“You’ll marry again after I’m dead.”
“You seem certain of that.”
“I’m certain that you plan to hold out until I’m gone just to spite me.”
Larthia looked away from him.
“You seem to think that your resentment of the arrangements I made for you and your sister has been lost on me. It has not. But I did what I thought was necessary at the time. I am asking you to grant me this indulgence so I can rest easy knowing that your life is not in danger and my dynasty will endure.”
“You obviously have great faith in this barbarian.”
“I have great faith in his desire to be free. He’ll guard you or the Greek Medusa if he knows that his slavery will be over at the end of it. He was a leader of his tribe, you know, fought us like an Nubian tiger from what I hear. The yoke of slavery sits very heavily on his shoulders.”
“And he is just taking your word for it that you’ve already filed his emancipation papers with the Vestals?” Larthia inquired dubiously.
“He went with me when I did.”
“He reads Latin?” Larthia asked, surprised.
“He does now. He had eight years to learn.”
Larthia shook her head obstinately. “I know I shall dislike giving up my privacy,” she said.
“He’s a slave, my dear. He’ll be at your command, but I beg you to take him with you when you go abroad in the city. I did not want to tell you this, but I see you need convincing. There have been two attempts on my life, and I fear you may be next.”
“Attempts on your life?” Larthia whispered, listening closely now.
“Yes. And it is well known that you are the sole survivor of the Casca house likely to bear children and carry on the name. My sons are dead, my grandson, your cousin Gaius, was killed in Gaul, and Julia is a Vestal. Please do this for me.”
Larthia was silent; she was stubborn enough, and angry enough at his past manipulations, to oppose the idea, but if her life really WAS in danger...She wasn’t ready to cross the River Styx with the ferryman just yet.
“Well?” Casca said.
“You can send him to me.”
“He’s here, waiting in the atrium.”
“Already?”
“I felt certain I could convince you. I have the ownership papers ready to transfer him to you right now.”
Larthia shook her head in amazement. The old man was always one step ahead of her.
“I suppose you should bring him in, then,” she said wearily, with a gesture of defeat.
Casca stepped into the hall and signaled, and shortly thereafter a blond giant entered the room. He was followed nervously by Nestor, who as Larthia’s master of slaves was clearly taken aback by this new addition to his staff.
Larthia waved Nestor into the corner of the room abruptly. She would deal with him later.
“Verrix, this is your new mistress, my granddaughter, Larthia Casca Sejana,” Casca said to the giant in Latin. “You will protect her with your life, as we have discussed. Your fides, loyalty, will be only to her now.”
Verrix inclined his head, but Larthia had the uneasy feeling that she should be bowing to him. He carried himself regally, as if he were the master and she the slave. He was the most physically imposing human being she had ever seen, even though he was dressed in the long barbarian trousers Romans disdained, with a homespun tunic belted at the waist. He was tall, taller than the average Roman to be sure, but it was the breadth of his shoulders and the solidity of his frame that made him seem bigger than he actually was. His hair was the color of ripe wheat, wavy and long, with brows and lashes a shade darker. They emphasized the brilliant blue of his eyes, the shade of rosemary, ros marinus, the dew of the sea.
Larthia stared at him openly. She had often heard that the Celts of Gaul and Britain had beautiful eyes, and now she saw that it was true.
“Verrix,” Larthia said finally, clearing her throat, aware that she should say something. “What does that name mean in your language?”
“High king,” he replied, and somehow, even though he was barefoot and dressed in rags, the reply was appropriate.
“I understand that my grandfather saved you from imminent execution by paying an exorbitant amount as your life price,” Larthia added.
“I would have taken my own life before suffering crucifixion,” Verris replied in excellent Latin, albeit with a slight guttural accent. “I heard what happened to my uncle Vercingetorix when he was led through the Roman streets in chains during Caesar’s Gallic triumph, put on display like a Carthaginian elephant, and then murdered. I will determine the manner of my own death.”
