The Sign of the Eagle

by Jess Steven Hughes

  But the beauty around her couldn’t overcome Macha’s disappointment. No doubt influential enemies had the Emperor’s ear, and no documentary evidence implicating the conspirators had surfaced. Unless she found a way to obtain his release, Titus would languish in confinement until his court-martial. She prayed that Crixus’ arrest was forthcoming, his confession possibly the key to Titus’ freedom. But she couldn’t rely on that. She had to find someone trustworthy to shed light on the conspiracy and had to uncover the answers to the fragmented list found on poor Nicanor’s body. To whom did the names belong? What about the name crossed out and the one underlined? And the letters, VE, what did they mean? Did the drawing of the eagle have any significance?

  “How is Titus?” Bassus asked, jolting Macha from her thoughts. She turned and found him standing to one side of her bench dressed in his white and purpled-trimmed senatorial toga.

  “As well as can be expected,” she answered. Macha stood and strolled with her patron to the courtyard exit, at the edge of the parade field where her entourage and litter waited. “Did you see the Emperor?” she asked a moment later.

  “Yes, I informed him about General Valens overstepping his authority by sending Titus to Rome behind my back while I was still making inquiries.”

  Macha turned to the Senator. “What was his reaction?”

  “He was very displeased and agreed Valens should be sacked.”

  As Bassus and Macha stepped along the brick pathway approaching her retinue, they halted. A ragged formation of new Praetorian recruits, carrying oval shields and wooden practice swords, marched past, led by a snarling drill centurion.

  “Did you tell him about the attacks here and on the coast?” Macha asked loudly, trying to be heard above the clattering of the formation and profanities of the centurion.

  “I gave him a full report,” Bassus answered. ”He told me to continue with my investigation. However, he was surprised you came to Rome.”

  She sighed. “I want to be with my husband, isn’t that enough?”

  “That’s what I said to the Emperor, but, I know that isn’t enough for you.”

  The troops passed and Macha and Bassus continued across the dusty courtyard, both of them coughing to clear their throats of the dust.

  “That reminds me,” Bassus said afterwards. “I’m seeing Titus in a few minutes. Perhaps he can add something to this whole affair.”

  Macha shook her head. “I doubt if he can. I told him all about it.”

  “I’ll speak to him anyway.” Bassus paused, looked about and brought his balding head closer to Macha. “I had an interesting conversation with an old army friend while waiting for you.”

  “What about?”

  “A woman.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What woman?”

  Bassus explained he had met Furius Crasippes, an old centurion and crony from his days in the army. Years before, the crusty soldier transferred from the army to the Praetorian Guard. Now he was chief turnkey and described to Bassus his life as a jailer.

  “The duty is easy,” Furius had related. “For a price, I give the rich ladies access to their husbands or anyone else for that matter. Now, take this Titus fellow, one woman paid me one hundred denarii just to let her know who visited him.”

  The last remark had aroused Bassus’ curiosity. “Really, what else did she want?”

  The craggy old centurion roared. “It’s what I got from her. When I said he was expecting a visit from his wife today, she gave me a gold ring right off her hand.”

  Bassus frowned. “When was she here?”

  “This morning.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Fausta. I doubt if she gave me her true name.”

  “Describe her.”

  Furius did. She wore a veil and kept her head covered with a mantle. She walked with a hobble, but Furius believed it was faked.

  Bassus had instructed the old war horse to keep him apprised of any further questions and activities by Fausta.

  “She doesn't fit the description of anyone I know,” Macha said, once he finished his story. “Obviously, it's a disguise, but whoever the person is, she won’t be paying any more visits to Castra Praetoria.”

  Bassus agreed.

  As far as Macha was concerned the woman had more than a passing interest in Titus’ well being—or lack of it. Why else would she want to know about his visitors? Who was the woman? The ring was proof of wealth and influence. Macha had no doubts spies were watching her every movement.

