There had been no room at the inn. Serenus, a small village to begin with, had been overrun by citizens on pilgrimage to the Artemisia Festival and even the villagers’ homes were filled with travellers. Mercifully, a local farmer had granted Arria’s mother and brother shelter in his barn and Epona and Grandmother had found them there.
‘You go in first,’ said Cal, who wrapped his cloak around himself against the cool of the evening. A patrician man had gifted him the garment as they had exited the arena that afternoon. He had draped it over Cal’s shoulders and counselled him to hide from the gods. ‘For your performance has surely made them jealous!’ the man had said.
Cal had nodded his gratitude, but moments later he had muttered, ‘It is the performance that lies ahead that truly matters.’
‘They will love you,’ Arria had assured him.
‘I would settle for acceptance,’ Cal had said.
When they had arrived outside the barn, Cal was trailing behind her. ‘I will go in first if you wish,’ she said.
When Arria opened the door, she beheld her mother’s enlarged figure reclining on a bed of straw.
‘Arria! Oh, thank God!’ she cried. ‘I prayed for you. I feared for your safety.’
Arria could not help but smile. ‘My safety?’
The farmer’s wife had been kind enough to provide her mother and brother with blankets and there was a bowl of uneaten soup beside her mother’s bed. ‘We have been so very fortunate,’ her mother said through shivering, weather-chapped lips.
Arria tucked the blanket over her mother’s arms and shoulders. She looked so pale and sickly. It seemed doubtful she would survive the next few days, let alone the birth, which was already overdue.
‘I am so sorry, Mother.’ Arria searched her mother’s eyes, so red and sunken with mourning. ‘It is all my fault.’
Her mother shook her head. ‘Your father chased his own demise.’
‘He remains inside my heart nonetheless,’ said Arria and it was true. The damn, foolhardy gambler was a part of her and always would be.
The two embraced and, for the first time in the seven months since she had been sold, Arria breathed. Free air was different, she decided at once. It was sharper, somehow, and almost suspiciously sweet.
‘We will survive this,’ said her brother. He stepped from the shadows and wrapped a blanket around Arria’s shoulders. In a voice so clear and certain that Arria scarcely recognised it, he said, ‘We shall make a new life.’
Epona and Grandmother stepped forward and embraced Arria in turn and Arria smiled when Epona’s horse whinnied out a greeting from the corner of the barn. ‘I have named her Ephesia,’ Epona said.
‘A perfect name,’ said Arria, beaming. ‘I am happy to make her acquaintance.’
In that moment Cal stepped into the barn carrying an armful of wood.
‘And this is Cal,’ said Arria, feeling a swell of pride.
Cal set the bundle down upon the floor and in his effort his cloak came open.
Arria watched in amusement as her mother’s expression progressed from confusion to fear to silent awe as she beheld the thick leather belt and blood-spattered loincloth that comprised Cal’s gladiator costume.
‘Cal, this is my mother and my brother, Clodius, and Epona and Grandmother, the women I told you about from the workshop. Family, this is Cal.’
The women tossed Cal friendly nods, but Arria’s brother wore a suspicious frown. ‘How did you meet this man?’ he asked, swinging forward on his crutches.
‘He defended my life,’ Arria said. ‘And...he made me wish for it in the first place.’ Her gaze locked with Cal’s and an invisible current of tenderness passed between them.
‘You have a familiar face, Cal,’ said Clodius. ‘Whence do I know it?’
‘Cal is a famous gladiator, Brother,’ Arria cut in. ‘You may know him as the Beast of Britannia.’ Her brother was studying Cal carefully. Too carefully.
‘I have heard of him,’ said her brother through tightening lips. ‘Do you really hail from Britannia, man?’
‘He hails from—’
‘Please, Arria,’ her brother interrupted. ‘I am sure the man can answer for himself.’ Clodius fixed his gaze on Cal.
‘Not Britannia,’ answered Cal. ‘I come from the land that Romans call Britannia.’
‘What part of Britannia?’ her brother asked. There was a storm stirring beneath his words. Arria could almost feel its winds.
‘The north.’
‘Brigante territory? Iceni, perhaps?’
‘The far north.’
Clodius cleared his throat. ‘Caledonia?’
Cal said nothing.
Clodius’s features turned to stone. ‘That is funny, a Caledonian man took my leg at the Battle of Graupius Mountain.’
‘I know,’ said Cal. The air between them seemed to develop edges.
Arria’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘How do you know, Cal?’ she asked.
‘I know because I am he,’ said Cal, not taking his eyes off Clodius. ‘I am the man who took your brother’s leg.’
Arria froze. ‘You must be mistaken.’
‘I am not mistaken.’ There was a kind of sadness in his voice. Or was it a kind of defeat? ‘I cut off this man’s leg in the chaos of battle. He was going to kill my captain, so I stopped him with my longsword.’
Arria heard a gasp. Perhaps it was her own gasp. Or maybe it was the soft, wicked cackle of one of the three Fates. Surely the vexatious old crones were spinning their threads somewhere near and having themselves a good laugh. Arria stared at the sunken part of her brother’s tunic where his leg used to be, then glanced at Cal’s strong arm, currently squeezing the hilt of his gladius.
