The Divining

by Wood, Barbara

  To their surprise, the city was neither in chaos nor disrupted by civil rebellion but eerily quiet as the day died and evening curfew was marked by the blare of trumpets. They reached the Esquiline Hill as the stars were coming out, and as they climbed the cobblestoned lane, Ulrika saw subdued residences behind high walls, and more silence than was usual for a balmy evening. But, to her relief, up ahead and on the left, she saw Aunt Paulina's house illuminated with torches and lamps, and heard voices rising in laughter as music played up into the dusky sky. She saw, beyond Paulina's villa, the house she shared with her mother. It was dark and silent, but that was not unusual, as Selene frequently spent evenings with her best friend, often staying the night at Paulina's. During these hazardous times, until the new emperor calmed everyone's nerves and assured the populace that life was going on as before, it made sense to Ulrika that her mother would seek the safety of Paulina's house.

  Ulrika thanked Sebastianus and assured him that she would be all right.

  He insisted on going inside with her, but Ulrika reminded Sebastianus that he had his own house and people to see to, that he must not waste time. You and I can go no further, she whispered to him in her heart, taking in his handsome countenance, the bronze-colored hair in the torchlight, his height and strength. They had been in each other's company for six months, had shared food and fire, and had slept together in a magical cave. But he was destined to go to far-off China, and Ulrika's path was fated to lead elsewhere.

  Telling himself that he must simply say good-bye and walk away, Sebastianus reached for Ulrika, placing his hands on her arms, and then he stepped close, to look deeply into her eyes. He wanted to swim in that inviting blue, refresh himself in the grotto that was the iris of her eye.

  He bent his head and brushed his lips on her cheek. Ulrika gasped. Her heart rose in her throat. She wanted to turn her head, bring her mouth to his. Instead, tears rose in her eyes and trickled down her face. These, too, Sebastianus kissed—fluttering kisses that felt like butterflies. They made her skin burn and her body cry out for his touch.

  "May the gods be good to you, Ulrika," he murmured against her ear, reluctant to let her go, "and may the stars guide you to happiness. If you ever need me, you have but to send word."

  After saying good-bye to Timonides and Nestor—who cried like a child at having to leave her—and watching them retreat down the steep lane, Ulrika turned to the gate set in the high wall. Finding it locked, she pulled the bell rope, and when a slave answered, she said, "Please tell Lady Paulina that Ulrika is here."

  He wrinkled his nose. "Who's Paulina?"

  Ulrika's eyes widened. "Your mistress, of course." And then, realizing she did not recognize this slave, looked past him and saw people in Paulina's atrium, laughing and drinking. There was not a familiar face among them. "Who's house is this?" she asked.

  "It belongs to Senator Publius now." And he slammed the gate in her face.

  Ulrika stood in shock. Aunt Paulina's villa had been confiscated? Where were Paulina and her household staff? Ulrika looked up the lane at her own dark and deserted house.

  Where was her mother?

  She ran to their villa and received a second shock: a sign on the gate warned that the property had been seized by the imperial government and that trespass was a criminal offense. Ulrika broke the seals and slipped inside.

  The garden had a neglected look, weedy and dusty, with dry fountains and marble benches littered with dried leaves. Ulrika went through a deserted atrium and reception room, down empty corridors and into silent bedrooms. In the rear, kitchens, laundry, and slaves' quarters were all deserted and dark.

  Making her way back to the atrium, Ulrika surveyed the dark house in rising dismay. Had her mother been taken away by imperial guards? Was she now in prison, or worse: had she already been executed?

  Ulrika went in search of a lamp. Finding one, still full of oil, and a flint, she lit the lamp and brought it back to the atrium, where she tried to think. Should she stay here, in the hope that her mother would come back, or would soldiers return? She had broken the seal on the gate, which in itself was a crime. Now she was trespassing against imperial orders—

  When she heard a scraping sound, she shot to her feet, and was startled to see Erasmus, the old major domo, passing along a colonnaded corridor with his travel packs. "Erasmus!" she called.