“Vercingetorix was your uncle?” Larthia asked, glancing at Casca. Both remembered the rebel chieftain who had led the Gallic tribes in revolt against Rome almost a decade earlier, posing the most significant threat to colonial rule the Republic had ever experienced. One of Larthia’s most vivid childhood memories was of watching the parade of the conquered Gauls, their pale haired leader in leg and foot irons, but proud still, staring back defiantly at the jeering Roman crowds rather than gazing at the ground in resignation like the rest of his people.
“I was given the short version of his name to honor him,” Verrix replied.
“But you were able to escape when he was taken captive?” Larthia asked.
“He remained with the survivors in order to bargain for their lives. He instructed me to flee and return to the home camp in Gaul for reinforcements to launch a counterattack. By the time I got there it had been destroyed by the Aedui, Roman allies, who burned it to the ground.”
“But surely it was unwise for you to return to Rome as a wanted man.”
“My family was dead, my tribe destroyed. I had to live but had no wish to remain where there were so many painful memories. I came here because it would have been unexpected. People generally fail to see what is right under their noses. There were so many Gauls in Rome after the war that I blended in with the crowd.”
Larthia could not imagine him blending into any crowd. “And you were at large until a short time ago? How did you live?” Larthia asked.
“By my wits. I have a strong back, I was taken on as a day laborer by a builder from Ostia. I learned to read and write your language and was prospering until a centurion recognized me and had me arrested for the murder of your Roman officer.”
“The builder is Ammianus Paulinus,” Casca said dryly. “He is notorious for hiring runaway slaves at cut wages, he never checks for freedman’s papers. He is fined for it each time a new aedile takes office, but Paulinus gives the lowest bids for public structures so he stays in business.”
“How were you caught?” Larthia asked Verrix.
“By chance. I was placing a cornerstone and Paulinus called the centurion, who is an acquaintance of his, over to see the quality of the workmanship. The officer had been one of those in charge of the prisoners in Gaul during the rebellion, he was friends with the man I killed. The centurion recognized me.”
“By your size?” Larthia asked.
“And this,” Verrix replied, touching the thin twisted band of bronze which encircled his muscular neck, the rounded ends of which stopped just short of meeting at the base of his throat. Larthia could see a pulse beating there, steadily, strongly.
“What is that?” she said.
“My torque. It denotes my tribe and clan. The Roman soldier recalled it from our last meeting.”
“Does it come off?” she asked.
“Never.”
“Who betrayed you back to the authorities after you escaped the second time?”
“A woman,” he said shortly.
Larthia exchanged a glance with Casca. “Is she still alive?” Larthia asked Verrix dryly.
“As far as I know,” he replied coolly.
Verrix and Larthia were eyeing each other warily, like two sparring partners.
“Do you have any further questions?” Casca asked his granddaughter impatiently.
“Ver
y well,” Larthia said to the slave suddenly, ignoring the older man. “Your job will be to accompany me when I go abroad and protect me, and also whatever duties Nestor assigns to you within the house. Understood?”
Verrix inclined his head.
“Where have you been living?”
“In the insulae behind the Via Sacra.”
“Nestor will send someone over there to pack your things,” Larthia said.
“That will not be necessary, mistress,” Nestor said, speaking for the first time. “He brought a bundle with him.”
Verrix suddenly looked at Casca, as one equal might gaze at another.
“When does my term of three years begin to run?” he asked the older man.
“Today,” Casca replied.
“Three years of me may be more than you can stand,” Larthia said slyly.
“I can stand three years of anyone to be free. If I run again, you will only look for me, especially since your father’s father paid such a high price for me. If I stay the term I need never look over my shoulder again.”
“Three years is a long time,” Casca said.
“More so to you than to me, Consular Casca. I am young yet. I have time.”
