The Peacekeeper

by Jess Steven Hughes

  We approached a group of young, muscular British captives, dirty and smelly, standing in line on a raised brownstone platform. Chalk covered their feet, meaning they were available for immediate sale. Among them I spotted a youth of about fifteen. Tall and wiry, his sunburned face covered with light-red down, the beginning of a beard. Long, shaggy auburn hair touched his shoulders.

  “Take a look at that one,” I said to Alexias.

  “Why him?” he asked. “The rest are older and stronger.”

  I furrowed my eyes and nodded. “There’s something familiar about him, but I’m not sure what.”

  “His eyes are filled with hate,” Alexias observed.

  “Can you blame him? He’s like a trapped wolf who’s lost his freedom.” Yet I sensed his bewilderment. Lost and out of his world, he continued twisting his head from side to side, as if searching for a place to run.

  Alexias examined and questioned the boy in the lilting dialect of the Celts. The youth pulled away from his touch. Alexias growled a warning and slapped him. The boy yelped and went into a crouch. He balled his shackled hands into fists and shook them in challenge. A guard struck the youth with a leather prod. He doubled over, falling to his knees. The guard cursed the boy’s defiance, but the youth had enough sense to unclench his fists and prostrate himself upon the floor. A few minutes passed before he stood and mumbled something to Alexias.

  The steward turned to me. “He has a fire for living, unlike most sold on the block. Despite his defiance, I think he’s trainable.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I asked his name, and he replied, Wolf Runner.”

  I pursed my mouth. “A warrior’s name.”

  “That’s why I slapped him. At first he refused to tell me his real name.”

  “What is it?”

  “Chulainn.” For a few heartbeats, Alexias viewed me quizzically. “Do you know him?”

  Was this the same boy whom Obulco found hiding in an oven after his relatives were slaughtered by the Durotrigian raiders? “I once knew a Chulainn,” I answered thoughtfully. “He’d be about his age, but he lives with a free farmer.”

  “I’m told the name is very common, sir.”

  “It is.” That didn’t quash my curiosity. From the sign posted above their pen, they had been captured by Vespasian’s troops in a skirmish against Caratacus. Why had this boy joined the enemy when he lived with free people? I would question the new slave further after Alexias had trained him to be a good household slave.

  Alexias continued examining the youth. “Wiry as he is, he’s strong as a bull, and free of disease. Feel his muscles—they’re like iron.”

  I grasped the youth’s biceps, and after a moment nodded. The boy seemed to eye me with a mixture of suspicion and puzzlement.

  “He’ll be a good one for you and the new mistress—if he doesn’t run,” Alexias added.

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  Alexias checked his teeth and nodded in satisfaction. “They’re good, too, which reminds me, he’ll need to learn Latin.”

  “Eleyne can teach him.”

  I purchased Chulainn, and against the advice of Alexias, other Briton slaves for the household. Although they might be a danger if left in the household, I knew Eleyne would be happier with her countrymen, and more able to control them.

  “But, sir,” Alexias insisted, “not only are most Britons chronic liars, they are unreliable and un-trainable.”

  “You forget that Eleyne easily learned to read and write Latin and Greek while she still lived in Britannia,” I reminded Alexias, “and the Britons have become excellent auxiliary troops since their posting to the Danubus frontier.”

  Alexias mumbled an apology. “Still, you should have bought Syrian slaves. They’re intelligent and learn quickly and, above all, they are docile.”

  “Eleyne insists on Briton slaves,” I countered. Her tribe, the Regni, along with other Briton tribes had enslaved each other’s peoples through countless wars. Most of those captured by Vespasian were tribal enemies of her people. Nevertheless, I knew she felt at ease with slaves from Britannia, especially since she understood most of the southern tribal dialects.

  *

  Along with hired guards, I accompanied Alexias and the slaves to Sabinus’s home where they would be housed until Eleyne and I were married. At the slave quarters, Alexias and his effeminate assistant, Mironos, examined Chulainn and the rest closely for additional flaws.

