Perhaps time and distance had softened my memory sufficiently that I did not remember, or was more sensitive to undercurrents of unrest that did not just entail the struggle between Roman and Celt in those days.  But as Cassandra and I wound through the narrow streets of Londinium on our way to the market, I found that nuances I had once taken simply as a way of life hit me afresh.  Not so much the dismissal from Roman citizens that we passed along the road- that was nothing I did not expect or experience every day and no longer remarked upon.  Among my own people again, though, I realized for the first time that I was a foreigner, more so than the short, dark people from beyond the borders of Celtic lands below Gallia who had conquered my ancestors a hundred years before. 

Maximus' words to Dedalus the scribe when I first joined the army haunted me from some association between what I understood as we encountered more Celts in the heart of Londinium, and memory. 

"But sir, she's a..."

"A Celt? In case you haven't noticed, the army is half made up of them..." 

Romans accepted us as a singular people despite differences they surely noted in our skin and hair color, our height, our markings and other small things that to us were very much a part of how we distinguished ourselves from one another within a vast society that stretched over two islands and the mainland.  The conversation Maximus and I had after we picked up Macrinus' detail in Hispania on our way back to Germania came to mind as well, wherein we discussed the cohesiveness of the Roman military power to the scattered individuality of my people.  As a nation, we rarely united over anything except our language and gods, and even then, the gods bore different names and means of worship among the druid priests who served them. 

I was born to lead.  I have no sense of false modesty over that fact. It was that purpose that drove my mother especially to care so much for my education and the skills I possess.  Perhaps from my father, though, I learned something even more valuable, something my namesake never did.  But it was nothing more than a notion at that time when I stood in the marketplace, observing for the first time that which I had taken for granted in my youth.  Despite laws set in place to ensure our community with one another, we are set apart- by tribal loyalties and even more by social status.  We are even separated simply by being born in one part of the country rather than another.  Sadder still is that we have repeatedly allowed our Roman oppressors to use that fact to their advantage.  But in the merchant stalls, there was no need of Roman help for our personal prejudices. 

The smell of roasting meat and vegetables filled the air in the central square, overpowering even the odor of sweat and dung from the horse pen as we passed it.  It reminded my stomach that I had not taken breakfast that morning.  I had been preoccupied with staying unnoticed by eyes and ears that might report back to Marcellus anything unusual about the general Maximus.  Cassandra raised the point that it would be hard to dismiss my presence no matter what I might try to do to minimize it; I was taller than many in our group, and my hair, even darkened with fat, simply took on a redder sheen that caught the sun and attracted attention.  So I kept my head down in a submissive manner and looked no one in the eye, not even my master when I brought him his morning meal and stayed with Cassandra.  Outside his quarters, he did not acknowledge either of us.  If asked, I would simply claim harlot status and Cassandra as my mistress.  She would decide who could or not buy my services as a result.  We walked out of the gates behind the slaves after Maximus and Marcellus were gone, Cassandra counting on her fingers the amount of silver coins she could make from my potential customers in two days. 

"My girls are not free," she giggled when I kicked at her.  

"Don't bury yourself in the idea." I murmured petulantly.

"I doubt anyone would dispute the general, when he asks for you every night.  How much do you think he'd be willing to pay for you?"

"Who says I wouldn't go just for the boasting rights?"

"Because you wouldn't.  You don't even tell me about him, and I'm your friend."  

"So you know I wouldn't tell you as my owner."

"I'd beat it out of you, then."

"It would only make me more determined to say nothing."

"Then I'd have to think of something else.  A bribe.  Maybe if I sold you..."   She dragged me by the hand toward the market, as if to make good on the thought.  I laughed and followed her to the middle of the square.  

Where to start?  To our right, the food stalls beckoned hungry customers with special dishes of all kinds- sweet berry cakes and spiced gourds and pumpkin, seasoned fish paste and boiled corn.  One vendor was giving samples of pig slowly turning over an open pit that had been glazed in a sauce of a nature I had not ever tried but fairly perfumed the air with its smoky sweet flavor.  It perfectly complimented the honeyed tang of apples roasting in an oven in the booth next to that.  To our left, other merchants displayed the needs of winter- cloaks made by Roman and Celtic weavers, trimmed in furs and bright tinkling bells, those of the native talent displaying the checked patterns and array of color that we love so well.  

