Sailors called it the Afer Ventus, the wind out of Africa. Sometimes it brought dry dust that stung the throat and clung to the clothes. Sometimes it brought blustery days and clouds that sped across the sky like sheep fleeing Apollo. Sometimes it brought ships.
Household slaves cursed it for the dirt it brought to laundry drying on lines. Sailors from the east welcomed it for the opportunity it offered, even as it grew stormy. Sail past the toe of Italia, into Sicilian waters, and you were sure to meet the Afer Ventus blowing toward the north-east. Even if it rained, even if the waters rose and swelled like Neptune in anger, you could point your ship at the coast of Italia and ride ahead of the storm.
No ships were leaving Neapolis. The storms were too dangerous, the risk too great. One might, if one were religiously inclined, burn incense and make offerings at temples of Neptune and Mercury, but the priests were always disconcertingly vague about the amount required to guarantee safe passage. Better to ride it out in the harbor, or send goods along the soggy land routes.
But some ships still dared to arrive. Some ships, caught at sea as the storms rose, chose to forge on ahead to their destination, heedless of the rain, fearless, or at least apparently fearless, of the danger to life and limb.
This was one such ship. This was the last ship likely to arrive for at least a week. She had been a dot on the horizon, but her sails swiftly grew in size. When they were visible through the pitching waters-and they frequently were not-they bobbed on the horizon, but grew ever closer to the safe haven of Neapolis.
Her sailors drew in her sailcloths. They threw lines to the slave-rowed cutters that towed her in. They steered her to the best of their abilities as the rope-ringed hull thumped noisily against the similarly wrapped dockside. On land and on deck, the sailors heaved on ropes, lashing the ship against the shore, lest Neptune have one final laugh by dashing the vessel against the land.
She was safe. She had reached a sanctuary harbor. She was almost on Italian soil.
They began unloading their cargoes. Syrian silks and Greek wines, Egyptian incense and perfumes, olive oil and crocodile skins. The scribes tallied the manifest, making marks on their wax boards, so that the harbormaster knew the correct tariffs.
The unloading was slow. But the captain himself soon edged ashore along the gangplank, dragging one other cargo in transit: a woman.
Her hands were chained. Her face was hidden beneath a man’s rain cloak, bestowed upon her by some kindly mariner. She was barefoot, her feet etched in patterns by raindrops falling on earlier filth.
The dockside scribe stopped the captain as his feet touched the flagstones of the quay.
“There is no slave on your manifest,” the scribe said. “You registered no living cargo.”
“This slave is not mine,” the captain said. “She is registered as the possession of her receiver.”
The scribe frowned, his eyes scanning over his wax tablet.
“I see no record of her.”
“She was a late arrival. A trans-shipment taken as a favor. Bound for the House of Pelorus.”
“What is her destination now?”
“Absent Pelorus, we must send her on to his heir in Capua. Mark her for the House of Batiatus.”
“Her name?”
“Sura.”