It was not proper for the servant of a respectable nobleman to run on a busy street, Wil reminded himself, even though he saw only a few free citizens at this early hour. He quickened his pace a bit more.
That damned postmaster!
He had obviously seen Wil waiting outside, yet he ate his breakfast as calmly as if he were Emperor Hadrian himself. Moreover, he handled the letters carelessly; each was crumpled, and some seals were damaged. Wil cast another anxious glance at the eastern sky, already orange with the rising sun.
Master Marcus was surely awake by now, and he would not be happy about either Wil’s late return or the letter Wil was carrying. The letters from the Master’s mother were full of the most colorful reproaches, ranging from how Master Marcus could have left his family to how he could have thrown away his career and why he was living the life of a vagabond.
Wil passed an older man pulling a cart laden with fruit. The rickety contraption’s wheels creaked wearily over the worn white marble stones. Across the street, two women carried large baskets of clothes; one of them gave Wil a disapproving look. He averted his gaze but did not slow. He hurried past two more men in traditional sailors’ clothing. Judging by their smell, they were returning from an evening of drinking, heading toward the port.
About two hundred feet away, a unit of the city guard turned the corner. At the sight of them, the people hurrying down the street slowed as one. Wil also stopped. They had only moved to Ephesus three months ago, but he had already seen several times how the guards treated the lower classes. They did not behave as soldiers should.
The two women set down their wash baskets and pressed themselves against the white wall of the nearest building. Everyone else hurried to follow their example, except the sailors, who seemed oblivious to the soldiers’ approach. The old man was struggling with his cart, panting heavily, so Wil hurried back to him.
“Let me help you,” he said, then, without waiting for an answer, pulled the cart out of the way.
The old man glanced at him gratefully but said nothing. He was more preoccupied with pressing himself against the wall to let the soldiers pass.
The last thing Wil wanted was to waste any more time by possibly angering the soldiers, so he stepped aside and bowed his head, too. That didn’t mean he couldn’t keep a close watch on his surroundings just as well.
There were eight soldiers, all in red-and-silver uniforms. The one in front, clearly their commander, an optio by his cloak and helmet, carried only a gladius on his left, not a spear like the other seven. As they marched purposefully along, they didn’t spare a single glance at the people who stepped out of their way.
They had almost passed Wil when a scream rang out from a neighboring street.
Wil looked up and was about to move, but his master’s stern gaze flashed through his mind, keeping him in place. The unit’s commander called out to stop.
One of the soldiers cussed under his breath.
“Watch it, Varus,” the optio said.
From his tone, it was clear he had repeated those words a thousand times. The one called Varus did not react at all.
“Don’t let anyone through,” the optio said. “Varus, Kaeso, you come with me.”
The two soldiers stepped forward and joined their officer. Wil watched as the three of them headed toward the noise. The remaining soldiers herded together all the unfortunate souls who had been led here by their morning duties.
One of the drunken sailors tried to protest, but the butt of a spear cracked against his back, and his fighting spirit evaporated instantly. Everyone else fell in line without a word.
Wil carefully assessed his companions. Besides the sailors, a dozen slaves and servants made up the small gathering. They looked particularly frightened, so of course, they did not protest. A wrinkled, gray-haired woman pushed a younger girl behind her. The two women on laundry duty clung to each other. Next to Wil, a younger boy stared at the ground, wringing his hands.
The optio returned only a few minutes later with one of his men and his shiny helmet in hand. He was quite young, about twenty years old. He ran his fingers through his hair, then looked over the assembled people. Wil stepped forward a bit, bringing himself closer to the soldiers and a little farther from the others.
“You,” the officer said, pointing at him immediately, just as Wil expected. Those standing behind him seemed to exhale in relief. “Whose house do you belong to?”
“My master is Marcus Constantin Tegula, Sir,” Wil said. “He’s the retired commander of the Emperor’s Special Investigation Unit.”
“The new owner of the Rose Garden Inn, right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Come with me.”
Wil bowed and stepped behind the officer, whose fingers ran a nervous rhythm on his helmet.
“The other slaves may go,” he called back to his men. “As for those two,” he gestured toward the sailors, “we’ll take them in for questioning. Two of you, escort them to the headquarters.”
The soldiers saluted in response, but the young officer wasn’t finished.
