A knot of Syrians labored over a new wooden ship in a secluded inlet around a bend in the shoreline. They were slaves of the Romani who, as highly skilled shipwrights, were a valued and essential part of the auxilia. They worked regular hours and were even paid a small sum if they did their tasks particularly well.

Huge cast-iron cauldrons of boiling tar and pine pitch reeked along the rock-ribbed shoreline as a group of men swabbed the boat inside and out with the dark mixture using cloth-wrapped sticks. Another group braided ropes out of hemp and dipped the hemp lines into the tar and pitch to waterproof them. Long black cords of newly tarred rope hung like petrified snakes on a line to dry. Seated on the scree that spilled to the shore was another cluster of men, sewing together large rectangular pieces of linen fabric with tar-soaked hempen thread to make the sail.

“I’m leaving you here. This is your work from now on,” said the milite, pushing Lucius towards a man who supervised the others.

“I am Ugar,” the man said, hailing Lucius with a hand stained black with tar.

“I am Lucius.”

“That’s a common enough name but a Romani one. How did you end up here? Are you a citizen of Rome?” the man asked. His tone was gruff but friendly.

“I was born on these shores. I am Galli.”

The old questions surfaced with that declaration. Unclear about his parentage, any mention of the subject brought the familiar pain to Lucius’s heart. The hurt was ever palpable, ever a gaping hole.

“You are very lucky, boy. The Romani must think you have something useful to offer them, otherwise you would have been loaded onto that ship out there and packed off to a silver mine or a plantation,” said Ugar, facing the sea.

Another peg-legged Syrian approached, carrying a heavy roll of linen. His wooden leg did not dent his ability to lift weights. He eyed Lucius with curiosity. “It’s the hair,” he said finally. “They like the blond ones; they fetch a high price in the markets of Rome.

“My name is Tannin,” he added. “The ship’s name is Marah, named after our merciful Goddess of the Waters. I don’t know what the Romani will name her, but she is Marah to us. Don’t be afraid to ask me anything!” He smiled and stumped off to deposit the roll of linen with the sail-makers.

“Do you ever try to escape?” Lucius asked Ugar, trying not to reveal his anxiety.

“Of course we’ve tried. We are men, not sheep,” Ugar replied with irritation. “It’s hopeless; they have sentries everywhere. How do you think Tannin lost his foot? They cut it off as a warning to all of us.”

That night, Lucius lay down, exhausted, in a corner of the oil- and beeswax-soaked leather tent of the ship builders. The rags that made up his bed reeked of the sea, tar, and pine pitch, but he was so tired he hardly noticed. The other men fell quickly to sleep. He could hear their deep, stertorous breathing as his worried thoughts stretched out to Aurelia and her family.

“Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet me, omnium meorum peccatorum. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you. I detest all my sins,” he murmured, clutching the little wooden cross.