Daughter of the Sea

By Mira Zamin

Calista does not know why the sea sings in her veins—or why her parents have affianced her to the insidious Lord Avaritus. She watches, powerless, as he ruthlessly annihilates all she loves.

When Calista tries escape with the remnants of her family, a storm strikes their vessel and Calista is hurled overboard. She reemerges in Atlantis, summoned by the leaders of the undersea domain. The very fiber of her identity shudders after she learns that she is the daughter of Neptune—and not quite mortal.

Despite the manipulation of Atlantis’s leaders and the romantic temptations of a pair of smirking grey eyes, Calista must find a way to return to Portus Tarrus to rescue her family and seek revenge against the man who destroyed everything she held dear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mira Zamin
• Release date: Dec 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466060388

Mira Zamin

I'm a recent college graduate who loves traveling, eating, and eating while traveling. I majored in ancient and medieval history, which I found to be a constant source of literary inspiration as well as general fascination. I grew up loving to read and write, especially historical fiction and fantasy—anything that can open up amazing new worlds, a philosophy I try to bring to my own writing.My profile picture and the cover of "Daughter of the Sea" (accidentally) have the same pose. The subconscious is a weird and whacky place.

Book preview

PART I: TERRONENSIS

CHAPTER I

The salty wind tugged at her robe, twining the water-heavy wool around her legs. Both the ocean and sky were a foreboding iron grey, but she was undeterred. Cool gusts teased tendrils of golden hair, chanting her name longingly: Calista, Calista. Caught in the trance of the rhythmic waves, she felt herself yanked into the embrace of the water. The sand slid from beneath her feet and she was falling, falling…

Caly! The exclamation broke through her reverie. Her eyes snapped open as she caught her balance. She returned to reality as gently as a gull’s downy feather floating into to the sea.

Come here! Look at what I’ve caught! commanded the voice from across the gravelly expanse of beach.

Coming, Pyp! Her thoughts clearing, she bounded towards the dark-haired boy clutching a net. Pebbles crunched beneath her sandals. Well, what have you caught here? Calista asked, brushing away agitated strands of hair.

He thrust the finely woven net towards her and presented his prize: a small mussel twisted in the threads of the mesh, its violet interior apparent. Despite the meager nature of his trophy, Pyp’s tanned face glowed with the bright pride of accomplishment.

With a grin, Calista congratulated her younger brother and ruffled his curls affectionately. Her fingers glided through their cool silkiness.

"And, look Calista, look! I found something beautiful!"

W-where did you get that? she gasped. Her hands reaching for it instinctively, of their own volition. He held before her a largish circular pendant, set with midnight blue lapis lazuli flecked with gold. It was not that the pendant was particularly fine—she owned finer lovely jewels—but something about the delicate work, the shape of the locket, resonated with her, thrummed in her blood, like a drum pounding a long-forgotten beat.

In the net! he exclaimed.

Might I hold it? Her hands were still outstretched, soft palms turned upward.

Of course. After a moment’s pause and a burst of heady generosity, he added, It’s yours.

Oh, Pyp! Thank you! Gently, she took the locket and clenched it in a tight fist. It felt...right. She raised the pendant against the silver clouds, marveling at its subtle inlay. Her fingers tried to pry the clasp open but it stuck; she did not pursue it further but instead embraced Pyp.

With clear impatience, Pyp suffered through the hugs, anxiously squirming away once Calista’s hold loosened. Calista, Mother and Father will worry if we stay out much longer—it’s nearly evening.

Of course Master, Calista acquiesced dryly, even bobbing a small bow. She strung the pendant on a chain next to her gold bulla as a temporary measure. It clinked merrily against the amulet.

They waded through the sand, laughing companionably, age barriers disintegrating with the darkening sky. It was conscious, this crumbling, for they were approaching an end of times. Within a week, Pyp would be celebrating his seventh birthday, marking his foray into a world of learning that would prepare him for a senatorial career in Rome and then to perhaps be appointed by the Senate to his father’s place as Governor of Terronensis for the honor of the great emperor Augustus Caesar. Or, if he had his way, pursue a career harassing and fooling innocent bystanders.