  * * * * *

  Five minutes later Macha’s heavily guarded retinue left the Praetorian Barracks. Shafer walked alongside Macha’s litter as the entourage pushed its way through a crowded shop-lined street. The sedan lurched to a stop when a squad of ten Praetorians bullied its way ahead of them. Macha immediately recognized a vegetable and flower shop she had frequented on earlier trips to Rome, little more than a cubicle in the wall. Her eyes focused on Silvia, the nine-year-old daughter of the shopkeeper, Lepidus, and his wife, Clodia. She watched them carefully but quickly fashion laurel wreaths. Sitting behind the wooden counter, mother and daughter framed the green aromatic leaves with willow twigs and covered them with spring roses and tiny sweet-smelling lilies. No doubt they were for a dinner party scheduled that evening.

  “I know this place, Shafer,” Macha said to the servant who stood alongside the sedan. “It has been at least two years since I was last here. I must see if Clodia and little Silvia remember me.”

  Macha ordered the slaves to set down her litter, and she stepped onto the uneven cobblestone sidewalk. Given the circumstances of yesterday’s attempt on her life, she motioned Shafer to follow. Macha told Viriatus, the big Spaniard and head of her armed escort of slaves carrying truncheons, to stay outside but to keep a close watch on anyone entering or leaving the shop.

  Approaching the stall, through the din of the mob, Macha saw Silvia speaking to her mother.

  Clodia said something to her daughter, kissed her on the cheek and motioned her back to work. With a slight turn of the head, her sunken eyes focused on Macha.

  Macha waved a greeting.

  Clodia responded, “Ave! Greetings, Lady Carataca, I have fresh roses today—a special price for you alone!” Once glowing in matronly plumpness, Clodia had wasted to a gaunt shell. Sallowed skin hung in loose folds from her arms and cheeks. What once were fleshy fingers now reminded Macha of chicken claws. If so, she wondered if the woman suffered from the throat disease as her own mother had. She wouldn’t live another six months.

  “Why, thank you, I would love some flowers,” Macha answered. She loved flowers as much as her music and horses. In their beauty and fragrance perhaps she would find solace.

  “Only the best for you, Lady Carataca!” Clodia’s voice rasped. She glanced toward Shafer, and apparently recognizing the ebony woman as a slave, crinkled her nose in contempt. Leaning to one side, Clodia snorted, and spat a glob of blood towards the trash-filled gutter, adding another course to the buzzing flies’ banquet. Then she wrapped a dozen yellow roses in a big lily pad and handed it to Macha.

  Macha held the flowers close to her face, closed her eyes and inhaled the soothing fragrance. The muscles throughout her willowy body relaxed as she took in the flowers’ wonderful smell. She opened her eyes as Clodia watched approvingly.

  “These are lovely, Clodia. I won’t forget this.” Macha gave her two copper asses.

  “Lady, this is too much, I said I had a special price for you.”

  “Never mind, Clodia, these flowers are special.”

  “Bless you, lady.”

  She said farewell and returned to the sedan. As her litter moved down the lane, she thought about poor Clodia and her condition. She wanted to do something for the family, but at the moment could not think of anything.

  Macha’s entourage entered the crowded Forum, built in the valley between the Capitoline and Palatine Hills. The great porticoed temples of Saturn, Castor and Pollux surrounded the
huge plaza along with castellated government buildings—the Basilica of Julius Caesar, the Senate, and the tablinum housing the Imperial archives. About midway across the statue-clustered busy square, she caught sight of the white and gold-plated chariot belonging to her friend Antonia, a Vestal Virgin, moving through the mob. The timing could not have been better, as she had intended to visit her.

  Because Vestals were expected to remain aloof in public, Macha didn’t know if Antonia would respond when she waved and called her name, but Antonia raised her hand, and ordered her female driver and escorting slaves to stop. She motioned her servants, husky African and German women clothed in long white tunics, to clear a path for Macha to approach her carriage. Bassus had made Antonia’s acquaintance at the Emperor’s court, and had introduced her to Macha three years earlier and they had become good friends.

  Antonia greeted her in a soft but confident voice as she stepped from the car. “What a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you were in Rome.”

