Cyrene
The next day dawned cool and damp, with a faint drizzle that lasted until midmorning. Elissa was pensive, but Sabra had barely slept all night—not because of her upcoming duties in the Temple, but because Ayzebel still hadn’t come back from wherever she’d gone. Sabra tried to ask Elissa again if she knew where the slave had gone, but Elissa either had no idea or had proved herself to be a stubborn and convincing liar.
Sabra was halfway through her morning recitation of prayers when a commotion on the street shattered her mental sanctuary. She stumbled over the words of the prayer, losing her place. Fear snatched at her heart—she had never made a mistake before. The old priestess had been right to live secluded from the world, she thought. She would never have let herself get distracted by anything.
Sabra closed her eyes, determined to start over and repeat the prayer flawlessly.
“Mistress Sabra!” Elissa shrieked, bolting into her chamber.
Sabra opened one eye and saw the girl planted in the middle of her floor, both arms stretched out and terror all over her face. Elissa didn’t even seem to recognize that she’d interrupted anything. Sabra closed her eye to continue her prayer, but her mind wouldn’t focus. Not with the quiet broken by the sound of Elissa weeping.
“What is it?” she asked, whispering a silent apology to the god and praying that he wouldn’t slay her for her disrespect.
“They’ve got Ayzebel,” Elissa said, as if that explained everything.
Sabra swallowed hard and got to her feet. Ayzebel had always been difficult to deal with, but she had never gotten herself in any real trouble.
“Where?” Sabra asked.
“Hanno said…down in the agora,” Elissa sobbed.
“All right. I’ll take care of it,” she said, hoping she at least sounded more confident.
She wasn’t sure she could bring herself to dismiss Ayzebel if she’d been caught doing something forbidden, but she didn’t think she could punish her either. But if Ayzebel was guilty, Sabra would have to do one or the other. She alone was responsible for her slave.
Sabra sighed and left the palace alone, since Hanno was nowhere to be found. A small crowd had gathered in the agora, laced among the statuary near one of the state buildings. Ayzebel stood in the center of the market surrounded by a handful of city guards and a few slaves Sabra recognized.
The girl looked perfectly normal to Sabra, dressed in her plain tunic with her hair neatly bound back, but her eyes were red from crying and Sabra saw vivid streaks on her arms as if she’d been struck. Sabra drew a thin breath to bridle her anger.
“What’s all this about?” she demanded.
“Priestess, we found this slave plotting against you here in the agora late last night,” one of the guards said. He tightened his grip on Ayzebel’s arm, but Ayzebel didn’t even wince. “We’ve been trying to question her but she won’t talk.”
“Let go of her arm,” Sabra said, her voice low and cold.
“Priestess, I—”
She fixed the guard with a deadly stare and he turned several shades paler, dropping Ayzebel’s arm as if it burned him. Ayzebel crumpled, dropping to hands and knees on the smooth stones. Sabra’s heart launched into her throat but she forced herself to stay calm.
“You questioned her,” she said blandly.
“She was being stubborn,” the guard said, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze.
“You maimed my slave without my permission.”
“She was plotting—”
“So you said, but you’ve offered nothing to prove it. You should have brought her to me. Or do you think I am incapable of dealing with my own slave?”
“She’s a traitor to the city, to the Empire.”
Sabra’s hands knotted. “You said she was plotting against me. Don’t try to deceive me.”
“What’s going on here?”
Sabra glanced over her shoulder as her father swept out of the crowd, his eyes rimmed with fatigue. Hanno came a few steps behind him. As a unit the guards straightened up, but the governor was frowning at Ayzebel, still crouched on her hands and knees.
“Perhaps they’ll give you a straight answer,” Sabra said. “Ayzebel, can you stand?”
Ayzebel shuddered and shook her head. Cold and sick with dread, Sabra bent and lifted the hem of the girl’s tunic to reveal the bloody and torn skin of her calves. Sabra let out all her breath in a sharp hiss, her hands shaking in fists.
“You tortured her,” she said, fixing the guard with a frigid stare. “Did you even give her a chance to plead her case? Or did you just assume she was guilty?”
“I heard her myself!” the guard snapped, red-faced, then he bowed and mumbled, “Priestess.”
“Heard her saying what?” Lucius Titianus asked.
Sabra crouched beside Ayzebel, clasping her shoulders, but the girl refused to meet her gaze.
Why? she wondered. Even now, when I want to help her, why does she hate me?
“She was speaking to another woman,” a guard said. “We couldn’t see who, but I heard them say that the abominations had to stop. That the Priestess had to be stopped.”
Sabra released Ayzebel’s shoulders, lowering her hands slowly to her sides.
“We had a tip from someone who knows her, so when we saw her sneaking around the city we knew we had to find out what she was about. That’s when we overheard her conspiring against the Priestess.”
“What sort of tip?” Sabra asked, hoarse, unsteady.
“That girl is a traitor. She’s a…Christian.” The guard almost spat that word, and one of the slaves made a sign against evil. “She was plotting to obstruct our sacrifices, to take the girl meant for the old god and use her for her own dark rituals. I heard it all.”
“Ayzebel,” Sabra whispered. “Is it true?”
Ayzebel said nothing.
“Gods, now it’s infecting my own house!” Lucius Titianus shouted. “Will we never be rid of this annoyance?”
“I wish to speak to her alone,” Sabra said.
The guards shifted, uncertain, but the governor jerked his head at them and they withdrew, driving the onlookers back with them. Sabra knew what people would say, seeing her kneeling on the ground beside a slave, but she didn’t care.
“Is this why you’ve always hated me?” she murmured.
