As she rose from the bench, she heard the sound of footfall. She spun about and saw a man silhouetted in the moonlight.
Sebastianus.
He came into the atrium. "I was not comfortable leaving you. I needed to make sure you were all right. When the slave at Paulina's gate said a strange woman had tried to enter the home of Senator Publius, I knew something was wrong."
"They're gone, Sebastianus," she whispered. "My mother, my family. All gone. I am alone."
He took her into his arms and held her tight, caressing her hair, feeling her warm breath on his neck.
"You are not alone, Ulrika," he said, drawing back. "You are coming home with me."
"WE'LL ALL BE MURDERED IN OUR BEDS!"
Primo seized the hysterical laundress by her arm and growled, "Hold your tongue, woman, or you'll make matters worse." He gave her a painful squeeze with his coarse ham-fist and sent her on her way.
Holy blood of Mithras, Primo cursed silently as he spat on the floor. Women could never be counted on to keep a level head in times of emergency.
And tonight's was the worst of all possible emergencies, with word coming down the street that soldiers of the new emperor were systematically assassinating anyone who had anything to do with Claudius Caesar, including a caravan trader named Sebastianus Gallus who had met Claudius only once fleetingly, but whose name was recorded on the roster of those to be admitted to the Imperial Palace.
Primo resumed his inspection of the house, lumbering through the rooms of the Gallus villa like a war machine, his head turning this way and that as he oversaw the industry that always marked his master's return.
Primo was a large, ugly man whose nose had been broken so many times it barely resembled a nose anymore, and he would have been condemned to a life of begging in the streets had it not been for Sebastianus Gallus, whose house he now ran with the discipline and precision of the dedicated soldier he had once been. Without his steadying presence, Primo knew, this house on the edge of the city would have fallen apart days ago. Even now, there was barely enough staff to keep the kitchen, gardens, laundry, and animal care going, so many slaves had run off in the night. A tense atmosphere hung over rooms glowing with lamplight as slaves prepared the house for their master's return—all under the watchful eye of big, ugly Primo, veteran of so many foreign campaigns and survivor of so much combat that little fazed him anymore.
But he did not like the piercing screams of a hysterical laundress!
As Primo strode from room to room, making his presence known, instilling obedience in the slaves from his mere appearance—he still wore the leather breastplate, short tunic, and military sandals from his army days—he could not have explained, had he been asked, where his hatred of women came from. He might have simply said, "They are silly, useless creatures."
Or perhaps he might admit that it stemmed from shame for his own mother, who had been a waterfront whore servicing sailors while her son lay curled in a corner pretending not to hear the animal sounds coming from her bed. She was beaten to death by a customer when Primo was twelve, and he managed to survive on his own in the streets of Rome until he reached the age of military enlistment.
Or possibly his contempt for womankind sprang from the fact that he had never forgiven his witless mother for naming her only child Fidus, which meant "faithful," not realizing in her perpetually drunken state that the name would subject her son to a life of mockery and ridicule, as the nickname for Fidus was Fido, a popular name for Rome's pet dogs. So humiliating was this name—his friends would bark whenever he was around—that when he enlisted as a legionary, he said his name was Primo, as it sounded important, and so Primo he had been ever since.
But the truth of it—should Primo ever truly examine his close-fisted heart—was that he neither hated his mother nor women. In fact, the self-proclaimed despiser of women actually loved them.
If only they loved him in return.
Although there had been one, long ago, who had not only shown him a kindness, she had saved his life ...
"Primo! Primo!" a young slave called as he came running into the atrium where a dozen burning torches kept the night away. "The caravan has arrived! The master is in the city!"
Primo dashed through the atrium, through the front garden, out the entry gate, and onto the narrow lane embraced by the high walls of private residences. As he peered into the darkness—there were few street lamps in this sector of the city—he recalled the day, eight years ago, when he had walked along this same street, going from gate to gate, knocking, asking for work, as he was a soldier recently retired from military service and needed employment to supplement his meager pension.
He had served his emperor and the empire well, until he was mustered out after the requisite twenty-five years, finding himself alone and on the streets with little to live on. Primo refused to resort to what most old soldiers did—telling war tales in taverns in exchange for beer—and so he had sought honest employment.
But what had he to offer? Many legionaries were trained beyond the usual combat skills of the regular soldier—they were "specialist" soldiers with secondary roles such as engineer, artilleryman, drill and weapons instructor, carpenter, medic. Such men, when they mustered out of the military, had professions to fall upon.
Not Primo, who had been an ordinary infantryman. All he could offer were strength and brawn, which he possessed in great supply, as life in the army had built up his already large body. On the march in unfriendly terrain, a foot soldier was loaded down with a shield, helmet, two javelins, a short sword, a dagger, a pair of heavy sandals, a marching pack, fourteen days' worth of food, a waterskin, cooking equipment, stakes for the construction of palisades, and a shovel or wicker basket. And so there was nothing Primo the army veteran could not move or lift with ease.
However, as he sought honest employment, gates had been slammed in his face, until he had come to the house of merchant-trader Sebastianus Gallus and had found appalling disorder. The slave at the gate was sullen and rude, the house steward wore a stained tunic. Food droppings littered the floors, raucous laughter came from the kitchens and laundry, animals roamed freely in the main rooms. Learning the identity of the homeowner, who was away on a caravan, Primo had hired a horse and ridden out to meet the returning caravan, whereupon Sebastianus Gallus, hearing the shocking report of his household, left the caravan and rode back with Primo to catch his steward and staff by surprise, learning that they only got the house into shape when they knew their master was almost home. Primo averred that he would keep things in order while Sebastianus was gone, and he was hired on the spot. Primo had taken on the role of Chief Steward, but in the years since had also become bodyguard, chariot driver, and overseer of general maintenance of the household.
When he saw the party now coming up the lane, and heard Timonides loudly complaining about something, Primo scratched his backside and spat on the ground. He didn't like Timonides or his simpleton son. The Greek astrologer was self-righteous with his charts and instruments. Like most soldiers, Primo did not know how to read, nor could he do sums, and so he was scornful of men of higher learning. Timonides further irritated him with his spouting about there being order in the universe, that everything happened for a reason, and that a man could control his destiny through star-reading. Primo knew otherwise. Nothing happened for a reason, the universe was chaos, and there was no way to control one's destiny. All of life was random and accidental. And as for the life after death Timonides preached about, it had nothing to do with this life, so why would a man concern himself with it?