The Peacekeeper

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “I know, but how can I? After what they did to Candra . . . and . . . what they did to my people in Britannia.” She began to weep and slumped in my arms.

  “Marcellus, please for the love of God, take me out of Rome,” she sobbed. “I can’t stand this horrid place any longer.”

  “That’s what I plan to do, beloved,” I answered in a soothing voice. “We are leaving. Sabinus has relieved me of my command.”

  “Oh, Marcellus,” she said as if the words snapped her out of self-pity. She straightened and pushed my hands from her shoulders. She arched back her head until her tear-streaked eyes met mine. “How could he?”

  “It’s a long story, which I’ll explain later. I promise we’ll leave Rome within the week.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “Hispania—home. You’ll find happiness there.”

  “Hispania?” muttered someone in the gathering. A low murmur arose from the congregation.

  “Yes,” Eleyne said. “Anyplace, so long as we’re out of Rome!”

  “I am sorry you lost your command,” John-Mark said as he stepped closer. He paused as his bronze-like eyes pierced mine as if seeing straight into my soul. “I have heard many good things about you from Eleyne and others.” He looked toward Chulainn and Porus.

  I snorted. For the span of a heartbeat, I clinched my hand into a balled fist. “I doubt if you’ll retain the same opinion when you hear the details of the slaughter.”

  Eleyne frowned and nodded.

  “We have received tragic news, and the perpetrators will answer before God.”

  “Yes, they will,” Eleyne said, her voice crisp with anger.

  “They already have,” I said. “I doubt if anyone else will be as forgiving as you—especially, the people.”

  John-Mark looked about and pursed his lips together before he answered. “Whether they do or not, there is One who will know and forgive you.”

  I slapped a hand against my thigh, loud enough to startle the people around us. “Your God—you mean? Your promises are as hollow as the echo of your voice.”

  Eleyne gasped. “Marcellus, how can you say that?”

  “He is the God of us all,” John-Mark said in a calm manner.

  “If he has the power, why didn’t he stop the massacre?” I asked. It was all I could do to keep my voice under control. “I can’t believe in a God who willingly allows so many deaths.”

  A murmur rippled through the gathering as if in disbelief of my accusations.

  “I do not pretend to have all the answers,” John-Mark said patiently, “but we know from His teachings there is a definite reason for everything He allows, and no doubt it is the same in your situation. In time you will see.”

  People nodded in agreement.

  “I regret I’m not so optimistic,” I said, the muscles growing tighter throughout my body.

  “Marcellus, please try to understand John-Mark,” Eleyne pleaded.

  “How can I?” I replied.

  “You must have faith in yourself, and place your trust in the Lord,” John said. “You will see.”

  “But I don’t believe in your God—any god.”

  John-Mark smiled. “Yes, I hear, but do not believe you. If not, you would not be so adamant in your denial, with bitterness in your voice. Just as Peter denied knowing our Master on the night He was betrayed. You believe, Tribune, but are afraid to bare your soul before the world. That is understandable, especially for a soldier. You are a good man, and one day you will be welcomed into His kingdom. For the Lord has a place in Heaven for all soldiers who repent.”

  He turned to Eleyne, gently took her hands, and locked her fingers into mine. “Go now—your place is with your husband. Go in peace and love.”

  John-Mark gave us a blessing—a fish-like sign with his outstretched hand, and we departed.

  *

  Within a week, Eleyne, the children, and I, along with the household slaves, boarded a ship in Ostia for Hispania. The crew had cast off the last lines when Gallus arrived with his entourage on the dock. Gloating in the early morning sunlight, he approached the quay’s edge as the ship eased away from its mooring. He had escaped all blame for the game’s failure. Motioning to one of his freedmen to come forward, the servant handed Gallus a small, leather pouch. Removing a handful of sesterces, a smirk came to Gallus’s powdered face. Suddenly, he hurled the coins onto the ship’s deck, scattering them at our feet. He glared at Eleyne, who stood a few steps away from the wooden railing. “Enjoy your new reign on the farm, Princess!”

