Lydia and the Dwarf Warrior

Prologue: Her True Path

Lydia, a young slave in Rome, slipped out of the villa early that night. Her journey was a bit longer than usual, to a poorer district in Rome, one which she barely knew. She waited till most of the oil lamps had been put out, and the household had settled down for the night. Then, dressed in her simple sandals and tunic, she walked slowly through the long corridors of the lavish Roman villa, past the garden in the atrium, past statues and busts, and past lavish frescoes, to the back door and into the night.

Lydia pulled her cloak tight and raised its hood as she stepped onto the narrow Roman streets, soon leaving the Palatine district behind. The difference was immediate. The villa held back and shielded them from the worst of the city. Here garbage littered the streets and the smell of refuse permeated from the gutters. Smoke permeated the air while low voices drifted in the darkness: laughter, curses, and the barking of stray dogs.

Lydia lowered her head and moved quickly. She passed down one alley, past an old cracked arch and an empty fountain, then doubled back. She didn't want to be followed. Her owner, Senator Titus Julius knew about her occasional nighttime excursion but never spoke of them. Instead, he always sent his personal bodyguard, a towering mountain of a man named Eros, to follow and protect her through Rome's dangerous streets. It had become a game she played with her master. Senator Titus pretended to be unaware of her excursions and she pretended not to notice she was being watched.

But tonight she intended to win this little game.

Lydia could still hear Eros' familiar footsteps somewhere behind her. She allowed herself a small smile. Lydia didn't resent his presence. Like nearly all the other slaves in the villa, Eros had always been kind to her so she quickened her pace, knowing Eros wouldn't reveal himself unless she were truly in danger.

It was like a piece of freedom. This game. Not real freedom of course but something close–as if she were a runaway slave, though she had never truly been tempted nor given any reason to flee her household.

She turned into a busier street where several men were huddled around a fire; their faces were rough and their laughter was sharp. Two men, who had clearly been drinking, argued over dice. One looked at her when she passed by, his gaze lingering too long. She kept her head down and increased her pace. A lone young woman alone at night was bound to be noticed. Luckily the noise worked in her favor and by the next block the footsteps behind her had faded.

"Forgive me," she muttered–not just to Eros but to her master Senator Titus Julius as well. She knew why Eros followed her. He followed their master's orders but probably did care about her welfare as well. Senator Titus' motivation were more complicated. Whatever she was to him – a slave, an untold secret, his love child – she knew he would do whatever he could to keep her safe. She felt that in the way she was treated, unlike any other slave in the household, more like a guest or if she dared to think about it: a family member. It was an open secret in the household, though it was barely spoken of, that she was likely the Senator's daughter, born 17 years ago, to a slave who had died in childbirth. But because her mother had been a slave, that made Lydia a slave as well.

Of course Lydia had no memory of her mother. She knew her only through fragments whispered by older slaves – that she was a Celt, a beautiful woman with red hair, like Lydia's own, with clear eyes and features that were foreign to Rome. Captured somewhere in the north of Italy, from a land of old forests and cold rivers, during one Rome's many wars of conquest. Sometimes Lydia imagined those land up north. Imagining herself running through them – barefoot and free, and flying through the trees like winged fairy.

She shook the thought away as she entered the district where the gathering was to be held. Here the city again changed, for the worse. The building tenements rose higher but definitely not grandeur, nor better made. Five stories in some places, stacked and leaning, with wooden beans exposed where plaster had peeled away. Voices echoed from the crowded apartments, packed into rooms far too small. The insulae were nothing like the villa where she lived. No gardens. No baths. No marble. Only city life, raw, ugly, and unguarded.

Lydia paused at the corner and looked at the building ahead. A faint light flicked from a first story window. This was the place – Trimalchio's secret apartment, where she would meet with her fellow believers. Trimalchio was a wealthy former slave who had joined and helped sponsor their community. The locations of their meetings changed often, and they were always careful, though Lydia had been told that the worst of persecutions had ended years ago. Outside the apartment, she paused. Soft murmurs came from inside – low and cautious.

She knocked on the door, using their code. Once. Twice. Three times.

The door opened enough for a face to appear. Trimalchio. He studied her suspiciously, measuring her until she pulled back her hood and he smiled in recognition.

"Lydia," Trimalchio whispered. "I'm so glad you made it. C'mon in."

Lydia slipped inside. Trimalchio gave her the same look he always had since they had met – affection but tinged with a flirtatious desire. He had even confessed his feelings, that he was besotted, completely in love with her or in lust most likely. Lydia had laughed it off. They hardly knew each other, she told him, and besides she had neither the intention nor could she marry while she was still a slave. Still, some in her community said she ought to consider his proposals, that he was handsome and rich and could surely buy her freedom. Others, however, had warned him of his fondness for wine, gambling, and disreputable women, though he had insisted that those days were behind him now and that he was a changed man since joining their community.

The room was large, lit by various oil lamps. Men and women gathered closely – some seated, others standing – all speaking in hushed tones. Lydia knew some were slaves like her, others were freedmen. Some were even Roman citizens of high standing, though none wore fancy togas or stola dresses. Here they were all alike. Here she did not feel owned. Here she was simply, Lydia.

She quietly exhaled, a quiet peace settled upon her as Trimalchio closed the door. It had been less than a year since her baptism – less than a year since she had heard the teachings of the Martyr, the good news. Of a God who had become a man. Who had lived a life, preached, suffered and died, but had miraculously been resurrected, conquering death. A man who had called on even the lowest to be part of something higher. A kingdom not of iron or violence, but of mercy, forgiveness and most importantly – love. She had believed almost at once. Not because it was easy but because it felt true.

Still, in her quiet moments, her thoughts wandered beyond the humility of her new faith. She dreamed of her freedom, of a life beyond bondage. Not just a life in the north but perhaps in Rome as well. To marry for love. To be loved in return. To marry a noble Roman patrician. A man of honor and strength, who would buy her freedom and who would not see her as property but as a true partner. She smiled faintly at the foolishness of it all.

A slave dreaming to be a princess.

"Lydia?"

Lydia turned. An older woman watched her with knowing eyes.

"You're late," she said gently.

"I'm sorry. I had to be careful," Lydia said.

"We all must."

The room quieted as their elder stepped forward and began to speak of the Martyr, his life, and his teachings. Lydia moved closer, her attention fully fixed on his words. Outside Rome roared on, uncaring, unaware of the small gathering hidden away in this poor room where a different story was being told.

Lydia bowed her head and closed her eyes when the prayers began, already looking forward to the blessed wine and bread they would share. The body and the blood. And for a moment in the poorest district, in the greatest city in the world, she felt something greater than Rome itself.