Chapter 1
Varya stepped out onto the
narrow stone steps. She pulled her loose stola over her head and began to walk
down the mossy street to the market. It was quiet on the road, but only because
there were not many houses on the dingy alley. As she briskly walked, Varya
passed an old man crouched by the road, nodding his head back and forth to the
rhythm of a beaten and scratched lute, that looked like it had seen better
years. At the merging of a road running horizontally to her, Varya was nearly
run over by a troop of Roman soldiers, passing through town. “On their way to
the wall, no doubt.” thought Varya. Their horse-hair plumes fluttered gently on
the breeze. When the cohort passed, Varya scurried along the stone alley to
where it met with a larger road, took a left onto that road, and walked along
it until she reached the market.
Varya
loved going to the market. The smells rising from the bread, cheese, and wine
vendors excited her, and she wished she could buy from them all. However, her small income, mainly derived from odd jobs, was barely enough
to support her and grandfather, Brecht. Brecht had taken care of Varya for as
long as she could remember, which was a long time. Varya was only sixteen years
old, but she felt much older. For as long as she had lived with Brecht, Varya
had been forced to support them both, as Brecht was too old to do much work.
From simple jobs, like running errands for rich ladies at the market for an
extra sestertius, to picking grapes for hours on end at local wineries, Varya
had done it all. Today, though, she was not at the market to find an odd job,
she was there to buy groceries that would hopefully sustain her and Brecht
through the week.
After
taking a good look at the different booths, Varya made her way to a small table
that was littered with jars and casks of olive oil. She smiled up at the man
behind it. “Varya!” He said cheerfully. “It is so good to see you. Brietta has
been asking about you. How are you?”
“I am well, Aelius” answered
Varya simply, “just very tired. Brecht has been sick lately, and I have not
been able to get out of the house for almost a fortnight.” She smiled. “I need
one bottle of oil, please.”
“Take it,” the kindly man said,
it will do some good for your troubled grandfather. And do not even think about
paying,” he said with a smile, as Varya held out two smudged denarii. Varya
laughed gently, her face full of gratitude
“Thank you!” she said “I think
it may.” With a small spring in her step, Varya walked away from her friend,
and looked for her next stop.
Slowly, uncertainly, she walked
up to a small booth that was overflowing with the scent of freshly-baked bread.
She took out a sestertius and handed it to the woman. “Two loaves of bread,
please,” she said. The woman took the coin, inspected it carefully, and,
deciding that Varya was not trying to cheat her, pocketed the money and handed
over two warm loaves. Varya smiled “Thank you!”, but the woman did not seem to
hear her, and she turned her back.
But
Varya was used to being ignored, years of living in the slums of Roman Britain
and scanning the wall for spare change dropped heedlessly by drunken soldiers
had earned her that, and it had ceased to bother her many years ago. So, she
simply slipped her two loaves into a leather satchel that rested on her
shoulder, along with the oil, and made her way across a few rows of vendors.
About a
half hour later of buying, bartering, and negotiating, Varya turned her steps
homeward with two loaves of bread, a jar of olive oil, some red wine, and a
block of country cheese in her satchel. As she walked home, Varya saw a roman Caupona
on the side of the main road, and she realized how tired she was, after all her
shopping. The little courtyard of the dark inn seemed so inviting. Sighing, she
leaned against one of the graffitied walls, under a straggly elm, hoping to get
a little rest after her strenuous morning. Closing her eyes, she took a bite
out of one of the loaves of bread, and slowly she savored the mouthful, knowing
well that she might not get another for some time. The sun shone brightly upon
the little resting area, warming the slightly chilly air. The sun did not shine
often on the wall, and when it did, it was only for a few moments. For a little
while, Varya sat so, thinking about her grandfather and her home. All of a
sudden, she felt her satchel rudely snatched from her arm. With fingers used to
things slipping through them, she deftly grabbed the satchel before it slipped
off her arm, and, with a cry of surprise, she yanked it back. The satchel was
restored to her, but the abrupt jerk had bounced the other loaf of bread out of
the satchel. A tall, dirty man reached down and snatched it up. Suddenly, Varya
found herself cornered by two men, dressed in black togas, one holding her
bread, and the other walking slowly up to her. In suppressed tones he spoke
“Give us the bag, and you go free; resist us and…” he held up a bright pugio, a
small sharp dagger, glittering in the sun “we will use persuasion.” He chuckled
deeply. Varya steadied herself,
“Get away Aetius,” she growled,
“just because you are Roman does not mean that you have the right to oppress
the Britons! Your name and character have been defaced by your actions here at
the wall. Leave me alone!”
“My name?” asked the man, almost
in surprise. “My name? Oh, but that is too much coming from you!” He laughed
spitefully, “You cannot say that my name has been defaced when your own name
cannot stand for itself. I know you ‘Varya’. What kind of a name is that? It is
no Briton name, nor is it a Roman name. It comes from no one knows where, and
means nothing. You mean nothing. Everything about you is so foreign; from the
way you talk, to your bright scarlet hair. You do not belong here, and not even
your Roman clothes can hide that.” Knowing that he had hit her weakest spot,
Aetius stood back and admired his work. Tears filled Varya’s deep grey eyes, as
she stumbled backwards. The pouch dropped from her shoulder. Grinning, Aetius
picked up the satchel, and started to retreat. At that moment, though, Varya
saw a flash of steel and, wondering what it was, did not try to oppose him. As
Aetius turned his back, he met face-to-face with Aelius, Varya’s friend from
the oil stand.
“Aelius!” Shouted Varya. He
brandished a heavy axe, and, swinging it a hair’s breadth away from the face of
Aetius, spoke in a strong voice,
“Hand over the bag, Aetius.”