“Varus, go to the Chief Magistrate’s house and tell him what we found. The rest of you, spread out and start searching the streets. If you find anyone suspicious, take them to the barracks.”
Then they headed toward the scream and didn’t have to go far. From the adjoining street, they came upon a polygonal square next to one of the city’s public wells, where two women were standing with a large pile of white clothes in a woven basket at their feet. They were visibly shivering.
The guard left behind frowned so deeply that it wasn’t surprising the women shivered. The younger one, a girl about fifteen, pressed against her companion, trying to muffle her sobs in the other’s clothes. The older woman stared at the ground, but when they arrived, she stole a glance at the officer, then back at Wil. Her face was still contorted with horror.
A woman’s body lay by the well.
Her limbs were arranged in a neat X, and Wil had the feeling the corpse had been carefully posed. The victim was a young noblewoman dressed in expensive fabric, but the front of her dress had been torn open, as had her chest. The wound was brutal, with the ribs shattered, exposing her internal organs.
“What do we do, sir?” the soldier asked.
The young officer tried to appear confident, but he seemed quite at a loss. Neither he nor his man looked at the body.
“You go get Commander Labeo, he should hear about this,” the optio said at last. “I’ll have the victim taken to the barracks.”
The guard hurried away with relief, and the optio turned to Wil, scratching his head. Now that he was alone, his uncertainty was even more evident.
“The women can help,” he said.
Out of the corner of his eye, Wil saw that even the older woman flinched at the suggestion, and the younger one’s sobbing faltered for a moment before resuming even more heavily.
“I can manage on my own, Sir,” he said quickly. “But perhaps I should cover her with something.”
The older woman immediately picked up a sheet from the laundry and handed it to Wil.
“Yes, yes. It’s better if people don’t see it. It would cause panic.” The optio seemed to be encouraging himself.
Wil spread the sheet and gently lifted the woman’s body onto it. Up close, the wound looked gruesome, but surprisingly clean of blood and bone splinters. The wound wasn’t, though, what sent a cold shiver down Wil’s spine.
The victim’s heart had been removed, and something shiny was glistening in its place. Wil couldn’t make out what it was. He leaned closer, but the object was deeply embedded in the chest cavity. The sight filled Wil with a dark foreboding, yet he had no chance to examine it more closely. He heard the officer’s nervous footsteps behind him. He quickly covered the body, tied the sheet’s two ends tightly, then lifted it under the body’s knees and shoulders and stood up. The optio stared at the white package, then motioned to the two women.
“You two are coming with us. You may have to make a statement.” The optio was already heading out of the square.
If that were even possible, his last sentence frightened the two women even more. The older one pulled the younger one along, and they moved closer to Wil.
“I’m Eliza,” whispered the gray-haired woman, leaning close to Wil’s ear. “And this is Arit.”
The young girl raised her head for a moment, and Wil smiled at her encouragingly before introducing himself to them.
“Move,” said the officer impatiently.
Wil started off in a hurry, while the two women followed closely behind, almost stepping on his heels. The body in his arms was a fragile figure, not even rigor had made it heavy. Easy prey for any conscious predator.
CHAPTER TWO
Marcus Constantin Tegula woke to silence and felt a chill run through him. He pushed the blanket aside and stood. The stone floor felt warm beneath his feet. Autumn had arrived, yet the nights remained mild and the days still held heat, this region refused to change quickly. He crossed the room, opened the door, and paused. The amulet fixed to the upper frame clicked once; beyond that, the house offered nothing.
Wil was never careless with sound, but since moving into this house, there had been no need to sneak around. As if sensing Marcus’s constant need for the sounds of life, he made plenty of noise every morning while doing his chores. It was also possible that the noise came from the abundance of tools and utensils his servant was not used to, just as he was not used to cooking in a real kitchen.
The fact that nothing could be heard from the ground floor proved that Wil was not even in the house.
But where the hell could he be?
The night before, as he did every night, Marcus had made a precise list of the next day’s tasks, and it was not short. He wanted to open the Rose Garden Inn for the Saturnalia festival, and although there were still a good two months to go, they had to follow a strict schedule to finish the renovation.
Wil’s first task had been simple. Fetch the mail.
