The Raven and the Rose

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “I don’t. Nothing is more important to him than his emancipation. He won’t care if you’re sleeping with a soldier or a street cleaner or Pompey the Great, he’ll make sure you have privacy if I tell him to do that. It’s perfect.”

  “I’m not sleeping with anyone at the moment,” Julia said morosely.

  Larthia looked at her.

  “Nestor interrupted us at a very critical point,” Julia went on unhappily.

  “I see.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best. When I think about it... making love, I mean...” She shuddered delicately. “I’m so hungry for him, yet afraid at the same time.”

  “But you weren’t afraid when you were with him,” Larthia said.

  Julia reddened. “No,” she admitted. “Not at all.”

  “Have you talked about it?”

  Julia’s blush deepened. “We haven’t wasted much time with talking.”

  Larthia studied her sister for a moment and then sighed. “You don’t know how lucky you are- to feel that way. And to be able to act on it.”

  “Have you ever felt that way?” Julia asked. “About your husband?”

  “Of course not, Julia. How can you ask such a question? You know what the situation was there.”

  “Not really. I was a child when you got married, and later it never seemed proper to come right out and ask you. I know that you... appeared to be unhappy.”

  “I was.”

  “If you were not in love with him when you married, what about later, when you were pregnant...”

  “I was never in love with him at any time, Julia,” Larthia snapped.

  “Or with anyone else?”

  Larthia didn’t answer.

  “Larthia?” Julia persisted.

  “We’re wasting time,” Larthia said briskly. “You should leave too, your litter is waiting. You don’t want to make Livia Versalia suspicious.”

  “Larthia, are you sure it’s all right for us to continue to meet here?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll take care of the privacy problem. You’re happy with Marcus, and that’s all that counts,” Larthia answered. “I’ll talk to Verrix tonight, and all will be well. You’ll see.”

  Julia embraced her sister. “You always make me feel so much better.”

  Larthia patted her shoulder. “That’s my mission in life. Now let’s go, I’ll see you to the door.”

  Once Julia had left Larthia walked back into the house and encountered Nestor walking through the hall with a brass planter in his hand.

  “Mistress, let me apologize again for intruding on your sister...” he began.

  Larthia waved him away. “Never mind, it’s forgotten. Please send Verrix to me in the tablinum immediately.” She walked on briskly, planning what she would say.

  A short time later Verrix came into the room where she was waiting for him and said, “Nestor told me that you wanted to speak to me.”

  “Yes,” Larthia replied. “Close the door.”

  Verrix did so and returned to her.

  “Sit down.”

  He sat across from her uneasily, a puzzled expression on his face. Why had she invited him to sit? Servants were generally kept standing at all times.

  “I have something to say to you,” Larthia began.

  Verrix felt his throat closing. She was selling him. He would never see her again. It was over.

  Larthia was silent, as if thinking about what to say. Verrix studied her. Why would she bother to call him in here to tell him that she was selling him? He would just wake up one morning and find that he now belonged to someone else, his deal with her grandfather nullified. As a slave he did not deserve an explanation.

  “I find that I must take you into my confidence about something,” she said slowly.

  Verrix began to breathe again. He waited.

  “My sister is having a...relationship...with a centurion,” she said baldly.

  Verrix had long schooled his features to conceal emotion, but it was clear this piece of information startled even him.

  “Your sister the Vestal?” he said, in a tone which did not quite conceal his incredulity.

  “That’s right. She will be meeting him in this house every market day.”

  Verrix said nothing.

  “I am trusting you with this information because I need someone to help me. Your unique position among the slaves makes you the most qualified to do so.”

  “Does Nestor know about this?”

  “No one knows but you.”

  Verrix digested that and then said, “What do you want me to do?”

  “It is imperative that this relationship be concealed at all costs. I think you can understand why. Do you know Roman law concerning the Vestals?”

  “I know that the penalty for breaking their vows is death,” Verrix replied.

