Over the course of a few months, as the year 68 began, Nero’s moods became increasingly sour. His paranoia found new victims at every corner, and Thomitus knew his time to produce a traitor was quickly running out. Nero was watching even closer than before. But Thomitus kept his mouth closed and his ears open, and locked in his room at night with his pen, sitting across the wall from his only love, he scribbled.
At the end of March, rumors of Senator Galba’s plan to overthrow Nero and claim the role of Emperor became more than whispers. Galba had support. He had the majority of the Senate behind him, but more importantly, the man had won the heart of the people.
Things happened quickly after that.
March, 28, 68 AD
Josephine
She could hear the sound of footsteps outside her door, shuffling against the wood, and iron keys in the lock. The vile room had been her prison, one she was most willing to escape if it was not for leaving Thomitus behind. He had never left her. Every night, he met her, and every night, he reassured her. Those words had lost their power. The soldiers approached.
Will Nero make good on his promise? Is Thomitus still alive? Her heart pounded as she backed into the farthest corner of the room. The wooden door swung open, ricocheting off the fresco behind it, tiny chips of plaster and paint trickling to the ground in a small pile.
Guards escorted her from the palace. Before the sunlight could assault her eyes, a musky-smelling sack was placed over her head. She could hear the gossip swirling around her. The Emperor had been run off. Senator Galba was Rome’s new Emperor, quickly making good on the promises to rid the city of the filth that was associated with Nero and his reign. She panted with fear. They thought her to be part of the filth.
Nero had run like a coward and gone into hiding. The persons concealing him had been put to death when the Emperor was found. But he was not found alive. He had heard their approach and took the dishonorable way out, before they could find him, seize him, and bring him to justice. The only one left in his circle, Epuphroditos, had been the one charged with running Nero through, as he lacked the bravery to fall upon his own sword.
Josephine was shoved into a wall, or that was how it felt. With trembling fingers, she removed the moldy sack from her head after the door slammed closed behind her and took in her surroundings. Surrounded by four close walls and a low ceiling, she was in a cell. The door was wooden, thick, and only a tiny square of the timber had been cut away to make a window her upper arm would not even fit through. Her throat was dry as the Roman soil.
For days, they kept her there. No food. No water. No facilities other than a corner of the room, but she did not even need that corner after a couple of days. Having consumed nothing, she had nothing to expel. Mice scurried through the few tiny piles of hay that littered the floor. They were too quick for her to catch, especially in her weakened state. She felt as though her arms were leaden. And she was cold.
So cold.
Curling into a ball, she tried to keep warm, her thoughts traveling to Thomitus and his uncertain fate. She was alone. She was hungry, tired, frightened.
She cried.
She yelled.
She slept.
She starved.
Hour by hour, she weakened. Her muscles became as tired as her mind. She had considered every scenario and none, save Thomitus riding in on a white horse and taking her away from that awful place, seemed to be remotely positive. And that possibility was non-existent. If Thomitus were coming, he would have already shown up.
Thomitus
Guards appeared while Thomitus was crossing the palace pavilion. There are too many of them for Nero have sanctioned this, he thought. They marched determinedly toward the Emperor’s known quarters. Thomitus tried to hurry away, but two seized him by the arms, wrestling his thickened body to the ground. Heavy punches landed on his lower back, on his kidneys, and he had no choice but to submit—it was a move he had once taught those under his command.
Thick shackles clamped onto his wrists, and the men hauled him upright. He was spat upon, kicked, gagged, and then a thick sack was placed over his head. The beating continued as they shoved him along.
“Nero’s inner circle, huh?” They taunted.
“The Emperor has been found. The coward is dead, too frightened to fall upon his own sword, he had to have a friend run him through.” They laughed. The story was more than likely true, but they did not know about Thomitus, what he had decided to do—to save Josephine.
They did not know about her. She had no affiliation with the late Emperor. She was innocent. “Josephine,” he tried to say, the material of the gag distorting his words.
The sack was ripped from his head, the afternoon light blinding him. He tried to get his bearings, blinking through watery eyes.
“Aww, he’s crying.” One of the guards teased, his lip pursed.
“Josephine.” Thomitus tried again.
He was in the city’s center, approaching the gates of the Colosseum. He swallowed, knowing exactly what happened in that arena. But as they entered the gate and approached the center ring, he found no crowd, only a stone block streaming with fresh blood. A giant of a man awaited, holding the handle of a large ax.
That was it. That was how he would die. Frantically, Thomitus fought, using his last bit of strength, screaming Josephine’s name through the gag until one of the guards tore it away. “Josephine!” He roared. “She’s at the palace. She’s innocent! I swear she’s innocent. Nero was holding her prisoner.”
The guards laughed at him. “There are no innocents in that place.”
As they strapped him to the stone, smashing his cheek into the crevices of pooled blood, flies buzzed around his face. “She is innocent. Nero took her!”
One particularly nasty guard, with snarled, yellow teeth, and a scar that ran from his left tear duct to his jaw sneered and crouched down. “Josephine, you say?”