As for Calista, marriage was an ever-looming prospect, which was becoming more tangible with every instant. Their mother’s handmaids were scandalized that Calista was sixteen and not even betrothed; many of her girlhood friends had been married in the last few seasons. It astounded those women that her father had wealth, power, and she had some modicum of beauty—and that would flee soon, they warned—and yet she remained unwed. Calista had tried several times to explain that at a recent sixteen she just was not prepared and her father respected that decision—to some extent. They clucked and paid no attention to her protestations, and instead complained about the sheer expectations of the youth these days, and, yes, the foolishness of the proconsul Lucretius to let his eldest have her will on such an important issue. Nonetheless, she knew she would not be able to stall the inevitable for much longer. For that matter, she did not even know if she wanted to.

In my day, had huffed one of the handmaids, as she folded the laundry a few days prior, a girl was lucky to see her fiancé before the wedding. To choose him! She had exchanged darkly significant looks with the other maids but Calista had merely chortled and left the room. As if their day had been so very different from her own.

Pyp and Calista had only this one week. After, they would go their separate ways: he with his progressing studies and she with her own life. The fork was approaching rapidly and it would two worlds where there had only been one.

Guess what Calista! Guess! Pyp chanted eagerly, jarring her from her musing once again. Guess, guess, guess!

Um, you saw Apollo this morning pulling his own chariot like an ass?

Calista! Pyp gasped, scandalized. A small hand covered his rosebud mouth. "What would the pontifix say?"

I’m not going to tell them, and neither are you. She grinned conspiratorially.

Pyp giggled at his sister’s brazenness. Everyone thought that Calista was so good (though headstrong). He knew better. She was scandalous. She swore freely, and she would run on the beach with her stola pulled up past her knees and say devilish things like "To Hades with the pontifix!"

No! he exclaimed. "Someone’s coming." Eagerly, he waited for her to ask him who was coming but she remained silent. A smile played around her lips. Every so often, she slid a mock-sly glance in his direction.

Finally, Pyp could bear his silence no more. He burst out, Traders! Traders are coming tomorrow!

Traders? Do you recall when the group a few months ago brought that huge cat from Africa? A leopard. She shuddered delightedly at the memory of the horrific roaring beast. "They said those places were even more uncivilized than Gaul!"

Pyp jigged excitedly on the sand, his tunic beating at his knees to the rhythm of the wind. Yes, and mother wouldn’t let me keep it!

Calista snorted incredulously, loosening her hair and allowing it to wave behind her. Her palla looped carelessly about her arms. The slaves would have fled from fear and the floor would have been covered with their...defecations...

Defecations? repeated Pyp, perplexed.

Oh, you know what I mean! Calista giggled. Don’t make me say it Pyp!

Pyp stared at her blankly.

Oh, very well: Shi—

Ahhh! Pyp giggled. His older sister was a very bad girl.

She scooped a handful of gravel off the beach. It scratched her hands as it sifted through her fingers and hit the ground like soft raindrops. Are they coming by land or sea? Calista asked. Because of the great amounts of salt and wine produced in the region, strangers, with their novel ways and interesting looks, were steadily becoming a more common sight. Merchants especially flooded the city. But each ship brought with it new people and new stories and despite the frequency of their arrivals, the anticipation never lost its shine.

By sea, and they are coming from Punic! The third group this Aprilis, right Caly? Pyp twisted in the air, excited to impart information to his older sister whose knowledge he considered to border on omniscience.

Punic! There is nothing in Punic, Calista laughed. We destroyed the Punici centuries ago!

Pyp stuck his tongue out of a corner of his mouth and rolled his eyes up to the grey sky in thought. Oh, sorry, not Punic then...I think my tutor was talking about them yesterday, he explained utterly without embarrassment.

You should pay more attention to your lessons! she admonished, waggling her finger at him in a fair imitation of their nursemaid, Nuala. Hmm…I believe I can convince father to buy me a new gold chain. I can put your lovely present on it. She ruffled his hair again.

He looked up at her with keen disinterest.

They entered the villa’s courtyard, where slaves bustled around, occupied with their tasks. Two native maids carted around baskets of laundry, and a handful of urchins played a game with old dice, wagering stones. They called out to Pyp who was eager to scamper off but Calista held on fast to his hand.

Portus Tarrus had been home for many years and Calista warmed fondly at the villa’s lavish Corinthian columns, which swooped past her and seemed to emerge again somewhere between the clouds. They led her gaze into the courtyard, paved with large, smooth flagstones, and then to the ornate fountain that spouted fresh water from a deep spring. The massive white manse was almost a wholly new construction. To her, it possessed none of that air of state that she associated with the Greek Parthenon that she had seen four years ago before her father had received the posting in Terronensis from the Senate. It felt comfortable, a home now.

