Livy stirred and opened her eyes. A copper pot fell from her lap and rolled clanging across the stone-paved floor. It was hot in the palace kitchen, terribly hot. She pushed her sweat-soaked, auburn-red hair out of her face and gulped the dry Palestinian air.

A dream! How long have I been asleep?

She shook herself, then drew a long, slow breath. Write it down! she told herself. Quick! Before it slips away!

Pulling out the stylus and scrap of parchment that she always kept tucked inside her wide, sashlike belt, Livy began to write:

I dreamed again —about Father and Mother and my home back in Gaul. There were snowy mountains and the blue sea and green pines and hillsides covered with wildflowers. Just the way it was almost seven years ago . . . when I was only five. I saw the faces of the people of my village, and . . .

“You there —redhead!” It was the voice of Melanus, Pilate’s bald, sharp-nosed Syrian steward. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Livy quickly shoved her writing materials back into her belt as Melanus dashed into the kitchen, his arm drawn back to strike her.

“Ow!” she yelled as Melanus cuffed her behind the ear. A noise like the clattering of the pot on the stones rang in her head. A sharp pain shot up her arm and into her shoulder as he seized her by the elbow and dragged her to her feet.

“So! Sleeping at your work again! Scribbling words again! Get up, you stubborn, young she-donkey! Do you think Master keeps slaves just so they can lie around dozing and doodling all day? Get back to scrubbing those pots before I take the whip to you!”

“Yes, sir,” muttered Livy, wincing at the pain in her arm. She retrieved the pot and sat down heavily on the bench.

“I don’t know what possessed Mistress Procula to teach you your letters,” said Melanus, glowering down his nose at her. “It was ridiculous —and dangerous! Slaves don’t need to know how to read and write. It puts unsafe ideas into their heads. I’m going to be keeping an eye on you!”

Livy said nothing. Instead, she picked up her pumice scrubbing stone and went back to work, making a rude face at Melanus’s retreating back as he left the room.

Old Cook came in as the steward went out, followed by young Quintus, the eleven-year-old Greek who was Livy’s closest friend among the slaves.

“In trouble again?” scolded Cook, wagging her double chin at the pouting girl. “I might have known.”

Looking up, Livy saw Quintus shake his bushy head. He shuffled his sandaled feet, crossing and recrossing his bare, birdlike legs as if to show the embarrassment and confusion he felt for his friend. Cook frowned disapprovingly. But when Livy’s eyes met hers, the bulky woman’s scowl melted into an indulgent smile.

“Oh, what’s the use?” said Cook, relaxing her wrinkled forehead and dropping her hands to her sides. “You’re just not cut out to be a slave, are you, child?” She sighed. “What happened this time?”

“Fell asleep, I guess,” the girl answered with a frown. “I was up all night again —talking with Mistress about her dreams. And what’s wrong with that? Isn’t that why I’m here? I’m supposed to be her personal servant. I’m supposed to take care of her personal needs. That’s why Pilate bought me —not to be a kitchen maid!” She scrunched up her nose in disgust. Her freckled face reddened to match her hair.

“Melanus doesn’t see it that way,” warned Cook, stepping over to the kitchen fire to stir the kettle. “He says all the servants have to take their turns in the kitchen. And he can tell you what to do, Missie. So you’d better pay attention. Cross Melanus one too many times, and you’ll regret it! You mark my words!”

“Melanus!” spat Livy. “I think he was born to make my life miserable!”

“Hush!” said Cook with a frown.

Livy scowled again, scooped a handful of sand into the pot, gripped the pumice stone, and returned to her scrubbing. Cook shook her head, muttered something to herself, and noisily slooshed a basket of red beans into the boiling water. Then she stepped out into the pantry. Quintus came and sat beside Livy on the bench.

“She’s right,” he whispered, smoothing down his short and very rumpled tunic. “You’re not cut out to be a slave. You’re always dreaming of bigger things.”

Livy glared at him. “No kidding! No Gaul is cut out to be a slave! I have the blood of Celtic chieftains flowing in my veins! Do you know what that means, Quintus?”