  Within the hour, as I conversed with Crispus in the atrium, Alexias returned and handed me a silver boar’s head ring. “Not only is the boy disrespectful,” he said in a voice of disgust, “but he steals. I strongly suggest, sir, you return the savage to the slave market and demand a refund. After all, he guaranteed the slave wasn’t a thief, and by law, he has to refund your money if he made a fraudulent claim.”

  “Is this the one you told me about?” Crispus asked. He had returned from a meeting with Scrofa the beggar king.

  “The same,” I said.

  I examined the ring and turned to the old man. “No, I won’t—not yet. Where did you find this?”

  “My young assistant, Mironos, checked Chulainn’s body too enthusiastically for my taste.”

  He related how the youthful Greek pawed Chulainn’s body, supposedly testing his muscle tone. The slave ordered Chulainn to remove his loincloth and groped his testicles and manhood. The servant grinned at Chulainn, who narrowed his eyes and curled his mouth into a hateful sneer. Alexias sensed Chulainn would attack any moment.

  “Seeing Mironos’s indiscretion,” Alexias continued, “I immediately ordered him to stop. But as he removed his grasp, his fingers snagged a string beneath the slave’s scrotum. He pulled the twine and out popped a ring from his buttocks. I demanded to know where he had stolen it.” Chulainn claimed the ring belonged to the murderer of his uncle, but it had been given to him by a Roman soldier. He was afraid it would be confiscated.

  “Naturally, I knew he was lying,” Alexias said, “so I slapped him and grabbed the ring. He cursed me, and I slapped his face again. I threatened to kill him where he stood if he didn’t behave. He had the sense to relent.” Alexias looked at both of his hands. He crinkled his nose and grunted. “I still have to wash them.”

  “He stays, Alexias,” I insisted, recalling the small boy and a similar ring from two years before. At the time, he said he was twelve. If this is the same one, then he lied. This youth had the build of a sixteen-year-old.

  “Sir, you are making a grave mistake.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  When Alexias departed, Crispus slowly examined the ring. “I’ve seen this ring before—Britannia, right?”

  I nodded to Crispus and placed the ring in my palm, admiring its fiery stone eyes. Was it a coincidence that our paths had crossed once again? “It is the same ring.”

  Chapter 8: September, 47 AD

  Eleyne and I arrived at Uncle Budar’s home on Vatican Hill mid-morning to see my mother, Ceacilia Juanaria. Sailing from Hispania, she had docked in Rome the evening before, but we hadn’t received word from Budar until earlier this morning.

  Although early September, Rome was still enshrouded in stifling summer heat. To save ourselves from getting sweaty and dirty as we crossed through the heart of the city and over the Tiber, we borrowed two of Sabinus’s litters and had been carried to Budar’s home.

  An ankle-length tunic covered by a light-blue, woolen gown trimmed in silver covered Eleyne’s willowy frame. Draped about her shoulders was a light-weight, yellow cloak. Small, gold, duck-shaped earrings hung from each lobe. A beaded necklace of long, narrow strips of umber and round, red garnets strung on a thin, gold band draped her alabaster neck.

  I wore a simple knee-length, white tunic. A narrow, purple stripe ran down the right side indicating my status as a Roman knight. Hidden beneath my garb, a dagger clung to a waistband.

  Budar’s large villa stood across the Tiber, beyond the smoky haze that
hung like an umbrella above the city, its back along the edge of a huge public park, the Garden of Caesar. A tall portico divided by the entrance ran in a half circle along the front. A graveled driveway bordered on both sides by poplars snaked its way up to the front of the mansion. As we went up the driveway, noisy, yellow-striped pipits flit from tree to tree. The chirruping sounds of skylarks added to the racket. A gray squirrel scampered across the path and disappeared into a box shrub along the side. A couple of slaves wearing wide-brim, straw hats and protective leather gloves carefully trimmed the thorny stems of late-season roses planted in a neat row beyond the trees. On a light breeze wafted the smell of resin from clusters of pine trees growing the park.