The postmaster dragged his feet even for free citizens. Marcus had seen it often enough. A slave would have to wait even longer.
Marcus washed and dressed, choosing plain trousers and an embroidered tunic meant for work. His mother would probably frown at the barbaric attire, but Marcus found trousers most practical. He went down to the kitchen where bread, ham, cheese, and fruit waited on the counter. He took a small portion of each and arranged them on a tray, though he didn’t find them appetizing. His eyes kept returning to the entrance.
He carried the tray into the courtyard, the space that had made him buy the building. It was a place of peace. He sat on a bench under the pine that dominated the northern corner, surrounded by a small sculpture collection. He had carried the dozen or so figures down from his own living quarters because he felt the stone eyes were always watching him, accusingly. He convinced himself that getting rid of them would make it easier to fall asleep.
Through the open courtyard gate, Marcus watched people pass by on the street. He left the remains of his breakfast on the bench and stood. If work was going to happen today, he would need to start it himself.
He should have gone to the tool shed, but instead, he walked out through the gate and headed uphill.
He had not gone far when he spotted Wil turning into the street with a small group. A city guard officer led them. Wil followed, carrying something wrapped in a sheet. Marcus knew what it was before his mind caught up.
Two women followed closely behind Wil, staying near his shoulders. People slowed to watch as the group moved toward the guard barracks.
The officer walked stiffly, his whole body twitching with nervous energy as he glanced at the crowd. The women wore matching dresses of fine fabric and moved with care. The younger woman held onto Wil’s arm. Wil adjusted his grip on the bundle and kept pace. His steps remained steady.
He was the only one in the group who didn’t seem nervous at all. He looked more like a soldier than the officer in front of him.
Marcus still thought of Wil as a boy at times, since Wil had entered his service on the day of Marcus’s commissioning, a thin ten-year-old boy. Fifteen years had passed since then. Wil was turning twenty-five this year, and he had already endured enough horrors to fill three lifetimes. Marcus quickly dismissed those thoughts of the past.
The group reached the barracks gate and paused. Wil turned his head. His eyes met Marcus’s without searching.
Marcus knew the look on his face was one of dissatisfaction. It made Wil bow at once and step toward him. The officer, though, glanced at the onlookers, then motioned for Wil to proceed. Wil obeyed, casting one last look back, then following the officer inside.
Marcus went in after them.
CHAPTER THREE
In a manner quite unbecoming of a noble lady, Amilia Calenus spent the early morning hours perched on the lowest branch of the tallest tree in their garden, reading.
At least here, no one asked what she was reading. She had no desire to listen to another monologue from one of her parents about how anatomy and the sciences in general were not subjects for women. No one would advise her to read poetry instead if she insisted on filling her days with letters. No one would tell her it was wiser to focus on finally finding a suitable husband for herself.
Amilia immersed herself in the description of human bones, but she heard a soldier clatter into the courtyard. Titus, the head slave of their household, greeted the city guard member and, after a few hurried words, led him into the house.
Whatever had brought them here had to be important, since they couldn’t wait for her father to arrive at his office. Amilia tucked the book under her arm and eased onto the soft grass.
She slipped into the house unnoticed and crept to the back door of the reception room. This part of the corridor was used only by the servants, never by her father. There was a small crack in the door, through which she could not see inside, but unless the people in the room were whispering, it was relatively easy to follow any conversation.
This was not the first time Amilia had eavesdropped here. She was interested in politics, but her father did not consider it a suitable topic for ladies. Like her love of science, her interest in politics had to be pursued in secret.
“What’s all this commotion?” she heard her father, Cornelius Calenus, Chief Magistrate of the Town Council, say impatiently from next door.
“Sorry to bother you, Sir, but…” The soldier’s voice faltered. “We found another body, Sir,” he finally blurted.
Amilia leaned closer to the crack. Another body? What could he mean? There was a brief silence.
“Similar to the previous one?” her father asked, shaken.
“I think so, Sir, though I haven’t seen either of them up close. My commander had it taken to headquarters.”
“Where was it found?”
“At a public well, the one ornamented with cat-heads, Sir.”
Amilia suddenly lost interest in the conversation. Eliza went to this well to do the laundry with the new girl, Arit. Sweet, gentle Eliza, who was more Amilia’s friend and confidante than her slave.