Ayzebel lifted her face. Crying had left her eyes more brilliant than ever, and her lip trembled. “I’ve never hated you, mistress,” she said. “I’ve only wept for you.”
Those words cut deep, and Sabra bowed her head. “Is it true, what they’re saying? Did you mean to steal Elissa for some other ritual?”
“God help me, no,” Ayzebel gasped. “I know you care about her. I do too. I thought perhaps…perhaps I could rescue her.”
“Ayzebel,” Sabra said, clasping her arm. “You know that would have meant a death sentence for you, if you’d succeeded.”
To her surprise, Ayzebel only smiled.
“Why?” Sabra whispered.
“I’ve never wished you ill, mistress. I’ve seen the sorrow in your heart and I’ve prayed for a way to save you from it. I did my best, but it wasn’t enough.”
Sabra swallowed and stood. The guards took that as a signal to come forward, forming a loose ring around her and Ayzebel.
“I find no fault in the girl,” Sabra said, staring the oldest guard straight in the eye. “She is not to be harmed.”
“The girl professes to be a traitor. Don’t you?” He nudged Ayzebel sharply with his foot. “Answer! Are you a Christian?”
Ayzebel held Sabra’s gaze. “I am.”
Sabra took a shallow breath.
“From her own lips, see?” the guard scoffed.
“What harm has she done?” Sabra cried. “Whom has she hurt except me? And I say I find no fault in her.”
“We know who she was planning to hurt, Priestess. We know she cares nothing about the laws of the city, or the good of Rome.”
“She says one word, and you can condemn her for all of that?” Sabra said. “Where is justice?”
“Priestess, stand aside. This is our domain, not yours. She has admitted her guilt before a dozen witnesses.”
“She’s my slave!”
The guard stepped closer to her, eyes sharp with defiance. “You serve the old god. You have no possessions by right. Isn’t it enough that you take our children?”
Sabra recoiled, stunned breathless. Only years of training kept her face neutral. Somewhere beyond the hammer of blood in her ears and that chaos of words in her mind, she realized the people were clamoring, some shouting in agreement with the guard, others—followers of the old god—calling up prayers for the man’s apostasy. Someone threw a handful of wilted lettuce at Ayzebel. The governor held up his hands to quiet the mob, but the tension simmered under the surface even when the clamor died down.
One of the other city officials pushed free from the crowd to join them. Caius Dignianus, she realized sourly, who had dined with them the other night. He always seemed to know exactly when to make an appearance. For a while he rubbed his jaw and contemplated the scene, as if anyone had asked him to pass judgment.
“This is quite easily resolved,” he said. “Governor, all the slave needs to do to is come with us to the statue of Diocletian over there and offer incense for the health and success of the emperor. That is Rome’s way, and it is sure testimony to guilt or innocence in the matter of treason against the Empire.”
Sabra swallowed. She knew—and Dignianus knew—that no Christian would pass such a test. The snake. What did he mean to gain by this? What business did he have meddling in her affairs? And why did her father say nothing to stop the madness?
“Did the gods give you the power to judge this case?” she asked, her voice strong and clear.
“I’m the only one here impartial enough and powerful enough to do so, don’t you think?”
“Mistress,” Ayzebel whispered. “He can’t hurt me.”
Dignianus must have heard her, because his lip lifted in a sneer and he flourished a hand at her. “Stand up, girl. Let’s get this over with so we can all go back to what we were doing before you interrupted us.”
“Father,” Sabra murmured. “You can’t allow this. I don’t believe she has injured me.”
“She isn’t being punished,” the governor said, but he sounded weary. “She is just going to silence her naysayers.”
Sabra shook her head. In the folds of her robe, her hands knotted and unknotted, shaking with anger and fear. She felt so powerless. Usually her word was enough. Ever since she was thirteen, she’d had the power to forgive criminals if she had a mind to, to save them from the executioner if they begged her mercy. And now she was powerless to save a slave who had done no wrong—and her own slave, for that matter. When had everything turned sideways?
But now the guards and Dignianus had created a public spectacle out of Ayzebel’s trial. Her father wouldn't risk the mob’s wrath, not with instability already rife in the city. Rome’s iron fist was closing around them. Her father ruled at Rome’s pleasure, and showing sympathy for the girl now could unbalance his own rule.
A guard moved toward Ayzebel, meaning to haul her to her feet, but Sabra stepped quietly between them.
“Priestess,” the guard said. He at least was deferential, unlike the other guard, and his face betrayed his uneasiness. “Please.”
“Do you mean to anger the god by interrupting the justice this girl must face?” Dignianus asked her, eyes wide in astonishment.
She studied him carefully, but his horror seemed real. Either that, or he was a master of theater. But even if he only meant to mock her, his words curdled her blood with fear. Because he was right—could she serve the god faithfully if she interceded for those that hated him? And if these Christians were offending him, what new punishments would she call down by her interference?
Her gaze shifted to Ayzebel kneeling behind her, braced on shaking arms. Could she turn her back on her now?
“Father,” she murmured. “I can’t intercede for her…not directly. Caius Dignianus is right, the god would be offended. But please…do something.”
He met her gaze with a quiet sadness. It was just as she’d feared; he wouldn’t help her. Not today. There was a quiet shuffling behind her and she turned to find the guards with Ayzebel sagging upright between them, blood staining through the bottom of her tunic from her lacerated legs.
“No!” she cried. “No, you can’t—”
“Priestess, stand back,” the snide guard interrupted, flashing a hand toward her.
Rough hands clamped on her arms and she gasped, doubling over. Who had dared to touch her? Didn’t they know that threatening the Priestess of Molech meant death? She twisted around and found two guards gripping her firmly, the pair of them white-faced with fear.
Good, she thought, anger roiling through her. At least they understand what they’ve done.