The Peacekeeper

by Jess Steven Hughes

  The Italian peninsula was experiencing an unusually hot summer, and there had been heavy flooding from melting mountain snow packs. If snow on Mount Corno, one of the highest peaks in the Apennines, was exhausted, Casperius would head to the Julian Alps in Northern Italy. The trip required at least five days—without rest—too long for Eleyne’s survival and would probably be melted.

  I had to remain optimistic he would arrive in time, and ordered the portable bathtub, stored in a closet next to the slaves’ quarters, for packing Eleyne with snow when it arrived.

  *

  Late in the afternoon of the second day, clattering hooves and rumbling wheels halted in front of the house. Seconds later the doors burst open and Casperius Niger, haggard and sweating, dragged in to the atrium a big, leaking goatskin sack.

  “I’ve got it, sir!” he puffed, “I made the best time I could, but the detours slowed me down.” He dropped the bag. The protective hay and slushy ice spilled from the sack on to the mosaic-tiled floor.

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” I answered. “I’m grateful you returned so quickly.” Thank the gods! A sense of relief ran through my body. I didn’t realize how tense I had been.

  I motioned two slaves to take the heavy bag from Casperius. “Carry it to the mistress’s room at once. Then get the portable bathtub. Imogen and the midwife will know what to do.”

  “There’s more in the chariot,” Casperius said, “but it’s mostly slush.”

  “No matter. It’s a start, and it’s cold. Porus!” I shouted.

  He scurried in from an adjoining room. “Yes, sir?” He saw Casperius handing the bag to the slaves. “You brought the snow, sir! Thank God!”

  “Save your praises for later, Porus,” I said. “Send a slave for Soranus. Have a couple others retrieve the rest of the bags from Tribune Niger’s chariot. Her women will place her in ice.” I prayed that the relief hadn’t arrived too late.

  “Right away, sir.” Porus hurried from the atrium shouting orders to passing slaves.

  Casperius shook the gray-red dust from his tunic and cuirass as he and I hiked to the atrium. Motioning for him to take a seat on the couch, I called a slave to bring wine and food.

  “You don’t realize how much this means to me,” I said. “I’m in your debt.”

  Casperius wiped sweat from his face onto his sleeve. He reeked as if he had ridden through every sewer and mud-hole on his journey. “My privilege, sir. You owe me nothing. I would’ve returned sooner if it weren’t for the quarantine.”

  “What quarantine?”

  “The pox. So far, it’s confined to one town, a village outside Reate on the Salarian Road. Must be sixty miles northeast of here.”

  “You think it will spread?”

  He snorted. “I doubt it. They’re not letting anyone in or out, and I gave the pesthole a wide detour. Crossed two swollen rivers and a swamp to get around.”

  I said a silent prayer in thanks and asked him if Chulainn had gotten through. Niger said my slave had arrived a couple hours later after driving like the furies. They found snow from Mount Corno had been kept in a storage cave, near the mountain’s foot where it was cooler and lasted longer. Casperius had to deal with a fat merchant who held the Imperial monopoly on all snow from the mountain.

  A slave arrived with a glass pitcher of wine and two silver goblets and placed them on the small table between Casperius and me. We remained silent until the servant poured our drinks and departed. We raised and tapped each other’s cups and took deep swallows.

  Casperius exhaled, looked at his drink, and nodded, appearing to be at ease, the muscles in his face relaxed.

  I held my cup on my thigh and asked, “Any problems getting the amount we needed?”

  He took another gulp and answered with a telling grin. “There would have been, but I convinced him to see things my way.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t have any money, so I told the nose-picking bugger that your slave was en route with the cash. He wouldn’t believe me—figured I was playing the Greek. I told him I’m not a thief.”

  “What changed his mind?” As if I didn’t know.

  Casperius placed his right hand on the hilt of his short sword. “I pulled out old Scorpio and pointed to the crest of eagles on my helmet and said, ‘In the name of Rome.’ When he wouldn’t budge, I threatened to cut out his fat, stinking heart. Somehow, that carried more weight than the eagles,” he said, grinning. “Then I repeated Chulainn would be along anytime. He believed me that time.