  PART II: 58-69 AD

  Chapter 16: June, 58 AD

  Chapter 16

  June, 58 AD

  After leaving the Imperial Capitol in disgrace, my first impression upon returning to Hispania was how much our family’s great estate had changed since my boyhood. Soon, I understood it was I who was different. We can never return to the memories of youth. By custom and law I was head of the household, and responsible for running the latifundia. But I had not been home since joining the army. I admired Mother for the efficient way she had managed the lands since father’s death many years before.

  While posted on the frontier and later, in Rome, I had neither the time for nor interest in the burdens of managing a big cattle farm. I lived on a tribune’s substantial salary and money sent by mother from the ranch earnings. Thank the gods for her business sense—she had amassed a fortune. She became my tutor and was thorough. The latifundia prospers to this day because of what I learned.

  Mother died about a year after Eleyne, my sons, and my abrupt homecoming. She had lived far longer than I had expected. Her appearance alarmed me when I introduced her to Eleyne before our wedding. I was certain she was wasting away and would be dead within the year. Obviously, the gods thought otherwise.

  Despite her lingering illness, Mother continued supervision of our properties until about a week before her death. I wore the black band of mourning on my arm for one year.

  Over the next six years I watched my sons grow, and the cattle farm prosper. Yet, I missed the capitol, the only city—Rome. Despite its decadence and corruption, I could not purge its grip from my soul.

  As promised, Sabinus corresponded with me and kept me briefed on the events in Rome. He never mentioned the slaughter of the Julian Games or my exile. He left unspoken the fortune in gifts he bestowed on numerous senators demanding my head, who generously condescended to my resignation and the decimation of the Seventh Cohort as adequate punishment. I learned about this from a spy whom I had paid a substantial sum of gold.

  Shortly after my departure, Claudius appointed Sabinus Procurator, Governor of Moesia, a province north of Greece bordering the River Danubus. The emperor probably held him responsible for the riots as much as me. Sending him to a place as remote as Moesia, on the far reaches of the River Danubus, was the same as being exiled.

  Two years later the old monarch died. Rumors abounded that his fourth wife, Agrippina, fed him poisoned mushrooms. She didn’t waste a moment in placing her son, Nero, on the throne. Manipulating old Claudius, Agrippina had controlled the government for years. Did the empress believe she would continue to rule when the seventeen-year-old youth became emperor? If so, she was badly mistaken.

  A year after Claudius’s death, I received a letter from Sabinus saying Claudius’s son, Britannicus, had suddenly died, one day shy of his fourteenth birthday. He had lost favor when his father married Agrippina—a tragedy. I had known him to be a decent young man who would have made a good emperor.

  Based on the rumors I had heard, I wasn’t surprised when Nero degenerated into a tyrant. Thank the god, Melkart, I was in Hispania.

  For the first five years, Nero’s reign was fairly peaceful. Together his advisors, the Stoic philosopher Seneca, Burrus Afranius, commander of the Praetorian Guard, and his mother kept him under control.

  The murder of Nero’s mother ended any further notion of a tranquil rule. When he failed to drown Agrippina on a collapsible bottom-boat,
she swam ashore in the Bay of Neapolis. Nero and his Praetorian Guards searched the surrounding resorts and villages for her. Early the next morning, they found her shivering in a fisherman’s hut and put her to the sword. Later, Burrus died of a throat abscess, and Seneca retired because he refused to work with Burrus’s replacement, the conniving Sofonius Tigellinus.

  *

  One hot June afternoon, Chulainn and I rode back to the house, a half mile from the cattle pens. I was happy to be through another year with the Herradero. Like all branding days, seemingly mass confusion reigned. After herding the young calves into hot, dusty corrals, each young steer was chased, roped, and restrained by four or five struggling slaves. Another group of workers seared their flanks with hot irons, then clipped and tagged their ears. When cut loose, the animals blatted as they scattered other calves and slaves alike before scampering out the open gate onto the narrow plain and tree-dotted foothills.