Quintus sighed and nodded his scruffy head. “Uh-huh. You told me already. About a hundred times.”

Livy dropped the stone and turned to face him. “Listen! I just had another dream about home. There were pine trees and mountains and wildflowers. And people I used to know when I was very little, all walking around in a place filled with color and light. It was beautiful —almost too beautiful to be real. I don’t know if it was Gaul or the Otherworld . . . That’s where my people believe you go after you die.”

“Uh-huh,” said Quintus, blandly scratching his ear.

“My parents were there too —which could mean that they didn’t survive the Roman attack. I wish I knew!” She frowned and bit her lip. “Quintus,” she said, looking straight into his eyes. “It’s time we got serious!”

Quintus blinked. “About what?”

“About escaping!”

“Come on, Livy.” Quintus frowned. “Do you know what the Romans do to runaway slaves?”

“Do you know what they did to my village?” she cried. “To my people? Burned down the houses! Put some to the sword, took the rest away and sold us as slaves! That was almost seven years ago! I still don’t know for sure what happened to my parents!” Angry tears filled her eyes.

She was about to say more, but a glance at Quintus’s face made it clear that he was no longer listening. His wide, round eyes were fixed on the doorway. His jaw had fallen slack. His face was as white as a sheet of papyrus. His lips were moving wordlessly. She followed his gaze to where a large spotted hound, one of Governor Pilate’s household dogs, was trotting over the threshold and across the stone floor toward the steaming stew pot.

Livy’s angry tears stopped as suddenly as they’d started. The corners of her mouth crept upward in a knowing smile. Quintus’s fear of dogs was legendary in the household. Cook’s too. This could be fun, Livy thought.

As she watched, Quintus squeezed his eyes tightly shut and let out a piercing yell. “A dog!” he screamed. “A really big one! Aaaah!” He jumped up from the bench and burst through the opposite door to the courtyard beyond the kitchen. Just then, Cook stumbled in from the pantry to see what all the ruckus was about.

“Hoi!” she screeched, dropping her basket as she caught sight of the drooling animal. Red beans skittered across the floor. “Who let that mangy thing in here? Chaneni, Adonai!” Then she fled too, slipping and sliding through the mess of spilled beans in her haste to find the door.

Livy sat back and laughed —a long, luxurious laugh. It felt good. But as she sat there wiping the tears from her eyes, she caught sight of another figure in the doorway —a tall, stately woman in a Roman robe, or stola.

“Domina!” Livy exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

Procula, the slim and graceful wife of Governor Pontius Pilate, descended the three steps into the kitchen and silently crossed the floor. A warm feeling of affection welled up inside Livy as she looked up at the lady. Even though Livy used the respectful title domina —mistress of the house —Procula had been more like a mother than a mistress since the day Pilate had brought Livy home from the auction block in Rome. Livy genuinely loved her mistress. And because she loved her, she couldn’t help being troubled by the expression she now saw on her face.

The ringlets of Procula’s sandy-brown hair, curled in the Roman fashion, couldn’t hide the deep creases in her forehead. There was an odd, distracted look in her brown eyes. Her gracefully arched eyebrows were knit closely together. The shadows under her high cheekbones were darker than usual.

“I’ve had another dream. Early this morning,” she said. “I want to tell you about it. Come.”

Taking Livy by the hand, Procula led her out across the courtyard and into the shaded colonnade beyond the palace fountain. There she stopped and made the girl sit beside her on a marble bench.

“What was it this time?” asked Livy, watching her mistress’s face with a sense of discomfort. The dark cloud in the lady’s eyes made her feel as if the warm April morning had turned suddenly cold. She couldn’t remember when she had last seen Procula looking so upset.

The lady turned and faced her. “I’m not exactly sure what I saw,” she said quietly. “In the beginning, I think it was . . . baskets.”

