She laughed. “We all do. I consider my position fortunate. Many slave owners do not treat their female slaves with such kindness.”
The sun reached its peak in the midday sky, and the boy's clothes were soon completely drenched in sweat, his skin burning to the touch.
“You should come with me to the villa,” she suggested, noticing his reddening flesh. “The boy who worked our stables recently fell ill and died—I can tell Eridus that I found you as his replacement. I will explain that I was able to purchase you from the slaves market for an alarmingly low price, which will account for the money I spent on the bread you ate. He might grow cross with me for making such a decision without him, but his anger usually subsides quickly. Especially when he realizes keeping you will be much to his benefit.” She paused, studying his expression. “So, will you come?”
He nodded immediately, for although he didn’t have many options, he already knew he never wanted to leave her side.
She brightened at his response. “Wonderful! Follow me.”
She led him down the stone laden streets out of the marketplace, in the opposite direction of the harbor. After a short distance, the overage of stone buildings fell away, plant life finally coming into view. The boy observed trees dull compared to those of his home, as if years of overbearing sun had bleached any trace of emerald away. They grew in inelegant, awkward shapes, vastly different from the enormous conifers and broad oaks native to his land. He felt a sharp pang of longing settling in his chest.
They walked on until nothing was left but a dirt path that stretched between miles of flat green landscape. The air was calm, but still seasoned with a hint of salt from the distant sea. Sweat continued to pour down his back, his misshapen tunic sticking to his skin. His feet were caked with dust, clinging uncomfortably to the moisture. He wondered how much further they had yet to travel.
“Our villa is just ahead,” she responded pleasantly as if he’d spoken the words aloud.
As arid and strange as this new land was, he truly enjoyed her company, their stroll the only lovely experience he’d had in months. She seemed at ease around him as well, her rose gold locks bouncing around her face with each animated word. He noticed the freckles that dusted her face also grazed the back of her shoulders, earned by long hours in the sun.
She entertained him with stories of life at the villa, including what he could expect as a winemaker’s slave. “The grapes that make up our vineyards are not native to our land, but they thrive in Roman sunshine,” she added. “You must taste a fresh one before you sample the slave wine. You will be amazed at the flavor.”
They climbed over a large hilltop, which finally revealed a beautiful stucco building below. From where they stood, the boy could see miles of lush foliage stretching behind it. Her trot quickened, and he hurried to keep up with her.
“Is it not grand?” she called back.
The structure grew larger as they approached. Like the city, it was built with the same smooth, flat stone, its facade boasting columns larger than the elder trees of his homeland. They held up sloping, red rooftops that stretched out on either side, creating a massive geometric construct that towered over them as they approached. Rows of smaller columns flanked both sides, covered in vines, grand fountains at each base. Its porches were broad and open, offering a glimpse of the bustling bodies beyond its walls.
“Eridus is the richest winemaker in Rome,” she explained as he took in his surroundings. “He built the most magnificent countryside villa to boast this fact. The vineyard you see beyond it stretches for miles, the largest in the territory.”
She guided him past the impressive front architecture towards the rear building, which she referred to as “the slaves’ quarters.” That area and the main portion of the house were separated by an open garden that housed a long wading pool, surrounded by marble statues and flowers in bursts of reds, oranges, pinks, purples, and blues. The grandiosity subsided only modestly for the second building, for although it lacked vivid flora and sculptures, it was still far more remarkable than the crude temples of home. The hall they entered was swarming with people, dressed in simple, clean tunics like her, their limbs stained vinous red. After closer inspection, the boy realized it was not blood, as he originally gathered, but the juice from the fruit they carried in their rounded baskets.
A few of them nodded to her in greeting, one exchanging quick words with her before relieving her of her market bounty. Arms now freed, she tenderly grabbed his, directing him further into the quarters. A long hallway stretched out before them, revealing several empty rooms. She ducked into one of them and pulled him in after her.
The room was bare, save for several linen sheets piled neatly over a bed of straw. A water basin rested on a small wooden table, catching the light that streamed in from an open window. Beside that was a small pile of clean rags. She immediately grabbed them, moistening one with water from the bowl. She scrubbed at his skin with it while he winced, sore from the afternoon sun. She murmured an apology, and gingerly resumed her task. He instructed himself to relax, comforted by the nurturing gesture after months of agonizing captivity. She startled at the sight of his wrists as he exposed them upwards, patting the broken skin before wrapping them in clean scraps of cloth. He watched as a few drops of his blood raised to the surface, tarnishing the immaculate whiteness. Visions of the crow ravaged pulp came to his mind.
“My, what a hard journey you have had,” she whispered, her voice pulling him away from his morbid thoughts.
At the doorway, another girl appeared.
The boy stiffened in alarm.
Yet she who bandaged him placed her hand on his shoulder in reassurance before rising to greet the arrival.
“I have the tunic you requested,” the girl explained. He recognized her from the main room, surprised that she also spoke in his native tongue.
“Thank you, Moira.” She took the pile from her arms. “Now remember, not a word of this until after I have spoken to him.”
“Your secret is safe with me, Gaia,” she replied, sneaking a shy glance at the boy, her beady grey eyes poking out from underneath a fringe of auburn hair. “Hello.”
“Hello,” he replied, awkwardly.
She erupted into a fit of giggles before scurrying away.
Gaia frowned. “Please pay her no mind. She is a peculiar girl.”
“They call you Gaia? Is that a Roman name?” he asked her.
“In a sense,” she replied, resuming her task of cleaning him. “The Roman gods are borrowed from the Greeks, the gods of Olympus. They are very different from the gods of our people, mischievous, fickle deities less concerned with war and ancestry than they are self-seeking relationships with humans. Roman walls are filled with frescoes of them, hundreds of statues erected in their honor. I am named after the earth goddess, Gaia, since I have been told I have a maternal way with all of the slaves. Eridus’s choosing, of course.”
“It suits you,” he offered, kindly.
She met his eyes, suddenly appearing flustered. She stood, tossing him the tunic. “Here, dress yourself in this. I shall turn away for your discretion.” She spun around, letting him finally peel away his soiled tunic and crawl into the one she had produced for him. It fit snuggly, the fabric comfortable against his tender skin. She turned back when he was finished and grinned, proudly.
“Now you look like one of the gods,” she decided.
He looked down, instantly bashful.
“Well, now that you know my name, what shall I call you? I need a name to explain your presence to Eridus with.”
“I was known only as Son of Semias, or Son, before my father died. He was a great Druid Elder, so tradition requires that he be called by the name of the very first Druid of our clan. I would have taken his name after my apprenticeship and his passing. Then I was nicknamed Daghda by a woman…” he trailed off, remembering the Morrigan.
Gaia frowned, hands settled on her hips in a now signature gesture. “Well, that will not do. The Romans are not exactly accepting of the customs of conquered territories. Especially a name of significance.” She thought for a moment. “I shall call you Davius. It is as Roman of a name that I can muster.”
Davius. He paused to consider it before giving her a firm nod. “Then Davius I shall be.”
She smiled. “Welcome to Rome, Davius. This will be your new room. Please rest, and I will be back to fetch you as soon as I have spoken to our master.”
He frowned when he heard the word, master, disliking it immediately, but his eyes caught sight of the bed, which beckoned his weak and weary limbs.
“Rest,” she insisted, before drawing up to him, bending her knees slightly to compensate for her height, and kissing his cheek. His heart fluttered in response. She beamed and without another word, she withdrew, leaving him alone to finally rest in peace. LONDON, 1857