  As we cantered along the dusty road, a hot sirocco wind blowing across the Mediterranean from Africa swirled around our stubbled faces, churning up the iron-red earth. Although my tunic and wide-brimmed straw hat were drenched in perspiration, I relished the summer heat. But Eleyne, pregnant again, suffered miserably. The nights did not bring respite, sometimes hotter than the day—a contrast to the cooler climate of her native Britannia.

  I approached the house, a sprawling, whitewashed adobe villa, built on a grassless plateau overlooking the gray, rocky coastline. As far as the eye could see, stretches of white-pebbled beaches intermittently dotted the shore below. I left my mount with a stable slave and dismissed Chulainn. After rinsing the dust from my face and limbs at the trough, I strolled along the seaward side of the house overlooking the cobalt sea. Passing the manicured bushes and evergreen trees bordering the mosaic stone sidewalk, I paused at the bed of red Persian and white Alba roses, Eleyne’s favorite flowers. They were irrigated from one of the ranch’s many underground springs. I plucked a just-blooming bud of a Persian Rose and entered through the portico.

  Fanned by her mute slave, Imogen, Eleyne sewed on a tapestry where she sat in the shaded garden near the bubbling fountain. The slave’s effort to cool her proved ineffective. Eleyne’s face was flushed, and she perspired. Leisurely, I stepped along the short, tiled walkway, canopied by a vine-covered trellis, until I reached her cushioned, marble bench. Eleyne turned and gave me a halfhearted smile as I laid a flower next to her side. She glanced at the bud but remained expressionless. I bent down and kissed her.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Sweltering,” she answered.

  For a few seconds, I softly stroked her abdomen, protruding through the light-green tunic, and sat next to her.

  “Don’t get so close!” she snapped. “I’m too hot.” She picked up the bud and carefully inhaled its fragrance. I moved to the wooden bench across from her.

  “I almost wished we were back in Rome.” Eleyne picked up a white, cloth napkin from the small, three-legged, wooden table between us and wiped the moisture from her face and hands. She examined the soiled cloth, cricked her mouth in disgust, and threw it against one of the sea horses carved into the table’s legs.

  “I know,” I said. “The sirocco’s arrived early this year. Our June rains never came.”

  “Well, I hope we have an early fall—I’ll die if this weather continues. Our Lord said we must endure all this for His sake, but He was never with child. And I feel like I’ve been with child all my life instead of five months.” She glared at me as if her situation was entirely my doing. Wisely, I said nothing.

  “Maybe you should spend a few days by the beach where it’s cooler,” I said.

  “That would be nice,” she answered with a grimace. “But riding a donkey down the cliff side is too bumpy.”

  “That’s easy to remedy. I’ll have a cushioned litter built and use our strongest slaves to carry you down the trail.”

  A smile brushed her pale lips. “Will you? Oh, you’re a darling.”

  Although a necessity in Rome, there had been no need for a litter here. It was eighty miles to Malaca, the closest major city. For goods not manufactured or raised on the latifundia, we rode by horse and wagon to the nearby fishing town, Abdera, to pick them up.

  “And Chulainn will oversee your transport,” I added. “If they value their lives, they’ll use the utmost care.”

  Apparently, Imogen was excited about the prospect of accompanying Eleyne. She fanned hard enough to breeze me.

  I ordered wine, and when it arrived, I eagerly drank the tart Baetican vintage. Eleyne sipped only water from a blue-enameled earthen cup.

  “By the way, where are the boys?”

  Eleyne glanced in the direction of the sea. “Marcellus and Sabinus rode their ponies down to the beach.”

  Inwardly, I shuddered, muscles tightened about my shoulders. “They’re too young to be going down the steep path from the cliff by themselves.”

  “They’re not alone, silly.” She smiled. “Avalos and Hamilcar are with them.”

  Relieved, I felt the tightness leaving my body and slumped a little in my seat. “Then they’re in good hands.” Avalos was our horse trainer, a retired Spanish cavalryman from the Roman army. Hamilcar, a local young man, was his assistant. His people had worked for our family for many years.

  “How long have they been gone?”

  “About an hour. Avalos wanted to drill them in riding on the beach’s soft sand.”

  I grinned. “He has done a good job in training them these last several years.”

