This Thing Called Ciabatta Bread

By Rebecca Morgan

Gaul, 47 BC

Scents of olive oil and flour tickle my nose as I set up my bread stand. Caesar’s statue rises above me, a constant reminder of who’s in charge. That I can never escape those who are always watching. I send a prayer to the gods thanking them for the coolness of the statue’s shade, because it won’t last.

“Élodie!”

I flinch and a spark emanates from my fingers. Ottilie stands by my booth, smiling and reeking of fish. I hold back my gag and plaster on a smile. Did she see?

“I see you’re learning the art of this ciabatta bread.” She picks up a loaf and I stiffen, wishing she would leave.

“I haven’t gotten up before the sun for nothing.”

Ottilie could never know why I was so desperate. That the Romans steal from my shop. Eat anything that a body could chew. But this thing called ciabatta bread? I have to master that. An olive-skinned face dances across my vision. I shove it aside.

“You should loosen up, you know.” Ottilie puts the loaf down, narrowing her eyes. “Sometimes I think…” She glances at her booth, glimmering with scaly fish. “Oh! I have a customer.” She throws me a smile and darts off.

I send another prayer of thanks to the gods that Ottilie didn’t see, and twist my hands together for good measure. I love her dearly, but I can’t have people close.

The market comes alive as the sun climbs across the sky. Vendors with colorful fabrics. Tangy olives and earthy woven baskets. Sweet honey cakes for the gods. But it isn’t all here. I remember when magic was sold in this square. Spells that cost a man’s livelihood could be bought. And people did buy them. Cures for diseases of the stomach. For fevers that drained the life from you. For wounds leaking yellow pus. It was here till they stopped it. When we were conquered, and the magic we wielded was controlled. But they can’t prevent people from being born with it, though in the darkness of the night they try.

Heat radiates off the cobblestones, making the air hotter than my oven. Will he come today? I hope he does. I hope he doesn’t. Because truly I shouldn’t hope for such things. Not for one such as me. Does he know who I am? What I am? A lowly baker possessing forbidden magic.

Roman centurions walk the square, eyes watching, searching. Like a hawk hunting its prey. Any excuse will do to snare us in their talons. To throw anyone peddling in magic to creatures we have never known. One looks my way and my heart beats faster. I will the magic in me to stay hidden. His eyes move on past me.

The hatred from my countrymen is hidden behind stony gazes, never reaching their eyes. Hands drop to empty scabbards. Urchins throw rotten vegetables. Curses are muttered under breaths. Eyes once full of love and life are kept empty and we suffer all the more for it.

“Good day.”

My heart beats faster at the voice and my eyes focus on the Roman centurion in front of me with his deep black hair that my fingers want to run through. The thought shocks me and I curl my hands into fists so they don’t betray me again. How can one be attracted to the enemy? The arm of the emperor who cares little for your wellbeing. Your life. Who you are.

When I don’t respond, his smile falters. “I’d like a loaf of ciabatta bread, please.” He whispers softly, nodding toward the pile I baked this morning.

I nod, not surprised. It’s what he’s come by to purchase for weeks. Same time. Always.

He removes the coins from his purse, fingers brushing mine as he drops them into my hand. His touch leaves trails of fire on my skin.

And that’s when it happens. A purple spark leaps from my hands, hovering in the air like a fragile butterfly before disappearing. I freeze, my eyes going to the man who could spill my blood on the ground because of what flows in it.

Neither one of us move, the heat between our hands growing stronger. The noise of the market fades to a dull roar.

“You’re one of them?” he whispers, eyes unreadable.

“Yes,” I reply softly, unable to deny it, aching to share what is a part of me.

He steps back and my hand grows cold.

“Thank you. For the bread.” He lingers. A hint of unease is in his posture as he scans the square. He opens his mouth, closes it. Rocks back on the balls of his feet.

Why didn’t he say anything to try and calm the chaos in my heart? Did he even want to talk to me? A sharp stabbing pain fills my chest and I push it down. Hide it among the rest of me.

“You bake nice bread.” His face turns the color of his uniform. Red as the setting sun. A slow smile creeps across his face. A small one. One that adds light and happiness to my dirty world. One that reaches his eyes, giving me a glimpse into his soul. I don’t dare believe what I see. My legs tremble, and I thank the gods he can’t see. How humiliating.

“You know I’m…” The words fade.

“Yes,” he whispers back softly.

Words fail me, leaving me floundering for anything to say. How does one love an enemy?

Another customer comes, turning my attention away. The Roman backs away, disappearing into the growing crowd. People glare at his retreating back but I can’t defend the man who takes my secret with him.

Hope and excitement blossom in my chest.

I wonder if he will come back.

I hope he doesn’t.

I hope he does.

I really hope he does.

And I’ll have a loaf of ciabatta bread waiting.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rebecca Morgan has been writing stories since before she could read—or at least, she thought she was! All these years later, she is definitely writing, having written four novels and countless stories and poems. Rebecca aims to write stories that heal and bring healing through the written word. Besides writing, Rebecca loves cooking, reading, journaling, blue oceans, and salsa. She lives in the South with her family.

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