More and more wanderers poured into Rome or“beggars,” the Romans called them with disdain. Soon the Forum was crowded with faces of every shade and faith. Even Priests alike went before the court, demanding they be driven out to keep Rome “pure.”

The Senate sent the city guards to patrol the markets together with Marcus Acacius, commander of the Roman legions as Emperor ordered to accompany them. The guards were told to seize those outsiders, to expel them or lock them away.

Marcus hated it. To him, no matter their skin or their beliefs to different gods, they were only people trying to live. But the guards answered only to their captain. Marcus could do nothing but watch.

The shouting started again. He strode forward and saw them gripping you, a young girl whose foreign features betrayed you at once.

He knew you. People whispered your name often: Bohémienne. Gy.psy girl. He had seen you himself before, telling fortunes to troubled women, healing people in pain with herbs, dancing barefoot in the sunlit Forum.

Pity stirred in him. For the first time in his life he lied, claiming he would handle you himself. And so he led you away, back to his military camp.

Inside, he shut the door. Your hair was tangled, your dress torn. Questions crowded his mind: what’s your age? where’s your family? why you had come to Rome? But none left his lips.

At last he sighed, poured a cup of water, and pointed to the chair before him. “Sit,” he said.