  “But then he demanded a stamped receipt with the eagles,” Casperius continued. “The hilt knob of my sword has an eagle on it. So I slammed it into his forehead and held up a brass mirror for him to see the imprint. I got the snow.”

  I raised my cup in salute. “It served the fat bastard right.” I looked past Casperius toward the front of the house. “How far behind is Chulainn?”

  “I’d say about an hour. I whipped those nags ahead until they almost flew like Pegasus.”

  “I appreciate your efforts, Casperius.” I leaned over and clasped his shoulders.

  Minutes later, Soranus arrived. Casperius stayed behind, as I stood and followed the physician to Eleyne’s room. By the time we entered, Imogen, the midwife, and female slaves had already placed my wife in the round, flat-bottomed vessel. Still delirious, Eleyne was packed by the women in the melting, straw-riddled, gray-white snow and slush, matching the ashen color of her naked body. Pleased by the servant’s work, Soranus made a few minor adjustments.

  “I hope the snow hasn’t arrived too late,” the physician said. “She is still burning with fever. All we can do is wait and hope the snow will bring it down.”

  Although grateful for Casperius’s efforts, I was not good company as we dined together that evening. My thoughts continued to return to Eleyne’s condition—I could not keep her out of my mind. Her fever had dropped within an hour of being placed in the ice, but she remained in a state of delirium. Eleyne once said her God aids the faithful in times of crisis. For the first time, I prayed He would help her now.

  I could not sleep and stuck my head into Eleyne’s bedchamber five or six times during the first night after the snow’s arrival.

  Gaunt-faced Soranus, who had stayed by her side since her removal from the tub, silently shook his balding head. “She’s still delirious. Fortunately, the fever is beginning to subside. If it continues at this rate, it should be gone by morning.”

  As dawn drove away the night’s shadows, fatigue caught me like a deer in a snare. Still wearing a dinner tunic, I passed out on my bed.

  My eyes snapped open to a gentle tug on my shoulder. “Sir,” Porus said, “the mistress is awake.”

  I bolted upright and set my leaden feet on the tile floor, still doubting my ears. “Are you positive?”

  “Oh yes, approximately an hour ago. Soranus wanted to be certain she was out of danger before waking you.”

  I glanced to the sun-lit doorway. “What time is it?”

  “About noon.”

  “Good gods, so late!”

  I rushed from my room and an instant later entered Eleyne’s dimly lighted cubicle.

  Eleyne’s unbraided hair hung to one side of her exhausted face. Clothed in a pale, yellow gown, she rested on clean, linen blankets. Half open, her eyes stared blankly into the darkness of the invisible ceiling. The smell of vinegar used in cleaning up after the sick and wounded lingered in the room.

  Soranus approached. “Lord, I have good news. The worst is past, though she will need a lot of rest.”

  “Can I be with her?”

  “Of course, but she is very weak.” He glanced to Eleyne and lowered his voice. “There is something you should know.”

  His last remark sounded ominous. “What’s wrong?”

  After peering over his shoulder, he lowered his voice. “I do not know how much the fever has affected her mind. When I attempt to question her, she turns away from me. I know your wife hears but s
he is ignoring me. I fear she suffers from melancholia.”

  “So? She was gloomy after giving birth to our sons. I expected some grief now after losing our first daughter.”

  “No, it is worse than the usual bereavement and after-birth melancholy. She will recover physically, but her mind is another matter.”

  I poked his bony chest shoving him away from me. “You better be wrong, physician, very wrong.”

  Quietly, I approached Eleyne, and she turned her head. She blinked her eyes five or six times. A quivering smile crept across her small mouth. “Marcellus, darling?” Slowly, she extended a hand. I grasped it. The cool warmth of life swelled in the little palm and fingers.

  “I’m here,” I answered. Bending down, I gently kissed her chapped lips. Eleyne, her body shaking, tried wrapping an arm around my neck, but groaned and limply dropped it to her side.

  “Don’t exert yourself,” I gently admonished. Grabbing a stool, I sat next to the bed. “You’ve been very ill.” Nearby hovered the hefty, middle-aged midwife, apparently ready to drive me away at the first sign of distress.