Trembling, Aetius dropped the bag on the stone floor.
“You have no right to do this!”
shouted Aetius.
“You have no right to do this. I
have not read anywhere in the Roman law that harassing young girls for their
food is legal.” Replied Aelius calmly. However, he tightened his grip on the
axe. “Leave, Aetius. Next time, my axe will not miss you.” Slowly, Aetius
retreated.
“Come on Gnaeus, let’s get out
of here,” he murmured. Both the scoundrels slowly slunk away, as Aelius called
out
“And don’t bother her again, or
you will have me to face!” At that moment, Aelius turned and hurled the pugio
with deadly force at Aelius’s heart. Quickly, Aelius flung himself and Varya to
the ground, and, escaping the path of the knife, picked it up, sheathed it, and
said coldly,
“Leave now, Aetius, or you will
regret meddling with me.” Seeing his error, Aetius turned and fled as fast as
he could away from the Caupona, with Gnaeus close behind him. Aelius faced
Varya. He saw the fear in her eyes and, smiling, walked to her side and pulled
her gently to her feet. “Varya, are you all right? I- I saw Aetius walk this
way and point at you. I thought perhaps you might need me.” Varya nodded. “Why
did you stop here, Varya? You know that the Cauponae are not safe places for
unprotected travelers. They are a breeding-ground for thieves and criminals.”
“I know,” she managed to gasp out. “I am
sorry, Aelius. I was just so tired, and I hadn’t seen anyone, I had just
stopped for a moment, oh Aelius!” She burst into tears as she buried her head
in his arms.
“I heard them,” said Aelius
slowly. “It is not true, don’t believe him. Varya,” he looked straight into her
eyes “you are not what they say you are. You are who you choose to be. Do not
forget that.” Varya smiled, and thanked her old friend warmly. She picked up
her satchel and restored its spilt contents. “Would you care to join me and
Brietta for dinner?” Asked Aelius thoughtfully.
“I am afraid that I can’t”
replied Varya disappointedly, “Brecht is sick. He needs my care, and I have not
been able to check on him all morning. I have no idea how he is doing.”
“That is too bad,” said Aelius,
frowning. “Brietta and I have missed you of late.” Turning, he leaned against
the wall, and wondered at the dedication that the young girl held for her invalid
grandfather. Varya turned to leave. “Wait,” Aelius said quickly “I just thought
of something. I will go check on Brecht, and you can head over to my house.
Brietta is home, and she will be more than happy to see you. Here, I will take
your bag.” Varya smiled. How she wished she could go!
Varya had met Aelius and Brietta
nearly three years ago, when she had been scavenging for food along their
street. They had taken her in, clothed her in clean garments, and given her a
hot meal, along with food for Brecht. Since then, they had been the best of
friends to Varya, and could never forget their kindness. They were almost as
dear to her as Brecht.
“Thank you, Aelius, but I think
that I ought to go back. After all, what if Brecht is worse, and he needs
attention? He might need me.”
“Please go, Varya. I can handle
Brecht, and if he is not well, I will make sure to alert you. Please?”
“I suppose,” said Varya, half
reluctantly, half gladly. “Just make sure that you tell me if Brecht’s sickness
is worse. Will Brietta be troubled by such unexpected company?”
“Not at all,” smiled Aelius,
“she has been eager to see you for weeks. And I will make sure to take care of
Brecht. Now go, before we meet any more… unsavory characters.” Smiling, Varya
and Aelius parted, each going their own way.
Varya stumbled down the alley,
still looking and feeling a little shaken. She turned into a back road and
walked uphill for about an actus, to Aelius and Brietta’s home. As she walked,
Varya thought about what Aetius had said. She was different, there was no disputing that. While most of Roman
Britain boasted fair and light hair, hers was coarse and bright red. Her eyes,
unlike Roman Britons’ sky-blue eyes, were light grey, a color rarely found in
Britain. Besides that, her name was foreign. Most Roman Briton names were quite
similar, like Marius, Aurelius, or Junia, but hers was so different. No one had
been able to piece out where it had originated. What did it mean?
And Brecht. Who was he? Though
he had always shown the kind care and tenderness of a grandfather, he had never
actually said the fact outright. Where had he come from, and how did he become
her caretaker?
Never had Varya felt so alone,
so confused before in her life. The encounter with Aetius had brought up
questions that, until then, she had been too afraid to ask herself. She had
always doubted herself, skulking in the shadows, trying to become a part of a
world that could not possibly accept her. Sometimes she wanted to cry when she
saw the young Roman Briton children playing and dancing together freely. They
lived a life that she would never know. Accepted and acknowledged freely by the
people of the wall, they truly belonged somewhere. They would never be shut out
and ignored, they would never have to work just to be accepted, like she did.
It was not her own fault,
either. Even if she was Briton, she probably would have struggled with some of
the same problems, as Romans were considered the “elite” citizens, enjoying
favors and respect that Britons (as well as the beggars and rabble) were
deprived of. Still, it hurt.
As these thoughts coursed
through her mind, Varya continued to walk uphill, until she finally reached
Aelius’s home. His house was a small, but neat and clean, villa. There were
several apple and fig trees growing in the front yard, and a few small elderberry
bushes bordered the house, no doubt planted by the beauty-seeking eye of
Brietta, Varya thought. Varya walked down the cobblestoned path to the front
door. She knocked gently, and was received by Brietta
“Oh, darling, Aelius and I have yearned
to see you for so long! It has been too long, too long my dear.”
“Yes, Brietta, it has been too long.”
Great job Olivia! Well written.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Sophie!
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