I, Claudia

XIV

In a narrow alley, less than fifty paces from the banks of the Tiber, a young slave girl cowered against a wall that reeked of dog piss and cabbages. The moon was not yet up, leaving the alleyway plunged into the colour of estuary mud. Nearby a tavern door opened, spilling light as well as two drunken oarsmen on to the cobbles. The girl flattened herself against the stonework, but the men, arms round each other for mutual support, wove their way down to the river, too engrossed in bawdy song to notice.

In the street at the end of the alley, creaking wagons made their deliveries. She could smell the oxen, hear the bark of directions as loads were hoisted off or on to the carts. Perhaps she could wriggle under one of the sheets? Hide in an empty wooden crate? Escape the city and…

And what? Head north? How? At sixteen, with virtually no money, no friends, no allies, how could she hope to survive?

Again the tavern doors threw a yellow oblong of light into the dingy street and three men tumbled out. Within seconds knuckles were cracking off jawbones, noses squelching under fists, shards of smashed drinking vessels skimming over the cobbles. The girl flinched as a small piece of pottery flicked against her calf and she covered her face with her hands. A yellow-haired whore jeered from the doorway until the tavern keeper threw a bucket of water over them all, including the woman, and suddenly the four were comrades again. The door closed and the alley fell silent once more, with only pools of wine and water to bear witness to the brawl.

She could hide on one of the carts, only…suppose they were being searched? Tears trickled down her cheek, cutting a path through the grime. Even if she escaped the city, she had no real idea which direction to take for home. There were mountains to cross, she knew that. Bleak, bitter mountains, where the wind howled like a wolf and the snow never melted. And what after that? The journey that had brought her to Rome had taken weeks. Months. She could never find her way back without help.

Suppose she slipped on to one of the boats? She shivered in the darkness, recalling tales of horror at what befell stowaways. She was desperate now. She had no one to turn to. She daren’t return to the house to collect her paltry savings, for they would be waiting, with their lies and their accusations.

She drew up her knees, wrapping her arms round her body for comfort. Why were her gods punishing her like this? It had been a normal working day and she’d simply been going about her business. Then, quite without warning, a man she’d never seen before, a man with a limp, had rounded on her and publicly branded her a thief. A crowd had begun to gather. She hadn’t understood. There was no reason for it. He had no grounds, no evidence, but the man insisted on sending for the police.

Then she heard the word ‘murder’.

Murder?

As the crowd’s interest turned to the arrival of the soldiers, she had seized the moment to run and run and run. Ten hours of running and hiding and crying and whimpering already seemed like ten days. Ten years.

She wanted to go home.

Home was where blue-white frosts sharpened your senses. Home was where soft summer rain whispered into the broad leaves of the trees. And home was where those very same leaves blazed copper and bronze and gold after the harvest. There was no dry, dusty wind to choke your lungs up there. Nor a sun which thickened and darkened your skin like leather. Home was kind, benevolent. It would welcome her back to its bosom.

Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, the girl picked up the shard that had scratched her leg. She stared at it long and hard for several seconds, then slashed it deep across her left wrist before plunging it into her right.

Now I am going where they can’t hurt me, she thought. Now I am going home.