Roma
In the massive dining hall of the Domus Flavia, relegated to a corner near the windows where she could see the courtyard’s fine oval fountain, Sabra was not in the mood to be polite to anyone. She was surrounded by arrogant imperial guards, patricians and senators with their gaudy wives and their overinflated senses of their own importance, and high-ranking Legion officers who had accompanied the Divine Augustus in his triumphal march, and she could have sworn that every single one of them had come to greet her over the last half hour. Her mouth hurt from smiling, and, even though none of them had given her the chance to utter so much as a syllable, she felt like she’d been yelling all night.
And she’d never seen chaos like that dining hall. It was, of course, elegant and refined chaos, but somehow that made it even worse. Her head ached intensely, and the only thing that wanted to occupy her thoughts was the slow mental countdown of the days until the next sacrifice—her sacrifice—was supposed to take place in Cyrene.
It should have encouraged her, seeing that she had arrived in Rome apparently on the very same day as the Augustus of the East—she knew most people would say it was the gods’ work. But, she thought sourly, refusing yet another wine-serving slave, none of that mattered since the Augustus was too busy to even receive her introduction. How could she ever intercede for her city if she couldn’t even beg for ten minutes of the emperor’s time? And it was no use trying to ask the Augustus of the West. He was even busier and less interested than Diocletian.
She groaned and kneaded her fingers against her temples. It was intolerably bright in the triclinium, from its myriad of candles and oil lamps and blazing fires, to its polished marble walls and floors and massive Corinthian columns. All the white stone reflected the light, until Sabra found herself longing to be underground in her damp, silent Temple again.
Hanno stood just behind her with his arms crossed, and when she glanced up at him, she scowled at the smug smirk on his face.
“I get the feeling you’re enjoying this,” she muttered.
“That I am,” he said. “And I am so grateful that my Latin is as bad as it is. I can tell just from the way these people talk that they all think they’re the gods’ gift to humanity.”
She snorted. “Be careful. You might not speak Latin, but someone here might speak Punic.”
She was interrupted by the approach of a tall young man, likely in his early twenties, with short golden hair and skin almost as pale as her own.
“Domina,” he said, bowing to her. “Flavius Valerius Aurelius Constantinus.”
When he stopped and eyed her expectantly, she swallowed hard, realizing he actually intended for her to say something in return.
“That’s quite a lot of names for an imperial guard,” she said.
The man smiled. “Diocletian Augustus keeps me as part of his retinue, but I belong in the north with my father, Caesar Constantius. I should be in Britannia right now. Instead I’ve been…stuck…in Antioch…almost as long as I can remember.”
The last sentence he spoke haltingly, turning to the window to gaze out at the oval fountain. He kept one hand behind his back, shoulders straight, and even with his head bowed he had a pride about him, a presence that no one could ignore. Sabra stared at him. This was the son of Constantius? She’d heard rumors, of course, of how Diocletian had essentially taken the young son of his western Caesar hostage, raising him in his own court to keep him loyal—and to keep his father Constantius loyal. She’d just never imagined that the boy had actually grown up at some point, and turned out to be such a noble man.
“I don’t even know where Britannia is, domine,” she said honestly, folding her hands in her lap and lowering her gaze.
Constantinus laughed as if she’d said something witty. “Did I hear you introduced as the princess of Libya?” he asked.
Hanno shifted his weight, and Sabra stifled a smile.
“A slight misunderstanding,” she said. “I’m only the governor’s daughter, not a king’s.”
Constantinus turned back to her, holding out his hand. She hesitated, then extended her own. He took it elegantly and kissed it. “I would have believed you were a princess,” he said. He smiled at her shocked expression and straightened up, his gaze flashing to someone across the room. “Ah, it looks like I’m being summoned. It was a pleasure to meet you, filia regis.”
“Oh,” Sabra said, struck with a sudden thought, and held her hand out toward him. He turned back to her with no sign of impatience, and she said, “I’m sorry, domine. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I’m here on behalf of my father. I’d hoped to receive an audience with the Divine Imperator Diocletian Augustus, but…I’ve been told he has no time for me. I…”
“You were wondering if I might take your plea to the Augustus?” he asked, a little smile playing at the corners of his lips. “For you, domina, I would be happy to do anything.”
Sabra watched him leave, feeling a sudden warmth creep over her cheeks. Behind her Hanno crossed his arms and cleared his throat.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he muttered. “Those people are all the same.”
“Oh,” she said, mocking. “And you would know that, Hanno?”
“Everyone knows it.”
“Well, we’ll see who’s right when he gets me an audience with the emperor.”
Hanno gave an undignified snort but didn’t answer.
Sabra woke well after sunrise the next morning, taking a moment to remember where she was. Even in the palace in Cyrene, she had never slept on a bed quite as comfortable as the one she had in her guest chamber in the Domus Flavia, and after days at sea, she didn’t want to leave it. She was buried under an intricately woven blanket of a far softer wool than any she’d ever felt, and the mattress beneath her was thick and luxurious, nothing like the palm-stuffed mattress of her own bed. But a slave was already bustling around her chamber, laying out her clothes, so with a sigh she got up and allowed the woman to help her dress.