  “Considering Marcellus is only nine and Sabinus eight, he has turned them into excellent riders.”

  “When they are a little older and bigger, I will see they get full-size horses.”

  “Just be sure the animals are well broken, we don’t need any unruly mounts to start with.” I reached over and touched her hand. “Not to worry, I’ll see to it. But right now, I have no doubt they’ve stopped somewhere on the beach to do a little fishing.”

  She glanced again seaward. “I noticed they carried sling lines and hooks around their saddles.”

  “Maybe we’ll have fish for dinner.”

  Eleyne sighed. “Probably caught by Avalos and Hamilcar.”

  I chuckled. “Of course.”

  As I relaxed, hoof beats from a galloping horse reined in front of the villa. Porus scooted to the door in response to the hard knock. He returned and announced the army courier as the rider entered the garden. The soldier bowed to Eleyne and saluted, handing me a rolled parchment bearing an Imperial Governmental seal—imprinted with Sabinus’s signet ring.

  “I come from Malaca, sir,” the dusty messenger said, “and have instructions to wait your reply.”

  “Very well,” I said. “In the meantime, we’ll see you’re properly fed and share one of our good Baetican wines. You’ve ridden a long way.”

  Porus motioned the grinning soldier to follow as he shook the rust-colored dirt from his scarlet tunic and mailed armor.

  When they left the garden, I turned to Eleyne, the muscles in her face appeared tight and set. “Please Marcellus, don’t open it!”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid what’s in the dispatch—it looks too official. Leave it alone!”

  “You must be joking—you’ve seen Sabinus’s seal before.” I pulled out my dagger and sliced opened the letter. Slowly, I read the message. I paused and locked my eyes with my wife’s. “You’re right—Sabinus wants me to return to Rome.”

  “I knew it. What does he say?”

  “He’s been recalled to Rome.”

  “You mean Nero is relieving him as Governor of Moesia?” she asked. “What has he done—embezzled the taxes?” Theft of taxes by provincial governors was an all too common occurrence.

  “He hasn’t been accused of anything. At long last, he’s been appointed to the position of city prefect.”

  “What happened to that old drunk, Publius Secundus, who cheated him out of the offic
e?”

  “Murdered by one of his slaves.”

  “Oh, dear.” Eleyne made a sign in the shape of a fish in front of her chest. “May God have mercy on his soul.”

  Imogen momentarily stopped fanning.

  “He probably deserved his fate,” Eleyne said as an afterthought. “He was cruel to his slaves—even when we were in Rome. Still, I will pray for him and the poor slave that, no doubt, Nero executed.”

  I hesitated for a moment. A chill ran through my body. “Then you better add prayers for the souls of another four hundred.”

  “Four hundred! No, Marcellus, no!” For an instant she cupped her hand over her mouth. Alarm registered in the slave’s expression. She stopped fanning.

  “The entire household,” I said.

  “But why?”

  “To assert his powers as emperor. Nero had revived the old law under which all slaves of a slain master are executed as punishment.” I exhaled. My hands stiffened, and I barely held onto the parchment. “It’s just the beginning.”

  “God save us and the Roman people from such a horrible creature.”

  “Sabinus says since Tigellinus became Nero’s chief advisor, the emperor has grown worse. He thinks the ex-fishmonger is playing on his fears of the Senate. At the same time, Nero is relinquishing more of his responsibilities to Tigellinus so he can spend time racing chariots and take singing lessons.”

  “I don’t like it, Marcellus. Everything has been so quiet—so peaceful. It seemed Nero might have been a just ruler, but this massacre—”

  “There’s more,” I said, scanning the rest of the letter. “Gallus is an intimate friend of Tigellinus.”

  “That’s not so remarkable,” Eleyne said in a barely audible voice as she eyed her tapestry. “Any place there’s corruption, you’ll find Gallus.” After thinking a moment, she looked up. “Why was Sabinus appointed city prefect?”

  “He doesn’t say.”

  She fixed her sea-blue eyes on mine. “He wants you to return, doesn’t he?”

  I nodded.

  “Why?”