She had to get away from him first.
The silence was broken by the cascading water of a neighborhood fountain. When they reached the fountain, the statue of a small boy—his arms reaching out in supplication, a stream of water flowing from his mouth—was illuminated by a single flame placed strategically at the water’s edge.
During the day, this same fountain was busy with women, children and slaves taking turns filling their wash buckets and water jars to carry back to their homes.
But tonight, it was eerily silent, the only sound the soft rush and gurgling of the water.
“Are you thirsty?” Marcus Sergius asked.
Annia was thirsty, incredibly thirsty. She ignored his offer of help and reached up to the trickling water, cupping her hands and drinking deeply.
Marcus waited for her to drink her fill and then reached up to drink.
When he did, she took her chance. She ran.
Apparently, he had expected her to run and he caught her before she even reached the pavement at the edge of the fountain.
They both went down on the hard stone, he on his back and she atop.
He grasped her arms, and she kneed him in the stomach. She pulled away and unsheathed her knife.
Both on their feet, they circled each other. His breathing was heavy, as was hers.
She jabbed, but he pulled back and then reached for her knife.
But she was quicker.
His eyes widened. She was used to it. He hadn’t expected her to be this good with a weapon. What proper Roman matron could wield a knife with such dexterity?
The look on his face now was one of respect. What had he recognized? Before she could move again, he had countered. He seemed to know exactly what she was going to do before she did it, and now he was holding her wrist, tightening his grip until she was forced to drop the knife.
“Trained in the wilds of Britain, as well?” he said, his voice ragged.
Now it was her turn to stare wide-eyed at him.
Fury strengthened her. She poised to run as soon as she had the chance.
“I would rather not do this,” he said, “but you leave me no choice.”
With the dexterity of a battle-trained legionary, he caught her wrists in a leather thong and pulled it securely. Her wrists bound, she was forced to walk humbly behind him.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked. “I know your type,” she said. “Ready to make a gold coin off anything possible.”
She could tell from the set of his shoulders that she had angered him. He said nothing.
“I have money,” she said. “I can buy my child from you. I can get you all you need.”
“I don’t want your money,” he said.
“I’ve yet to meet a soldier who didn’t want money, who wasn’t willing to buy his way to the top so that he could stop fighting and send other men in to do the bloody work.”
At this, he turned on her, yanked the leather cord down, savagely squeezing her wrists so tightly that tears smarted in her eyes. He pulled her close.
“You, domina, have no knowledge of what you speak. Close your mouth, and let me take you to your baby before I change my mind.”
The struggle in his face was palpable. She had struck a chord in this man. A deep one. The pain in his face spoke of unspeakable horrors. She was embarrassed and ashamed, but she was not certain why.
He was her enemy. He had her tied with a leather thong. Why did she feel such compassion for a man who had sold her baby and was now leading her to be sold?
She almost apologized but held her tongue.
She had no choice but to allow him to lead her to the place of enslavement. Perhaps, if she was blessed, she would at least be enslaved with her baby.
They stopped in front of a row of shops separated by a high wooden double door replete with bronze doorknobs.
Annia recognized the front door of a grand villa.
In the center of each door was a giant bear’s head holding a large ring in its mouth to be used as a knocker.
A bear’s head on a Roman door? Odd. Usually, the door carried a wolf, or even a lion, but rarely a bear.
Was it a sign? In Britain, bears meant strength and survival.
Characteristic of very wealthy Romans, this villa rented its street-front rooms to various shop owners, their signs barely visible in the darkness. There were four shops on either side of the door. Annia leaned back to see how many floors this villa held.
Three stories high. She guessed that the shop owners lived directly above the shop, and perhaps the floor above that was rented out to other tenants.
She had been the mistress of just such a villa.
Marcus lifted and dropped the knocker.
It sounded her doom.
Immediately, the door opened.
Annia felt her fate closing in on her. Why? Why had Janius been so determined to get rid of her baby girl? Did he fear having to provide a dowry for her? Did he fear he would have to divide all his new wealth with his youngest daughter?
And if he was so quick to get rid of this newborn, what would keep him from getting rid of their two young sons?
Surely Janius would not harm his own flesh and blood.
And yet he knew this newborn child to be his, and he had no qualms about exposing her.
Annia closed her eyes and whispered a prayer. Protect me, Lord. Protect my child.
“Mother,” Marcus said, his voice registering warm surprise. “Why are you up?”
“I had a bad feeling about this one,” a woman’s voice responded, “but you have brought her home safely?”
Home? Annia wondered. Home for whom? But she had no more time to ponder this question.
“Annia,” Marcus said, “I would like for you to meet my mother, Scribonia.”
Annia felt slightly off-kilter. Such a formal greeting for a would-be slave?
And Scribonia? Wasn’t that the name of her midwife? Surely not the same woman.
When Marcus moved out of her way, the lanterns lighting the atrium were directly behind the woman, blinding Annia and reducing the woman before her to dark, shadowy outlines. Annia could not make out the woman’s face or even the color of her clothing. She seemed tall, taller than Annia, and very thin.
Annia couldn’t tell if this woman was her midwife or not.
The woman seemed to be reaching for her.
Annia was frightened. What did the woman want of her? She wished that she could see better. She glanced at Marcus, but he had already moved forward, into the atrium behind his mother. He brushed past her.
“I must go now, Mother,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. “Already, I fear the men may have left their duty and gone home.”
“Be careful, son,” his mother said, and then turned her attention to Annia.
Annia recognized the voice now. It was the midwife. She held something in her arms, and she was reaching to hand it to Annia.
When Annia held her hands out in response, the soft bundle placed there was none other than her baby girl.
Marcus gave a satisfied nod before closing the door behind him.
* * *
The