  “I arrived yesterday afternoon,” Macha answered with a slight bow of the head, a courtesy rendered to all Vestals in public.

  Antonia motioned with her small hand. “Step closer, Macha, please. For goodness sakes, I’m no holy relic to be gazed upon at a distance. I’m your friend, remember?”

  Macha caught herself blushing as she stopped a couple of feet before the priestess, as required. At thirty-five Antonia’s finely-sculptured face revealed few signs of aging. She must have visited the Emperor, Macha thought. Her hairstyle and clothing were too formal for a simple jaunt through the city streets. Antonia wore dark brown hair in six plaits. As prescribed for the Vestals, she turned them up over six pads of artificial hair kept in place by bands with leather strips hanging down on either side of her slender shoulders. A long white robe of the finest linen draped her short frame and she wore leather sandals dyed white.

  Her position as a Vestal Virgin never stopped men from casting furtive looks at Antonia. On more than one occasion, Macha noticed men, including Bassus, gazing upon her with more than reverent glances.

  Antonia peered about, faced Macha and lowered her voice, “I heard news at court that Titus has been arrested for treason.”

  “The charges are lies. I’ve traveled to Rome to prove it.”

  “Can you? The charges are very serious.”

  Macha hesitated. “Can I speak in confidence, Antonia?”

  “By all means.” She nodded to her escort to move back a few steps.

  “I must prove Titus’ innocence—I just visited him at the Praetorian Camp. I’m certain the key is in Rome.”

  “If I can help, you have only to ask.”

  Macha stepped back speechless, grateful and excited her friend would use her status and power in aiding her. “Perhaps you can use your influence with the Emperor.” The Vestals had access to him anytime day or night.

  Antonia crinkled her pale forehead, accentuating the fine lines at the corner of her amber eyes. “I’ll do what I can, Macha, but the Emperor Vespasian is one to keep his own counsel. In the meantime, I shall sacrifice to Fortuna and Minerva on your husband’s behalf.”

  “I appreciate any help you can give us,” Macha said.

  “It’s a pity I didn’t see you earlier, I left the palace no more than a few minutes ago.”

  “Did you see Senator Bassus?”

  For a split second Antonia stiffened. “Yes, he left the Emperor’s private apartments as I arrived. We exchanged greetings before he was drawn aside by a couple of self-important senators.”

  Macha found Antonia’s reaction to the mention of Bassus’ name curious but for the time being allowed it to pass. Perhaps she was reading too much into Antonia’s facial expression and body movements.

  After further small talk, Macha and Antonia went their separate ways. Macha prayed Antonia would use her influence with the Emperor to obtain Titus’ release right away. Then a thought occurred to her. The list found on Nicanor’s body included the letters, VE. Could these be the first two letters of the word Vestal? Did the conspirators have something to do with the Vestal Virgins? Then again, there were many words that began with VE. She must give further thought to this notion.

  * * * * *

  Upon returning to Bassus’ home, Macha was met at the door by the stooped house steward, Vasili. “Lady Carataca,” he said, “there is a courier from Mediolanum waiting to see you. He’s in the atrium.”

  Alarmed, Macha brushed by the old servant. There could be no reason to receive a message from the north unless something was wrong.

  The dusty soldier stood when Macha slipped into the sun-filled reception room. “Lady Carataca, I have been instructed to inform you that your son, Titus, has been kidnapped!”

  Chapter 19

  Anguish and Determination

  A courier stood before her, his clothes smelling of horse sweat. Macha suppressed the panic sweeping through her, sank into a curved wicker chair by the atrium wall and wiped sweaty fingers across her forehead. “Little Titus! No!”

  “It is so, lady,” the haggard young courier, wearing the uniform of a tribune replied. “I have ridden all the way from Mediolanum to inform you.”

  For a couple of minutes Macha said nothing, taking several deep breaths. Gods, this couldn’t be happening! Not her son! Her throat thickened, her mouth dry. In a rasping voice she asked a passing slave to fetch a cup of water and one for the young officer.

  “What happened?” she asked over a lump in her throat.

