Woman of Sin

  WOMAN OF SIN

  DEBRA DIAZ

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2010 Debra Diaz

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  PROLOGUS, 29 AD

  The streets of Rome seemed alive, twisting and writhing like some tortured serpent; its massive human coils swelled and clotted the narrow roads channeling into the forum like tributaries rushing toward the sea. The white draped figures of aristocrats mingled with the simpler garb of the plebeians… the covered litters of the wealthy vied for passage alongside vagrants and beggars. Some had to squint and put up their hands to shade their eyes against the dazzling whiteness of the buildings beneath the hot July sun, but their progress was little impeded. Market pavilions spilled over with more than the usual number of hawkers and their wares. A slave ship had recently made port, attracting the curious as well as those who had intentions of making a purchase.

  It was a busy day in the busiest city of the world.

  Rome’s progression from mud to marble had taken only a few centuries. Her little group of colonies spread along the Tiber River had sprouted into city-states; her rule had changed from chieftains to kings, to the semblance of a republic, to the present-day empire. She had more than survived; she had prospered. Secure in her military superiority, she became caught up in what she perceived to be her destiny—mistress of the world—and proceeded to fulfill it.

  She was as majestic as she was malodorous, as splendid as she was squalid, as full of color and pageantry as she was white marble and dull rituals. Half of her population was composed of slaves, some of them men and women brought as captives from remote provinces. Others had been unwise in money matters and were forced to sell themselves until they could buy back their freedom. Some had been of such poor judgment as to be born to slaves…and there were the luckless ones who simply fell victim to the paranoia of those who ruled.

  The first emperor, Augustus, had gone far toward healing the scars caused by the civil wars that preceded and followed the murder of Julius Caesar, that famed general who had conquered Gaul and ultimately destroyed the Republic. Augustus was an affable man and a brilliant administrator (though some said too strict and old-fashioned), and he had died much too soon. The people had been as fond of Augustus as they were baffled by his successor, Tiberius.

  At first the stepson of Augustus had governed well. He guarded the borders and kept the frontiers safe from the barbarian hordes; he handled the finances with frugality; he vastly improved the highways and thus stimulated trade and commerce. But he was melancholy by nature and almost wholly indifferent to the games and amusements that were of vital interest to everyone else. Always reclusive, he had finally removed himself to the nearby island of Capri where he lived in a virtual, self-imposed state of exile.

  Rumors abounded—of wild sexual orgies and an obsession with the afterlife. As the years passed he grew shorter of temper and slower of speech. He had never had any rapport with the public; it was said even Augustus despised him and had only named him as his successor due the machinations of his wife, Tiberius’ mother. He now all but ignored the Senate and often sent the dignitaries scurrying whenever they ventured to visit him at Capri.

  Rome whispered that he was insane. She further whispered, a bit louder, that he ought to at least make a pretense of running the government—who was really in control, anyway? But, Rome didn’t long trouble herself. As long as there was food to eat, wine to drink, and races and gladiatorial contests to attend, life was good.

  A few knew the answer as to who was in control, but there was nothing anyone could do about it. Aelius Sejanus, the emperor’s chief advisor, had played upon the fears and suspicions of the old man with amazing success. Sejanus craftily set about ridding Tiberius of all his critics … who usually happened to be critics of himself as well. Hundreds were executed or exiled, or sold into slavery. Even senators and their families were not immune.

  Strangely, much of this internal discord resulted from the fact that it was a time of peace throughout most of the empire. Though struggles against Roman rule broke out on occasion, other countries recognized the wisdom of at least a temporary submission. And without wars to occupy his mind, Tiberius was free to wonder who might be plotting against him. Peace could find no place in the emperor’s soul, though he sought it with diligence. His thoughts turned often to religion. There were gods and goddesses to suit any disposition, but such tailor-made deities did little to earn the respect of men, especially the man who ruled the world.

  Yet there was one, one that his own astrologers spoke of who would be called the king of all kings. They were vague as to his origin; the prophets of the Jews were more particular, perhaps because this man was to be born in their country, in Bethlehem of Judea. He would “shine like a light in darkness”, they said. He would be called the “prince of peace”, and “of the increase of his government and of peace there would be no end.” He would arrive “in the fullness of time.”

  This unknown king struck a fear into the emperor that exceeded even his dread of assassination. There was to be something supernatural about this king, and Tiberius did not know how to fight him, or even how to recognize him. How was Rome to mass her armies against a prince of peace who was supposed to live forever?

  Sejanus assured him that it was only superstition, that the Jews had always been “crying for a messiah.”

  “If it were just a Jewish belief it would not concern me,” the emperor said testily. “The world’s most learned astrologers have seen his star in the heavens! And we know what that fool Herod did about it. Killed everybody else and let the one child get away. The one child, Aelius Sejanus, born in Bethlehem on the day in question and who, I have heard, was identified by some sort of otherworldly light that hovered directly above him.”

  “Augustus gave no credence to those Arabian stargazers,” Sejanus said calmly. “He allowed none of it to be officially recorded, even Herod’s little tantrum. Besides, what are a few Jewish infants? It was nothing.”

  “Augustus didn’t record it because it reflected poorly on him,” grumbled Tiberius. “The Arabians and the child escaped. Not to mention he had a lunatic ruling Palestine. But, it is enough for me that Herod took it seriously. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to hold onto his throne! He obviously believed the child to be a threat.”

  “But as you say, Herod was a madman. Brilliant in some ways we must admit, but mad at the end.”

  The emperor glared. “It’s been thirty years. The child is a man now. And my astrologers tell me the sign of a coming king is still there, written in the stars.”

  “It is your own star they have seen!” proclaimed Sejanus. “You are the greatest of all kings, the greatest of all gods!”

  Tiberius told his chief counselor to go and take a bounding leap into the Tiber. Sejanus chose not to heed the advice but prudently removed himself from the emperor’s presence, while that one dourly resumed contemplating how to defeat his future rival.

  As for Rome, she eagerly set forth on a most exciting day — an auction in the morning and races in the afternoon…

  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.

&n
bsp; 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. 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 young woman, who had looked as though she were about to swoon.

  “From Sparta comes this pretty damsel! An innkeeper’s daughter, she knows well the art of serving…”

  Alysia tried to draw a deep breath. She heard men’s voices calling out bids; a drunken voice demanded a closer view. 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. S
he 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.