  Originally, the house belonged to Budar’s wife, Helvia, an older, rich widow he had married for money when he retired from the army. Yet he must have developed a genuine affection for her. When she passed away four months ago, he took her death hard. He wept, and for a month he sat around the house, listless, barely stirring from the premises to do anything. Then one day he snapped out of his doldrums and returned to being his loud, cantankerous self, the way I liked.

  Because Helvia had no other living relatives except Budar, he inherited her fortune and properties. He told me that when it was his time to cross the River Styx, I would get everything. I said I was in no hurry. “Good,” he growled, “I ain’t in any hurry to leave.” I chuckled.

  Arriving at the front door, we stepped out of the litters. I dismissed the doorman as I knew the way to the atrium. After suffering in the stifling heat, the cool reception hall seemed like a present from the gods.

  As we strolled down the hallway, Eleyne turned to me. “I hope your mother will approve of me, Marcellus.”

  I grinned. “I’m sure she will. I wrote her several letters describing how wonderful you are.”

  Eleyne blushed. “Oh, please, you didn’t. You said she was very particular about young women.”

  “Mother can be. But if she believes what I wrote, she will like you.”

  Eleyne lightly jabbed my upper arm.

  “Besides, by now,” I continued, “Uncle Budar has probably described you as only he could to Mother.”

  “I hope that’s good.”

  “After the way he took to you, I can almost guarantee it will be.”

  “Even though I’m from Britannia, a barbarian?”

  I shook my head. “You are no barbarian. There are many Romans that still regard Spaniards as barbarians.”

  “Including that despicable Gallus, right?”

  “Him above all else.”

  “Well, I’m not one and neither are my people.”

  I nodded. “We’ll just have to wait and see what Mother says.”

  We entered the atrium and approached the impluvium. Bright sun pierced through the slanted roof opening over the shallow pool lighting up the reception area. Colored pieces of stone and glass making up the tiled mosaic floor sparkled like an array of pulsating stars. I spotted Mother and Uncle Budar sitting together on a cushioned bench, heads bowed in close conversation. At the sound of our footfalls, they turned our way. Uncle Budar stood and stepped towards us. Mother winced as she stiffly got to her feet.

  As the old, bearded, crusty-face veteran stopped in front of us, his dark eyes narrowed. “It’s about time you two got here,” he growled. “Not right keeping your good mother waiting.”

  I stiffened. Eleyne and I looked at one another.

  Budar broke into a loud horse laugh and hugged me in tight bear-grip. He released me and backed away. He turned to Eleyne and did the same. “It so good to see you again! Why haven’t I been graced with your presence since the engagement? After all, you are my little princess.”

  Eleyne blushed again. “Uncle Budar, please.”

  “Well, you are, never forget that.” He moved back.

  In a softer voice, he said, “I’m glad you two are here, let’s not keep your mother waiting.” He turned, and we followed.

  Mother wore a white, ankle-length, pleated skirt, the hem trimmed in embroidered gold and red. A scarlet mantle, covering her shoulders and draping her arms, reached down below her knees. A simple string of bright, silver pearls circled her neck. As usual, she wore her hair in a tympanum style, curved against the nape, gripping the neck as far as the lobe of her ears. Although invisible, I knew a small rod on a pedestal held her folded hair in place. The whole of it was covered by a black veil. Long, gold, triple teardrop earrings dangled from each lobe.

  Her face startled me. The years of overseeing the latifundia had drained Mother. Strands of aging, yellow-gray hair fell down her forehead. No longer was it the auburn hair of which she had been so proud. Barely forty-four, scores of wrinkles crawled like river tributaries across her sunburned olive face. The luster I knew as a youth had vanished from her large, umber eyes. The spring in her walk missing as she approached me. Mother hobbled to my side.

  “Mother,” I said.

  Her smile revealed a mouthful of brownish teeth. “Marcellus, Son, it has been so long.”

  We hugged. Instead of feeling the solid body of a woman who worked alongside of her servants and slaves, I felt a frail, bony frame.

  She touched the purple stripe on my tunic. “And now you are a knight. I am so proud of you.”