Larthia waved her hand dismissively, ending the exchange. “Nestor, take Verrix back to the slave quarters and give him the single room nearest the kitchen. See that Helena gets him something else to wear and some food to eat. I expect to go shopping near the forum in the morning. You may begin your duties then, Verrix.”
Nestor looked dubious, but did as he was told. Once the two slaves had left Larthia said to her grandfather sharply, “He’s arrogant, that Celt.”
“So much the better. A cowed slave would flinch at every shadow. This one is bold.”
“I’m sure he’s dangerous too. He was wanted for murder, wasn’t he?”
“He killed his captor to escape during wartime. Any Roman soldier would have done the same.”
“Why are you defending him?”
“I was not defending, merely explaining.” Casca adjusted the shoulder drape of his toga fussily. “Well, I must be off to the baths to refresh myself for the evening. I am dining with Marcus Junius Brutus tonight.”
Larthia nodded expressionlessly. Her grandfather’s influential friends had never impressed her.
“I hope you will be satisfied with my gift,” he said, and bent to press his cool lips to her forehead.
Larthia accepted the kiss without moving and then watched as Casca left the room.
What did the old man mean by placing this giant in her household? Her grandfather was so devious that she couldn’t take his word for the coming sunrise. Was he telling the truth when he said that he merely wanted to protect her?
What, exactly, was Casca up to?
* * *
Verrix looked around the spare room he had been assigned and then sat cross legged on the floor. The cell was the size of an incense box but at least it was a single. He had passed the main slave quarters with Nestor and that room was set up like a huge dormitory, long rows of beds with just a thin curtain separating them. He assumed he had been given this spot so that he could be on call for the mistress at all times without disturbing anyone else. It had the disadvantage of being right next to the kitchen; he could hear the skivvies in there now banging pots while cooking the evening meal. But after seven years on a construction gang he was impervious to noise and didn’t care where he slept.
Verrix was surprised, in fact, to find himself still alive. He had prepared for death so often since the failure of the Gallic rebellion when he was eighteen that to slip away from Cerberus one more time made him all the more determined to survive. And now the prospect of freedom dangled before him tantalizingly, like the fox’s grapes hanging just out of reach. But to grasp the prize he had to keep that little minx alive for three years, and during that time he just might kill her himself.
Larthia was a type he particularly disliked. Most Roman women were kept behind closed doors and under the thumb of their husbands, but the wealthy widow was the conspicuous exception. In his years of observing Roman culture he had seen such matrons out on the town many times, leading an entourage of slaves and ordering all of them about curtly. It made him recall with a pang the women of his tribe, working alongside the men even when heavy with child, valiant to the last when the Romans and their minions swept across the river and razed everything. All of them were gone now, most dead, the survivors scattered like himself.
No, he didn’t care much for Larthia Casca Sejana, but he would keep her breathing in order to get the emancipation papers that were his only escape from a future of slavery. He had known the situation when Casca bought him. The only surprise was the physical appearance of the lady in question. He still confused Latin suffixes and had thought she was Casca’s daughter at first, and so expected a fortyish matron with grown children, not a slender slip of a girl years younger than himself. She must have been married off when she was hardly out of childhood to a monied old coot; he had learned that was the custom with the Roman aristocracy. Now she had her husband’s fortune, his massive house, his troops of slaves, but she had her grandfather too, standing on her neck and making sure she didn’t stir off the mark. So she spent her time throwing money away on trifles and growing more irritable and dissipated by the day.
Verrix stood abruptly at a knock on his door. It swung open immediately.
“Come with me,” Nestor said, jerking his gray head in the direction of the kitchen. “I want you to help me stoke the stove. You have a strong young back and mine was bent long ago.”
Verrix followed the stooped and shuffling man, who had grown old in the service of the Casca family and come with Larthia to her husband’s house when she was married.
Verrix understood that his new life was about to begin.
* * *
Marcus entered the luxurious atrium of the Gracchus estate on the Palatine hill and handed his helmet and cloak to a bowing servant.
