“I’ll let Titus know when I see him today. He’ll be pleased you are searching.”
* * * * *
At the Praetorian Barracks, Macha entered Titus’ little cell. After embracing, Titus took his wife’s hand and led her past the plain wooden table and stool to the cot in a corner. For several minutes, sitting on the edge they looked at each other without saying a word, holding hands.
“Any news about our son?” Titus asked.
“So far Pomponius Appius and the Watch haven’t found a trace,” Macha replied. “He promises to search the Trans-Tiber District next.”
Titus nodded. “At least he hasn’t given up. Maybe he’ll have better luck there.”
“That isn’t all,” Macha said.
Titus eyed her suspiciously. “What else? What are you holding back?”
Macha related the details of her visit to Pollia and the assassination attempt on her life after she had departed Pollia’s home. In addition to searching for Young Titus, Appius men were looking for the killers.
A dark smoldering look crossed his face as she described the attack on her. When she finished, he exhaled. Standing, he paced the room and kicked the three-legged stool against the wall; the crash echoed through the room.
He raised his voice. “How could you endanger your and our son’s life? You could have died. For all we know young Titus is dead.”
“I don’t believe he is.” She said in a soothing voice. “Because they sent another poor child’s finger tells me he’s alive.”
Titus leaned against the wall and crossed his arms and hands in front of his chest. He stared at the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter, Macha. Somebody knows that you know; isn’t it obvious?” He glanced at Macha. “I almost wish you hadn’t told me anything.”
She recoiled as if being slapped in the face. “I had to, darling. I’m not about to deceive you. If I waited until later, you wouldn’t have forgiven me.”
Titus dropped his arms and shot Macha a menacing look, a coldness in his eyes she had never seen before. She shivered.
“The damage is done. See that you do no more.” Titus had never used that tone with her before.
“I must do what I can for you and Young Titus.”
“I don’t care about myself; it’s my son that concerns me.”
“You’re both important to me,” Macha countered.
“The waiting is taking its toll on me, too.”
“I know it must be dreadful, Titus. You sit in this grim cell all day staring at the walls, and hear little news. Sometimes idleness plays tricks on the mind.”
Titus jutted his chin forward. For a second his frigid eyes pierced Macha, as if reaching to the depths of her soul, then turned away. Never before had he acted as though he did not love her.
Doubts about her confrontation with Pollia flooded Macha's mind. A decent mother wouldn’t have acted so rashly. Macha had been warned to act responsibly. Yet she had plunged ahead anyway. She prayed to Mother Goddess Anu to forgive her for risking her son’s life, and hoped she wouldn’t live to regret it.
Through the upper window near the ceiling drifted the clanking sounds of arms as Praetorian troops drilled on the parade field. A centurion barked a set of commands followed by a string of obscenities.
For a moment, Macha closed her eyes and recalled when she and Titus were first betrothed more than nine years ago. He had just received his appointment as junior tribune in the army. Of course, she had no choice in the arrangements made by her parents, but soon Macha realized she really liked Titus. Early on he showed he was a man of honor and not self-centered like others his age. And although he was rather terse, Macha found herself drawn to his engaging smile and dry sense of humor. Because of Titus' off-handed quips, especially, when made at the expense of the nobility, she caught herself laughing on many occasions.
What happened to him? she wondered. Now, he seldom smiles or makes his comical wry comments. It's as if his life in the army and years on campaign has dried up the wonderful parts of his personality. This is not the time to bring it up, but once he is released, I must bring it to his attention. I love him too much to see him turn sour on my son and me.
“I’m not going mad if that’s what you’re thinking,” Titus said, drawing Macha out of her thoughts.
She opened her eyes. “Of course, not, darling. I’m saying it’s difficult to stand idly by and leave your fate in the hands of others. The investigation isn’t over yet."
Titus stepped to the cot and sat down beside her again. Gently he took Macha by the shoulders and peered into her eyes. “I would take my life,” he said evenly, “before further endangering our son’s or leaving you impoverished without so much as a copper to your name.”