  He jumped. "Huh? Is it a ghost? Ah, mistress!" he said when his eyes focused. "Praise the gods you are alive. But you can't stay here. I was ordered to get the house in order for new owners, and now I too must leave."

  "Where is my mother?"

  "Gone," he said sadly in a raspy voice. "She and everyone left Rome days ago. They went in a hurry. They knew the city was no longer safe for them."

  "But where did they go?" Ulrika cried.

  Bony shoulders lifted in a shrug. "The Lady left a letter for me to give you in case you came back." He dug into one of the many secret pockets of his colorful robe and withdrew a scroll tied with a red ribbon. As he started to hurry away, he paused and, thrusting his hand back inside his robe, pulled out a second scroll and said, "Here is another. Good-bye. Be careful, mistress, for these are dangerous times for the friends of Claudius, may he find peace in the afterlife."

  Ulrika looked at the two scrolled letters, recognizing the wax seal on her mother's but puzzling over the second. Who else had left her a letter? Turning the scroll, searching for a seal, she saw a dried water stain on the paper. It looked as if someone had cried and a tear had dropped, leaving a star-shaped stain—

  She froze. It was her own letter, written months ago! "Wait," she said, hurrying after the old man. "Why did you give me my letter back?" But he was gone. The lane was deserted.

  Ulrika looked at her letter again and, seeing that it had never been opened, realized that the old man had removed it from the very same pocket he had slipped it into the day she left Rome.

  My mother never received my letter.

  Ulrika sat down and read by lamplight the letter from her mother.

  "My dearest daughter, I write in haste because we are forced to flee. I do not know where I am going. All the family is with me. I do not know if my political enemies will turn on you. Rome is no longer safe for you. Perhaps by the grace of the Goddess, you and I will find each other one day. I pray also, dearest daughter who came to me in love and in my hour of need, that you find what you are looking for. I am sorry you felt you had to leave Rome without saying good-bye to me, without leaving word. But I understand. Please do not forget your Roman half, and do not despise your Roman blood, for I am part of you, as is your father, Wulf."

  A night breeze gusted and moonlight illuminated dried leaves rustling over paving stones, and Ulrika thought: I went in search of my father and, by doing that, lost my mother.

  And then she recalled the last time she had seen her mother, the row they had had, and how Ulrika had turned on her heel and left while her mother was still speaking. That is my mother's last memory of me! For Selene never read the words of apology and love.

  A sob escaped Ulrika's throat and her eyes filled with tears that dropped onto her mother's letter, wetting black ink, smearing words that said, "Do not despise your Roman half."

  As she watched dried leaves skim the paving stones of the atrium, brushed along by a cool night breeze, she tried to figure out what she should do next. Go in search of her mother? Try to seek her old friends? She thought of Sebastianus, wondered briefly if she could go to him for help, but then realized that, with her connections to Paulina and this house that had been seized by the government, she would be placing him in jeopardy.

  One thing was certain: she could not stay here.

  As she rose from the bench, she heard the sound of footfall. She spun about and saw a man silhouetted in the moonlight.

  Sebastianus.

  He came into the atrium. "I was not comfortable leaving you. I needed to make sure you were all right. When the slave at Paulina's gate said a strange woman
had tried to enter the home of Senator Publius, I knew something was wrong."

  "They're gone, Sebastianus," she whispered. "My mother, my family. All gone. I am alone."

  He took her into his arms and held her tight, caressing her hair, feeling her warm breath on his neck.

  "You are not alone, Ulrika," he said, drawing back. "You are coming home with me."

  "WE'LL ALL BE MURDERED IN OUR BEDS!"

  Primo seized the hysterical laundress by her arm and growled, "Hold your tongue, woman, or you'll make matters worse." He gave her a painful squeeze with his coarse ham-fist and sent her on her way.