Nicetius Tertillius Volusus!

Pyp scowled at his name. Calista could read his thoughts on his face: Who wants a name like Nicetius Tertillius Volusus?

Calista Tertillia Volusus! Where have the two of you been? The whole household is in upheaval searching for you rascally louts. If the village seer-woman had told me I was to be charged with taking care of two scamps like you, I would have run away years ago! It was their nurse, Nuala.

Rascally lout. Calista snorted. If not a wife, then why not that? she thought.

One of the Emperor’s men has come, and on important business too. The two of you must get ready! A native of Gaul, Nuala, hustled them past the courtyard and into the warm atmosphere of their home. A thin woman, she still managed to induce within her charges more terror and adoration than the presence of Augustus himself would have inspired.

They entered, not by the formal entrance, but through a side door which led to a curving staircase. Bright tiles with captions in stately gold-leafed Latin lined the steps. The floors and walls were worked with glimmering glass and gleaming stone: and these mosaics were produced by Portus Tarrus’ own tileworks. Calista breathed a sigh at the chill air inside. Ventilated by many windows, the villa was kept cool in the summer by the gardens’ shade. It sprawled grandly, leading to numerous wings which were all connected by the atrium. Just as all roads led to Rome, all corridors led to the atrium.

Dashing up the stairs, Calista absently ran her fingers against the wall—the mosaics were smooth and jagged by turns— until the skin of her finger snagged on a tile. With a small yip, she stuck her finger in her mouth. The salty taste of blood flooding her tongue, she entered her room, located in a snug corner on the top floor. One of the finest rooms in the villa, the mosaics showed in vivid color the Seven Hills of Rome where she and her family had resided before moving to Terronensis.

Luxuries from all around the Empire littered the chamber’s fine furniture. A delicate jewel box of fragrant of sandalwood sat on the dresser; a Greek statuette of Poseidon rested on a desk; scrolls of Homer’s Odyssey and Hesiod’s The Works and Days were crammed into shelves. In the corner of her room, where the sunlight was best, stood a loom upon which a half-woven piece, depicting Ariadne battling the Minotaur sagged; Theseus was notably absent. Just above the loom and out of a gleaming glass window, unfolded a magnificent view of the evanescent ocean. The glass was uneven and blurry but the dusky silver of the sea still shined through. The manor was built away from the faulty foundations of the sand and if Calista strained, not only could she see the sea but also the Circus Maximus, the Baths, and the Pantheon of Portus Tarrus.

Calista extracted the sandalwood box, carved with vines twisting until each separate step was indeterminable, from a heap of rubbish on the table. When she opened it, the failing daylight refracted off the jewels: amethyst, sapphire, emerald, gold. She placed the locket inside and softly closed the box.

CHAPTER II

Later, Calista emerged from the family’s bathhouse. Although it was small, with its formal columns and heated floors, it was as fine as any in Rome. Perfumed, oiled, and dressed, Calista had one of her maids bring out the mirror of polished silver in her room. She inspected the reflection. Her sunny hair had been artfully piled on her head—still simple enough for a maiden, of course—and braided with dainty white, yellow, and purple buds. The sky blue robe, which had taken the maids the better part of an hour to drape, was cinched with a worked gold belt. The rich color deepened her eyes to cornflower.

"Be sure not to ruin it, domina," admonished her slave girls, both thin and dark-haired, in eerie unison.

Calista rubbed her hands over the faint spots left from the blemishes of her younger years, thanking Venus once again that they had gone, leaving only a vague mark of their presence that her mother promised would disappear with time. Now, they only erupted occasionally and could be very well contained with hair arranged just-so or careful application of a powder.

Is the guest handsome? Calista asked hopefully.

"Nay, domina, one of her handmaidens laughed. He is old enough to be your grandfather."

Then I suppose I must be on my best behavior, so he may carry my attributes back to Mother Rome, she sighed. Her own mother often coined such phrases in her speeches about the meaning of decorum.

The maids tittered but Calista’s face grew darker with frustration. Several men had proposed to her before, or rather her father. Their overtures had in a fit on her part and a refusal to marry. However much Calista’s parents nominally (and unorthodoxly) accepted her decision not to marry quite yet, they were eager to see their eldest wed. Calista knew her unwillingness to marry worried her parents; her mother had been married at fourteen and Calista was two years beyond that age. Damn it all, she muttered to herself, refusing to be embarrassed by her vastly childish stubbornness. Louder, she said, You are dismissed.