Thomitus tried to nod. “Yes. Please, save her.”
The guard smiled, looking from his friend back to Thomitus. “Oh, I will find her. I will take real good care of her, too.”
“No!” Thomitus roared. Their laughter echoed over the empty seats. His forehead was strapped to the rock. Flashes of Josephine entered his mind.
Her smiling.
Her laughing.
Her crying.
Her crouched in that awful room in the palace, beating her hands against the door, begging for release.
Soldiers making good on their promise.
Josephine.
He muttered her name, and a meaty fist connected with his jaw, snapping the bones apart at the hinge so he could speak no more. The last sound he heard was the whoosh of the ax blade through the air.
Josephine
Sharp pangs pinched her stomach from within. She curled into the fetal position to make it stop. It had been so long since anyone had brought food. Something was wrong. Or, perhaps they had forgotten her.
Thomitus was gone.
Everyone was gone.
They were going to leave her to rot in there, she was sure of it. How long has it been? She had not even needed to relieve herself in days. She rocked back and forth on the cold tile. Her body was too hot.
Where is Thomitus?
Has he told the Senate about Nero?
Will he come for me?
Time blurred.
Josephine’s mind was a murky bog.
The sound of footsteps outside her door startled her awake. With difficulty, she pushed herself up to standing, legs quivering beneath her.
Thomitus was on the other side of the door. He had come for her at last.
Excitement washed over her as she stumbled toward the sounds. But when the door was wrenched open, it was not Thomitus’s face she saw.
Four soldiers stood proudly, chests broad and grins wide.
Has he come through after all? A rush of excitement flooded her veins. Her mouth was a desert. “Did Thomitus send you?”
A vile-smell
ing man stepped through the doorway. “Are you Josephine?”
“Y-yes,” she rasped.
“Thomitus told us all about you. I can see why he was so concerned,” he said, circling her. His eyes raked over her body, and she trembled, not from weakness, but from fear. The other men stepped into the room.
Thomitus told them about me? He sent them for me? Her heart crumbled into a million dried-up pieces of flesh. She could almost feel the flecks sprinkling the skin of her feet, a light snow of heartbreak. The only one she had ever allowed herself to love had betrayed her. If she had tears, they would have flown like engorged rivers out of their banks. But she had nothing left to give.
When the men grabbed her wrists, she screamed and clawed. She kicked out at them. But she was far too weak. And the men were far too strong, too determined to break her.
And they did.
Again, and again, and again.
Date: September 24, 1584
Location: On the banks of the Thames near St. Paul’s Cathedral
Sir Thomas sat on the bench in the garden and watched the barges float past. He was surrounded by roses; the smell helped his jangling nerves a bit, but the lapping noise of the water was what always incited true calm. As he leaned forwards, propped his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands, he prayed for a favorable outcome. He whispered, “Amen,” and a shrill scream split the air, causing him to leap to his feet and spin around.
One of his father’s servants rushed from the back door of the manor and gestured wildly. “‘Tis a girl, ‘tis a girl! Come, Sir Thomas, and look. She is very handsome.”
Relief spread through Thomas’s chest. He lifted his eyes towards the sky in thanks before running for the house to see his wife and new daughter. He was made to wait, so he paced the hall and ran his fingers through his hair several times. In the moment before his annoyance at being summoned too early peaked, one of the chambermaids poked her head out. “They are ready, sir.”
With his heart hammering in his chest, he pushed open the door to the bedchamber and put his head through the crack. “May I enter, my lady?”
His wife’s sweet voice reached him. “Thomas, you certainly have a flair for the dramatic.” She giggled. “Of course you may enter. Come, see our little daughter.”
He opened the door the rest of the way and strode to stand beside his wife. Her face was suffused but radiant, and she exuded happiness as she presented the baby bundle to him. Before he took the child into his arms, he leaned down and kissed his wife soundly. “She is beautiful. I am so proud of you.”
Lady Kelleigh squeezed his hand. “I love you. Now hold her so you may meet properly.”
Warmth flooded his chest as he gazed at his wife’s face. Tearing his eyes away, he focused instead on the wiggling bundle. He lifted his daughter slowly, being careful to cradle her head. Her eyes were wide open, and she stared at him as she suckled her fingers.
“She likes you already.”
A smile split his face, and he was cooing at the child before he could stop himself.
His wife laughed. “It is good to see you so taken with her. I had a horror you would be disappointed she was not a son.”
“Disappointed? I fear I am completely in love with her already, and she does not even have a name.” He rubbed noses with the baby.
“A name! I quite forgot. Pray, what do you wish to call her?”
With a tilt of his head, he examined his daughter’s face a long time before speaking. “Marian Elizabeth. After your mother and our sovereign Queen.”
Kelleigh’s face brightened. “Yes! It is perfect. My mother will be honored, as will your benefactor.”
Thomas laid Marian in her mother’s arms and kissed both ladies. “I shall step out so my loves may rest.”
His feet took him straight to the tavern, and he ordered a round for all those in attendance. He lifted his pint of dagger ale. “To my new daughter, Marian.”