Procula often had troubling dreams. It seemed to Livy that she had been having them even more frequently over the past several weeks. She never told these dreams to anyone but Livy. Procula had recognized Livy’s special talent for interpreting dreams from the very beginning. It was part of the girl’s Celtic heritage. The Celtic nations —the Gauls, the Britons, the Galatians, the Cymrians, the Milesians —were famous for their emotional temperaments, their mystical leanings, their wild imaginations, and their interest in the unseen world. It was also one of several qualities that had earned her a special place in her mistress’s affections —and the keen resentment of Melanus, the steward.

“Baskets,” Livy repeated, almost as if she were speaking to herself.

“Yes,” said Procula. “Baskets full of fire.”

Livy pulled back her long hair, pursed her lips, and half closed her eyes. She drew her feet up under her and sat cross-legged on the bench, trying to picture the thing in her mind.

“And there was a man,” the lady continued. “A man with piercing eyes —eyes that seemed to look straight into my soul. He was standing in front of the Jewish temple. And a lamb.”

“A lamb. With the baskets?”

“No. The temple and the lamb came after the baskets. At least I think so. What do you think it all means?”

Livy was silent. She hated to admit it, but she was stumped. “Well,” she said at last, letting out a slow breath, “maybe it doesn’t really mean anything. Not every dream does. Maybe you’re just anxious about being in Jerusalem. Master did say that he’s expecting trouble this year.”

Procula sighed. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “And that might explain the part about the temple . . . and the lamb. The Jews do sacrifice a lamb at Passover. But what about the rest of it? The man with the piercing eyes? The baskets of fire?”

“I’m not sure,” said Livy, shivering involuntarily.

Procula frowned. After a pause she said, “Those eyes keep coming back to me. I can’t get them out of my mind! That’s why I want you to come with me.”

The girl shot her a questioning glance.

“To the temple,” Procula explained. “To look for clues. Maybe we’ll see something there that will help you understand the dream. I simply must know what it means! If you can tell me, I . . . well, I’d even be willing to reward you.”

“What kind of reward?” Livy asked.

“What kind of reward would you like?”

Livy didn’t hesitate. “I want to be set free!”

“Oh, child!” laughed Procula. “For interpreting one dream? I don’t think so.”

Livy’s heart sank. Her face fell. Her mistress saw it and hastened to comfort her.

“Of course, I’ve always thought about setting you free when you’ve come of age,” Procula said. “If you behave yourself. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I taught you to read and write.”

When I come of age, Livy thought bitterly. Right! By then I’ll probably be too old to care! Nobody, not even Procula, knew what this meant to Livy. Nobody, she thought, could possibly understand why freedom is so important to me. Yes, she had a kind, wonderful mistress and a comfortable home. Yes, she was surrounded by good friends like Quintus and Cook. But freedom was part of her Celtic heritage too.

All the Celts were fiercely independent. They loved liberty! Her father and mother had been slaves to no one! The thought of her parents reminded her how terribly she ached to see them again —even though she knew that wasn’t likely to happen after all this time. Still, she’d search the world over for them if only she were free . . .

She glanced up to see her mistress giving her a probing look. “So,” said Procula, “will you help me?”

Livy looked into the deep brown eyes of the woman who had been almost like a mother to her for nearly seven years. “Sure,” she said quietly. “I’ll do what I can.”

Procula’s face relaxed into a warm smile. “Good. Then you’ll accompany me to the temple tomorrow. I’ll call for you early —sometime after the morning meal.” She rose, took Livy’s hand, and squeezed it. Then she turned and walked away.

That was when Livy caught sight of Quintus. He was edging his way carefully down the portico, keeping to the shadows, flitting stealthily from column to column.

“Hey!” he whispered when he caught sight of her. “Is that dog still around?”

Livy laughed. “No, you big coward! But listen!” She ran over to him and gripped him by his bony shoulders. “Tomorrow Mistress is taking me with her to the Jewish temple. And I want you to come along!”

“Me? What for?”

“Don’t you know anything?” she said. “It’s Passover week! The place will be simply crawling with hordes of people!”

“So what?”

“So what?” Livy pressed her nose to his and lowered her voice. “It will be the perfect time and place to make our escape. That’s what!”