They backed out, bowing in their short tunics.

Calista’s mother, the famed beauty, Olympia Tertia, entered the room as the stooped maids exited. Olympia smiled at her daughter’s classic pose: legs crossed, head tilted to one side as it rested upon her clasped hands. However, when her eyes fell on the cases of the great orator, Cicero, lying beside Calista on the white linen sheets of the bed, her eyebrows furrowed in frustration. Reading was all well and good but if prospective husbands discovered that Calista fancied herself an advocate, as evident by her argumentative stance on so many things, the marriage proposals would all but disappear. Beneath the cases of Cicero lay The Histories of Polybius, and Olympia recognized the well-worn copy as her husband’s own. Well, at least it’s not Demosthenes, she muttered. And erudition is certainly not a fault in a Roman woman although my daughter could use the virtue of silence from time to time!

"Bene salve, Mother," grinned Calista, making a half-hearted effort to push Cicero out of sight.

Unlike Calista, Olympia’s hair was a night black that glittered red in the sunlight. The obsidian of her eyes was accentuated by her palla of purest white, lined with a thick strip of Tyrian purple. The only similarity between us, Calista decided for the umpteenth time, is our noses.

Absently stroking Calista’s hair, Olympia slid beside Calista on the bed, which was lofted high by gleaming wood columns. A few flowers tumbled to the floor. Your aunt Laetitia has written from Rome and I must say what she has to say has left me quite surprised, announced Olympia, brandishing a sheet of parchment.

Do tell, Calista said with a laugh.

"Well, she writes, Olympia, you may soon find yourself without a husband! Do not make that face, Sister but I write to tell you that one Caecina Severus (you know the one, who wrote those tirades against Caesar) has proposed that governors may not take their wives with them while they are performing their duties in the provinces." Olympia looked at Calista with expectation. "What do you think of that?"

It seems outrageous. Why would he ever recommend such a thing? Calista, exclaimed, inflamed, immediately imagining this Caecina as an embittered man without a wife or mistress and therefore resentful of all those whose wives were willing to leave Rome to be with their husbands.

Apparently we are much too interfering in affairs of the state, said Olympia dryly but Calista privately recognized that perhaps Caecina had a point—her mother held her own when it came to the business of Portus Tarrus. Doubtlessly this issue was struck down by the Senate soon after the absurd fellow proposed the idea. Now, dear Calista, I beg of you, please, be on your best behavior tonight for our guest, Avaritus.

So he can carry my attributes back to Mother Rome? Calista asked, unsurprised by the swift turn of conversation. Her mother had a habit of lulling her with gossip and then, quick as a viper, striking her with a command.

Olympia shifted uncomfortably for a moment before finally nodding briefly. So keep a proper tongue in your head.

Taking Calista’s hand, Olympia led her steadily to the dining hall, the triclinium from which musicians’ strumming floated. A vast, rectangular, room, the triclinium was inlaid with mosaics of Ceres and her helpers harvesting fields, each touch gilding the wheat stalks and turned the leaves scarlet. On the opposite wall was a bawdy and gaudy mosaic of Bacchus and some nymphs at a clearly wine-sodden feast.

Olympia sat down on a plush green sofa next to her reclining husband, Lucretius Tertillius Volusus, who was garbed in a toga of plain but fine wool. Calista took her seat next to Pyp, who leaned on the couch as casual as any emperor.

Move over, Calista commanded, gently shoving him aside. You have conquered this whole seat, Caesar.

With a small laugh, Pyp scooted to the edge. There are two other couches open: take those, he suggested. At this statement, Calista leveled him a deliberate look. After several moments, Pyp exclaimed, You know, I have really big news!

What Pyp? she whispered, elbowing him to lower his voice as Lucretius and Olympia simultaneously glanced at them sharply.

Pyp suddenly shook his head and Calista turned around to see the grey-haired man.