Men clapped him on the back and shook his hand. Hearty rounds of “congratulations” came from all directions.
Rather than stay and accept another drink, he bid adieu to the other men and set off towards the palace to tend to his workshop. Another shipment of gold and copper was to arrive in a fortnight, and he needed to make room for it to be stored until he could use it. He also had some new ideas about how to set stones in the precious metal and was eager to see how it would look. So often, gems were simply wrapped; he intended to try to change the casements.
It was as exhilarating as it was dangerous. There was a chance the Queen would be displeased and would not name him royal goldsmith as she had hinted she might do.
His steps were light as he bid good day to the guards and went up the stairs to the tower. When he neared the door to his shop, he paused and tilted his head. Raised voices were coming from the interior, and he was sure he had locked the door before leaving the previous evening.
“I tell you he is hiding something! No man can change the colour of gold the way he has. We must find whatever witchcraft is being used and do away with it,” one of the men said.
“Witchcraft?”
“It must be. Gold is yellow and too soft to endure long wear, yet his pieces are green, pink, and blue, and remain unblemished but for a few scratches. There are no breakages. It is as though he has cast a spell on them.”
Anger flared in Thomas, and he kicked open the door to face his accusers. One he recognized right away as a goldsmith from Surrey who had been a most excellent ally in the past. “Guards!” Thomas yelled.
Both men gasped and dropped the precious metals and papers they were holding.
Queen Elizabeth handed out harsh punishment for those caught thieving—especially within the palace walls. The two men were certainly facing a long period in the stocks for their slights. They knew their outcome would not be favorable; men were executed for less. One fell to his knees and begged for mercy.
Harsh footfalls were followed by the visage of a member of the guard. “Yes, Sir Russell?”
“These men are robbing me. Arrest them!”
Another guard appeared, and they escorted the two would-be thieves away.
Thomas fell into a chair and dropped his head into his hands, feeling every bit like the apprentice again. Memories of the master goldsmith came to mind, and Thomas’s stomach turned as he recalled the harsh words spoken to him. “You are a fool. There is no room in the Queen’s court for a roustabout who believes he knows everything. Joining gold with silver and iron! You will be accused of witchcraft!” After that, he was beaten with a stick that left welts on his legs and back and a small scar in his right eyebrow, which his fingers moved to rub with the memory. Never again, while under the master’s watchful eye, did Thomas dare to try anything new. A surge of queasiness had him bolting from his seat to vomit the dagger ale into a privy pot.
Shaking, he sat back down and put his head between his knees as he took deep breaths. Witchcraft, it is not.
It took a while to regain his countenance, but once steady again, he worked until the sun cast long rents of light through the room that made the floating dust motes sparkle in their chaotic dance. He lifted a dazzling article off the bench and held it in his palm, stretching out his arm to thrust the gem into a beam. When the light struck, it split into thousands of tiny dots that decorated the walls of the tower room.
Thomas smiled, turned the emerald this way and that, and laughed aloud at his accomplishment. He was certain the Queen would be filled with rapturous joy at his discovery, but he was not ready to reveal the piece yet. It would take several weeks of refinement before he dared to present the article to her. It had to be the most breathtaking thing she had ever seen.
Pulling the jewel from the light, he wrapped the piece in leather cloth and placed it in the lockbox. It would be safe there next to his notebook. He then threaded the key through a ribbon and tied it ‘round his neck, letting it fall behind his doublet. Softly cursing himself for leaving the notebook out and the tiny ke
y in the room—yet thankful the thieves had not found them—he gave his chest a pat, locked the tower door, and made his way towards home.
His stomach growled as he envisioned ladling stew into his mouth, its warm gravy flowing over his tongue and down his throat. So caught up in the fantasy, he almost fell when his foot caught on a form lying in the road. “Pardon,” he muttered.
“Please, sir, might you have a coin?”
Thomas spun around, ready to give the beggar a word, until his eyes found the owner of the voice.
A monk, robes tattered and stained, crouched on the hard cobblestone with his hands up in supplication.
Thomas’s words died on his lips as his tongue darted out in a futile attempt at carrying moisture to the parched skin. Pity flowed through him. Once proud members of society, there seemed to be an influx of godly men writhing in ditches and begging on streets amongst the common vagabonds. Monasteries were closing in rapid succession—as were convents—and the poor had flooded London in droves. It always made Thomas sick when he saw how the devout had fallen.
He fished out money, put his hand on the monk’s shoulder, and handed over two farthings. “God bless you. Please, leave the road before you are caught and beaten for begging.”
“God bless you, my son.” A moment later, the monk disappeared.
As Thomas finished the walk home, he deliberated the plight of Catholic figures. There was no way to save them, but he felt good for doing what he could, even though he was a devout Anglican.
Venison. The odor struck his nose as he entered his childhood home, and he was eager whilst he ate, to hear how well his daughter had fared on her first day of life.
Date: November 26, 1584
7: The Seven Deadly Sins Page 4