  “Exactly. And I cannot be everywhere at once. Although I will be taking every precaution to conceal their meetings, I want you to stand guard outside my room when Julia’s visitor is here, and I want you to intercede if anything happens that might reveal their relationship. Is that clear?”

  Verrix nodded. “What’s the penalty for your collaboration with this scheme?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Larthia said darkly. “But there is something I should add.”

  Verrix looked at her.

  “The centurion is Demeter.”

  Verrix showed no response.

  “I trust that you remember him, he wanted to impale you on his sword when he saw you here at Livia’s reception,” Larthia said dryly.

  “I am always mindful of the contract for my freedom,” Verrix replied evenly. “I will do as you say.”

  “Fine. Demeter will be back here next nundina. I will notify you when he arrives.”

  Verrix rose.

  “And there’s something else,” Larthia said.

  Verrix halted.

  “Nestor has been complaining to me that you’re arguing with him. I know he is old and set on his path, but just do what he says and do it his way, please. I don’t have time to soothe his ruffled feathers every time he gives you an order.”

  Verrix inclined his head.

  “That will be all.”

  Verrix left.

  * * *

  When Marcus returned to the barracks he found Lisander, the slave attached to his cohort, waiting for him.

  “A message came for you while you were gone,” Lisander said soberly, handing him a tightly wound scroll. The seal on the parchment was the “SPQR” of the Roman Republic (Senatus Populusque Romanus , “the Senate and the people of Rome.”) Marcus noted that this legend was surmounted by the fasces, the bundle of rods which symbolized the unity of the Roman people, and that it was shown with an axe, which only the dictator was allowed to include in the symbol.

  The message was from Caesar.

  Lisander, who had also noted the origin of the letter, was watching his face.

  “Who brought this?” Marcus asked.

  “Tiberius Junius Germanicus,” Lisander replied.

  Marcus considered that. Germanicus was the hastus prior , or premier swordsman, of the first cohort, also a close confidante of Caesar’s.

  This must be important.

  “Leave me,” Marcus said brusquely to the slave.

  As soon as Lisander was gone he looked around the deserted barracks to make sure he was alone before he split the wax seal and unrolled the parchment.

  As always, Caesar was brief and to the point. “Come to the southern guardhouse at the turn of the watch,” the message said. “Let no one see you.” That was all.

  Marcus glanced outside at the night sky and determined from the position of Polaris, the north star, that the turn of the watch was not far away. The fact that this message had passed from Tiberius to Lisander to him, and they were all three trusted allies of the dictator, told him that Caesar was taking no chances on discovery.

  Marcus walked out of the barracks, past the dormitory whe
re many of the soldiers were sleeping, and into the Campus. The marshy earth gave beneath his sandaled feet as he crossed the archery ground, where the circular targets loomed like ghosts. When he heard voices he ducked into an alley filled with dummies, canvas bags with stitched on limbs stuffed with straw, used in Greek wrestling instruction. He waited there until the conversants had passed.

  Romans rose with the sun and retired early, so the only personnel he encountered when he walked on again were soldiers changing the watch. Marcus saw no one else for the rest of the journey. When he reached the guardhouse it was dark, and he hesitated, wondering if he had mistaken the message and the call was for another night. Then a figure emerged from the shadows and gestured for him to come forward.

  “We were waiting for you,” Tiberius said, and opened the door, following Marcus into the small, roughcast room, which contained about a dozen men. They were crowded around a brazier on the floor, shielding its light with their bodies so that from the exterior the guardhouse would appear to be unoccupied.

  Marcus joined the group, squatting next to Tiberius and nodding to the men whose faces he saw around the circle, dappled with firelight. Mark Antony, Caesar’s nephew Octavian, Lepidus, Artemidorus, others that Marcus recognized as Caesar’s most trusted friends and advisors. All eyes were focused on the dictator as he stood and addressed them.