She backed away from the door, hurried down the hallway, and as soon as she was out of the house, she ran toward the city guards’ barracks. Several people on the street stared at her, while others jumped out of her way in alarm.
The double gates to the headquarters courtyard were open during the day, and the courtyard itself was unguarded, so Amilia rushed in, breathless and panting, and then collided with someone with great momentum.
She stumbled and then fell onto her bottom in a not very graceful manner.
CHAPTER FOUR
In the headquarters courtyard, an older centurion greeted the optio. He glanced worriedly at Wil, or rather at the dead body Wil was holding in his arms, then turned back to the other officer.
“Your men have returned,” he said. “They claim to have found another one.”
“Yes, sir. I sent one of my men to the Chief Magistrate to report it.”
“Good. I imagine he’s not very happy we’re disturbing him again after last night.”
The optio didn’t respond to that remark, but it piqued Wil’s interest.
“I left the others behind to search the area,” the younger officer said.
“And I sent another unit to help them.” The centurion rubbed his eyes wearily.
Wil remained motionless, waiting for further instructions. The soldiers seemed utterly clueless; they kept lamenting about when their commander would arrive. Wil would have liked to shout at them to do something useful.
They should examine the body or bodies, based on what had been said, especially the shiny object in the chest. If the other body had one too, the city was probably facing a serious problem. They should identify the victims, inform their families, learn as much as possible about them, and question their friends and acquaintances. Those were the things his master would do.
Wil glanced furtively toward the gate. Master Marcus will not be pleased. The way he looked at Wil outside…
As if summoned by his thoughts, his master strode into the courtyard. Wil involuntarily straightened and turned toward him. Even the two soldiers fell silent at once.
In Wil’s experience, this always happened whenever Master Marcus appeared. Even in simple clothes and without weapons, he radiated commanding power.
“Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?”
The soldiers training in the courtyard’s back looked up at the sound of Wil’s master’s powerful voice. The centurion stared open-mouthed for a moment, then clenched his teeth as he pulled himself together.
“This is a matter for the city guard; it’s no one else’s business,” he declared.
“But it is, if you are involving my servant in this, Centurion,” Master Marcus said, pointing to Wil.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it was an emergency,” the younger officer interjected.
“And how long will this emergency last? Show my servant where to put the body, and we’ll be on our way.”
If his master had looked at him like that, Wil would probably have fallen to his knees and begged for forgiveness. The two soldiers also stood at attention, as if before a superior.
The centurion was about to speak when another figure rushed into the courtyard. It was a young lady in an elegant purple dress, her hair flowing. Wil saw what was about to happen before it did. The lady couldn’t slow down and crashed into Master Marcus. As if a bird had collided with a rock, she bounced off his broad back, lost her balance, and fell to the ground.
Then she was just sitting in the sand of the courtyard, staring up at Wil’s master, her face all red.
CHAPTER FIVE
Marcus spun around, his hand instinctively moving toward his hip. On reflex, he groped for a weapon as the collision felt like an attack. A young woman looked up at him with wide green eyes. There was no need for a weapon, and he didn’t have one on him anyway.
“Are you all right, my lady?”
He bent down to help her up. She was so light he could lift her easily with one arm. As soon as she was back on her feet, the young lady dusted herself off, straightened her clothes, and smoothed her light brown hair from her face.
“I apologize, sir, and thank you for your help,” she said, bowing her head slightly. Marcus acknowledged with a nod.
The young lady then looked around the courtyard, and a broad smile immediately spread across her face, lighting up her entire being.
“Eliza, Arit.” She bypassed Marcus, hurried to the two women standing beside Wil, and hugged them warmly. “I was so worried,” she said breathlessly. “A soldier came to my father with the news that a body had been found by the well. I knew you had gone there, too. Thank the gods you are all right.”
“We’re fine, Mistress,” reassured the older woman.
Her young companion’s eyes were red with tears. As soon as the young lady embraced her, she burst into loud sobs, releasing Wil’s arm, which she had been clutching. Marcus looked away, his gaze shifting to Wil, as such dramatic emotional outbursts always made him uncomfortable.
“It’s all right, it’s all right, dear. Everything will be all right now,” the lady comforted her slave.