‘Why did you not kill me?’ snarled Clodius. He gripped his pugio.
‘Because it was not necessary.’
‘I begged you for death and you pissed on me.’
‘I cleaned the wound. I gave you a chance.’
‘I did not ask for a chance.’ Clodius lifted his blade to Cal’s throat.
‘Clodius!’ Arria gasped. ‘Please stop! It is in the past—’
‘Shut up, Arria!’ Clodius shouted. He gestured to the stump of his leg. ‘Does this look like it is in the past?’
For so many months Arria had battled against forgetting. She believed it a kind of illness—something that would invade her mind and make her forget her desire to be free.
But now she realised that forgetting could also be a kind of cure. Each day, Clodius woke up and gazed at his leg and relived the worst day of his life. He was a prisoner of his memory, a slave to it. Forgetting was the only way he would ever be free.
Forget, Clodius, Arria thought. Just let it all go.
‘You will need me on the journey to come,’ offered Cal. He glanced at the blade Clodius held a hairsbreadth from his throat. ‘I can hunt and I can fight.’
‘We do not need you,’ said Clodius. ‘We only need our bag of coins and my good name in our journey to Eboracum.’
Cal stiffened. ‘Your journey to Eboracum?’
Clodius gave an angry nod. ‘The town belongs to Rome now, with a proper Roman fort. My name is on the Distributions List there.’
‘Distributions List?’
‘A list of Caledonii lands allotted to Roman soldiers. The Romans did win the Battle of Graupius Mountain, or did you not hear?’
‘Those are not your lands,’ Cal growled. ‘They belong to my people.’
‘Your people?’ hissed Clodius. ‘There are very few of your people left now, I’m afraid. The men are dead and the women have taken up with Roman soldiers.’
Pools of rage gathered in Cal’s eyes. ‘My tribe’s women were ravaged by Roman soldiers and murdered. My own wife was—’
‘Raped? Killed?’ Clodius offered viciously. It was as if Cal was the one who had lost a leg and now Clodius was the one pissing on it. ‘Clearly you care little for your late wife, or you would not have found someone to take her place.’ He glanced at Arria.
‘I love my wife, and no one will ever take her place,’ Call hissed. He slid his gladius from its hilt and held it at Clodius’s stomach. It was Arria who shrieked, however, for it was as if he had already plunged the blade into Arria’s own heart.
‘Stop!’ she cried. She lunged between the two men. ‘This is madness!’
That was when they heard the wail. It started softly, crescendoing into something so loud and heartbreaking that it might have been the wail of every suffering woman in every bloody battle from the beginning of time. Arria’s mother was holding her stomach. Her face was engraved with agony.
‘Her labour begins,’ Grandmother pronounced. She shook her white head with impatience, then crossed the room and plucked the dagger from Clodius’s hands. ‘We shall need this to cut the birth cord of your new brother or sister.’
Clodius started to protest, but Grandmother was already crossing to Arria’s mother, barking out orders as she went. ‘Epona, I need you to gather as many pots as you can find and fill them with water. Arria, go ask the farmer’s wife for whatever cloth she can spare.’ Grandmother pointed at the pile of kindling. ‘And will someone please start a fire?’
The moment of danger had passed and Arria exhaled her relief. She scanned the barn for Cal’s tall figure. ‘Cal?’ she called, but there was no answer. He was gone.
At dawn, Arria’s mother gave birth to a healthy baby boy. His hair was thick and black, and his tiny wail was as sweet and clear as a lamb’s bleat. Grandmother swaddled him in her own shawl and presented him to Arria’s mother with a joyous shout. ‘Hail Goddess Kybele, Ancient Mother!’
‘Hail Ephesia, Warrior Queen!’ added Epona.
‘Hail Mary, Virgin Mother,’ said her mother.
‘Hail Artemis, Goddess of Childbirth,’ said Arria, though the exaltation sounded hollow and joyless. Epona slid Arria a sympathetic look, then diverted the family’s attention with a thunderous howl.
That night they feasted on a deer that had miraculously appeared outside the door of the barn. ‘The people of this village have been so good to us,’ commented Arria’s mother.
As pater familias, Clodius was duty-bound to carve the beast and sample the first bite. Instead, he carved off a piece and offered it to Arria. ‘You need this more than I do,’ he said.
Arria had not eaten in days, but when she placed the warm meat on her tongue she did not taste it. She could only taste the salt of her own tears.
‘Why do you weep, Sister?’
‘I weep for joy,’ she said, though it was a lie. She wept for the anguish she had felt when Cal had spoken the truth: I love my wife, and no one will ever take her place. It was as Arria had always feared. He was not hers and never had been. Whatever bond she and Cal shared, it was but a handful of threads compared to the deeply woven love he would always have for his wife.
‘I am happy for your joy, Sister,’ said Clodius. He carved another piece of meat and offered it to Epona. The fire crackled and the two exchanged a tender smile. Arria recognised that tenderness, though she would never know it again. She would never love another. It was Cal. It had always been Cal and it always would be. And so she continued to weep quietly—not for joy, but for her broken heart.