  Holy blood of Mithras, Primo cursed silently as he spat on the floor. Women could never be counted on to keep a level head in times of emergency.

  And tonight's was the worst of all possible emergencies, with word coming down the street that soldiers of the new emperor were systematically assassinating anyone who had anything to do with Claudius Caesar, including a caravan trader named Sebastianus Gallus who had met Claudius only once fleetingly, but whose name was recorded on the roster of those to be admitted to the Imperial Palace.

  Primo resumed his inspection of the house, lumbering through the rooms of the Gallus villa like a war machine, his head turning this way and that as he oversaw the industry that always marked his master's return.

  Primo was a large, ugly man whose nose had been broken so many times it barely resembled a nose anymore, and he would have been condemned to a life of begging in the streets had it not been for Sebastianus Gallus, whose house he now ran with the discipline and precision of the dedicated soldier he had once been. Without his steadying presence, Primo knew, this house on the edge of the city would have fallen apart days ago. Even now, there was barely enough staff to keep the kitchen, gardens, laundry, and animal care going, so many slaves had run off in the night. A tense atmosphere hung over rooms glowing with lamplight as slaves prepared the house for their master's return—all under the watchful eye of big, ugly Primo, veteran of so many foreign campaigns and survivor of so much combat that little fazed him anymore.

  But he did not like the piercing screams of a hysterical laundress!

  As Primo strode from room to room, making his presence known, instilling obedience in the slaves from his mere appearance—he still wore the leather breastplate, short tunic, and military sandals from his army days—he could not have explained, had he been asked, where his hatred of women came from. He might have simply said, "They are silly, useless creatures."

  Or perhaps he might admit that it stemmed from shame for his own mother, who had been a waterfront whore servicing sailors while her son lay curled in a corner pretending not to hear the animal sounds coming from her bed. She was beaten to death by a customer when Primo was twelve, and he managed to survive on his own in the streets of Rome until he reached the age of military enlistment.

  Or possibly his contempt for womankind sprang from the fact that he had never forgiven his witless mother for naming her only child Fidus, which meant "faithful," not realizing in her perpetually drunken state that the name would subject her son to a life of mockery and ridicule, as the nickname for Fidus was Fido, a popular name for Rome's pet dogs. So humiliating was this name—his friends would bark whenever he was around—that when he enlisted as a legionary, he said his name was Primo, as it sounded important, and so Primo he had been ever since.

  But the truth of it—should Primo ever truly examine his close-fisted heart—was that he neither hated his mother nor women. In fact, the self-proclaimed despiser of women actually loved them.

  If only they loved him in return.

  Although there had been one, long ago, who had not only shown him a kindness, she had saved his life ...

  "Primo! Primo!" a young slave called as he came running into the atrium where a dozen burning torches kept the night away. "The caravan has arrived! The master is in the city!"

  Primo dashed through the atrium, through the front garden, out the entry gate, and onto the narrow lane embraced by the high walls of private residences. As he peered into the darkness—there were few street lamps in this sector of the city—he recalled the day, eight years ago, when he had walked along this same street, going from gate to gate, knocking, asking for work, as he was a soldier recently retired from military service and needed employment to supplement his meager pension.

  He had served his emperor and the empire well, until he was mustered out after the requisite twenty-five years, finding himself alone and on the streets with little to live on. Primo refused to resort to what most old soldiers did—telling war tales in taverns in exchange for beer—and so he had sought honest employment.

  But what had he to offer? Many legionaries were trained beyond the usual combat skills of the regular soldier—they were "specialist" soldiers with secondary roles such as engineer, artilleryman, drill and weapons instructor, carpenter, medic. Such men, when they mustered out of the military, had professions to fall upon.