Wil watched the scene with sparkling eyes and a slight smile. Then his gaze met Marcus’s, and his face instantly grew serious as he lowered his eyes. Marcus was not surprised. He knew that lately he had been snapping at his servant unpredictably and coldly, for no reason.
Wil, once cheerful, had grown increasingly reserved and, at times, even behaved as timidly as when he first came to Marcus. Since settling in Ephesus, Marcus had more than once thought Wil might be better off with another master. One like this lady, maybe, who knows how to express her love.
“Can we finally settle this?” he snapped at the centurion.
“Of course, of course. I apologize, sir, for keeping you waiting so long. Over there.”
The centurion pointed to one of the side rooms, and Wil immediately headed that way.
CHAPTER SIX
Arit flinched in Amilia’s embrace as the huge blond man spoke. It was immediately clear he was used to giving orders. His voice was strong and decisive, and the soldiers instinctively obeyed him. Amilia was certain she’d never seen him before; she would have remembered.
The older officer led the way, and the men all disappeared through the door. Amilia wanted to know what was happening, and nothing could keep her from finding out.
“Stay here,” she told her servants, then broke free of Arit’s embrace and followed the men.
In the dimly lit room, three long tables stood side by side, and on one of them lay a covered human body.
When Amilia entered, the dark-haired slave, who, based on what had been said so far, belonged to the blond gentleman, was laying the second corpse he was carrying on the table in the middle. He untied the sheet and unfolded it, and Amilia noted with some disgust that the fabric was one of her sheets.
She stared in shock at the sight before her. She had seen injuries and the physical effects of disease before, having studied anatomy to help the residents of the slums. But this wound surpassed anything she had ever seen, and what truly shook her was that the dead woman could have been her sister, given her appearance. She had a similar build and long blond-brown hair. She gasped involuntarily. Only then did the soldiers notice her presence.
“Lady Amilia, this is no place for a lady.” The centurion knew her well, having been a regular visitor to their home. “Your father would certainly not be pleased to learn you are here.”
“When someone is killed, it concerns all citizens, including me,” Amilia said firmly, masking her shock.
She stepped up to the table. Her disgust had not gone away; she found the situation terrifying, but there were more important things than her own feelings.
“Did you call a physician to examine the bodies?”
“The examination is confidential, my lady.”
“Which means no.” Ignoring the disapproving glances, she leaned over the corpse. “Her heart has been removed,” she observed. “Was it not found?”
None of the soldiers answered, so Amilia looked at the slave, who was now standing next to his master and glancing hesitantly at him. The master neither reacted nor looked toward the body.
“No, my lady,” the slave finally said.
His voice was deep and warm, just like his brown eyes. He was half a head shorter than his master, but Amilia had to tilt her head to look him in the eye. He wore a simple brown tunic, a darker scarf tied around his waist, and worn sandals. His dark brown hair was a little too long, wavy, and unruly. His master did not seem to care much about his servant’s appearance.
“I don’t think the murder took place at the well,” he added, glancing cautiously at his master again, who pursed his lips and continued to stare at the wall rather than at them. Amilia assumed he couldn’t bear to see the brutal wound.
“What makes you think that?” she asked the slave, turning her full attention back to him.
The young man was visibly surprised by the question. He let out a quiet breath.
“There was almost no blood around the body, my lady,” he answered.
“Then you may be right,” Amilia replied. “There’s something in the chest.”
“My lady, I really think you should go home,” the centurion tried again, but Amilia ignored him.
She took a pair of tweezers from the leather pouch she wore at her waist, reached into the wound, and fished out the shiny object. It was a silver coin. She held it up to the light filtering through the room’s only small window and examined it closely. There was writing on both sides of the coin. The language wasn’t Latin. It looked like Greek, but she couldn’t read it at first glance. Looking up, she saw the slave watching her.
“Wil,” the master called.
At the sound of his master’s voice, the slave flinched and quickly averted his gaze from Amilia. “Let’s go. We’ve already wasted too much daylight.”
The man turned abruptly and strode stiffly out of the room. His servant took another thoughtful look at the body, and Amilia saw a strange look on his face. She couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it seemed as if he had something else to say.
Perhaps he had seen something that could lead to the killer? Before she could ask, Wil hurried after his master.
“Could you give me a piece of paper, Centurion?” she said to the soldier.