Eating and cooking utensils designed by loving crafters who understood the need to entertain with beauty and style in the dead of the season, furs and blankets for the hardiest traveler that would keep him warm on the road, adorned walls and hooks everywhere.  Across the way stood the booths of the requisite jewelers and metal workers, enchanting the vanity of patrician and common women and the prowess of horsemen and warriors with precious metals and stones and strong, powerful iron shaped into the tools of war and agriculture.  Most bore the figures of mythical beasts and gods of the land, but some carried the spirits of the gods of other lands.  My hand caressed an oil lamp depicting the Egyptian lord of the underworld, Anubis, a favorite of gladiators everywhere.  My cellmate in Rome had burned several every night before a match. Here, they were sold for the same common purpose- to gladiators who served the god and wished for his blessing as they met their death in the arena outside the city.  Cassandra was eyeing the stall of one of the dressmakers, mentally taking notes on the coin in her purse against the price of a couple of rather lovely wool pieces dyed in bright saffron and deep indigo hues.  In the midst of all that stood the horse market, always a necessity no matter what time of year.  Maximus was eager to see that, he had said, when he had a moment free from duty. 

A set of small, grimy digits tried to take advantage of the crowd pressing tighter within the square and remove my bag of money from my belt.  I swung the body attached to them in front of me, staring into wide, frightened blue eyes of a boy who could not have been more than seven or eight winters old. 

"That's no way to make a living." I set him back away from me, but did not let go, giving him a view of the sword I carried in order to make my meaning clear.  Another might have simply cuffed and kicked at his brittle frame, or dispatched him without a thought.  Thief or no, he was a child and deserved another chance at life, if only for the next day.  I ached with the heart of a mother, trying to imagine my little daughter on the streets, had she lived.

"It's for food," he whispered back, finding his courage and glaring at me while taking surreptitious glances around, no doubt looking for whomever had sent him out to steal. 

"Then let me buy you some, instead.  And take this to your master."  I slipped a coin into his hand, gently turning loose of it at the same time.  He was gone before I had the chance to ask him where he might like to have his meal.  Cassandra shook her head sadly.

"One of yours?"

"Aye.  They come in all classes here, too."  

"That's what she used to say.  Your sister," she added, as if I might not understand whom she meant.  

Wincing at the reminder that this was not only my first visit home in years, but my first to Londinium without my beloved sibling in my entourage, I recovered with a forced smile and kept walking, sidestepping those wandering in the opposite direction and avoiding garbage strewn here and there in the path.  "Not all lords follow the law concerning the care of the poor," I lamented.  "Some do.  Most have their own to look after first.  It's the way things are."  She shot me a look of understanding and sympathy before her gaze was drawn to a man doing magic tricks for children.  He pulled a coin from behind the ear of one and a dove from a helmet offered him by one of the soldiers milling about, doing their best to keep order despite drunken brawls that spilled out of taverns into the streets and holdups between carts, riders, and pedestrians that created mass confusion from time to time.   A peek down an alley revealed a couple engaged in sexual activity- a whore and her customer, I surmised before turning away to discover that Cassandra had been drawn by the dress maker, who insisted that the color of her eyes deserved the complement of the yellow garment she was holding up to examine.  His serpentine gaze roamed over her, not just as one who understood how to fit clothing on a woman, but how to unclothe them too.  So I joined her to translate and keep him honest.

"It's pretty," she coyly answered, feigning a shrug and putting it back on its hanger.  "But I have other dresses that aren't so expensive."  

The squat, red-faced vendor sniffed.  "None so well-made as mine, I assure you."  He placed a finger along the shoulder seam of the garment she wore under her cloak and tested the fabric.  It was one of the pieces she had bought from the camp harlots in Vindobona, and was designed for summer wear. "Wear one of my creations, and you shall not shiver in our harsh winters."  He pointed out several frays in the thread and the embroidered patterns of her garb.  "You won't find any of this, either."

"How much do you want for it?" I interjected.  Cassandra had more than enough, but I also knew she was saving it for another purpose that she was waiting for nightfall to engage in. 

He eyed my attire, squinting at the dull, almost shapeless brachae and tunic I had pulled on to disguise myself that morning.  I doubt he missed the accessories I wore with them, however.  How many Greek peasants traveled with armed, female bodyguards?   Few, unless they traveled alone.  But he was aware he could not drive his price up to high.  "Three denarii."

Cassandra snorted.  "There is a dressmaker down four stalls that would be happy to give me a better price, I'm sure.  And he has red, my favorite color.  Two denarii and a quinarius."  She started to edge away toward the other vendor.

"His are tatters..." the seller started.

"And I can mend.  Good day, sir."  

"Would you like it wrapped, lady?"  He capitulated, but unhappily.  She turned back with a satisfied smile and a wink at me.

"No, my slave will carry it for me."  I had to work to keep my face impassive when she flounced away toward a taverna, leaving the man fuming behind us.   Once we were out of his sight, I threw the dress at her, smirking when it landed over her head and she struggled to make order of it, laughing at me.  I must admit, in that moment, I envied her sense of freedom.  There was danger about, behind any doorway, hiding behind a façade of citizenry, lurking in the shadows of the buildings and trappings of city life.  I felt it as I did whenever I stepped away from the safety of numbers, and my body watched and waited for it to manifest itself to us.  I read every leer directed at us as we passed men of all nations, I caught it in the hardened stares of soldiers who eyed my  weapons with disdain, it was in the gaze of those who had not the courage to move through humanity with their heads high.  Cassandra knew her place in the world, but she was also smart enough to know how far she could push her boundaries in an environment that afforded our gender little leeway to step outside convention.

