Her Roman Protector

by Milinda Jay

  “And why would you say that, Callus? Why would you think that necessary?” Gamus asked.

  “Purity. Family purity,” Callus said solemnly. “Why I’m quite certain old Petronius Sergius, the boy’s father, would find it an offense to the family honor for Marcus here to bring home a woman sullied from a previous husband.”

  “Bosh,” said Nona. “I would take a seasoned wife with knowledge and experience in child rearing and running a home over the pasty-faced girls I see riding around in their fine litters carried about like well-dressed dolls. Honestly, I would trade ten of those doll wives for one solid woman who knows an honest day’s work, loves her husband, manages a household and cares for her children.” Nona walked away shaking her head.

  “How do you stand on the wife question, Gamus?” Marcus couldn’t help asking. Nona’s words had soothed his soul, but Callus had unsettled his mind.

  What if his father felt the same as Callus? Did he believe a woman previously married would sully the family name? He looked up at Nona.

  Nona stood still, watching and listening. Something was at stake here, Marcus could see that clearly enough.

  “Well,” said Gamus, twirling the mead in the clay cup before him. “I do not know.”

  “Not sure, huh?” Nona asked. “Was it the fault of a young bride that her husband divorced her simply because she had no fortune?” Nona’s eyes blazed, and her voice boomed. “And did I sully the honor of your family, having been twice a bride?”

  “Certainly not,” Gamus responded. “My dear, you are the love of my life, and my family, while they lived, adored you.”

  Nona was soothed.

  The sun’s rays lighted the cracks beneath the closed door, illuminating the blue leaves and swirls of the floor mosaic. Marcus helped Gamus open the doors while Callus fussily finished his meal, picking up the breadcrumbs with a wetted forefinger.

  Marcus knew it was time to take his leave.

  “Thank you, Nona. It was filling and good, as always.” Marcus kissed her on the cheek.

  “Any time, my boy. I love having you at our table. We miss our boys. One in Britain, another off in Corinth. I can only hope to see them again before this life is over.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, wife,” Gamus said. “Of course you will see them. They are young lads, not yet thirty summers, and you and I have barely seen fifty. We have many, many good years left to us. If they don’t travel to us, we will travel to them.” Gamus caught Nona’s hand and kissed it.

  She laughed, and kissed him on his head, cleared the table and began wiping it down with a damp linen cloth.

  She lifted Callus’s plate just as he made a last swipe at the breadcrumbs, and snatched it away. She then wiped the table down, pointedly, in front of him.

  Clearly, Nona was ready for Callus to be gone.

  “I best be off, as well,” Callus said.

  After Callus made his way down the early morning street, Gamus pulled Marcus aside.

  “If you are blessed enough to find a woman like my Nona,” Gamus said, “You will be a happy man indeed.”

  But the truth was, Marcus was not so certain. It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with Gamus. Nona was wonderful. But, really, what Callus said was what Marcus had hoped and dreamed. A wife of his own, his first, and he her first husband. That had always been his ideal.

  He watched Callus make his lonely way down the road. He looked back at the warmth of Nona’s smile shining down on Gamus.

  Surely he could have the bride he’d dreamed of and the happiness of Gamus and Nona.

  * * *

  Marcus headed back to the barracks for some much- needed sleep.

  His watch began when the sun set and lasted until the sun rose. The summer watches were much shorter than the long winter ones, and for that he was grateful. It gave him more time to make a plan and prepare.

  He felt like he was going into battle.

  He was.

  A battle unlike any he had been in before.

  He was accustomed to facing fierce warriors, slashing swords, spears and arrows.

  What he was not accustomed to facing was this feeling in his heart that made him want to do something that was completely foolish.

  Why did he have such a fierce desire to protect this woman and her children?

  He told himself he would do it for any woman who found herself in such a position, but he knew that was a lie.

  There were women all over Rome whose husbands had divorced them and kept their children away.

  It was the law for the paterfamilia. The children were the husband’s property, even in divorce.

  Was it the fierce love she had for her child?

  Annia’s face rose before him, the liquid brown eyes, the strong, lithe body.

  Enough. He had a mission, and it was essential—a matter of life or death to Annia and her children—that he be successful.

  His father thought him foolish.

  But he believed himself correct. The woman needed protecting, her children needed rescuing. It had nothing to do with any feelings he had for this woman. He was a soldier, and his goal was to protect. That was it.

  If Galerius Janius would expose his daughter when he had plenty of money to support her and pay her dowry, what might he be tempted to do with his other son?

  Just a few blocks from Gamus and Nona’s abode, Marcus was stopped by one of his young soldiers. “Why aren’t you asleep, soldier? Tonight will be a long night if you spend the day on the streets,” Marcus said, his gravelly voice breaking the early morning silence of the street.

  The young man paused, clearly winded. He put his hands on his hips and breathed deeply. He had been running. Obviously looking for Marcus.

  “Galerius Janius is looking for you, sir,” the young man said between ragged breaths.

