I WAS ALIVE. I could feel the rising sun on my face and the salt breeze in my hair, and it was only because a Roman had saved my life. A Roman soldier. The very thought clattered around in my head like a loose spoke on a spinning chariot wheel.
The decks of the legion troop ship provided cramped quarters as we sailed east across the Mare Nostrum toward Rome. The smaller of the two vessels, it hadn’t been equipped with anything like a proper complement of slave chains or manacles, and the hold was now full of cargo and soldiers. So we captives were essentially not quite so captive for the duration of the journey, free to wander the decks largely unfettered, so long as we didn’t get in the way or make any moves to escape—which, in the middle of that vast sea, would have been suicide. And having made it as far as we had, none of us were really inclined to throw our lives away, even when we weren’t sure of our fates.
When the second morning broke, clear and golden, the green ribbon of an island appeared on the horizon. The wind had died to a gentle breeze, and anyone who wasn’t performing some sort of nautical duty was slumbering—the sailors down in the hold, the soldiers in tents pitched on the deck, the slaves curled in bundles of snores tucked in between stacks of cargo.
Only I was maddeningly wide-awake.
The island in the distance seemed to float upon the waves, unreachable and dreaming, like one of the Blessed Isles in the stories of my people. I don’t know how long I stood there, leaning on my elbows, before I realized that there was someone else awake and up on deck: Decurion Varro.
He stood at the railing less than ten paces away from me, staring out over the same green-and-blue vista. I almost didn’t recognize him without his helmet and armor. Dressed in a simple tunic under an undyed woolen cloak to stave off the morning chill, he could have been a merchant or a peasant, except for the corded muscles of his arms and the air of military swagger in his posture, even at rest. His hair was chestnut brown and cut legionnaire short, and his cheeks and chin were bare of even the hint of stubble. Shorn and shaved, he seemed at first glance almost vulnerable, and I was surprised to see that he was barely a man at all, only a few years older than me.
He’s almost still a boy, I thought, then checked myself. It was a dangerous illusion. He wasn’t a boy, and he certainly wasn’t vulnerable.
I’d never seen anyone quite like him before. The young men of the tribes were a colorful lot, fond of rich patterns and hues in their clothing, and many of the men wore their hair long and adorned themselves with torcs and wrist cuffs wrought from gold and silver and bronze. There was a wildness to them—a passionate individuality—that made them dangerous and beautiful all at once.
The Decurion was their antithesis. Sharp-featured and starkly handsome, with every angle of him like a honed blade edge. A walking weapon, without adornment or decoration. When he turned to meet my gaze, I became acutely aware of my own appearance. Of the state of my tattered dress, the skirt scratchy and stiff with dirt. My hair hung in filthy ropes, and the dirt was so thick on my skin I was sure I looked like I’d been rolling in a swine wallow. Not so long ago—when I’d been the daughter of a king—men’s eyes had lingered upon me at the Lughnasa feast. Gold at my throat, a circlet on my brow, a jeweled dagger on my hip. But that was another world, another life. And, more to the point, another girl.
But in the eyes of this arrogant young man, I thought, I certainly wasn’t royalty. In his eyes, I was probably less than human—closer in dignity to a pack animal, no doubt. I turned to glare at the passing scenery, seething inwardly. But then the deck planks creaked, and I glanced back in surprise to find him standing right beside me.
After a long moment, he said, “Is there something wrong with my face?”
With a start, I realized I must have been staring.
His mouth twitched into a mocking grin. “Or are you just trying to decide whether or not to attack me again?”
“I . . . No.”
I reached for something to say that wouldn’t make me sound half-witted. He’d caught me off guard with the lightness of his tone. I’d expected nothing beyond disdain from someone like him. But then, I thought, perhaps this was his way of proving his superiority—by showing me he didn’t need to act superior. I wasn’t about to let that happen. I decided I would match his casual manner.
“No,” I continued. “I’m just surprised to see you without your helmet on, that’s all. I was beginning to think you slept in it.”
“Only when I bed down in hostile territory.” His eyes, clear, bright hazel, flicked at me. “Perhaps I’ll wear it tonight.”
“The bravest warriors of my tribe have been known to charge into battle naked,” I said. “You seem to have things backward, legionnaire.”
He laughed and said, “I’m a decurion—an officer in the legion. And you don’t act like a slave.”