But money from any hand speaks to those who are attuned to its voice, and for the most part as we moved through the square, we were welcomed and doted on despite our lowly status in life.  For the most part.  As long as I remained with Cassandra, which was most of the afternoon, my presence was accepted even by those not normally inclined to give me notice, because as she had pointed out earlier, there was little I could do to hide certain facets of my appearance that would ensure I could not move about without detection.  When she left me to care for her own matters, though, I was forced to rely on my intellect and power to persuade in order to be seen and heard in society. 

Torches that marked street intersections and lamps in windows were lit to replace the setting sun as evening fell.  Shopkeepers started to pack away those wares that were not as likely to catch the eye of straggling consumers that had not yet spied the taverns and food booths that did remain open past the fade of afternoon.  My stomach led me in that direction, still protesting starvation.  At one stand I bought a skin of honey ale, and sipped a bit while standing in line to wait for a slab of stag at another, intending to share both with Maximus, who would be along soon, provided he could remove himself from the company of the senators.  Valerius' caretaker made his way past me, heading for a tavern on the opposite corner and nodded, an indication that our masters were indeed, on their way.  I acknowledged him in return, then continued to wait for my meal.

And I waited.  For long than I should have, I watched as the woman who owned the booth served Roman citizens and other merchants, visitors from other lands, and Celts that seemed to live about the city or at least, looked influential enough to serve with some dignity.  After two ladies, obviously wealthy from appearances and attitude, brushed by me at her invitation to come forward and sample a bite of each of her delicacies, I had enough.  I could have walked away and found another vendor with a more courteous disposition, I suppose, but my point would not have been made.  And something compelled me to test my budding notions about why it was so difficult to attain and keep solidarity among my people. 

For a few moments, I listened without interest to the conversation between the woman and his customers.  The ladies gave her the obligatory compliments regarding her prowess with the preparation of meat and the savories of the broths and sauces she made to go with them.  She preened in response, and then asked if there was anything of any note taking place within Londinium's gates.  The ladies tittered and replied that there was a new unit that had arrived the night before, and the man in charge looked like he might be someone worth getting to know- if the cook knew what they meant.  They exchanged knowing smirks and gestures, and I decided to take the opportunity to establish my presence, if not let on that I was fairly certain I knew exactly which man they were referring to and that he was already spoken for.

"Forgive my interruption, but is my money not good enough for you?"  I was much taller than either woman in front of me and did not even bother to look at them when they turned to see who had dared to interrupt their chatter, refusing to note the disdainful glare of the one to my right, instead giving the full measure of my stare to the owner of the booth.  She was taken aback by my boldness, gauging how to address me, and glancing at her companions for support.  Her features fell into a hard frown, as though ready to chastise me for stepping out of my place as a lower being.

"There is a food court for paupers at the other corner of the market," she snarled.

"And you would naturally assume I am a pauper, simply because I don't wear jewels on every finger of my hand, or a torc about my neck?"

"I would assume you're a pauper, because you are from the north.  Carvetii, I think.  You have their mark."

"Perhaps.  But I have money enough for that which I want."

"I don't need money from the hand of a northern cow."

"Do you need the money of a hungry soldier on leave from duty?"  The voice that replied to her was gruff and tired, but sent her and her patrician friends into submissive silence.   

"My lord, yours is welcome."  She raised her chin haughtily, confident that since a supposed enemy had come to her rescue, there would be little more opposition to her rudeness from me.  "Go away, you," she barked at me. 

"Actually, madam, I need her to stay.  She is holding my money for me and I'm hungry, though the lady Cornelia," he indicated one of the two women who stood staring at him as though schoolchildren caught in a scandal, "made sure I was well fed at her table earlier."

"General Maximus...forgive us.  We thought she was a common tribe rat from the north."

A patronizing smile played across Maximus' lips before he answered.  "She is- a very valuable one to me.  So if you need the money of a soldier of Rome mistress cook, take it from her, so we can be back at barracks before her owner misses her."   I did not miss the subliminal meaning of his reply, and stepped aside for him to pass first, but he laid a firm hand on my shoulder and set me ahead of him.  "You were here first."  Cornelia looked closely from him to me, and I saw understanding and something I was certain was scandalized distaste in her somber eyes.

We made our selections, and I dropped the coins into the woman's hand without touching her.  I doubt she minded.   Maximus led the way to a bench near the horse pens, and I handed him the wine.   For some time, we let the sounds and sights of the evening serenade our supper, and the milling of the horses as they shuffled for position in the tight enclosures provided a reminder of early days for the two of us. 