  “Why is he looking for me?” Marcus asked, though he had an idea.

  “He doesn’t believe you took the baby to the place of exposure. We assured him you did, but when he asked who of us saw you actually expose the baby, none of us could answer.”

  It was true, then. He had been followed. How much did Janius know, and why had it taken him three days to question Marcus’s handling of the baby? Had the boy been followed?

  The soldier looked at Marcus expectantly.

  His question was one Marcus would not answer. He paused and looked the young soldier in the eyes. “The place of exposure is not a sight fit for eyes to see.”

  The young man seemed satisfied.

  “I will take care of Galerius Janius,” Marcus said. “You go get some sleep.”

  “Thank you.” The young man turned and headed back in the direction of the barracks.

  Oh, to be a soldier young enough to believe that the man in charge could take care of everything, could keep you and your company safe.

  Marcus knew Galerius Janius would not be satisfied with the words of a mere night watchman like the young man with whom he had just spoken.

  To be hunted down by Galerius Janius would be dangerous indeed.

  He could not allow that shell of a man to destroy the mission his mother had worked so hard to build.

  Nor could Marcus allow Janius to get anywhere near Annia and her baby.

  Marcus turned from the road leading to his father’s villa and walked beside the odiferous Tiber River. He would sleep in the barracks today.

  Marcus looked down into the river, then back up again quickly. Had he been a younger man, or one with a weaker stomach, he would have gagged. The river was dotted with dead bodies, thrown from the gladiatorial ring and tossed from the Cloaca Maxima, the dreadful underground prison. The bodies were stopped by the mud and silt at the bend of the river. Eventually, the current would catch the bodies and carry them past Ostia and out to sea.r />
  In a city with a population close to a million in an area only ten square miles, such horrors were common.

  He had forgotten about this particular macabre view while he was in Britain.

  There, in that faraway misty isle, it came in the shape of enemy warriors painted in blue descending upon them in the night, shooting poisoned darts at them in their sleep.

  In spite of the river, Marcus was glad to be in Rome where the horrors were at least predictable.

  He was also glad he had talked to his father. His father knew Rome and had the added experience of shielding his mother’s secret mission for many years.

  Though he had wanted to earn the office of Praetorian prefect on his own, Marcus was not too proud to ask for his help. His father was only too happy to help. His friends could help Marcus reach his desired position.

  When Galerius Janius had hired him, Marcus thought he might be able to help him in his goal of obtaining the rank of prefect for the Vigiles.

  If he found favor with the emperor in that capacity, he might be appointed prefect in charge of the emperor’s personal armed guard, the Praetorians.

  Janius was a cousin of the emperor. He had promised to speak to Emperor Claudius about appointing Marcus a commanding position in the Guard and considering his noble service in Britain as a recommendation for the coveted prefect position. If Marcus exposed the baby.

  Now, it seemed, Janius was no longer in favor with the emperor.

  His only other option if he did not achieve his lifelong dream was to manage one of his father’s villas, either here or in Britain.

  He preferred to become prefect.

  As prefect, Marcus could build a life of his own here in Rome. He could buy his own estate—he had much coin saved from his years of service—and raise a family.

  But the thought of loving a wife and children frightened him.

  The horror of twenty years of battle made his fear of losing what was dearest to him a living, breathing entity.

  In Gaul and in Britain, he had seen women pulled from their husbands, babies slaughtered, whole families pulled asunder and sold into slavery.

  Rome was far from safe, but the horrible nightmares replayed themselves in his memory. They woke him at night, and tormented him by day.

  To love meant to risk losing everything.

  Was he ready for that?

  Regardless of his own fears, he must come up with a plan to keep Janius away from Annia.

  * * *

  Sleep came easily to him once he was bunked down in the barracks.

  He awoke to the sun casting long shadows beneath the door of his officer’s cubby.

  He washed his face and rinsed his mouth.

  No time for a proper bath before he went on duty. He would have to wait until morning.

  He and his men began their casual watch march through the city. Their area was easy to patrol—primarily the wealthiest neighborhoods and a few insulae. The crowded apartments were four stories high and prone to fires.

  Tonight was quiet. A light rain blanketed the city making fires possible but far less likely.

  It was in the hot, dry conditions of early August that fires were most common. Still, it was necessary to inspect the insulae and make certain cooking fires were being prepared safely and buildings were safe for their inhabitants.

  “Uff,” one of his men grunted when a resident of the insulae above them dumped her evening garbage on his head.

  The soldier did not break formation.

  “Halt,” Marcus commanded. The men halted in perfect lines. “Wipe yourselves clean. It is difficult to see with cinders in your eyes,” he chuckled good-naturedly, and the men smiled, relieved for the break.

  They broke rank, and dusted themselves off. There was a neighborhood fountain nearby, as well as a public toilet. These conveniences were built to keep the poor happy so there would be no need for uprisings. Whatever the reason for the marble fountain with its adjoining three-story water tower and commodious public facility, Marcus was glad for it.

  Marcus gave the men a break to relieve and refresh themselves. He did the same.

