The Sign of the Eagle

by Jess Steven Hughes

  But Macha had no time for memories. Praying Titus hadn't sailed, she rode at a canter straight for the docks, with the escort hurrying to keep pace. As they approached the harbor, a sea breeze carrying the stench of floating garbage, the reeking smell of dead fish engulfed her nostrils. Long shadows spread like tentacles from the ships and warehouses over the dock. The sun hovered above the distant rim of the sea, a dark red orb, ready to disappear over the edge.

  Scattering the busy dock workers along the quay, the horse soldiers rode by a dozen stubby merchantmen moored bow to stern before halting in front of the wharf master’s weathered little office. Busy slaves neatly stacked dozens of bales of flax and as many crates of pottery beyond one end of the building.

  Macha and Bassus dismounted and encountered the short leather-faced master who had stepped from his quarters on hearing the clattering hooves.

  For a few seconds the wharf master scanned Macha’s wind burnt face and dusty tartan tunic and breeches. Then he apparently spied Bassus. “Afternoon, general, not often we get high Imperial officials here. What can I do for you?”

  Bassus nodded to Macha.

  “I’m looking for Tribune Titus Antonius,” she said. “He’s with a detachment of soldiers who are planning on sailing from here to Ostia. Have you seen them?”

  The bandy-legged official viewed her with contempt.

  “Answer her,” Bassus ordered. “She’s a Roman lady, and wife of Tribune Antonius.”

  “Oh, aye, my lady,” the master said. “You just missed them. Their ship left port not more than a quarter of an hour ago. But I’d say they’re mad. There’s a storm brewin’ to the north that’s apt to catch them.” He pointed to the tell-tale dark clouds. “You can still see the vessel, if you look closely.” He nodded towards the gulf.

  Macha remounted her horse and raced to the end of the dock. Leaning in her saddle, she strained her eyes in the direction of the fading black-purple light at the sea’s distant edge. Just as she spotted the silhouette of the squatty merchantman, it disappeared below the horizon. Her eyes clouded with tears. The ship had sailed away with her heart and happiness.

  Why hadn’t she insisted on leaving last night? Macha twisted about in her saddle and saw Bassus watching her. A puzzled expression crossed his face. She gave him a look so foul that even the Furies would cringe.

  Chapter 14

  It Rains in Genua

  Titus’ vessel vanished over the horizon as if falling off the edge of the world. Macha suppressed the panic welling within her. To stop the shaking that started in her arms and rushed through her entire body, she gripped Artemis’s side with her legs and grabbed the protruding front saddle pommels. We barely missed him, she thought to herself. This is Bassus' fault! Mother Goddess Anu forgive me, but if I had a javelin to hurl, I would kill him!

  Oblivious to the icy wind sweeping in from the sea, Macha quietly wept, then wiped tears from her large aqua eyes, and brushed back the hair swirling around her face. She must suppress her anger and find another means of traveling to Rome. Frustration rankled—she still had to rely on Bassus for help.

  She turned her horse away from the pier’s edge and rode back to the wharf master’s office. The bandy-legged official watched her approach where he stood near Bassus, who was still mounted. ”We shall need a ship sailing for Ostia,” she said.

  “Not in this weather you won’t,” the wharf master answered. “No captain worth his salt sets sail in the middle of a storm. You’ll have to wait ‘til tomorrow, when it passes—if it does—or the day after.”

  Macha clinched her fists, but knew it was useless to argue. The iron-black clouds racing across the sky, the foaming sea swells, and the billowing wind stinging her face like nettles said he was right. Even Father Neptune thwarted her efforts to see her husband again. She prayed to the Mother Goddess that Titus’s ship stayed ahead of the storm.

  During the night, the gale pounded the coast. Rain sheeted, obscuring the shoreline and sea, splashing high on Genua’s cobbled streets and quay, forcing everyone inside. Drips and gurgles from the tile-roofed buildings and drains echoed loudly throughout the city.

  By the following morning, the harsh weather had abated, but not enough for Bassus and Macha to find a ship’s master willing to venture out of Genua’s protective harbor.