The impressively large house was of concrete faced with stone, rectangular in shape, with two floors. Its entry hall roof was open to the appearing stars through a skylight and the room was lined at the left with cupboards containing masks of the Gracchus ancestors cast in wax. Ranged all around the walls were costly vases and Oriental tapestries, and underfoot was a floor mosaic of intricate pattern, many tiny tiles inlaid with mortar depicting a pastoral scene of gamboling nymphs and shepherds. Marcus followed the servant through the hall into the tablinum, a slightly raised open parlor flanked on either side by the alae, alcoves which contained shrines to the lares, the household gods.
Senator Gracchus and his son awaited Marcus in the tablinum, where they reclined on brocade couches, golden cups in hand. Marcus looked around at the engraved twin candelabra sitting on a side table inlaid with lapis and decorated with green enamel intaglio. The intricately frescoed walls, the hanging tapestry depicting Minerva springing full grown from the brow of Zeus and the waist high Greek urn painted with a scene of the mythical Minotaur filled out the room’s decor. He smiled at his friend Septimus as he joined the two other men.
“Greetings, Septimus. I must say I am dismayed to find you in such miserable surroundings.”
Septimus laughed. “Quite a change from those rainy camps in Gaul where we shivered under canvas, eh?” he said.
Marcus nodded, accepting a cup from another servant who appeared instantly from a side door. “Where is the rest of the company?” he asked.
“Already in the dining room with my wife,” the Senator answered. “Septimus thought it would be more pleasant to have a short time alone here before joining the crowd. He says you’re something of a celebrity and often get pawed by admirers.”
“Septimus exaggerates,” Marcus replied shortly, taking a sip from his cup.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Gracchus said. “My wife conducts a sophisticated salon and she’s invited half of Rome here tonight to view the conquering hero. You might be considerably more
popular than you had anticipated.”
Marcus shot Septimus a desperate look which communicated volumes.
“Now, father, don’t scare him off, you’ll give Marcus the impression he’s going to be the centerpiece at dinner,” Septimus said hastily.
“Am I ?” Marcus asked pointedly.
“Of course not, please pay no attention to my father. You’re here as my guest to enjoy yourself and nothing more,” Septimus said jovially.
“How do you like the wine, boy?” Senator Gracchus asked Marcus.
“Very good,” Marcus replied.
“How would you know, Corvus, you never drink,” Septimus said, grinning.
“You could drink less, it wouldn’t hurt you,” the Senator observed sharply to his son.
“Oh, I could never aspire to the perfection enjoyed by my friend here,” Septimus responded, taking a long swallow of his wine. “He is a true Greek in spirit, faithful to his family name. ‘Everything in moderation.’”
“Except warfare,” Senator Gracchus said.
“And love,” Septimus added sagely. “Isn’t that what young Horace says?”
“Oh, that stripling Horace, another friend of Brutus. I am tired of that gang and their mouthpiece, Cicero,” the Senator said.
“But you will stay on good terms with them, as well as with Caesar’s group,” Septimus said, smiling wickedly. “My father remains neutral in all political controversies, Marcus. That is how he hangs on to his money.”
“A wise course,” Marcus said.
“But you are Caesar’s partisan, I understand,” Gracchus said to Marcus.
“He was and is my general, Senator Gracchus. I owe him a soldier’s loyalty.”
“He’s much more than a general now,” Gracchus said. “In our country politicians have always done military duty. I remember when Cicero was consul of Cilicia before the late Sejanus took over that territory. But Caesar aspires to more, he already calls himself ‘Imperator’.”
“Any victorious general may claim that title,” Marcus said testily.
“True, but it is also an indication of his ambitions. When he shared power with Crassus and Pompey he was more amenable to compromise. Now that he is alone I’m afraid the time will come soon when we all have to choose sides, and that will be a very bad day for Rome.”
The Raven and the Rose Page 4