She sat straighter. “Don’t talk nonsense, Titus. Your life is more precious to me than all your wealth combined. I love you. Don’t you understand?” A lump rose in Macha's throat which she quickly swallowed. This wasn’t the Titus she knew.
Titus let out a breath, loosened his grip, and slumped forward. “I know. That’s why I thought so hard on the matter. You and our son are everything to me. I refuse to see you go wanting.”
Macha threw her arms around Titus, holding him close. Despite languishing in confinement, the muscles in Titus’ arms and shoulders remained firm. Even in the heat, his body radiated a distinctive masculine smell.
Quill bumps ran up her arms and down her back.
“They can’t take you from me, Titus.” For a second, she couldn’t speak. Her heart pounded and she trembled, and breathed deeply. “If anything happens, Bassus promised to become my patron.”
He grimaced. “Then he knows I’m doomed.”
“Not at all, my love.” Macha pushed herself a few inches away and stared him in the eye. “Senator Bassus is a prudent man. He thinks of us as family. When he gives his word, he doesn’t change his mind. Taking your life may be an honorable death, but young Titus would have to live with your notoriety.”
“If I’m executed he’ll bear the shackles anyway.” Titus pushed Macha away, casting his eyes downward to the stone floor.
Macha didn’t want to guess what Titus was thinking. She had never seen him so depressed and prayed he wouldn’t attempt anything foolish.
Titus swung about and grabbed Macha’s hands. He pressed them to his chapped lips and released them seconds later. “I’m sorry, Macha, perhaps you’re right. It isn’t my nature to give up, and I won’t now, I promise. Gods, how I love you.” He hugged her again.
“I love you, too,” Macha answered with a kiss. She lingered in his arms wishing she could stay there forever, knowing she could not.
Titus exhaled and straightened his shoulders. A hint of smile crossed his lips. “Since Appius will be searching the Trans-Tiber District next, he might have better luck. That stinking hive is full of surprises.”
“I pray Mother Fortuna is with his troops.”
“Aye, but remember, it is he and his men who are to conduct the search,” Titus added. “Do nothing further to endanger our son’s life.”
She clinched her jaw to hold her tongue. For the first time in their marriage, Macha knew she would disobey her husband’s request.
* * * * *
Early that afternoon, Macha arrived home and found a courier waiting for her in the atrium with a message from Pomponius Appius. Once the messenger had handed her the parchment and departed, she opened and read it. Pomponius Appius wrote that his spies had found the hiding place of the assassin leader and he planned a raid late that afternoon. Spies had informed the Tribune the leader was an ex-gladiator called Pugnax the Thracian.
“The same day after the attack on you,” the message continued, “he and his gang bathed at the Baths of Memnon. Pugnax is obsessed with cleanliness. No matter what the risk, he spends every afternoon bathing at the thermae. With any luck we will corner him and his thugs and place them under arrest.”
I must be with the Watch when they find Pugnax, Macha thought. If they can captur
e him alive, they can force him to tell where he has hidden my son.
Macha sent a message to Appius asking to accompany him on the raid. Senator Bassus might have allowed her to go along, but she doubted the tribune would consent. Yet she had to try.
She had no sooner finished Appius’ letter when the Senator Bassus entered the atrium. Eight days had passed since he departed. Light dust coated his face and military uniform, and he smelled of the road.
“Senator Bassus, you’re home,” Macha said in a surprised voice. “I didn’t expect you back so quickly.”
“No one did,” he answered. “Please don’t get up, Macha, I’ll join you. My intention was to return as quietly as possible.”
Macha had many questions to ask him about his trip but instead recounted the attempt on her life, the kidnapping of her son and Pomponius Appius subsequent investigation. Then she showed him the message from Tribune Appius in which he planned to raid the assassin’s home.
“That explains the Watch patrols around the mansion,” Bassus said. “They stopped me outside the gate, and even though I wore the uniform of a Legate. They knew who I was, but their orders required that I identify myself. I asked the sergeant in charge why the heavy patrol. All he could tell me was his orders came through the Watch commander and I was in danger.”
