The cool air of the subterranean chamber did nothing for the slave woman who screamed in agony as she pushed her child forcibly into the world. Her cries echoed through the hollowed halls, agony filling them to the point of overflowing into the upper levels, where the house of Pompeius rested high and mighty upon its lowly foundations. The woman wailed and cried, her body set aflame by the pain that scorched through her every nerve. Blood stained the air at her lips as well as the bed beneath her legs. The slave was dying, and she knew it. Such was her punishment for offending the Gods with the bastard child that was ending her life as it took its own.

The midwife dabbed her forehead with a cool cloth, for there was little else she could do. The slave woman's chest heaved as the shoulders of her child passed through her thin hips, the rest of its body following smoothly onto the crimson sheet. The midwife wiped the child down, ridding it of its mother's blood.

"A girl."

The midwife announced.

As was custom, the father of the child went to pick up his daughter, and hold her in his arms. It was a symbol of acceptance, a sign that the father knew and professed that this child was his. Though the girl's father was but a child himself at the time, he had outstretched his arms in what was to be a warm embrace, welcoming his daughter to the world. He was stopped however, by the stern hand of his own father. Gnaeus Pompeius Strabo would not have some common whore giving birth to a child his son would accept as his own. At 14, his son was but a child himself, he should never have allowed his son the rights of Toga Virilis so soon.

The slave woman wailed in anguish as she watched her daughter being rejected by the only one who could protect her. She sobbed and cursed the Pompeius line with her final breaths.

"Heed my words Strabo!"

She cried out, using the last amounts of life she had within her.

"Until your son raises his daughter in his arms, there will be no end of trouble for you or your line,"

She said, narrowing her eyes at the man before whispering her final curse.

"Even after she has departed this life."

Strabo was ready to strike the woman down when she collapsed, departing for the after world herself. She left her daughter with not but a curse and a life with which to build her existence upon.

The midwife -knowing that if she did not pick up the child no one would- brought the girl into her own arms. She would have to find a yew to milk and a few cloths from her dominus, however it was her duty to do so. She had, after all, helped bring the child into the world. Her conscience simply would not allow for any other course of action. She looked up at her master, who was already on his way out when she called to him.

"Dominus,"

She spoke, catching the man's attention.

"What of her name?"

She asked, knowing full well that it was a foolish idea to ask of such a thing. Still, if she had anything to do with it, the child she held in her arms was going to get at least one gift from her grandfather.

The man pondered for a moment, tapping his chin a before waving his hand in the air as though shooing away an annoying insect.
"I'll call her Ancilla."

He said in an uncaring tone as he turned on his heel and made his way back to the upper villa.

The midwife turned to the girl crying gently in her arms.

"Ancilla..."

She whispered. It was a beautiful name, one that when spoken resounded of nobility, grace, and kindness. It was a beautiful name; if one was ignorant of its meaning.

"Slave maiden."

The midwife whispered, cuddling Ancilla close, offering her what physical warmth she could.


Sixteen years later and Ancilla lay in her bed, awake well past the midnight hour, covering her ears. Though still not considered her father's daughter, she had been allowed the graces of a room inside the villa when her grandfather had died. Her father was a kinder man than her grandfather; however Strabo's dislike of his grandchild had still rubbed off on his son. Gnaeus often looked at Ancilla with a certain question glinting in the back of his eyes, wondering if she was truly his, wondering if his father hadn't been right all along. To him she was little more than a slave in his house, one that been born in it and thus had gained a bit of favour.

It hadn't always been so, in fact when Gnaeus had been in his earlier years he had often played with and taught Ancilla in his spare time. Despite her grandfather's many disapproving rants Gnaeus had taught her how to read, and even on very special occasions, how to ride the horses amongst his father's stable. That had abruptly ended however when Strabo took a whip to the young girl's back. It had been the first and last time she had felt the sting of a whip upon her shoulders, however she had never been able to forget the sting of the leather.

As the years passed however, Gnaeus had been given much less time off, and it was almost as though he had forgotten that she existed. She had to admit, that when she had received her own room after her eleventh year, and an attendant in her thirteenth, she had thought that perhaps he was trying to make up for not being there for her in her life, to tell her that she was remembered.

This night however, she was completely forgotten, as the music, laughter, and moans of her father's whores rang out through the halls. Ancilla took a pillow and shoved it over her head. Her hands weren't doing the job of keeping out the noise, and as she soon found out neither was the pillow. She wondered silently to herself why her father still kept his whores. Had he not learned his lesson? The question ran like poison through her mind, tainting every happy memory she had of her father.

The girl took a deep breath and added another pillow to the top of her head. Soon they would be done, she assured herself, and she could get some sleep. Tomorrow the light of day would bring with it the promise of something spectacular, something never witnessed before; a gladiatorial game. Ancilla's heart beat faster just thinking about it. Her father had never brought her anywhere before out of shame, however he had agreed that for her sixteenth birthday, she could be allowed to attend a day of games. Her father had always been a great fan of the games; it was why he had moved to Capua in the first place. The city was home to the finest gladiator schools in all of the republic, and with that in mind, Ancilla knew that her father would be in high spirits all day long.

Finally the noise began to dim, and the villa went quiet but for the wind that flew through the halls.

Yes, high spirits. And with them would come the opportunity to please her father, and hopefully gain his recognition. No longer would she be Ancilla. She would be granted the name he had wanted to give her at birth; Gnaea Pompeia Concordia. Pompey the Peaceful.