  “He was snatched from the courtyard of Tribune Cnidius Rufus’ house.”

  Mother Goddess! At her brother-in-law’s estate, in the care of his wife Helena. “How?”

  “The kidnappers struck just before sunset.” The courier rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Tribune Rufus was spending the night at the legion garrison, on duty as officer-of-the watch. Once word came, we hurried to his home with a squadron of cavalry and found Lady Helena frantic.” He took a deep breath, exhaled, and shook his head.

  “Please, go on,” Macha said barely above a whisper.

  “Lady Helena said she had spent the afternoon indoors supervising dinner preparations while your son played outside in the courtyard with his cousins. She was expecting guests for the evening meal and gave instructions to the house steward to leave the courtyard gate open. The slaves had been working in the quad when one of them heard hoof beats. He spotted a dozen riders to the south emerging from the forest and told the overseer and other slaves. They watched the horsemen gallop toward the villa in a cloud of dust, ford the river, and cross the field next to Tribune Rufus and Lady Helena’s villa.”

  Macha knew the villa’s location all too well. Situated on a knoll about a mile north of Mediolanum’s city gates, their home sat between a small tributary of the River Po and a thick stand of woods.

  Macha’s slave returned with a silver tray holding an earthen pitcher and two blue glass cups. He handed each a cup.

  “Drink up,” Macha said, “You must be very thirsty.” Macha shut her eyes and sipped, allowing the water to cool her mouth and soothe her parched throat. After she dismissed the young slave, Macha said in a clearer voice, “Please continue.”

  The tribune set his cup on the short legged wooden table in front of Macha. “The overseer thought the riders were cavalry, because they rode in columns of two. The slaves were used to Tribune Rufus riding home with a detail of cavalry when patrolling the highway and paid little attention.”

  “The fools!”

  “True, but the lengthening shadows of dusk deceived the workers. It wasn’t until the riders neared the villa they saw the horsemen’s homespun tunics and shabby cloaks. They were a mean looking bunch who reined up in the courtyard—all scarred faces and missing teeth. Before the slaves could sound the alarm, the brigands corralled them.”

  “My son?”

  “I’m coming to that, Lady Carataca. Their leader was a broken-nosed, big-jawed brute. He saw your boy playing at one end of the yard with
the Greek slave boy.”

  “Demetrios?”

  “Aye, boys were unaware at first of what the commotion was all about. When your son ran, the leader rode him down, snatched, and placed him in front of his saddle. The slaves say Young Titus screamed for you, Lady.”

  “Oh, my poor son!”

  “The leader yelled to one of his men to kill the slave boy. A big red headed Gaul caught and slew the boy with his sword.”

  “Mother Goddess! Poor Demetrios.”

  “None of the slaves understood why he was slain and they were not.”

  She knew why but kept the reason to herself. “Go on,” she said.

  “The leader signaled to his men, and they galloped out of the compound. Darkness made it impossible to follow them.”

  “But the slaves must have told someone after they fled.”

  “They immediately ran to Lady Helena. She sent her steward on horseback to Tribune Rufus. The First Italica Legion dispatched cavalry units to search the area around Mediolanum. But by then the outlaws had vanished.”

  “Exactly when did they kidnap my son and kill Demetrios?” Macha asked, leaning forward.

  “Three days after you left Mediolanum.”

  Macha dropped the cup she still held in her hand, shattering it on the tiled floor. Her son had been taken seven days ago, seven days of captivity and terror before she ever knew he was gone. And Demetrios. Someone must have known he had been a witness to his father’s murder. She swallowed and took a deep breath as she struggled to keep her emotions under control. Gods knew how her son was being treated. Was he still alive? It was all her fault for chasing her husband to Rome. But she had to search for the truth. Why would anyone kidnap or harm an innocent child? Ransom was the answer. Demetrios had no value as a slave; his killing eliminated the only eye-witness to Nicanor’s death. However, the life of young Titus, son of a nobleman and Roman officer, would be worth a hefty sum of gold—enough to force her to keep her mouth shut and from interfering in her husband’s case.