  I nodded. “It’s what the family wanted.”

  “Yes, but you earned the right. It wasn’t money alone. Budar told me about your bravery in battle.”

  I didn’t want to think about those memories of bloodshed. “Yes, of course,” I said.

  I turned to Eleyne and back to Mother and smiled. “Mother, this is Eleyne.”

  Mother didn’t say a word.

  Eleyne raised her black eyebrows and glanced to me.

  I shrugged.

  Mother’s face turned sober as she examined Eleyne almost as if she were a slave. She moved her head up and down, right and left. I was almost surprised she didn’t check Eleyne’s teeth.

  “Turn around,” Mother ordered Eleyne.

  Eleyne glared at Mother and opened her mouth as if to say something, but closed it a heartbeat later. She turned a full circle.

  Mother paused and looked Eleyne in the eye. “So, you are the young woman my son wants to marry.”

  For the length of a couple of heartbeats Eleyne stared at Mother before bowing her head slightly. “Yes, my lady.”

  Mother shook her head, and a smile crossed her full lips. “No, none of that. If you are marrying my son, you must call me Mother.”

  Eleyne and I looked at one another. She sighed in relief.

  So did I.

  “I can tell that not only are you beautiful, but you are a bright young woman,” Mother said.

  Eleyne’s bowed lips formed a smile. “That is kind of you . . . Mother?”

  Mother opened her arms. “Come, give me a hug.”

  Eleyne turned her head toward me. I nodded. She stepped forward, and the two embraced one another. Both about the same height, five finger widths shorter than me.

  The two released one another.

  “You are not like those coarse, Celt-Iberian women who live in the center of Hispania,” Mother said. “I had heard British women were similar, but you are different.”

  Eleyne stiffened. “I certainly think so.”

  “Is it true your father was a king?” Mother asked.

  “Yes, he was, but he died several months ago.”

  Mother shook her head. “I am so sorry, but now you will be part of our family. We, too, are descendant from royalty.”

  “You are?” Eleyne looked at me and then mother.

  “Mother, please,” I said.

  “Has not Marcellus told you?” Mother asked. She glanced in my direction and frowned.

  Eleyne sniffed. “No, he hasn’t.”

  “I can trace my family back to Hannibal,” Mother said. “You have heard of him, have you not? He is the Carthaginian king who almost conquered Rome.”

  “So, I have learned from my tuto
r,” Eleyne said.

  “He was my uncle many times removed.” Mother turned to me. “Yours, too, Marcellus.”

  “He and his people are long gone,” I said. “Now, Rome rules the world.”

  Mother’s nostrils flared. “Perhaps, but his memory lives on, and I am proud to be one of his descendants. So should you.” She touched Eleyne on the forearm. “When the day comes that you have children, tell them royal blood runs in their veins from both sides of the family.”

  Eleyne nodded to both of us. “I will.”

  “Go ahead,” I said, “but it will be my duty to see that they become officers in the army and serve Rome with honor.”

  Eleyne reached up and kissed me on the cheek before facing Mother. “If their father were someone other than Marcellus, I would have had my doubts. But I know they will take after my future husband.”

  Chapter 9: Late September, 47 AD

  Because Roman law and custom prohibited weddings during certain weeks of the year, Eleyne and I were not married until the end of September, at Sabinus’s home. Except for Mother, Uncle Budar, Crispus and his Numidian woman, Apulia, and General Vespasian and his wife, most guests attending were Sabinus’s friends. Perfume from hundreds of bright bouquets, including roses from Campania, sprayed with sweet Arabian incense, scented the atrium. At the far end the ceremony was conducted in the alcove of the garlanded tablinum. Hundreds of people jostled one another for a better view in the crowded study room.

  Crispus, dressed in his best white tunic, along with almond-complected Apulia, who wore a long emerald chiton girdled with a brass-colored belt, managed to push their way through the guests to the front. They stood beside a stuffy senator and his frumpy wife who didn’t seem happy about having a couple of foreigners next to them. My friend winked, and I grinned.