Finally, Maximus broke the silence between us.  "What was that about?"

"You heard them.  I'm a Carvetii cow.  I'm too inconsequential to notice."

"I can understand that from the senators' wives.  I met them today.  But the other, I do not.  She's not high born or even Roman."

"No, but she is from this town, or at least, has made her way in the world somewhere in the south, judging from her attitude.  Sometimes, it is the ones in the middle who consider themselves equal to the nobles and better than the class they came from.  And I would imagine she thinks that she is superior, simply because she is not a 'troublemaker,' meaning us from the north, since we still hold fast to the old way of life, by and large, and are still at war with Rome.  So she is likely to consider us all barbarians."

He took a gulp of the wine and offered the skin to me, but I shook my head.  He gazed thoughtfully at the horses, smiling at a late summer colt that whinnied and reared, playing at king-of-the-herd with his mother. 

"You'll see a lot of that here," I continued, taking the last bite of my stag and chewing it while he considered that.

"She said something about a mark."

"Aye. The one here."  I touched the faded blue mark that had been tattooed into my skin just above the bridge of my nose.  Three dots depicting the three goddesses that my tribe depended on most- Brigantia the mother, Scota the war goddess, and Epona, the mother of horses- arranged in a triangular pattern had adorned my face from the night after my first battle.  "It says that I am a Carvetii warrior."  I explained the rest to him, and he shook his head in the affirmative.

"Like the Germans."

"Aye.  You should have no trouble learning to distinguish us one from another in time."

"I prefer to distinguish a person by the marks of his character, you know that.  I don't need to know what tribe he comes from."

"No.  But you should still know, because he will, and so will those who might be his enemies.  It will be a matter of pride for most of us who adhere to our traditions.  General..." I lowered my voice to a whisper, "Maximus, I tell you this to help you do what you came to do.  No one else ever cared."

He pursed his lips and toed at the ground.  Then, another question crossed his brow, and he gave voice to it.  "You could have told her from the start you were a slave with the army.  Why didn't you?"

"It wasn't her business to know.  And since the Roman women with her have seen you and know who you are, even better that I said nothing, so that Marcellus doesn't find out.  Besides, the point I was going to make with her is that despite my outward appearance, she has no idea who or what I am, and it shouldn't matter where the money came from, only that I had what she was asking for her service."

"Allegiance and status are a valuable tool.  You should learn to rely on them, when you can."

"As you do?"

"When I have to, I do.  Like this morning, with Marcellus.  I want him to have the impression that I have earned my reputation with good reason, and that I live it.  He is trying to test me and see if there are cracks in my armor."

"I thought that of you when I first saw you.   But I also saw that you could be fair and kind, if your expectations were met.  Yet, I mistrusted you.  I hate Marcellus."

"I let you see what I need you to see.  I never thought it would be easy to gain your trust.  Sometimes, I think I am still trying to earn it.  Aren't I?"

I looked far off, toward the northern sky glistening with stars.  "Aye.  But part of that is because of what you saw today, what we have been talking about.  I can be loyal and have faith in you today, because I am your slave and I gave you my word to do what you ask of me until I have paid back all you owe Gracchus.  But someday..."

"Someday, you won't be a slave anymore, is that it?"

"Yes.  And no.  I won't be your slave forever, but I will still care for you as I do now, I think.  Will it last always?  I don't know.  We are going to my childhood home, where I once knew without question what I believed in and who I was.  All that was changed when I was sold as a slave.  What will I feel when we leave it for Hibernia?  This is why you should know who we are in that part of the country.  So that when those tribes meet you across a council chamber or a treaty table, you will understand why they fear letting go of their identity.  Bonds aren't just a tool, Maximus.  For some of us, they are the only thing of value we have left.  There may come a time when I won't even have that."  As an afterthought, I touched his arm where once a tattoo had stated proudly that he served the interests of the senate and the people of Rome.  "You never replaced it."

He acquiesced with a sad grimace.  "I did not want to forget why I cut it out."

"Then you understand."

"Yes."

"Maximus?"  The hardiest of the year's crickets had taken up the song of the chilly night, and laughter spilled from a brothel not far away.

"Yes, sweet?"  His fingers brushed mine in the shadows thrown by a torch.

"I fear the future.  It's closer every day."  

"Then let's find a place to hide from it until tomorrow."  The low firelight caught the aqua sheen of his gaze, and deepened the desire there, beckoning me away from worry over the days to come. 

I sighed and closed my eyes against the darkness that fell on Londinium's square, trying to take strength from the thought that in the eyes of Maximus, all that I needed to be at that moment was his friend and his lover, and that we could be all alone in the world for a few hours.  All other possibilities would present themselves as they would, as circumstances changed over the course of our journey, however long we remained on the path together.