“The order was issued on the advice of Tribune Appius, Senator Bassus. I agree—there is a danger to all of us.”
“I’ll meet with Appius immediately after conferring with the Emperor and supervise the raid.”
Bassus covered his mouth with a hand to squelch a sudden yawn. For a heartbeat he closed his drooping eyes then stood and stretched, shaking the dust from his uniform, before sitting down again. “Forgive my rudeness, Macha, but I’m more tired than I realized. This has been a hard journey.”
Despite her concern about the impending raid, Macha forced herself to ask the Senator about his trip south. She was almost certain what his answer would be. “Since you returned so quickly from Misenum did the audit proceed better than expected?” Macha asked.
“It was as I suspected,” Bassus answered. He briefly explained that the so-called embezzlement against Admiral Apollinaris was an absolute lie. The account books were in perfect order. “I have no doubt someone was trying to get me out of Rome,” he added.
“There is no question in my mind that was the reason.”
Bassus stood. “I’m going to see the Emperor now. I’ll see Appius when I’m finished.”
“May I go along on the raid? Viriatus will be my bodyguard. With your permission, of course,” Macha added hastily.
Bassus studied her for a moment. “The Thracian is an ex-gladiator and a dangerous man. Arresting him will mean a fight to the death.”
Macha’s heart sunk. “I know. He almost killed me. I had hoped he would be captured alive and tell us where my son is hidden.”
Bassus’ features hardened, and a cold look glazed his eyes. “Not him, he’d rather die first. The Spaniard can escort you, but you will do exactly as I say. I will not tolerate your headstrong ways, do you understand?”
“Yes, Senator Bassus, I do.”
“It’s the only way I can keep you out of further trouble, short of putting you under guard.” Bassus turned to leave but stopped. He looked back at Macha. “Arm yourself. Be ready when I return from the Palace.”
Chapter 32
Splinters Don’t Lie
Macha traveled with Senator Bassus and Pomponius Appius at the head of an escort of three centuries from the Watch, one hundred men each. The clattering of troop’s hobnailed sandals echoed along the narrow lane as they approached the Baths of Memnon. How they expected to surprise and capture Pugnax and his thugs in this noise was beyond Macha.
“Senator Bassus, won’t this racket warn Pugnax of our approach?” she asked in spite of her skepticism.
“Doubtful. The baths are so big, he and his cronies won’t hear a thing,” he answered, tramping along side of her.
Another question caused Macha to ask, “Tribune Appius, I don’t attend the games at the arena. As a Celt I find them barbaric, but if Pugnax is a Gaul, why is he called Thracian?”
“It’s like this,” Appius explained marching next to Macha. “Pugnax is a Gaul, but when he fought as a gladiator he was known as the Thracian.”
“I still don’t follow,” Macha said.
In the afternoon heat, Macha wiped perspiration with a handkerchief. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Viriatus, who was just behind Bassus, nod as if he knew what the Tribune meant. But she didn’t.
“Because he fought with a curved dagger and small shield,” Appius replied. “That’s what Thracians of old used before we conquered them.” He seemed to take delight in that knowledge.
Enslaved like the Britons, Macha thought.
Appius continued. “Spies told me. Pugnax likes to brag about his abilities to elude any trap.”
Macha sniffed. “Considering how big the baths are, it must be a leaking sieve of escape routes.”
“Aye, that’s why we brought along three hundred troops.”
Stepping along the cobblestone street, Macha was grateful she had decided to wear clothing that was comfortable and practical, a short-sleeved long tunic, the color of her eyes, which clung to her body in the heat. A gilt-edge white sash girdled her waist, a silver dagger hidden within. Leather sandals enclosed her feet, laced around her legs and tied above the knees. Pulled back into a single braid, Celtic style, Macha’s hair fell between her shoulder blades. An eight-strand wired gold torc, symbol of Celtic nobility, surrounded her long neck.