The slave had just finished wrestling Sabra’s headdress over her hair when someone knocked outside her chamber. Sabra’s heart launched into her throat as she sent the slave to answer the door. Moments later the woman returned with a scroll in her hands.
“Domina, a message for you,” she said, handing her the scroll with a low bow.
Sabra nodded and opened the letter, barely scanning the contents before bursting out of her chamber in search of Hanno. She found him just outside her door in the peristyle, already standing like he expected to see her.
“I saw the messenger,” he said. “Is it from him?”
Sabra flapped the paper at him, shaking her head with pursed lips to keep from crying. “No, not him. From some…Piso. His secretary, I suppose. He…” Sabra’s voice died and she pressed the backs of her fingers against her mouth. She wanted to just give Hanno the letter to read himself, but he read Latin even worse than he spoke it. “He apologizes, but the emperor will not be able to see me. He says that Cyrene…Cyrene is not worth the Empire’s notice. He says he is sorry for our troubles, but…” She unfolded the letter and began to read, “The city of Cyrene has already become a burden to the Empire, both financially and politically, being unable to offer trade of any value and offering no political advantage in an already stable region. Word has already reached us of manifold disturbances in the area, culminating now in armed uprisings in the city itself and its surrounds. The city is a liability, and while we grieve the sufferings of your people, we are unable to offer assistance of any sort at this time. We pray to the gods to alleviate the city’s difficulties. They may help you, but we will not. No further inquiries regarding this region will be heeded by the Divine Imperator Diocletian Augustus.”
She managed to read through the entire thing without her voice breaking, but when she finished she covered her face with her hand and wept quietly. Hanno muttered under his breath and clasped her arm briefly, but she pulled away.
“What did I think was going to happen?” she cried. “Did I think I could make any difference? That I could traipse into Rome and pop in to visit the emperor, and he would send his armies to save us? And now there are rebellions in the city? My father could be in danger and…and I can’t even be there to stand by him! It’s all my fault. The god is angry, and no one is there to placate him…”
“Mistress!” Hanno said, sharp. “Your father had a suspicion that a plea to the emperor would go unheeded. He just wanted you away from the city.”
She froze, staring at him. “Why? Why Rome? I don’t understand!”
Hanno hesitated, scuffing the sole of his sandal against the colored stones. “You couldn’t be happy here?”
“Happy?” she echoed. “Here? What are you talking about, Hanno? I just want to go home.”
“But this city is so beautiful, isn’t it? All the temples and the villas, and the theaters…”
She crushed the letter in her hand, shaking it in her fist at Hanno as she glared up at him. “It’s dirty. It’s ugly. It’s crowded. It smells, and it’s cold. I don’t like it here. I don’t want to stay here. I just want to go home and put things right.”
“Your father sent word ahead to your mother’s sister,” he murmured, bowing his head. “She is apparently a senator’s wife. That doesn’t mean so much anymore, I suppose, but she is highly respected. Your father was hoping that she would…take you in. Bring you into society. Take care of you, so you could leave Cyrene and its troubles behind and not worry anymore.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” she hissed. She strode a few steps away from him, then spun back and gestured at her ridiculous dress. “Is this what he wanted of me? He expected me to prance around like a painted doll in Rome, while my city suffers? While he suffers? Does he even know me at all?”
“Mistress, listen!” Hanno cried, desperate. “If there are rebellions, it must be that the people found out about the lottery. If you go back, you’ll die. They’ll chain you up on that mountain—”
“Good!” she said. “I hope they do!”
Before he could argue, she turned and strode back into her chamber, slamming its door shut behind her. She sat down on the narrow sleeping couch, digging her hands into her hair under the heavy coins of her headdress.
I have to get out of here. They can’t keep me here like a hostage, like Constantinus in Antioch. I have a duty to my city.
And somewhere, deep inside, she thought she heard another voice…not the snide internal voice of her own imagination, but something…darker. Deeper.
You should sacrifice the slave, it whispered. He defies the will of the god. He is unworthy of your friendship. He must die…
She sprang off the bed, shaking all over. Her hands reached up and tore off the headdress, letting the coins clash to the ground.
No, no, no…she told herself, taking her mental self by the shoulders and giving her a solid shake. Forget that. That’s not right. That’s not true…
But against her will, a dark image flickered deep in her mind of Hanno bowed before the god’s altar, whispering apologies as his blood gushed out over the white stones.
“NO!” she screamed out loud, throwing herself on her knees by the bedside and scraping at her forehead to dig the image out. She heard someone pounding on her door but ignored it. “I will not. I will not even think it! Oh, gods, help me.”
You will think it. And you will do it, because you know it is the god’s will. Has affection ever stopped you before? You know they are all meaningless, worthless. Only the service of the god matters.
Sabra dragged the heavy wool blanket over her head, weeping and praying for the voice to go away.
It’s the voice of the god, her inner voice whispered. You can’t actually want to ignore him?
“I don’t know that!” she cried. Then, comforting herself with the sound of her voice in the heavy silence, she went on, “I’m leaving. And I won’t tell him. I’ll sneak past him and slip away before he knows I’ve gone. It’s the only way. I have to do it, to protect him from me. I just need…a little time.”