  “It’ll be at least another day before the weather’s good enough to sail anywhere,” one scaly old sea captain said. He stood with Macha and the Senator beneath a sheltering arch at the entrance of a brick warehouse. Exhaling, he surveyed his moored ship as its wide oaken beam slammed violently against the stone quay, the cracking sound echoing along the shoreline. “I’ve prayed to old Neptune and asked him not to smash my ship into a pile of splinters—she’s all I’ve got.”

  Macha understood the old master’s reasons. Sailing in these tumultuous waters meant disaster, no consolation to her. The weather worked against her by taking Titus further away. She thought about riding down the coast on horseback, but would risk catching the lung sickness as long as the cold rain continued unabated. And she could do nothing for Titus if she fell ill, or worse, died.

  After speaking to several other ship masters, Macha and Bassus returned to the villa of their host, Cassius Pius, Prefect of Genua, where they had found lodging outside the city gates. Surrounded by a sprawling vineyard, the home sat at the foot of a sheltered hillside, ideal for growing grapes and producing fine wine. Pius had taken his leave earlier that morning to inspect the harbor’s docks and warehouses for storm damage.

  Genua was famous for its exports of expensive finished wooden tables, cattle and sheep, hides, and honey. The Prefect had explained, before his departure, that part of his responsibilities included making certain nothing hindered the operation of the city’s port. Any damage by the storm had to be repaired immediately. “The economic life of Genua depends on it,” Pius said. “To stay in the Emperor’s favor, it’s my duty to see the treasury receives its share of the tariffs.”

  Macha smirked. Rumors abounded that Cassius Pius was as corrupt as a week-old dead mullet. His words were for Bassus’s sake; the prefect knew the Senator had the Emperor’s ear.

  Later, after they bathed and changed clothes, Macha and Bassus met in the triclinium where they quietly reclined on couches near the brazier and sipped warm Calda. Macha wore a silk blue and silver gown perfumed with jasmine. The attending slave had whispered the Prefect was a notorious womanizer, and the dress had belonged to a former mistress. All the same, Macha was appreciative of the smooth luxuriant garment after several days wearing the same sweaty tartans.

  “I’ve spent most of the morning thinking about leaving—we could be delayed for days,” Macha said. “As soon as the rain stops, I shall ride south along the coast road on my own. Every minute I stay here means less chance of freeing Titus.”

  “I forbid it,” Bassus said. “You have no business riding the Via Aurelia Scauri by yourself.”

  Macha's eyes smoldered, barely keeping her temper under control. With slow deliberation, she set her bronze cup on the ebony table. “You forbid it?” she asked coolly. “Roman men—always forbidding women. No one shall deny me my husband’s life.”

  She leaned closer to Bassus and peered into his narrowed chestnut eyes. “We have been through this before. By what authority do you command me?”

  “In the name of the Emperor, and as Imperial Legate escorting you on official business to Genua,” he answered sternly, facing down her glare.

  “Your authority ended when my husband sailed away.” She knew by custom and because the rest were dead or missing, the only living relative who had power over her was Titus.

  “The road is very dangerous, and no respectable Roman woman travels alone,” Bassus advised.

  “I won’t stand by and become a disgraced widow.” He kept his eyes on her.

  Turning away from Bassus, Macha focused on the black and white mosaic floor. The soft thump of rain drops drummed on the portico sidewalk outside as s
he considered his words. Bassus was right. In her rush to reach Genua, she had neglected to bring along Juba as her retainer. How could she have been so foolish? She never dreamed of going beyond the seaport by herself. What made her think she could do anything to free Titus without help? Macha didn’t know, but she had to try. Despite acting impulsively, she was determined to attempt the journey. If she arrived safely, she would buy passage on a ship at either Luna or Pisae, south of Genua, and sail to Ostia. Two days of hard riding lay ahead of her along the rocky coast to the former, and an additional day across some of Italy’s worst marshlands to reach the latter. If the storm followed her, she would still be out of luck. But she refused to sit and wait for better weather conditions.

  “I know you mean well, Senator Bassus,” Macha said. She raised her head and returned his gaze. “But I must chance it.”

