A Villa Outside Rome
The woman turned her head, revealing glassy scars on her neck. Gently, Ila ran a straight razor down the side of her head, shaving away the last tufts of red-gold hair. Her eyes distant, the woman bent her head down obediently, letting the mousy-haired girl shave the nape of her neck. When she was done, Ila laved the woman's head with scented oil.
"There, dear, now it'll grow out even." Ila wiped her hands on an old cloth, then tucked her own ragged mop of hair behind her ears and squatted on the ground. Her quick hands arranged the razors and combs of bone and bronze strigil. The tools fit into a neat leather carrying case. The woman watched, distant and uninterested.
The wagons stood in a stand of quince trees, a hundred yards from the nearest road. The baldheaded master, Vitellix, had made an arrangement with the local estate manager. He said, as he left that morning, they would stay a few days. It was cool and shady in the orchard. Goats and sheep wandered under them, cropping the grass short and clearing out the weeds. The woman, now bald, her pate shining with oil, sat on a three-legged stool on the grass.
The side of the wagon was not ornamented, showing weather-beaten gray wood and peeling paint. Nothing suggested the delicate carving and amusing paintings ornamenting the interior.
"What's your name?"
"I don't remember," the woman said in her smoke-hoarsened voice. "What is your name?"
Ila smiled, showing crooked teeth in her nut-brown face. She was young, perhaps only fifteen. "Silly! I've told you before. I am Ila. I ride the horses."
"Of course," the woman said, but her eyes were vague. Sometimes, when she tried to remember what had happened before she woke up in the wagon, her fists could clench until the nails scored her flesh.
"You must have a name," Ila mused, brown eyes squinting up as she thought. "Perhaps we should name you Lump or Mossy."
The woman frowned at the girl's laughter. "I do not want to be named Lump or Mossy. You are a mean girl."
Ila laughed, seeing a spark of life in the woman's eyes.
"But all you do is sit!" Ila put her hands on her waist, bending close. "Like a stone, or a loaf of bread fresh from the oven… so, you shall be called Lump."
The woman stood angrily, but her body swayed and there was a rushing sound in her ears. "Oh. This feels strange."
"It is called standing up," said Ila, her voice filled with mousy laughter. "Sometimes, when people are not pretending to be stones in a streambed, they try it."
The woman tried to turn, one hand splayed against the wall of the wagon. Her eyes narrowed and she glared at the girl.
"I… can… stand," she said weakly. Her legs were trembling, but the dizziness passed. The world seemed different from her higher vantage point. She saw that the mouse-girl was quite short-bodied and deeply tanned. "I am not a lump."
"Yes, you are," Ila said, skipping back on the grass, hands clasped behind her back. "You're just a little taller than most lumps! You can't even walk or stand without a wagon holding you up. You're lucky it's a friendly wagon or it would let you fall down."
The fury in the woman's eyes burned a little brighter and she pushed away from the wagon. Her legs felt gelid and weak and she took three quick steps, trying to get her balance. Ila drifted away, laughing and covering her mouth with a hand. The woman stopped, taking a half-step, regaining her balance. One of her legs, still bandaged, was throbbing furiously. Blood pounded in her head.
"I can stand," she bit out, though her arms were wobbling as she tried to stay upright. "And walk."
"Can you?" Ila stepped in quickly and poked the woman in the chest. The woman's left arm made a weak movement to block Ila's hand, but it was far too slow. She fell backwards and struck the ground hard. Breath chuffed out of her and a blinding pain jolted up her spine.
"See?" Ila's voice came out of the haze, "a lump."
The woman staggered up, her face turning red with effort. The pain in her legs and her arm faded, replaced by a burning sensation. She lunged for the girl. Ila stepped aside, clapping in delight. The woman, unable to stop herself, ran into the side of the wagon. Soaked with sweat and panting, the woman clung to the rough wood. Tears streamed down her face.
"Leave me alone…" she managed to choke out. Despite a furious effort, she slipped down to the ground, limbs trembling.
"That is not necessary," Vitellix said, stepping out from behind the wagon. "Otho, Franco, help her up, back to the chair."
The woman groaned as the two brothers appeared and gently lifted her up. Their muscles rippled hard and distinct under smooth brown flesh. They carried her to the chair and placed her in it without breathing heavily or even feeling the effort. Vitellix crouched down beside her.
"You are still weak," he said gently, strong, thick fingers probing the line of her bandaged leg. She barely hissed when he kneaded her shin and squeezed her toes. "But you are healing quickly. You were very strong before you fell. I think that you will be strong again, but you must try."