“My lady, I really think you should go home.”
“I know. You have already said so. I’ll copy the inscription on the coin, and then I swear I’ll be gone.”
The officer immediately went to the wall cabinet and took out a sheet of paper and a writing implement. Amilia quickly copied the inscriptions from both sides of the coin.
“Thank you very much. See, I’m leaving now.”
As soon as she stepped outside, Arit snuggled up to her, and Amilia readily put her arm around her. The girl had only been at the house for a few months, yet Amilia had grown very fond of her. The poor thing was clearly terrified, her eyes still red and her whole body shaking.
“Don’t be afraid. Everything is fine now,” she said reassuringly.
Eliza nodded. “May we go home now?”
“Yes,” Amilia said. “Yes, we may.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
For the rest of the day, Wil felt the weight of his master’s anger. Master Marcus barely spoke to him, and though he didn’t mention what had happened that morning, the events still hung between them. Wil was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that wasn’t the issue.
The problem was that he had spoken up when that lady asked him questions. He should have remained silent. He wondered how to apologize, but one look at his master’s face was enough to silence him. Instead, he worked twice as hard and tried to fulfill even Master Marcus’s unspoken wishes.
Despite the late start, by dinnertime, they had finished sanding the wall of the tavern’s main room. The paneling here was decorated with carved roses, originally painted in different colors, but most of the paint had flaked off. His master decided to leave the wood in its natural color rather than repaint it. The roses remained, as they were the source of the tavern’s name.
They were both covered in dust from head to toe, so Wil first prepared a bath for his master, then quickly cleaned himself at the courtyard well. He heated the stew he had made in a large pot for dinner. They would probably be eating it all week, since Wil was used to cooking for all the members of the special military unit led by Master Marcus, but now there were only two of them.
He served a large portion, placed it on a tray with a piece of bread, and carried it up to his master’s room. He had already finished washing and was sitting at the table by the window, studying his ever-growing list of planned tasks.
Wil set the dinner on the table, then stood there, his left hand tightly clutching his right wrist behind his back.
“Sir?”
As a child, he had received thorough training. A nobleman’s servant speaks when asked, but even without orders, he always knows what his master expects. During his years in the army, which made up most of his life, he received a different kind of training. There was no time for protocol there; Master Marcus expected him to speak up if he sensed danger or learned something important. In this new life, however, Wil had no idea how to please his master.
“Hm?” Master Marcus continued studying the papers spread across the table, not looking up.
“I apologize, Sir, for my disrespect today,” Wil said quietly.
His master finally looked up but said nothing. Wil bowed his head and waited. Master Marcus did not seem angry, but rather sad or perhaps disappointed.
“I’m very sorry. If you want to punish me—” he began.
“There is no need for punishment,” Master Marcus interrupted. “I am not angry with you, Wil. We both have to get used to the new circumstances, and I can see you are trying hard.”
Wil slowly smiled.
“Thank you, Sir. I just…” Wil took a deep breath. “I was thinking about the body, with its heart cut out and the coin they put in its place. Don’t you think, Sir, that it’s kind of…” His voice trailed off as Master Marcus’s face grew somber. After a moment of relief, Wil’s stomach clenched again. But there was no turning back now, and he finished his sentence, staring at the floor. “…as if it were meant to be a sacrifice?”
“You’re seeing things. But even if that were the case, it’s none of your business.”
“They found another body,” Wil added, whispering now.
“That’s enough.” Master Marcus didn’t raise his voice, but even a deaf person could hear the warning in it. “I don’t need you tonight. You can leave.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amilia had an argument with her parents during dinner.
Centurion Juncus told her father that Amilia had turned up at the barracks and examined the body, and her father scolded her as if she were a little girl. Amilia, of course, couldn’t keep her opinion to herself.
“Eliza and Arit could have been victims too,” she argued. “The guards did nothing. They didn’t even call a physician. That body should have been examined by a physician.”
“Physicians are very expensive,” her father said. “There’s no money for that in the budget.”
But Amilia wouldn’t back down. “The city could have had its own physician for years, funded by public money, if the council had listened to my suggestions.”
“Let’s not talk politics at the table, if you don’t mind,” her mother interjected.
