“Being the wife of an accused traitor, am I not already?” She motioned for Metrobius, who still lingered at a discreet distance. “I see no point in continuing this conversation. If you have nothing more to add, please leave my house, at once.”
Appius folded his arms across his burly chest, glared at her, but didn’t move. “I’m not finished.”
“You’ve said quite enough.”
He curled his upper lip exposing yellowed teeth. “Your husband will be transported to Rome where he will be court-martialed in four weeks. The Emperor himself will hear the trial.”
Macha nearly choked. Why Rome? It was so far away—three hundred miles! There must be something she could do for Titus before he was taken away, but what?
“Don’t sound so gleeful, Tribune. He’s not dead, yet.” Macha took a deep breath. “Now, leave—this instant!”
Appius turned, brushed aside the house steward, and strode from the villa.
Young Titus peeked out from behind a bushy cypress tree. “Mama, why did that ugly man say awful things about Papa?”
“I don’t know, son,” Macha answered, too shaken to comment further.
“Now I know he’s mean.”
Macha sat down and unconsciously stroked her son’s curly hair before he could move away. She hugged him while barely holding back her tears.
“Mama, you’re hurting me,” Titus said, startling Macha. He squirmed in her tight grip.
“I’m sorry, son.” She gently released him.
“Can I go play?”
She nodded and Titus scurried away.
She remembered only two years before a raging civil war nearly destroyed the Roman Empire. Vespasian, commanding general in charge of quelling the revolt in Judea, became the last of four emperors to take power in a period of a single year and had ruled ever since. His army defeated the forces of the gluttonous Emperor Vitellius at Cremona, clearing his way to the imperial throne. Titus’s loyalty to the sixty-year-old ruler had been unquestioned. He had fought for Vespasian as a tribune in Legion Seventh Claudia, which had forced-marched more than eight hundred miles to aid the new Emperor.
Titus would never betray Vespasian, the first decent Emperor Rome had seen since the death of Caesar Augustus.
Macha inhaled deeply, opened her eyes and absorbed the garden’s spring colors. She had to learn the details of the false charge against Titus.
But what if that meant traveling to Rome? She dreaded the thought. That would require at least seven days by fast horse, providing the rider changed mounts every twenty miles and stopped to rest for the night. The time was cut in half by ship if a traveler braved the treacherous storms and spring currents of Mare Tyrrhenum. If she went would it be enough time?
Macha had to see an old family friend and powerful ally, Senator Marcus Valerius Bassus. Surely he could obtain Titus’s release.
If Appius believed her a helpless Roman matron or Celtic princess, he was badly mistaken. She was the daughter of Caratacus, the great British King. Like my father, she thought, I will deal with Rome in my own way.
Chapter 2
A Spoiled Cat
Exhausted from the afternoon ride on her favorite gelding, Macha dropped into the high-backed wicker chair in her bedchamber. She smelled of her lathered horse. As Edain, the short round-shouldered slave, wiped her face with a moist towel, Macha still fumed at the treatment she received at headquarters of Legion First Italica earlier in the day. The commander, General Lucius Valens, had refused to discuss the accusations against Titus and denied her request to visit him. She had cursed his name under her breath and fled his office.
With Titus' life at stake, Macha hated the idea of sitting idle, helpless to do anything. Rather than break crockery or snap at her twenty-year-old handmaiden, Macha had ridden out on Antaris, her dark bay. Cantering through the countryside on a good horse helped her to think. She prayed it would work today.
Instead of finding a solution, she had struggled with her misbehaving mount. A deer, bounding from the underbrush, spooked Antaris, and he nearly threw her from his back. He spun around and bucked. She wrapped her legs tightly against his sides. Each jolting buck threw her head back until it nearly struck the bay’s rear haunches. Macha’s grip had loosened, and she frantically edged her limbs forward until she braced her thighs against the saddle pommels. Thank Mother Goddess Anu she used a cavalry saddle. The double angular knobs gave her the leverage she needed to hold on until Antaris tired and quieted. Even four-legged creatures seem to conspire against her.
Edain, dressed in a beige chiton, used her stubby hands to unlace and pull off her mistress' riding sandals. Macha sighed. A slave entered the bedroom cubicle, informing Macha her bath was ready. Perhaps a relaxing soak in the copper tub and a rubdown afterwards would allow her to think with greater clarity.