"How… how can you be so sure?" Vitellix met the woman's eyes, seeing pain and confusion in sea-gray depths. Sometimes her eyes were green or even blue, depending on the light of the day. He smiled gently at her, rolling back her eyelids with a practiced thumb.
"It is my business," he said simply. Vitellix nodded at the people standing behind him, watching. "They are my business-I look after them, train them, tend their hurts. Sometimes, if the gods are smiling, I find us paying employment!"
The others laughed. Tentatively, the mouse-girl crept up to the woman's side, taking her hand. "Please, mistress, don't be angry. Papa thought you should walk today."
The woman turned her head, though it cost what little energy she had regained to do so.
"I can walk," she whispered.
"Yes, you can." Ila kissed her forehead. "Soon you will run."
Vitellix stood, satisfied with what he had seen.
"Yes," he said, bronzed face creasing with a smile. "But you still need a name. Something auspicious…"
"Epona," said a man standing amongst the others. Like Otho and Franco, he was short-bodied, but in perfect proportion. His blond hair was cropped close to his head, making him seem sleek and quick. His smooth body, barely covered by a leather belt and a short woolen kilt, was hard with muscle. "May she run like the Huntress, graceful and swift as a red mare, with a steady hand and eye."
"Well spoken," Vitellix said, laying a forefinger alongside his nose. "I think Dummonus has the right of it. But we are not in Gaul in these days, no. Such foreign-sounding words may fall ill on the ears of the patricians. I think we shall call our foundling Diana, for did not my sons find her among the oak groves, by moonlight?"
Otho and Franco beamed at this, for they had been away from the wagons without permission. Now it seemed the goddess of the wilderness guided their feet.
"Diana," the woman said, face pensive. "That is not my name."
Ila, still holding her hand, squeezed it in affection. "Do you remember?"
The woman shook her head, feeling the warmth of the girl's fingers. Her own were very cold. "No… but it is a good name. I will take it up, until I find my own again."
"Good," said Vitellix, voice sharp and businesslike. "Now there may be proper introductions. Stand forward, you sacred band!"
Diana looked up, her face clear of anguish for the moment. She had seen many of the troupe pass by while she lay in the wagon. Most of the time, Ila brought her food or helped her to the privy, but others had put their heads in the door, too, greeting her. They seemed friendly.
"I am Vitellix. I am the master of this little troupe. We perform for the pleasure of the gods, the fathers of the city, the priests, or anyone else that can pay for our supper. I am from Narbo, in the southern reaches of Gaul. My craft is laughter and the ridiculous."
He bent his head to her, taking her hand and kissing it in greeting. "Well met, Diana."
She smiled, for he had always shown her great courtesy and care. "Greetings, Vitellix."
The master stood aside and Dummonus stepped forward, his handsome face grave and composed. His features were those of a statue, perfectly chiseled. His blond hair was very pale, almost white, and his eyebrows were quick strokes of light on his tanned skin.
"Greetings, lady. I am Dummonus. My craft is flight, may it please you. I also own some small skill with throwing and hurling."
He too bowed, though he did not press his lips to Diana's hand.
"Well met, Dummonus. Did you say that you flew?"
He nodded soberly. "I will show you, when there is time." Then he stepped away.
Ila was next, blushing. "You know me… I'm just Ila, the horse girl. I ride the gray and the gold. Plus, well, I feed them too, and curry and comb them and put ribbons in their hair… that's all."
She made to sit, but Diana caught her other hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ila. I am Diana."
"Well met," Ila said, blushing at the welcome in the woman's eyes. Then she sat down, hiding behind Diana's chair.
Across from her, Otho and Franco glanced at each other. Then Otho made a half-bow to his brother.
"Please, I insist."
"No," said Franco, returning the bow. "After you."
"I couldn't. Please, you must introduce yourself!"
"But I cannot, not until you do the lady honor!"
"Impossible! You, who are so much more than I, the very weight of a man, must go first."
"Your honor does me honor, but your largess is so large, I cannot go before it."
Diana laughed, seeing them banter, and both men, alike as twins, with lithe, supple bodies, turned to her as one. They grinned, showing fine white teeth, and then, without looking at the other, they sprang forward, hands turning on the ground. With explosive quickness they bounced up into the air, crossing one under the other, and were-in the blink of an eye-kneeling before Diana on the grass, their faces flushed.
Diana put a hand to her mouth, impressed. "But who is who? You've switched places!"
