Finally, once we’d achieved a level of cleanliness that Gruoch determined entitled us to leave the frigidarium—for that, I learned, was what that torturous ice bath was called—we ran, scurrying and hugging ourselves, arms and legs covered in gooseflesh—to a different pool called the tepidarium. We flopped like landed fish down the shallow submerged steps, splashing and sinking into the warm, scented waters beneath the fantastical glass and mural ceiling.
And it was the closest I’d been to happiness in months.
The closest since Mael.
I closed my eyes and sank into the soothing warmth, feeling my muscles melt like they had when he’d kissed me that morning in the vale. I’d almost forgotten what that had felt like. The steam rose off the surface of the water until I couldn’t see old Gruoch where she sat on her bench. Even Elka, drifting motionless on the other side of the pool, was just a shadow. I could have stayed there forever, my hair floating out all around me, wrapped in mist and dreaming and the scent of flowers.
I barely felt the tears sliding down my cheeks.
XII
“DON’T TART THEM UP TOO MUCH.” Maia briskly ordered her women about the room she called the “tiring room,” where Elka and I were being prepared for sale. “But for Juno’s sake, do something about the sunburn and freckles. Put this one in something green, nothing sheer, but make it short. She’s got the legs. And leave her shoulders and arms bare. The blonde one wears braids well, but do something with that forehead of hers. It’s far too high. And give her one of the leather cinchers. She’s got a good small waist for all she’s big-boned. No pallas for either of them. We can’t have them too covered up. The auction is scheduled for the ninth hour this morning, and Charon wants them ready well before then.”
She ordered us both to sit on the stools and forbade us to move, speak, or fidget.
One elegant woman with hair dyed an unnatural shade of deep purplish red attacked my snarled locks, brandishing brushes and hairpins made of polished bone and silver. I didn’t twitch a muscle for fear of losing an eye to the flurry of implements. She brushed out my long brown hair until it gleamed. But where I would have simply dressed it off my face with combs or a circlet, this woman began to twist and fasten, pulling strands up from the sides of my head and weaving them together at the crown. Her fingers moved in a swift, intricate pattern. I could feel my hair piling up on my head, bit by bit, and felt dizzy from the scent of perfumes.
When I muttered something under my breath questioning the necessity of such effort to sell a few slaves, the woman laughed quietly and leaned down to whisper in my ear: “What do you think we are, my dear?”
My confusion must have shown on my face.
“Let me give you a piece of advice,” she murmured. “Rome only exists because of slaves. That’s how it functions. We are its muscles, its brains, and most of all its secrets. You are now a part of that world. You are what you are, no matter what you once were. But there is power in such a position. Understand that. And learn to use it.”
Her breath in my ear was warm, but her words sent a chill down my spine. I hadn’t even guessed that this refined woman was a slave. But of course she was. Trained, specialized, highly skilled, but not free.
Power? I wondered. I’d never felt so powerless in my life. I wasn’t even allowed to scratch an itch.
I stayed still and silent while another woman took over, powdering and painting my face so that I resembled one of the figures adorning the walls of the room. After my hair and my face were done, a plump, smiling dressing woman prodded me over to stand near the shelves. She began pulling down basket after basket of carefully folded garments in an array of colors I’d never even seen before.
She bustled back and forth between me and Elka, who now looked entirely unlike the girl I’d come to know. Her fine, pale hair was back in braids, but far more elaborately woven this time. And she wore a wide band of silver around her forehead that narrowed to a peak between her brows. It made her look both regal and predatory at the same time—like a hunting owl—and it emphasized her ice-blue eyes, which were lined with dark kohl.
“Slaves are usually sold naked in the marketplace, you know,” Maia said. “But Charon plays a different game than the average trader. A smarter one. He instructs us to make you appear not as you are but as you could be. He sells potential to the good people of the Eternal City. Prestige. Fantasy. And they pay him handsomely for it.”
Potential for what? I felt as though I might be sick.
The dressing woman draped Elka in shades of blue and mauve, and then she rummaged around in a basket and brought out a length of shimmering green-gold fabric. The woman held it up in front of me and almost chirped in delight.
“Oh! This makes your eyes shine,” she said. “Perfect! Arms up now!”