“Yes, Mother.” Amilia wanted to sound obedient, but she heard mockery in her own voice. This, of course, deeply offended her mother, who could sulk like no one else.
“I know you think we’re old-fashioned and don’t understand anything, but we can still expect a little respect,” she remarked.
A tear welled in her eye and rolled down her cheek with dignified slowness.
Amilia’s mother was a perfect lady, a devoted wife, a wonderful hostess, and, of course, beautiful in every sense of the word. Her clothes were never dirty, she never bumped into people on the street because she was lost in her thoughts, and she never hurt anyone’s feelings because she had a big mouth. She was involved in poetry and music and had been married for thirty years.
Amilia knew her mother meant no harm, and she felt a little ashamed. “I’m sorry, Mother. I apologize.”
They finished dinner in complete silence, and as soon as she had the chance, Amilia rushed to her room. She took out the piece of paper on which she had copied the inscriptions from the coin found on the corpse and sat at her desk to study them.
At first glance, the letters looked like Greek, but still, Amilia couldn’t recognize them. Perhaps they were written in an older script.
Amilia’s extensive book collection filled several boxes. She sat down next to one of them, tucked her legs under her, made herself comfortable, and began to look through the volumes. She was sure she had a few Greek language books somewhere.
“Don’t you want to go to bed, my lady?”
Amilia looked up. She hadn’t noticed Eliza and Arit enter the room. “You’re not going to read all night again, are you?”
“No, no.”
In fact, she was pretty tired. She put the dictionary back in the chest and stretched her stiff legs. Eliza was making her bed, while Arit stood by the door, her fists clenched and her eyes swollen.
The young girl was still clearly reeling from the events of the morning. Amilia took her hand, led her to the dressing table, and sat her down beside her. The girl immediately snuggled up to her, and Amilia began stroking her back.
“Were you very scared?” Amilia asked.
Arit nodded. “The soldier said we had to make a confession.”
Amilia felt the girl shiver all over. She was not surprised that this had terrified her. For a slave, making a statement usually meant torture, although in this case, Amilia did not think the soldier had meant that.
“That boy tried to reassure her that she didn’t need to worry about it,” Eliza interjected, as she made the bed and stepped behind Amilia, picking up a brush from the table and beginning to comb her mistress’s hair.
“The slave?”
“Yes, my lady. We exchanged a few words on the way. He said no one could seriously believe we had anything to do with the murder.”
“And what made him think that?”
“He said it would have taken a great deal of force to cause such a wound.”
Amilia nodded thoughtfully. How could a slave have such an experience, especially with a master who couldn’t even bring himself to look at the body?
“Do you know anything about him or his master?” Amilia asked. She knew many people in the city, but she had never seen this man before.
“No, but he seemed quite strict,” said Arit. “Hmm…”
She couldn’t expect anything from the soldiers, but perhaps this slave could still provide some information.
CHAPTER NINE
After Master Marcus sent him away, Wil went downstairs. He tidied the kitchen, put away the tools they had used that day, then walked around the entire building, locking all the doors and windows. He also checked the amulets hidden at every entrance. When he was done, he went back upstairs and listened for a while outside Master Marcus’ room, but not a sound came from inside.
Wil had his own room, but he usually spent the night in the alcove in front of his master’s door. Now he left only long enough to fetch his blanket. He had to curl up to fit in the alcove, wrapped himself in the blanket, and quickly fell asleep.
Then the dreams came.
Wil was lying on a rock ledge.
His wrists and ankles were bound with iron shackles that cut deep into his flesh when he tried to break free. He saw the dark sky above him, illuminated by the full moon and countless stars.
He saw those, even though his eyes were covered. He could feel the rough fabric rubbing against his eyes, yet he could still see the sky. This was good, at least better than complete darkness. Now he just wanted to focus on the lights in the sky, not the touch of cold, dry fingers on his body.
Then, he heard dripping. Soft thuds on a wooden surface. He knew it was his own blood dripping into a wooden bucket.
How much time has passed?
His heart was beating so wildly that his chest hurt. He was cold, all his clothes having been taken away, yet he felt as if his body were on fire. His captors were around him. One of them touched his face, but he couldn’t see them against the stars. No matter how he turned his head, he could only see the moon.
Suddenly, there were no stars, just the moon, which was growing larger and larger in the sky. Everything was blindingly white, and it was no longer comforting. It was terrifying.
