and seemed to have trouble focusing his eyes…much to the entertainment of his comrades, who howled with laughter and clapped him heartily on the back.
“I doubt that our friend Magnus will remember the incident by nightfall,” the legate said smoothly. He spoke suddenly to Alysia.
“What is your name?”
The very sight of his uniform was enough to curdle her blood with rage. For a moment she wished she could hurl some insult at him as well, but she had no doubt Felix would strike her to the ground if she did so. She lifted her chin and murmured her name.
“What did you say?” he persisted, speaking in perfect Greek.
She tightened her jaw and repeated it, loud and clear over the clamor. His eyes swept over her and he glanced at Felix. “How much?”
“The last bid was two thousand denarii, sir.”
“I will give you four thousand if you will stop the bidding.”
Felix, reflecting briefly that this woman meant trouble and he would do well to be rid of her at the first opportunity, promptly affected an air of obsequiousness. “Sir, would you like to take her inside one of the tents for a closer inspection?”
Alysia’s stomach tightened into a hideous knot as she waited for his reply. Again the soldier’s gaze swept her, and she heard him say, “That will not be necessary.”
“Sold to the Legate Paulus Valerius Maximus for four thousand denarri!”
“What is your age?” Again the piercing blue eyes turned to Alysia.
She had to force herself to answer him. “I am eighteen years, my lord.”
“My sister is in need of a maid. She is your own age and recently lost a slave to illness. I’ll send a litter for you—no doubt you are weak and not able to walk very far. When you arrive at the house ask for Calista, the housekeeper. Tell her that I have purchased you for my sister. Do you understand?”
She managed a demure, “Yes, my lord,” as he inscribed his name on a sheet of papyrus brought out to him by one of Felix’s assistants.
He sat looking at her from the great height of his horse. He seemed to be assessing her, looking beyond her face and form into her mind, a man accustomed to learning the attributes of those beneath him. She refused to look away, and knew he could see her resentment, the tears of anger in her eyes. Then he inclined his head and turned the horse, disappearing as unceremoniously as he had appeared.