“Are you still going to Mistress Helena’s home for dinner tonight?” Edain asked as she pulled Macha’s tunic over her head.
Macha bolted from her chair, nearly knocking the ruddy-complected slave off her feet. “Great Mother Goddess, I had forgotten all about it.” She shook out her long hair, letting it fall behind her shoulders. “Food is the last thing on my mind. My only thoughts have been of my husband.”
But that wasn’t quite true. Macha worried about having to leave Young Titus, if she followed her husband to Rome. She had decided to leave him with her sister-in-law, Helena, who was a good-hearted woman. He would be well cared for, but she would still miss him terribly, and what would people think of her if she left her son behind? She prayed she wouldn’t have to go.
Macha paused and exhaled. “I suppose I’d better attend. Helena will be disappointed if I don’t.”
Clothed only in her green and yellow plaid Celtic trousers, she stepped to the tall latticed cupboard and searched for an appropriate dinner gown. Cool evening air brushed her bare skin, and sent quill bumps down her naked chest and back. How could she dine out while Titus languished in the stockade? Dare she have an appetite so long as he was falsely imprisoned? But Helena Antonia was Titus’s sister, and she and Macha were the best of friends. No doubt Helena was as shaken about her brother’s ordeal as she. Consoling one another seemed to be the only alternative for Helena and Macha. Helena’s husband, Cnidius Rufus, a fellow officer and friend of Titus, would lend her a sympathetic ear. Surely her brother-in-law, Rufus, couldn’t believe Titus was guilty of treason. But what if he had betrayed Rome? She shook her head. Impossible.
Macha fingered a dozen brightly-colored stolas trying to decide what to wear. None of them were appealing. In her frame of mind they all seemed ugly. She didn’t care what she wore, even one of her bright tartan gowns. No, on second thought, wearing a Celtic dress to the very Roman household of Helena and Rufus would be inappropriate. She turned to Edain and studied her heart shaped face and small button eyes. "Come here and pick out something for me.”
* * * * *
With the sun setting at her back, Macha arrived at the home of her brother-in-law, escorted by ten slaves. The house steward led Macha, Edain, and Nicanor, her Greek music teacher, past a gurgling fountain filled with tame eels, through the small courtyard of Helena’s home to the dining area. A low, well-trimmed evergreen hedge and an array of painted statues lined the white graveled walkway. “What are you going to sing tonight?” Macha questioned Nicanor. She asked out of habit, because whenever Titus and she took him to a dinner party, he provided part of the entertainment. Tonight she only half heard his answer.
“A medley of Greek love songs and the Celtic ballads you taught me, Mistress,” he replied. He carried a seven-stringed lyre wrapped in an ochre chamois cloth. The musician, slight and wiry, was in his early thirties. He had a clever face seasoned with humor, and Macha had observed that it was Greek slaves who truly kept the Empire running smoothly.
Macha barely listened as Nicanor recited the titles while they strolled along the trellis-covered pathway, their sandals slapping on the black and white tiled walkway. H
ow could she think about music when her mind kept flooding with images of Titus’ languishing in a rat-infested cell?
Nicanor viewed her quizzically. He probably guessed she wasn’t paying attention. “I’m sorry, Nicanor. You know I appreciate your talents, but I have other matters on my mind tonight.”
“I understand, Mistress. I’m very sorry about the Master’s arrest. Forgive me for babbling like a fool.”
“It’s not your fault. You know I adore your singing and appreciate the time you’ve spent teaching me, tyrant though you are.”
Nicanor bowed his head. “You are a good student.”
“When this dreadful affair is over and Titus is free, we shall sing and rejoice together, Nicanor.”
“I look forward to that day, Mistress,” Nicanor grinned. His deep-set blue eyes glittered, and slightly yellowed teeth peered through the trimmed charcoal beard. “You have a wonderful talent—I would hate to see it lost forever because of this tragedy.”
She took a deep breath and exhaled. “It isn’t a tragedy, yet. I intend to see it doesn’t become one.”