"I am Otho," said the one on the right, bowing his head. "Greetings, Diana. May you grow strong again among us."
"And I am Franco," said the other, grinning up at her through a mop of black curls. "Greetings, lady!"
"Well met, then, the both of you." Diana inclined her head, holding out her hands, one to each. They kissed them and sprang straight up, from their kneeling stance, to make a pair of cartwheels back to their original positions. Ila clapped and even Vitellix seemed amused.
"This is our number," said the master, hooking his thumbs into his belt. "Now six, with you among us. But listen, for I have news."
The others and Diana, exhausted from speaking, turned their attention to Vitellix.
"I have just come from the house of our benefactor, the noble Lucius Cornelius Balbus. He is a vigorous supporter of the games and the theater and he has said to me, just this morning as we sat in his garden drinking a middling Campanian wine, that a great series of munera, of holy games, is in the offing in glorious Rome."
Diana saw the faces of the others light up with joy, but she herself felt nothing.
"Yes, this is great and good fortune. It seems that the noble and just Emperor Galen has seen fit to issue a proclamation that within the month a schedule will be posted for games to honor and propitiate the dead of Vesuvius. All expect-particularly dear Lucius Cornelius-that they will be the greatest games ever seen in the city of Rome."
Vitellix paused, his head bent. For an instant, Diana thought the man was praying, but when he looked up again, there was a beatific smile on his face.
"These games and celebrations," he continued, "will not merely be the usual to and fro of gladiators and chariot races. No, they will be of a full scope and grandeur not seen since the days of the blessed Emperor Trajan."
"There will be feats of strength and agility?" Franco and Otho spoke as one.
"Yes, so it is said," Vitellix answered.
"Dazzling displays of skill, even from horseback?" Ila's voice was soft from behind the chair.
"I have heard it," Vitellix said.
"Perhaps, if the gods smile," Dummonus ventured, his placid face marked, at last, by some small apprehension, "even the art of flight might be displayed?"
"Even so," Vitellix said, letting out a great breath. "It is well known that the Emperor, bless his name, has little time for the games. He regards them as 'wasteful' and 'a useless diversion,' but he is a pious man and knows that the spirits of the recent dead-of which there are so many!-must be appeased. Their names, their honor, must be upheld. My good friend Lucius Cornelius assures me that these games will encompass every ancient art-the days when some staged battle in the Flavian is sufficient are gone. All the spirits of the dead will look down upon Rome and see it bright with flowers, alive with song and dance, filled with festivals."
"But!" Vitellix clapped his hands sharply, his eyes becoming hard. "We must be ready! To practice, lazy children! Go!"
Diana remained sitting, for she was past exhaustion, as the others scattered off amongst the wagons and trees of the grove. Only Dummonus remained for a moment, loitering in the dappled shadow of the branches, watching her. Then he too left.
– |Diana grunted, arms straining as she pressed her palms against the lacquered side of the wagon. Her legs, bare under a borrowed kilt, were tense with effort.
"Strength in the body does not come from the arms," Vitellix mused as he pressed down on the small of her back with his fists. "It does not spring from the chest, or from the biceps."
Diana gasped, feeling the man bring his full weight to bear on her. At his command, she was keeping her elbows at an angle. Sweat beaded her face and ran down her chest.
"Strength does not come from the legs," he continued, "or from the heart."
The pressure continued to build and now Diana's legs were trembling. Memory fluttered, pressing and pecking at her, trying to make itself known. She was very near her limit.
"Strength is balance." Vitellix suddenly eased off, for the sensation under his fingers had told him that the woman was about to collapse. "It springs like Athena, from the legs, from the arms, from the heart, from the chest-"
"Strength," Diana said suddenly, her voice hollow with weariness, "comes from the mind."
Vitellix raised an eyebrow, looking absurdly pleased with himself.
"Who told you that?" he asked sharply.
Diana began to answer, but then puzzlement clouded her features.
"I don't know…"
A dark-haired woman stood half in light, half in darkness. Her long hair fell to the ground, a spreading pool of ink on ancient blue tile. Only her small hands were visible. She was holding herself up on one hand, palm flat. Slowly, with great patience, she raised herself up, her legs standing out, almost at right angles from her body, onto only her fingertips.
"What do you remember?" Vitellix leaned close, his face intent, his eyes searching her face. "What do you see?"
Diana turned away, blushing in embarrassment. "Nothing, no one. A dream."