  “ I have called you all here because an incident in the Senate today has confirmed to me that the cause of my enemies is very much alive,” he said wearily.

  The men waited. This was not news.

  “You may recall that on the festival of the Lupercal, having just accepted the post of dictator for life, I was seated on the Rostra when the Luperci came running into the forum. Antony, who as priest of the Juliani was one of them, attempted to place a crown upon my head. I rejected the crown and said, ‘Jupiter alone is king of the Romans,’ and sent the diadem to Jupiter on the Capitol. I thought at the time that this gesture would be sufficient to finally dispel the notion that I lusted for the title of rex to add to the others already conferred upon me.”

  A few of the men exchanged glances, and Antony shifted uncomfortably. Caesar was already running the country, but most of those present knew that the Roman people abhorred the idea of an overlord, embodied in the title of ‘rex’, or ‘king.’ This was contrary to the animus, or spirit, of a republic, their cherished ideal, even if the reality had drifted far from the model by Caesar’s time. Primus inter pares, “first among equals”, was much more acceptable to the average Roman than a monarchy in which the monarch was thought superior to the rest of the population.

  Antony had acted hastily and made a strategic mistake. The people loved Caesar, but they were not ready for a king. Caesar’s enemies had only to promote the notion that he wanted that title to gain attentive listeners and increase their following.

  “But this morning,” Caesar went on in a weary tone, “Lucius Cotta announced in the Senate that it was written in the Sibylline Books that the Parthians could be conquered only by a king, and therefore in view of the upcoming campaign against them I should immediately be given that title.”

  A groan arose from the group. Octavian spoke up, saying, “Lucius Cotta is a senile old fool. Nobody will pay any attention to him.”

  “Somebody must have put Cotta up to it,” Tiberius suggested darkly. “Casca, maybe.”

  “On the contrary, I think Cotta was sincere and his news occasioned much discussion,” Caesar said. “He is a priest of Jupiter. His interpretation of the oracle’s words receives the close attention of the people, who have heard about it already, I’m sure.”

  A gloomy silence prevailed.

  “My point is this,” Caesar said. “If I remain in Rome until May, when the army is scheduled to depart for Parthia, there will be more than two months for Casca and the others to inflame the people against me. I propose that I leave with the scouts on March 18 and give all this talk a chance to cool down. The disadvantage will be that the army will remain in camp here without me, as it will be too early to march east with the full complement. The spring floods will still be running and the earth will be too soft for a hard march. What is your advice on this matter?”

  The men looked at one another measuringly, considering what he had said. Marcus knew that, as usual, Caesar had already made up his mind on the subject, and was only asking his allies for their thoughts in order to make sure he had not overlooked anything in his planning.

  “Your presence here could act more as a panacea than an irritant,” Antony said reasonably. “You don’t want to look like you’re running away.”

  Caesar nodded, then turned to Octavian.

  “I think you should go,” Octavian said. “Seeing you every day wearing the Imperator’s robes and preceded by lictors carrying the axed fasces will only fan the flames. Issuing orders from a distance is safer. The effect will be the same but your enemies will be denied their rallying symbol: you wearing the purple, sitting in a gilded chair and heading the Senate, acting, in their opinion, like a god.”

  “Marcus?” Caesar said.

  “I agree with your nephew,” Marcus replied. “Go to Parthia and let the situation settle in your absence. The army will uphold your standard here.”

  Caesar polled the rest of the group and it was agreed that he would leave Rome in mid-March with the advance guard. As the meeting broke up Tiberius took Marcus aside and said, “Where were you tonight? Your slave Lisander did not know.”

  A line waited by the guardhouse door; the men were departing one by one to avoid arousing suspicion.

  “I went for a walk,” Marcus replied.

  “You must like to live dangerously,” Tiberius said. “The gangs have been rampant in the streets lately.”

  “I kept to the Campus,” Marcus said hastily.

