But to go alone? Was she out of her mind? Was she so ignorant of the dangers she risked?
He wished he had never agreed to take her as a passenger. But Timonides had insisted that the stars showed her path aligning with his. And with each daily horoscope, there she was, still intertwined with Sebastianus's destiny. "When do our paths diverge?" he had asked in their camp outside of Lugdunum. Timonides had only shrugged and said, "The gods will let us know."
Although he had worried that a girl on her own in a caravan might be a problem, Ulrika had turned out to be no trouble at all. She had kept to herself, quiet, reading, going for walks—always modestly draped in the palla that covered her coiled hair and bare arms. She had traveled without complaint in an enclosed box-wagon drawn by two horses, a rocky carriage ride that always elicited grumbles from passengers when they stepped out at the end of the day. But Ulrika never spoke as she sought a place at the campfire while Sebastianus's slaves erected a tent for her privacy.
In a small way, she had even been an asset. Sebastianus had watched her heal people. A mere girl with a calming, quiet presence and a curious box filled with medicinal magic. She would listen to someone's problem and she would either say, "This is beyond my skill," or, "I can help."
She had said that she had learned healing arts from her mother, but Sebastianus suspected her talent went beyond a mere apprenticeship, for those she had helped declared that she had somehow known exactly what ailed them, had known even without them being able to adequately describe their ills.
As he walked through his disordered camp, calming people down, assuring them that the soldiers would soon be gone, he squinted through the smoke and mist and saw her on the other side, standing outside her own small tent, talking to Timonides. Sebastianus was startled to see long hair flowing over her shoulders and down her back. She normally wore her tawny hair bound up in a Grecian knot and hidden beneath her veil.
He was further startled to feel a stab of sexual desire.
Pushing the girl from his thoughts—they were parting company tomorrow, after all—he strode through the camp bringing reassurances to his slaves and workers, and to those traveling under his protection, stopping to set hay bales aright, to soothe frazzled nerves, to restore order as he went. But his mind raced. It normally took him sixty days to reach Fort Bonna, yet he had arrived in a record forty-five. He had pushed to cover the miles, and had not conducted his usual extensive commerce in the towns and cities they had visited. By his calculations, if he could execute a swift turnaround in Colonia, he could have the caravan back in Rome in perhaps another forty-two days, with an excellent chance of beating the other four traders to the finish, which was the Imperial Palace and an audience with Emperor Claudius.
Unfortunately, simply getting there first was not enough. Sebastianus still had to find a way to distinguish himself before the emperor. What could he take back to Rome as a gift that would set him apart from Badru, Sahir, Adon, and Gaspar, who would surely present splendid trophies to Claudius?
As Sebastianus surveyed the camp, assessing damage and nerves, he saw two legionaries approach Ulrika's tent, where she stood her ground, tall and proud. He quickly made his way across, and as he neared, he heard her say, "There is no one in this tent."
"Sorry, miss, but we have to see for ourselves."
Ulrika did not budge. "I harbor no criminals."
"Just step aside."
She tipped her chin. "On what authority do you act?"
"Is General Vatinius good enough for you? Now just—"
Her clasped hands fell away. "Who did you say? General Vatinius? But he is miles from here, to the south—"
"The commander is at Colonia, with his legions."
Ulrika gasped. "Vatinius is here? Already?"
Sebastianus saw the color drain from her face. Before he could speak, Ulrika surprised him by suddenly standing aside and saying to the soldiers, "Search. You will find nothing."
As the legionaries conducted a quick sweep of the tent's interior, Ulrika wrung her hands. Sebastianus had never seen her so agitated. "You're worried about your father's family," he said, wishing he could offer something more. Sebastianus knew few details of the legions newly garrisoned at Colonia. He had heard conflicting reports, information being based more upon imagination and wishful thinking than fact.
Ulrika's eyes met his, and he saw fear there. "I must warn them," she whispered.
"Warn them—?"
The legionaries emerged from the tent, and Ulrika, without another word, quickly went inside. Sebastianus stood there for a moment, puzzled, then he turned on his heel and called out for Timonides.
AS SOON AS HE had seen his master enter the camp to stop and talk with the centurion, Timonides had tossed aside his unfinished lamb chop and rushed to the tent he shared with his son, Nestor, to prepare himself for the morning's astral reading. It was the first thing his master saw to when he returned to camp, before breakfasting even. When Sebastianus called for him, Timonides would be ready with the horoscope.
As he pored over his charts, using his instruments by lamplight, scribbling equations on a scrap of papyrus, Timonides felt a pang of guilt over the falsehoods he had uttered in the past few weeks. But he had wanted to keep the girl with them, in case his jaw acted up again, or another ailment befell him. He tried to assuage his conscience by reminding himself that in all his years of serving the gods and the stars, he had never asked for anything in return. Surely they would not mind this one small reward for faithful service, but the feelings of guilt—
He froze. Something was wrong.
He read his notes again, reset his protractor, made certain of degrees and houses and ascendants. And felt his blood run to ice. Great Zeus. There was no doubt. Yesterday, his master's horoscope had been as clear and uneventful as a summer's day. But now, unexpectedly...
A catastrophe lay ahead. Something great and fearsome that had not been there in prior days. Timonides licked his lips. Why now? What had changed? Had it something to do with the soldiers searching the camp?
Or is it my punishment for falsifying readings?
Timonides broke out in a sweat. He knew that when he reported this new reading, Sebastianus would demand an explanation as to why his horoscope had suddenly changed. If Timonides told him the truth, that he had lied back in Rome about bringing the girl along, what would Sebastianus do to punish him? Timonides did not mind for himself—he was an old man and had lived a good life and would accept any punishment within reason. It was Nestor he worried about. For his son's sake he must stay in his master's good graces. Pudgy and pie-faced, with the sweet temper of angels and the innocence of doves, Nestor would be helpless on his own.
Timonides wrestled with his conscience and indecision.
The day the newborn had been placed in his arms, the look of disgust on the midwife's face, the sisters and cousins all declaring it would be best for the child to leave him exposed on a garbage heap ... Timonides had almost agreed, until he had felt that tender flesh, the tiny bones, the utter helplessness of the creature. His heart had turned upside down in that moment and Timonides had known he could not do to this infant what had been done to him. And so he had kept the son who had come late in life to the Greek and his wife, a surprise really, as Damaris had thought herself beyond childbearing age. And when Damaris had died when Nestor was only ten, Timonides had pledged himself anew to care for the boy at any cost.