Macha knew Nicanor had experienced great pain in his own life. He and his wife came to her house as slaves because he couldn’t pay his debts. She died two years later. He still grieved for her, and sometimes it hindered his duties. Tears flowed from his eyes, usually, while giving Macha her lessons. Apologizing, he would say it was the memory of his wife flooding his mind. He could still see her suffering from the terrible wasting disease. She went from a plump healthy matron to a gaunt living skeleton in little more than a year just before her death. Nicanor’s only consolation was his bright ten-year old son, Demetrios, left in his care. As a loving father, he did whatever he could to make up for the loss of his son’s mother.
The strains of soft music drifted from a flute and lyre down the passageway. At the far end the sweet aroma of baked bread and glazed hams floated from the kitchen on the cool evening breeze. Macha’s stomach churned. Despite the day’s turmoil, she was hungry. A slave approached Nicanor and motioned him to a room set aside for the entertainers.
Macha entered the front of the triclinium, followed by Edain, who would act as her serving woman during dinner. Olive oil lamps hanging from tall bronze stands illuminated the dining area, casting a shadowy glow on the scarlet and yellow walls. At the far end three sloping couches had been arranged to form an open-ended square. Heavily padded with down cushions, the wooden benches were covered in bright orange linens falling to the tiled floor. On the wall above and behind the sofas were painted a quaint set of rules for dining behavior. They included admonishments against using coarse language and prohibitions against casting lustful glances at another man’s wife.
The other guests had already arrived. Helena’s childhood friend, Pollia, and her wealthy merchant husband, Julius Pedius, conversed with Macha’s sister-in-law. Seeing Pollia was a surprise. She and her husband lived in Rome. What were they doing here?
They stood next to a wall painted with the image of a drunken Bacchus caressing a wood nymph. A slave came by and served the trio sweetmeats and wine on a gold tray. Suddenly the three burst into laughter. No doubt Helena had related an amusing piece of gossip, for which she was notorious.
In another corner of the room, Macha observed Rubellius Falco, a friend of Titus and known womanizer, reclining on a dining couch drinking a cup of wine. She rolled her eyes and walked away before he noticed her.
Macha spied a tall, balding gentleman, with his back to her, talking to Helena’s husband Rufus. A broad, red stripe ran down the center and along the edge of his pure white toga, matching his dyed red boots. Both indicated he belonged to the nobility. It was Senator Bassus, her patron. Indeed, this was a stroke of luck. Macha had not expected to see him tonight. She needed to speak to him about Titus’s arrest immediately. Bassus would know what to do.
After handing her cloak to Edain, Macha was about to approach Bassus, when her nose was touched by the scent of lavender and a soft hand tugged at her elbow. She swung about to see Helena. Her round face rouged with red nitre revealed a broad smile of slightly crooked but still white teeth. A blond wig covered her mousy hair, and a bright blue and red gown, decorated with silver butterflies, complimented her plump frame.
“Macha, I’m so glad you’re here,” Helena said. “With all that has happened today, Cnidius and I wondered if you would join us. I was about to send a slave to fetch you.” Helena motioned for Pollia to join them.
“Helena, I hate to sound rude, but since he is here I must speak with Senator Bassus right away about Titus,” Macha said.
“I think that’s what Cnidius is talking to him about right now,” Helena said in a lower voice. “Why don’t you wait until you can speak to him in private? Besides, here’s Pollia.”
Helena turned to Pollia, “I was just about to tell Macha that you and your husband had traveled all the way from Rome on business. Something about inspecting his estates in the Po Valley?”
“Something like that,” Pollia answered. “Personally, I find it tedious, but it was a good excuse to visit my good friends in Mediolanum.” Sapphire encrusted gold earrings, surrounded by images of twisting snakes, swayed back and forth from her pale earlobes. Powdered chalk whitened her angular face. “The comforts I brought along made the journey bearable, and we stayed at the estates of friends along the way.” Macha was aware Pollia never traveled anywhere without bringing most of her wardrobe and half of the household staff to cater to her every demand. Tonight she wore an indigo silk evening gown with a green mantle, a gold-trimmed sash cinched her slim waist.
“But Pedius and I would have understood,” Pollia continued, “if you had cancelled your dinner." She glanced at Macha. For a second she primped and twisted back a couple of loose strands under the small gilded tiara. "This ordeal must be ghastly for both of you.”