  “Decent innkeepers won’t receive you at night without proper escort, Macha. At the least they’ll consider you a trollop, or, observing your clothing, a barbarian. And I wouldn’t advise stopping at less reputable inns.”

  “I should say not!” Macha said. She would be subjected to outrages worse than customers wanting to buy her favors. Macha breathed deeply and blindly looked about. It was only at that moment the reality of such a foolish attempt struck her. Riding down the coast by myself is not only irresponsible but extremely dangerous, she thought. Even a man would not travel by himself. I should have thought through this whole matter first. If Bassus' decision to forbid my traveling alone is final, then I will abide by it, but I must at least try another approach first. It might be the only way of getting him to act.

  “If you’re so concerned about my well-being," Macha said, "why don’t you provide me with an escort? Be honest. I’ve known you too long, you won’t let me ride by myself.”

  Bassus stood. For a moment he slowly paced around the triclinium, viewing with disinterest the cheap imitations of the busts of Hermes and the Emperor Vespasian. The noise from his hobnail sandaled boots echoed off the tile floor. Finishing his Calda in one gulp, he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his borrowed scarlet and white dining tunic. He cleared his throat and returned to the couch.

  “No, you’re right. I could prevent you easily enough, Macha, but I won’t because I’m riding with you. It appears I shall arrive in Rome sooner than expected—the Emperor will be pleased.”

  “I knew you would help,” Macha answered, relieved that Bassus had acquiesced. She dreaded the prospect of going alone, but only now admitted how much the journey frightened her. She shuddered. “Are you the only one going with me?”

  “No, I’ll take along my Praetorian escort, but I have to send the regular troopers back to Mediolanum. The Legion needs every last man. I didn’t say anything before, but the legions of the Rhenus garrisons and the First Italica have been placed on alert.”

  “What on earth for?”

  Knowing Macha was familiar with military affairs, Bassus explained, “Headquarters received news that another Gallic uprising is imminent."

  "You need an army for another group of bandits? Titus easily smashed the last bunch."

  "No outlaws this time. Spies uncovered a genuine threat to the Empire. The Emperor is dispatching as least one, perhaps two Praetorian Cohorts from Rome to reinforce Legion First Italica. He’s sending additional cohorts from legions on the Danubus as well. He expects the outbreak to erupt in Northern Italy, in Transpadana Gaul.”

  Great Mother Goddess, Mediolanum, their home would be threatened once again. Macha immediately thought about the safety of Young Titus, Demetrios, and her sister-in-law, Helena. As far as she knew, the Italian Gauls had never attacked the city or rampaged through the Po Valley. But if the right leader emerged they might. Am I doing the right thing by going to Rome, she thought, or should I return home to be with my son? Why did this have to happen now?

  “The chances of Mediolanum being attacked are minimal,” Bassus said, interrupting Macha’s thoughts. “It’s heavily fortified, and has enough food and water to outlast any siege. Most likely, if there is revolt, it will break out further north or in the countryside.”

  "In the area where Titus crushed the bandits?" She recalled her husband's unit found the brigands about forty miles north of Mediolanum.

  "Further north."

  Relieved that Mediolanum and her home were in no immediate danger, Macha was determined to ride south. “Then I must go to Rome, and do what I can,” Macha explained. “Titus is one of the legion’s best commanders. They’ll need him if there is a rebellion.” As much as Macha would hate to see her husband leave again, he would never forgive himself if he didn’t take his place at the head of his troops in time of crisis. It would also allow her to return home to her son.

  “Most of the day is gone—the rain makes it too treacherous for riding in the darkness,” Bassus said. “Be patient a little longer—we’ll leave early tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter 15

  Thieves, Deserters, and Slackards

  Shortly before dawn, at the inn commandeered for the troops’ lodgings, Bassus informed Pomponius Appius of his plan to escort Macha. Her patron found the tribune mustering troops in the courtyard as well as the Praetorians for roll call. A steady drizzle soaked the muddy ground as the shivering men stood next to their rain drenched mounts. The animals’ wet coats glistened, and the dank smell of leather waterlogged saddles and bridles pierced Macha’s nose. Despite wrapping themselves in woolen sagum cloaks, the men were nearly as soaked as their horses.