  When they returned to their positions, a young slave boy stood waiting for Marcus.

  “A message for you, sir, from Galerius Janius.” The boy handed Marcus a small, carefully rolled paper.

  Marcus unrolled and read it.

  It was better than he could have planned.

  The scribbled message was the solution to all of his worries.

  The cruelty of the man who wrote the message was beyond Marcus’s imagining, but there it was. A clear message of salvation.

  Arrest the child, Flavius Janius, who refuses to bow to the emperor’s gods.

  “Line up, men,” Marcus said. “We have another mission for Galerius Janius.”

  He heard discord in the rear and stopped.

  “Does someone have something to say?” he asked.

  A soldier stepped from the ranks and said, “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  It was the same young man who had brought him the message yesterday.

  “What is your name, soldier?” Marcus asked. “You are either very brave, very foolish, or a little of both.”

  “Arrius Pollio,” the young man said, “begging your pardon, sir.”

  “Speak, soldier,” Marcus said.

  “Well, sir,” the soldier said, and then seemed to lose his courage.

  “What is it?” Marcus said. “Speak, man.”

  “Well, sir,” Arrius said, “are you quite certain we can trust a message from Galerius Janius?”

  A shadow of doubt faded Marcus’s exuberance over an easy solution to his problem. What if the young man’s doubt was well-grounded? What if this was a trick?

  “Have you any evidence that this might be a trick?” Marcus asked, though he guessed the man hadn’t any, probably just a hunch. But as a seasoned soldier, Marcus knew to respect hunches.

  Not that they were always accurate. Simply that they might sometimes save your life. Marcus stalled, waiting for the soldier to answer.

  Arrius Pollio was silent.

  Marcus needed more time to think through this warning, but that time was not available to him.

  He would simply have to move forward on the order, realizing that it could very well be a trick. And if it was a trick, well, he would have to find his way out.

  He had gotten himself out of many tight positions before.

  Marcus looked at Arrius. “Well?” he said.

  “Nothing more, sir,” the man said, lowering his head.

  “Thank you, soldier. Line up.” Arrius Pollio obediently returned to his place.

  He appreciated the young man’s wisdom and concern. He marked him as one he would be wise to promote.

  However, he had no time to do anything other than follow the orders on the message.

  Marcus remembered what Gamus the merchant had overheard. He hoped the information was accurate.

  It seemed that Janius was not in favor with the emperor and was attempting, at all costs, to find favor.

  According to the order in Marcus’s hand, in order to win favor with the emperor, Galerius Janius was willing to sacrifice his own child.

  It would be a hard-hearted emperor who would allow such a sacrifice. Claudius did not have that reputation. Addle-minded, but not hard-hearted.

  Claudius had been the only one of his family to not be murdered by his grandmother, Livia. She had the habit of killing whoever she felt might get in the way of her son, Tiberius, becoming emperor. She had thought the stuttering, physically misshapen Claudius to be no threat. When Livia’s dreams came true, and Tiberius became the unwilling emperor, he was a complete disappointment.

  Tiberius shirked his responsibi
lities as ruler and left control of the empire in the hands of Sejanus, the head of his Praetorian Guard. Chaos ensued. When Tiberius and Sejanus eventually died, Claudius was crowned emperor. He proved himself a decent emperor whose mind was quite clear in spite of it all.

  The man Tiberius had trusted to help him rule had, instead, wrested power away from him. Worse, Sejanus’s anti-Semitic policies had created panic and bloodshed in the Jewish population. It was these wrongs that Marcus wanted to right by becoming part of the leadership of the Guard.

  “Forward, march,” Marcus ordered his men, and prayed that his hunch was correct, and that he would be able to free Annia’s youngest son this very evening.

  He was met at the front entrance to the villa by none other than Janius himself.

  A small child stood whimpering beside him, held securely by a large slave.

  The child could only have been five or six years old. His hair brown and curly, his physique tiny, this must be the youngest son of Annia.

  “Take this heretic,” Janius said. “Deliver him as I have requested. If you don’t, it will not go well for you. I have eyes all over the city.”

  Galerius Janius pushed the child forward. Marcus caught him, resisted the temptation to comfort him and grabbed the boy’s tiny bound wrists.

  Galerius Janius stood, his face flickering in the torchlight.

  With his free hand, Marcus clutched his sword. It seemed to be his natural reaction each time he came into contact with Galerius Janius. How he would love to use it on the portly oaf standing before him.

  The gold about Janius’s loose neck flashed in the firelight, and his narrow shoulders sagged. His arms were flaccid. The man couldn’t defend his villa, much less his country.

  Marcus doubted Galerius Janius would find any sympathy with the emperor. He heartily regretted the deal he had made with this man.

  The little boy stood trembling beside him.

  “Take him,” Marcus said to Arrius Pollio. He pointed to the trembling child. “He is your charge. You will be certain the heretic doesn’t leave our guard.” He spat out the word heretic with such conviction that Galerius Janius looked at him with widened eyes.