  “Is it true?” Eleyne asked. “The baby is dead?”

  I exhaled. “I’m afraid so.”

  Her eyes clouded. “I know I should thank God for saving my life, but . . .” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Trembling, she turned her head away. “I wish He had taken my life instead.” She wept.

  Reaching over, I stroked her long hair, attempting to comfort her.

  “I wanted her so much,” Eleyne sobbed. “Now, I just want to die—I have failed you.”

  “You haven’t,” I said softly. Her melancholia had never been this severe. “Your God wouldn’t want you to think such things, would He?”

  “I don’t care what He thinks!” she rasped. “I want to die.”

  My chest tightened—I couldn’t believe my ears. I took Eleyne into my arms and gently rocked her. She turned her head, and I looked into her tear-reddened eyes. “Darling, no one wants you to die. Neither I, nor our sons, or the household. Everyone loves and needs you.”

  “I don’t care.” She sniffled and pulled away from me. The midwife approached and handed Eleyne a linen cloth to wipe her tear-stained face and blow her nose.

  This was not the Eleyne I knew—resourceful and self-reliant. I did not understand. Why does she want to die? The baby’s death is not her fault. In her state of mind, I doubted if she would listen to reason, but I had to try snapping her out of her spell.

  “That’s enough,” I said in a firm but soft voice. “I love you and so do our sons. This wasn’t your doing, it was an accident, caused by fleeing criminals.”

  She threw the cloth, barely missing me. A fierce animal look flamed in her dark-blue eyes. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

  I stared in disbelief.

  “Will you leave me alone?” Eleyne rasped.

  The midwife wrung her beefy hands, and then said as politely as a drill-centurion, to get out.

  Given Eleyne’s state of mind and condition, I agreed. “All right, maybe you’ll feel better, later.” I got up and headed for the door.

  “No, I won’t! I hate you. I hate . . .” She trailed off into a pillow of muffled sobs.

  Struggling in an attempt to conceal my alarm and frustration, I glanced her way once again and left the room. Later, not knowing what else to do, I drank myself into a stupor.

  *

  The following week, as I hopelessly waited for Eleyne to recover from her depression, the family was struck with another tragedy. A messenger came to the house with news that Uncle Budar had died of a stroke. He was returning to Rome, from his business trip, and spending the night in the town of Arretium at a friend’s home when he was found dead the next morning.

  My heart had leaped into my throat upon learning the news, and I wanted to weep, but could not. There was too much to be done. Immediately, I sent Porus with a detail of slaves to fetch the body. Arretium was more than one hundred miles to the north. It would take them two to three days to reach the town and another to return with the body. In the meantime, I arranged for one of Rome’s more reputable undertakers to take care of Uncle Budar’s remains. In an earlier conversation, Uncle Budar told me he did not want a formal funeral, he had little use for the gods. He wanted to be cremated, and his ashes sent to Hispania to be buried alongside my mother and father.

  Only when the urn containing his ashes was placed aboard a ship with a captain I trusted, and upon returning home, did I lock myself away and weep. The old man had been in his seventies when he crossed the River Styx. He always said, I was the son he never had. Although he left his house and other properties to me, I always considered the home on Vatican Hill to be his, and that his shade still roamed the place.

  *

  Three months later, on a cool November afternoon, my duties finished for the day, I returned home from the Praetorian Barracks. As always, I planned to look in on Eleyne. Although I had nearly given up all hope that her condition would improve, I still wanted to see her. During the last few months, Eleyne had barely asserted her will to live. Bedridden because of injuries suffered during the accident and birth, she had lost weight. However, Soranus’s main concern was the recovery of her sanity. He said the legendary Hippocrates, whom the Greeks call the Father of Medicine, believed one’s mental state greatly affected the body. After witnessing Eleyne’s deteriorating condition, I agreed. Wasting away, she seldom ate, caring little about her appearance. She refused to take a bath or allow the maids to sponge her. When the smell became too foul, I ordered the servants to bathe her—by force.

  Not only had the baby’s loss affected her mind, but she had never forgiven me for returning to Rome. The loss of the child aggravated her festering hatred for the city.