  “Nothing like a brisk tramp through the marshes to bring on the flux,” Tiberius said, laughing. “You’re an odd one, Demeter. It must be your Greek blood.”

  “Maybe,” Marcus replied, smiling thinly.

  “No, I’m serious,” Tiberius said. “All those athletic contests in the nude, I can never decide whether the Greeks are decadent or just careless of their health.”

  Marcus laughed.

  “Well, my turn to go,” Tiberius said, and slipped through the door. Marcus glanced back at Caesar, who was engaged in conversation with his sister’s son. Marcus decided to wait and talk to him later, then left when he saw through a crack in the door that Tiberius had disappeared and the coast was clear.

  Marcus hardly noticed the walk back to the barracks; his head was filled with disturbing thoughts.

  Caesar was in trouble. How could he, Marcus, consider deserting his position in the army and running off with Julia when the man who had raised him so high, transformed his life from that of a poor farmer to that of a hero of the state, was relying on him for future support?

  Marcus paused to lean against a piling supporting a ballista, or stone throwing catapult, and closed his eyes. A few months ago he would have turned in anyone he knew was considering deserting, would have killed anyone caught in the act. And now he was contemplating it himself! Meeting Julia had altered his goals so dramatically that sometimes he stopped in mid-reverie and wondered how he could be thinking what he was thinking.

  So suddenly, in the moment he set eyes on her, nothing much mattered to him except their future together.

  But his notions of honor had not completely deserted him. Perhaps he could persuade Julia to wait for him until he returned from Parthia. A victory there would assure that the spoils of that extremely rich country would flow into Rome, and the Roman people would certainly express their gratitude by finally giving Caesar anything he wanted. Quibbles over titles or which kind of robes he should wear would mean little in the face of an ultimate triumph which filled the coffers of every citizen. That’s why Caesar’s enemies wanted to bring the situation to a head before he left for the summer campaign; they knew if he won a another vi
ctory in the wealthy east their political cause at home would be lost.

  Marcus sighed and forced his feet to move forward again. He didn’t know what to do; he had never before faced a situation in which his personal desires conflicted with his duty. They had always been one and the same. The notion of a life without Julia was bleak indeed, but his conscience would not allow him to desert his mentor when Caesar’s need was so great.

  Marcus walked on with a heavy heart.

  * * *

  “Livia Versalia wants to see you,” Margo said to Julia, as the Vestal walked into her apartment in the Atrium. “She has sent me twice to check and see if you had returned.”

  “What is it about?” Julia said, trying to disguise her reaction as she removed her veil.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps she wants to hear what you learned from the physician.”

  “I didn’t learn much. He is sending me some medicine in the morning.”

  “Medicine for what?”

  “Pain.”

  “What pain?”

  “Margo, stop interrogating me,” Julia said, with more than a trace of irritation. “I don’t know what’s wrong, if I did I wouldn’t be consulting a doctor.”

  “You never complained to me of any pain,” Margo said.

  “I never complained to you, but I felt it.”

  Margo’s silence was strained, and Julia relented when she realized the older woman was worried about her. She went over to the servant and put her hand on Margo’s shoulder.

  “I’m sure it’s not serious. Paris thinks it’s a female complaint resulting from a lack of childbearing.”

  Margo’s brow cleared. “That sometimes happens.”

  “Yes, I know. So don’t fret and let me go on to see Livia. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Margo adjusted the drape of Julia’s palla. “We’ll talk when you get back,” she said, then dropped her hand.

  Julia slipped out into the torchlit hall of the Atrium, the sound of her steps echoing off the marble walls as she headed for the corner suite which housed the Chief Vestal. She passed statues of Jupiter and Minerva, Diana and Mars, all standing on pedestals or enclosed in wall niches. Various Vestals had left offerings of early spring flowers or shafts of grain and ears of corn before the images, hoping to placate the gods. When she reached Livia’s door she was admitted by Danuta, Livia’s personal slave.