During the hike along the narrow lane, Macha heard a bucketman in the squad behind her grumbling about dragging along a woman. She twisted her head in his direction to listen.
“You mean you haven’t heard about Lady Carataca?” another trooper asked. “She’s killed two assassins. Got nerves of iron, I hear. It’s a good omen that she’s on our side.”
The bull-face bucketman glanced at Macha and silently turned his head.
If they only knew, she thought. Considering all she had experienced during the last three weeks, it was a wonder she hadn’t gone mad.
Arriving late in the afternoon during the peak bathing hour, the troops quickly surrounded Memnon’s complex. A huge edifice, its roof topped with dozens of painted statues and crowd-filled shops within, lined its colonnaded porticos. A riot of smells, including cooking food, steam, sweat, rancid bath oil, and wood smoke from the heating furnaces, wafted through the set of buildings. Storming the front entrance beneath a high gabled roof, the bucketmen fanned out and began searching the interior gardens, art gallery, library and multiple bathing rooms.
Macha and the Spaniard, Viriatus, followed a detachment crossing the large sandy field of the gymnasia. Sweaty patrons playing ball games and naked men and women coated in sand engaging in wrestling matches and foot races abruptly halted their activities. Surprised by the intrusion, pandemonium erupted among the screaming women and cursing men who ran to clothe themselves. Using shields and spears, troops blocked and herded everyone to one corner of the court. None of the men fit the description of Pugnax or his assassins, and all were released.
The bucketmen continued to the cold room where the customers took their first dip in the chilly waters of a giant pool before continuing to both the warm and hot rooms.
Macha and Bassus trailed down the noisy corridor behind the bucketmen. She raised her voice above the racket and said, “I’ve never been inside a mixed bathing area before.”
“You haven’t?” Bassus questioned.
“The times I have used the public baths, I stayed in rooms reserved for women only,” she answered. “I wouldn’t dream of going there like a cheap actress or prostitute. They may not care about their reputations, but I do. The women using the gymnasia are no better.”
“You are a woman of principal,” Bassus said. “Had you said differently, you would have lost my respect. Regardless of class, the
mixed baths are no place for proper women.”
Macha didn’t mention that occasionally she and Titus bathed together in the privacy of their villa and made love. Then again, that wasn’t the same as a public bath. She wondered if Bassus would think her so proper if he knew her thoughts. Macha tried not to let her eyes wonder, but she couldn’t help noticing that these men would never measure up to her husband.
As they entered the pillared bath hall, a rush of cold air blanketed Macha’s face and bare arms. Streaming through the center opening of the star-covered blue ceiling, rays of sunlight beamed on the ripples of water from the huge plunge and reflected off the armor of the watchman. Troops rumbled past the tall flesh-colored marble statues of Julius Caesar, Romulus, and other historical and mythical figures lining the walls. Clanking armor and hobnailed boots clattered on the slippery tiled floors and echoed through the cavernous room. Amidst cries and protests, giggling bathers, dived into the pool, splashing water on everyone, including Macha, drenching one side of both outer and under tunics from the waist to her sandals.
“Everyone out of the pool. Now!” Pomponius Appius barked. When a few resisted, Appius sent a detail of armed men into the water and prodded the naked citizens with spear points.
Women screamed, men cursed.
Still in the pool, a dark haired Greek in his forties protested. “This is an outrage! I am the Emperor’s secretary. He will hear of this!”
A watchman, wading up from behind, jabbed a club into the Greek’s ribs. He yelped and jerked away.
“Get out of the pool,” the bucketman snarled, “or you’ll see the Emperor with a club jammed up your arse!” He shoved the secretary forward. Dripping like a wet dog, the Greek stumbled up the steps to where the bathers were detained.
After finding no one matching the assassins’ descriptions and briefly questioning the detainees, the bucketmen searched the remaining men’s bathing rooms. They found nothing. Runners from other detachments reported to Bassus that so far they had discovered no sign of the killers.
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