“As wife of an accused traitor, I’m surprised Helena allowed me in her house,” Macha said.
Helena crinkled her pudgy nose. “None of us believe that nonsense. Isn’t that right, Pollia?”
“Of course, darling. What a disgusting thought.”
Helena continued in a lower voice. “But we can’t say so openly. Remember, he’s my brother and you’re part of our family, too, Macha.”
“You’re under the roof of your husband, and a member of his family,” Macha said. “It’s not the same.” A hush fell over the room. Macha turned about to see all guests staring at her. She glared back. “Well, it’s true.” The people resumed their conversations.
“My love for Titus as a sister hasn’t changed anymore than yours as his wife,” Helena said. “Surely the investigation will find him innocent.”
“I trust you’re right—so far I’ve heard nothing.”
With a weak smile formed on her lips, Helena nodded. “In the meantime, come and join us. By the way, your evening wear is beautiful.”
Macha forced a smile; she hadn’t given much thought to what she had been wearing. Arrayed in a short-sleeve saffron stola made of fine linen, her dress was girdled beneath her bosom by an embroidered gold cloth band. Wrapped around her left wrist hung two narrow horse-headed bracelets fashioned in the Celtic manner. Sandals made of soft doeskin graced her feet.
“Yes, I saw something like your gown in the Subura last month,” Pollia said.
For a split second Macha glared at Pollia before recovering herself. The idea of being compared to a prostitute infuriated her. In order to practice their trade legally in Rome, saffron was the only color the law allowed harlots to wear. Sometimes they also wore blond wigs. But this was Mediolanum. The edict did not apply to Northern Italy, and more importantly, she liked the yellow-orange color.
“Why Pollia,” Macha said, “I never imagined you being caught on the same street with a professional woman.”
“Usually, I’m not.”
“Then what were you doing there?” Macha asked softly. “I’ll loan you my gown if you need the practice.”
“Don’t bother, dear, I wouldn’t want mine smelling of the fuller’s shop.”
Macha’s face grew hot; the implication her dress reeked of urine made her seethe. Although Pollia made the first insulting remark, Macha had been foolish enough to continue with counter snipes. She must learn to think before she spoke. Many times, when she was a child, her mother, now dead for more than nine years, had chided her for thoughtless acts. “You should always think about your answers before replying; they have a habit of getting you in trouble,” she would say.
“Ladies, please,” Helena intervened. “This is no way to start the evening.”
“You’re right, Helena,” Macha admitted. Difficult as it was, she had to acquiesce as gracefully as her headstrong pride would allow. She had already made a fool of herself. “Forgive me, Pollia?”
Pollia narrowed her eyes, and glanced to Helena who nodded. “Very well, Macha. We shouldn’t let it ruin the evening.” Pollia swung about and walked away.
As they stepped closer to the wall, Helena pulled Macha aside. “Macha, you shouldn’t have been so rude. Why did you say those things?”
“The same reason the little slut implied I was wearing the gown of a whore. She’s never liked me since I married Titus.”
“Why not?”
“You mean you don’t know? It’s because your parents scorned Pollia’s mother and father’s request for a marriage agreement between her and Titus.”
“That was ten years ago.”
“She’s never forgotten. Pollia may be married to one of Rome’s wealthiest men, but she’s used to having her way.”
It wasn’t as if Macha hadn’t tried to befriend Pollia. Pollia had snubbed her from the moment her betrothal to Titus had been announced. Through Helena and other friends, she learned that Pollia regarded her as a barbarian. Pollia was from a family of the Equestrian Order and was a status climber. She only wanted to marry Titus because he was the son of a wealthy Senator and one day would be a Senator as well.
Strange, Macha had no say when she was betrothed to Titus. Although he was a little gruff and not afraid to speak his mind, she found herself not only liking Titus, but falling in love with him even before they were married. She was aware of his family’s high position in the nobility, but it had never occurred to her to marry him strictly for his wealth. She had no doubt it was why her parents had arranged for the marriage. They never again wanted her to experience the wretched hardships they had endured when she was a child, especially, the cold hungry winters after the Romans had invaded Britannia.
The Sign of the Eagle Page 2