The image changed in a flash. Wil stood next to a stone altar, a young woman bound upon it. Wil held a long-bladed knife, blood dripping from it. It was as if he were the woman’s kidnapper and future murderer. The woman’s hair spread out, shining silver in the moonlight, her eyes wide open, also shining like molten silver.
The woman’s mouth moved. Wil leaned closer and realized with true horror that it wasn’t her mouth that moved, but something in her throat.
A moment ago, Wil had felt as if he were about to burst into flames, but now cold sweat ran down his back and forehead. He didn’t want to see what was trying to escape from the woman’s body, but he couldn’t turn his head away.
A finger appeared between her lips. A gray finger ending in a long claw. Then a whole hand slowly prying open her jaw.
Wil didn’t want to see this. He didn’t want to be here, either.
He closed his eyes and let go of the knife, which clattered loudly to the ground.
When Wil opened his eyes again, he stood in a dusty courtyard bathed in bright sunshine. He knew this place, having spent most of his childhood here. It was the gladiator school’s training ground.
Wil woke with a thundering heart. He sat up, banged his head hard against the wall, and slumped back. He gasped for air as if he had been running at full speed for miles.
Then he heard a cry from behind his master’s door.
He took a few deep breaths, then stood with slightly trembling legs and cautiously opened the door to the room. Master Marcus was asleep, but not peacefully. Even in the dim light, it was clear he was sweating profusely. Then his whole body jerked, and he muttered something Wil couldn’t make out. Master Marcus cried out again, in painful despair. Wil had only ever heard his master make such a sound when he was dreaming.
He moved silently toward the bed, then whispered to wake his master.
“Sir, sir, you’re home. In Ephesus. Everything is fine. It’s just a dream.”
His master did not respond, so he stepped even closer, repeating the same words. When nothing happened, he knelt beside the bed and gently touched his master’s shoulder.
Master Marcus then sat up as if Wil had stabbed him with a knife. With one hand, he grabbed Wil’s wrist, and with the other, he gripped his neck with all his strength. Wil wanted to say something, but his master’s fingers clamped like shackles, and only a faint, gurgling sound came from his throat.
His master looked straight at him, but with empty, vacant eyes. Wil didn’t move, didn’t defend himself. He just hoped his master would come to his senses and recognize him. Master Marcus’ gaze cleared without transition, and he immediately let go of Wil’s neck.
They stared at each other for a long moment in the dim light, then Master Marcus let go of Wil’s wrist, as well, leaned forward, and buried his face in his hands.
“Go away, Wil,” he said.
“Are you all right, Sir?” Wil asked, still kneeling by the bed.
“I want to be alone.”
Wil stood and bowed. “Yes, Sir.”
He rubbed his wrist after closing the door behind him. He was sure the fingerprints would be visible the next day, not only on his wrist but also on his neck. He pressed his forehead to the door for a moment, behind which silence reigned once again.
This wasn’t their first night like this, and Wil had no idea how to help.
He lay back down, but he tossed and turned. When he dozed off, he had confused, disjointed dreams. He saw clouds, darkness, roses, and the ship that had brought them to Ephesus. Nothing in the images was frightening, yet he woke with inexplicable anxiety.
By the fifth or sixth attempt, he decided to stop trying. There was still no sound from his master’s room, so he went downstairs to the kitchen. He took out the breakfast ingredients from the pantry and looked at the pot hanging over the stove. It was still half full of the stew they had been eating for three days.
He went out to the well to fetch water, then selected some vegetables, carrots, cabbage, and kale, and chopped them to add to the meat to give it at least some variety. By the time he was done, it was still dark outside.
He found a lantern, lit it, and went out into the yard. In one corner, a large pile of wood waited to be chopped. Wil fetched an axe from the tool shed and set to work.
His agitation was only partly due to the events of the previous day. Since moving to Ephesus, Wil had not found his place. He had once been sure of his purpose in life. For years, he had been trained to serve a high-ranking military officer, and he had done so well.
But Master Marcus was no longer a soldier. He was a tavern owner. And in the morning, as planned, they would start the day at the slave market because Master Marcus needed servants to run the tavern.
If he found the right people, he would no longer need Wil at all.
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