  Dressed in her freshly washed tartan tunic and breeches, Macha bundled herself in a green woolen cloak covered by a protective oiled cloth. She wore fox-skinned gloves, good for controlling the reins of her mare, but worthless in eliminating the chill of rain. She hovered a few paces away from the formation, rain splashing on her sandaled boots, soaking through her protective woolen socks.

  “Along with you,” Bassus explained to Appius, “my Praetorians will escort Lady Macha and me south. Notify the decurion commander that he and his squadron are to return to Mediolanum.”

  Macha gasped, surprised by Bassus' choice. Although Appius had been civil to her on the journey to Genua, she still despised him.

  Appius' weather-beaten face tightened, and for a split second he scrutinized Macha with his speckled yellow-brown eyes. His stare sliced through her like a sword.

  “Is that necessary, sir?” Appius questioned. Raindrops rolled down the front of his helmet into his eyes and along the bridge of his beaked nose. “Now that Tribune Titus is gone, I’m in command of First Italica’s cavalry, and the First Infantry Cohort.”

  “You know why you are journeying with us, Tribune Appius,” Bassus snapped. “The senior centurion will take command until the rightful commander returns.”

  Through tightened lips Appius gritted, “Yes, sir.” He stepped to his mount.

  “Since you seem to think I’m in danger,” Macha said to Bassus, “are you sure your men will be enough escort?”

  “It’ll be sufficient against any ragtag group of bandits fool enough to attack us. Chances are slight since the Praetorians are marching north on the same road. They’ll sweep any robbers out of the way.”

  She understood the Via Flaminia over the Apennines in Central Italy to the Via Aemilia and Mediolanum was a quicker route. “Why are they moving up the coast?”

  “Right now, the mountain passes are snow-blocked,” Bassus answered. “The Via Aurelia Scauri to Genua, and through the Po Valley, is the only clear highway.”

  * * * * *

  Macha and her escort rode south along the coast over a paved road of soft volcanic stone. Initially the Apennines, rising steeply out of the flatlands behind Genua, shadowed their journey. Soon the mountain range curved away to the east, leaving a desolate line of rocky foothills and cliffs overlooking the sea. Small farmsteads dotted the way where free peasants continued to eke out a living. Macha wondered how much longer they would work their meager lands. In the Po Valley they had been evi
cted by the great landowners, and replaced by slaves.

  By noon on the second day, the little entourage entered the wide dreary plain north of Luna. Through the distant haze the mountains of Carrara, famous for its white marble, hovered above the town. The rain had stopped, and a warming sun pierced the fleecy domed clouds. Macha peered skyward, watching the billowing wind push the rising thunderheads out to sea. The change of weather raised her spirits and that of the Praetorians.

  “If the weather continues to improve,” Macha said while riding beside Bassus, “we can charter a ship from Luna.”

  Bassus agreed. “With all the marble transported down from the mountains, Luna’s harbor will be clogged with ships eager to sail.”

  “While we’re seeking a boat, we’ll spare time to buy food and wine,” Macha said. They would purchase Luna cheese, famous throughout Italy for its quality and taste, and their equally prized wine. Their early morning breakfast of salty porridge, stale bread, and watery wine in the village of Bodetia left a sour taste in her mouth. Still hungry, only her pleading persuaded Bassus from having the innkeeper flogged for serving such dreadful fare.

  The little group trotted down a ravine on a wide graveled road between two rolling hills speared with poplars and pines, and fields of early spring wildflowers—blue, orange, and yellow.

  As Macha’s stomach rumbled at the prospect of Luna’s cheese, cries erupted from behind the trees and bushes on both sides of the highway. At least three dozen bandits on foot and horseback rushed from hiding and charged the outnumbered band of fifteen. Bassus, Pomponius Appius, and the troops formed a defensive ring around Macha. For a moment she froze as the fierce struggle erupted. Metal slammed against metal as the sword-wielding bandits clashed with the soldiers. Macha wanted to flee but dared not, leaving her too vulnerable to attack. The cries and groans of soldiers and bandits echoed around her, along with the clattering of hooves, the banging of weapons and shields, and splattering blood.