  Soranus attempted everything in the art of medicine to heal Eleyne. Keeping my wife alive was in itself a miracle. But he did not possess the skills to overcome her low spirits. I spent a greater part of my evenings with our sons in her room. In their childlike ways, they attempted to cheer their mother—to no avail. She seldom said anything to them.

  Nothing to me.

  “Master!” Porus exclaimed, upon greeting me at the door, “The mistress is well! A miracle.”

  “Impossible,” I answered. “She was so sullen this morning.”

  I hurried to her room. She sat in bed, propped by a number of pillows. Imogen and another maid brushed her hair and adjusted her bedclothes. Although pale and visibly tired, a certain glow radiated from around her face. A smile formed at the edges of her full lips. I ordered the women to leave. Sitting down beside Eleyne, I reached over and took her into my arms. She felt as light as goose feathers. Careful not to squeeze too hard, I gave her a tender hug.

  “I’ve seen him, darling,” she said, drawing her head back. “He’s in Rome.”

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 21

  “Who?” I asked, puzzled by her seemingly inappropriate remarks. “Does it involve your recovery?”

  “Everything,” she answered. “I’ve seen Paul, the chief apostle of my faith.”

  I knew about the Jew from the city of Tarsus, in the eastern province of Cilicia. The first time he came to Rome, he was tried before Caesar on a vague charge brought against him by Jewish leaders in Judea. He had outraged them by claiming his right as a Roman citizen to be heard in Rome instead of their gods forsaken land. Subsequently, the complaint had been dismissed by the emperor as groundless. He had returned to Rome about a week ago for his own reasons. Paul’s appearance had been expected months earlier, but a dispute among the Christians, which required his advice, delayed his arrival.

  “Who told Paul you were ill?” I asked.

  “Imogen brought him. She went to one of the elders, who told Paul about me. Poor girl, she was so worried.”

  “I appreciate her concern,” I said a little annoyed, “but as a slave, she presumed too much by asking him. After all, we have Soranus.”

  Eleyne touched my shoulder. “Don�
�t be silly, Marcellus. Imogen is a Christian, too. She heard Paul had healing powers like the Master.”

  “And he cured you?”

  She nodded with a smile.

  “What kind of trickery did he employ? I won’t have you under any spell.”

  “He didn’t use any tricks.” She beamed and patted my hand. “He simply looked at me, with his soft, brown eyes and asked if I believed in God. Of course, I said I did with all my heart.”

  “Is that all? Nothing else?”

  “He placed his hand on my forehead.”

  I snorted. “Then he did cast a spell.”

  “Marcellus, look at me,” she said patiently. “It’s me, Eleyne. Do I sound like I’m under a spell? Can’t you see I’m well?”

  “Yes, I know you are. It’s so sudden—so unbelievable.” I shuddered not knowing what to think.

  “Does it really matter how I was cured?”

  I hugged her again. “No, not at all. I’m just overjoyed you are.” I could not help thinking some witchcraft was behind her recovery, but I didn’t care.

  Eleyne pushed me slightly away and stroked my stubbled chin. “I know my faith in God cured me. I’m sorry I said those awful things about not caring for Him or for you or the boys.”

  I took her hand in mine, so light and fragile, I was afraid I would crush it. “You don’t have to apologize, it was the fever.”

  “At least He knew I didn’t mean it, and whatever you think of God, I’m well.”

  She was right. I didn’t care who cured Eleyne—her God, or the God of Mount Corno. I had sent the ashes of our daughter to the Sacred Mountain to be scattered as an offering for the snow, which had spared Eleyne’s life. Silently, I thanked her god, too. Together, we sat for a long time holding one another, lost in thought.

  *

  Eleyne’s recovery brought about a gradual but significant change in her life. Although she had prayed and administered to sick Christians and non-Christians alike before the accident, I had sensed a little disdain for those who had not yet converted to what she called, The Way. That attitude vanished overnight. If someone was ill or in need of food, clothing, or shelter, Eleyne was there to help. It did not matter whether they lived in the slums of the Subura or the Trans-Tiberina or in the shadow of the wealthy mansions of the Esquiline, Eleyne would find a way to aid them.