  Not Primo, who had been an ordinary infantryman. All he could offer were strength and brawn, which he possessed in great supply, as life in the army had built up his already large body. On the march in unfriendly terrain, a foot soldier was loaded down with a shield, helmet, two javelins, a short sword, a dagger, a pair of heavy sandals, a marching pack, fourteen days' worth of food, a waterskin, cooking equipment, stakes for the construction of palisades, and a shovel or wicker basket. And so there was nothing Primo the army veteran could not move or lift with ease.

  However, as he sought honest employment, gates had been slammed in his face, until he had come to the house of merchant-trader Sebastianus Gallus and had found appalling disorder. The slave at the gate was sullen and rude, the house steward wore a stained tunic. Food droppings littered the floors, raucous laughter came from the kitchens and laundry, animals roamed freely in the main rooms. Learning the identity of the homeowner, who was away on a caravan, Primo had hired a horse and ridden out to meet the returning caravan, whereupon Sebastianus Gallus, hearing the shocking report of his household, left the caravan and rode back with Primo to catch his steward and staff by surprise, learning that they only got the house into shape when they knew their master was almost home. Primo averred that he would keep things in order while Sebastianus was gone, and he was hired on the spot. Primo had taken on the role of Chief Steward, but in the years since had also become bodyguard, chariot driver, and overseer of general maintenance of the household.

  When he saw the party now coming up the lane, and heard Timonides loudly complaining about something, Primo scratched his backside and spat on the ground. He didn't like Timonides or his simpleton son. The Greek astrologer was self-righteous with his charts and instruments. Like most soldiers, Primo did not know how to read, nor could he do sums, and so he was scornful of men of higher learning. Timonides further irritated him with his spouting about there being order in the universe, that everything happened for a reason, and that a man could control his destiny through star-reading. Primo knew otherwise. Nothing happened for a reason, the universe was chaos, and there was no way to control one's destiny. All of life was random and accidental. And as for the life after death Timonides preached about, it had nothing to do with this life, so why would a man concern himself with it?

  Primo frowned when he saw a woman with them.

  He knew what women thought when they looked at him—this ugly brute with too many battle scars on his face to have any saving grace. Only if he paid generous coinage would a woman allow him access to her body. He sometimes wondered if sworn celibacy, especially in the name of a god, was easier on a man's vanity than repeated rejections by women—and certainly easier on his purse!

  As Primo stepped away from the gate to greet his master, soldiers appeared suddenly at the other end of the street, armor clanking, booted feet stamping on the paving stones. Primo's eyes widened. He saw by the scorpion insignia on their metal breastplates that they were Praetorians, an elite military cohort operating directly under t
he emperor. Primo was further shocked by their blatant carrying of weapons, defying the ancient tradition that soldiers were forbidden to be armed within the city walls.

  This was not a good sign.

  The captain of the guard, a short, wiry man with a narrow face, and wearing the red-plumed helmet of an officer, strode up and said, "Are you Sebastianus Gallus?"

  Sebastianus maintained his composure as he strode up and said, "I am he."

  "You are to come with us by order of the emperor."

  Sebastianus nodded and turned to Primo. But as he gave orders to his chief steward to see to the rest of his party, the Praetorians began rounding everyone up, no questions asked, using their spears as goads.

  Sebastianus protested. "Let them go. They have done nothing."

  But his words fell on deaf ears. And so they were all taken: Sebastianus and Ulrika, Timonides and Nestor, as well as Primo who, as a veteran of the legions, instinctively fell into step with the guards upon the words: "by order of the emperor."

  They were taken by wagon to the Palatine Hill where, according to legend, a she-wolf had suckled the babies Romulus and Remus, founders of Rome, thus imbuing the spot with great mystical power. Here, overlooking the Forum and the Circus Maximus, the Imperial Palace loomed majestically, its white marble walls, terraces, columns, and fountains glowing against the night sky with lamps and torches beyond counting, as if the new emperor were trying to command even the night to retreat.

  As the wagon rumbled beneath massive arches and past colossal statues, Timonides silently blamed himself for the terrible fate they were about to suffer. All those falsified horoscopes! Had he really thought he could get away with it?