Vitellix sighed, hiding his disappointment. He sat beside the wagon. As before, they were in the grove, in the afternoon, letting the heat of the day pass while they exercised under the spreading trees. Diana squatted down, rubbing her face with a woolen towel. Her hair was growing back as a red fuzz.
"You have been trained before," he said after a moment of contemplation. He rubbed the side of his nose, watching her. "Your body remembers, even if your mind does not. I could see you were strong when the boys dragged you out of the stream. Anyone else would have perished."
Diana looked up, sea-green eyes gleaming in the dappled sunlight. "Was I a sacred performer, like you? Did I travel in a painted wagon?"
Vitellix shook his head sadly. "No. I know the names and faces of every performer in Italia. You are not among them. Too, you're Roman. Most of the sacred performers are Gauls or Spaniards. Many of us come from the Narbonensis. This is a traditional profession among our people."
"What am I, then?"
"Give me your hands," he said. He took them gently, thumbs tracing out ridges of hard muscle and callus. Without speaking he ran his fingers along the hard, flat planes of her forearms and biceps. As he did so his face darkened with memory.
"What is it?" Diana cocked her head, watching him like a marsh bird. "What do they say?"
The Gaul's face turned sad, fingertips tracing a puckered white scar that curled across her shoulder and upper arm. He sighed and squeezed her hands, putting them together.
"It is not for me to reveal," he said at last. "The gods have given you a second chance, taking away your old life, granting you a new one. Let us leave it at that. I will not ask you any more questions."
Diana stood, her body moving easily at last. The terrible weakness that had plagued her was beginning to fade. At a distance, the sound of Franco and Otho practicing came through the trees: grunts and the slap-slap of their feet on hard-packed earth. She frowned questioningly at Vitellix, though his usually open face was closed and guarded.
"This is a change! Usually you are pestering me, wanting to know if I remember anything at all, even the color of my mother's eyes!"
"I know," he said, lips pursing. "I remembered something… I have been impolite and vexing, I am sure. What went before is in another life, Diana. This one is trouble enough without rousing old ghosts."
Diana frowned again. Men! First they want something, then they don't!
"Then," she said with asperity, "will you answer some of my questions?"
"Surely," he said, mouth quirking into a half-smile. "I should be vexed in turn."
"Huh! I don't know about that… It seems there is trouble with this Emperor Galen. Otho and Franco are constantly arguing about him."
"Yes," Vitellix said, shaking his head in dismay. "He is a just ruler, but he does not understand what the games mean to the people of the city. They say that he is pious, that he makes the proper sacrifices to the gods, but that he does not believe in them. It tempts the gods to flaunt their will… what will the spirits of the dead do, if they do not receive their offerings?"
"So the people are troubled by this delay?"
Vitellix nodded his head in assent. "Rumors are rife in the city, saying the Emperor does not care, that he has turned his back on the dead."
Diana grimaced, saying, "That does not seem wise…"
"No," Vitellix sighed, "it is not wise, even if we gain a few more days to practice and train."
"What happens next, then? Do we go to Rome and take part in these games? Where will we perform?"
Vitellix laughed, a strained sound. Diana suddenly realized that he was very worried.
"Were it so simple… here is how these things are done, my innocent! When the great games, the munera, are declared, the Emperor usually sponsors them himself. He, having other duties as well, then hires an editore to actually compose, arrange, cost and execute these performances. Of course, he must bear the cost as well, which can be vast. The editore, in turn, arranges with the bestiarii for wild beasts and exotic slaves, with the lanistae for gladiators and dancing girls, with the directors of the theater troupes, with those that deal in dwarves and freaks, with the purveyors of musicians, of acrobats, of Spanish dancers… it is an enormous business, employing thousands of professionals and slaves."
Vitellix sighed, leaning back against the wagon. "And our small troupe merely the least of players… yet, if these games are as great as rumored, even we will find a place."
"Our employment is not assured, then?" Diana was troubled. She had been clothed, fed, bathed, nursed back to health by Vitellix and his family. She had no money, no way to repay them for their kindness. "What will we do?"
"Our employment is more likely if we can gain the attention of someone with the ear of an editore or one of the sponsors. I have arranged, again through the most notable Lucius Cornelius, for an appearance in a regional festival in the town of Narni, which is not far off. I hope that it will be attended by certain agents of the Ludus Magnus or the Flavian in Rome. They may find some worth in our skill."
Diana nodded, flexing her arms. In a few weeks she might be strong again. "What can I do to help?"
Vitellix considered her. He had been wondering the same thing. A thought occurred to him. "Perhaps… perhaps you will have the strength and eye for the wire."