Good afternoon, Proconsul Lucretius, Dominae Olympia, Calista and young Pyp, he said, bowing slightly in the direction of his hosts. Despite his age, he walked straight-backed. His hair was shorn short, in the fashion of the Caesars, and his cloudy grey beard, which gathered into the pale, oddly delicate, crags of his skin, was cropped as well. His beard flouted fashion: men were supposed to be clean-shaven. Avaritus’ eyes though, were black, and where Olympia’s eyes conveyed the warmth of smoldering coal and security of the night, his eyes reflected…and perhaps Calista was imagining it but his eyes reflected the fear night produced.

Lucretius rose and greeted the guest warmly. "Bonum vesperum, Avaritus. How was your journey? Portus Tarrus is quite a long ways from Rome; I hope it was comfortable."

Quite, replied Avaritus tersely, his eyes ranging covetously across the furniture and property, electing to recline near her parents.

Not noticing anything peculiar, Lucretius chuckled. I never imagined, when I met you at Drusillius’ soirée and described my home and family to you and you vowed that you would come and visit that you would make good on your word. And in less than a year since the meeting! Delighted, absolutely delighted, I am to have you here. It’s just a quiet dinner tonight with the family, but we shall fête you properly tomorrow night!

Lounging on the couch, Avaritus held Calista’s eyes for a moment. I must confess it was the description of your lovely daughter which intrigued me the most. That and the account of your fine wine! he added with a chuckle.

Olympia and Lucretius laughed politely while Calista and Pyp rolled their eyes. Obligingly, Olympia gestured for a slave standing at the fringes of the room to pour wine into Avaritus’ goblet.

The first course of the cena had begun and their slaves scurried about, presenting a large plate of fish in the center of the table. Calista dipped a bite of fish into mulsum, a wine sauce sweetened with honey. The light strums of the kithara did not sit well with the foreboding tickling her spine.

Calistaaaaa, Pyp sang out again.

Yes, oh dear brother? she answered with a grin.

I have a secret, he whispered around a mouthful of fish with an air of great importance. Calista was rewarded with the sight of half-masticated flesh floundering in his mouth.

She waggled her eyebrows at him outrageously. Oh really? Do tell.

I heard father say that Avaritus means to marry you, Pyp spilled eagerly, and then covered his mouth, aghast. Not shocking himself for too long, Pyp took a long draught of water and then waited for Calista to respond to his investigative findings.

And you also heard the traders were coming from Punic, Calista commented blandly, not believing her younger brother, not wanting to believe him.

Pyp twisted his face.

Despite Calista’s doubt, she frequently glanced at the old man. More often than not, his eyes met her own. He was…aged. He cannot ask for me to marry him, he simply cannot. He was much too old, and even if he did, her parents would not make her marry him. With that final argument she convinced herself; she was not marrying him—although a voice did tell her that if her parents so desired, they were perfectly within their rights to coerce her. Pyp just had to go and get his ears checked by a physician. Never mind the fact, a voice whispered to her, that girls younger than you have married men older than them—and have been happy to do so!

Surreptitiously, Calista observed the adults discuss something with avid interest. Olympia’s face was drawn, and she kept sending looks of askance towards the two men. Avaritus was speaking softly and earnestly. When the conversation shifted away from him for a moment, he looked covetously around the dining hall. When his eyes lighted on Calista, his expression slipped into a sly smirk that might have passed for a smile had Calista not already been floating in suspicion.

The slaves took away their knives and empty plates and replaced them with the larger plates of the second course, the prima mensa. The libation bearers refilled the men’s goblets with wine and with water for the women and Pyp. Calista bit into the main course of chicken cooked with cabbage, parsnips and garlic presented with soft bread fresh from the ovens. Ignoring the nightingale’s tongues, she added honeyed dormice, oysters, and mussels to her plate.

The adults seemed as engrossed in their hushed conversation as they had during the gustatio. Now, not only Avaritus but Lucretius and Olympia would glance at her quickly in the middle of the conversation. Heat rising to her face, Calista tried to ignore them and enjoy the meal and lilting music but she found herself wishing that the secunda mensa would come soon so that the dinner might be over. Perhaps there had been some truth in Pyp’s hearsay but surely her parents would have asked her to join in the conversation if they were truly discussing her marriage?

Calista thought she heard someone call her name, and her heart leapt out of its pocket. Oh, Juno...please say it is not true. She studied them closely, trying to read gestures and lips but to no avail. She attempted to turn her attention to the meal but her stomach had gone to ash. She found herself sneaking glances at Avaritus. He smiled at occasional comments her father had made and then frowned thoughtfully. As if feeling her gaze, he flashed a glance at