Child of the King

by Debra Diaz

  “I should get back to the inn,” she said quietly. “I have things to do—to prepare for our journey.”

  Metellus nodded, and they headed for the steps leading upward from the docks.

  * * * *

  The large grain ship had a high, curved prow and stern, and a huge square sail that easily caught the wind as it glided from the harbor. Its passengers were scattered over the deck, each trying to find the most comfortable spot…Metellus had claimed a space close against a bulkhead, where he took a bamboo pole and tied a piece of canvas to it, stretching it over their piles of baggage and sleeping pallets. He managed to support the pole by securing one end inside a crack in the wooden deck; thus they were shielded by the partition on one side, the baggage on the other, and the canvas on top.

  Rachel liked the feeling of privacy, but not the fact that she must share such intimate quarters with the soldier. However, there was nothing she could do about it. She spread out blankets and cushions while he walked around the deck, and when he returned she asked, “You must have sailed often to have thought of all this.”

  “Often enough. And you—did you sail when you left Rome, or travel by land?”

  “We—we sailed. By the time we reached Ostia, we realized we were no longer being pursued. We later heard that the emperor’s uncle had convinced him to let us go. Simon hadn’t decided, until then, exactly which way we would travel, but then we knew it was safe to buy passage on a ship.”

  Metellus hesitated, but said, “It must have been a terrible time for you.”

  “I barely remember it,” she half-whispered. “I don’t think I spoke during the entire voyage.”

  Gently, he took her arm. “Come, let’s go to the rail.”

  They stood and watched the coastline grow farther and farther away, the sun glaring down on the waves in an almost blinding light. Others stood close by them; most, from their manner of dress, were Jews. The captain had short, white hair and a short white beard. He commanded the crew with ease, and after a while came to stand beside Metellus.

  “This is my last voyage,” he said conversationally. “I’m joining my wife in Naples. Thirty years I’ve been at sea—off and on.”

  “She must be a very patient woman,” Metellus replied.

  “Yes, and raised five sons! And this must be the lovely wife you spoke of.” The captain looked at Rachel with a courteous nod.

  Metellus caught her eye and smiled. “Yes. My beautiful wife.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoy the voyage. The gods willing, we won’t have any bad weather. The winds are certainly favorable today…” He ambled away to speak with other passengers.

  Rachel glared, her cheeks two spots of red. “Your wife! Why did you lie to him?”

  “What would you have him think, Rachel?”

  “Well, stop grinning at me, I don’t think it’s humorous!”

  Still smiling, he walked away from her, though not far. Looking over the passengers, he didn’t anticipate trouble from any of them, but it would be a long voyage and anything could happen…there were several soldiers who kept to themselves, and a few Roman or Greek men who were probably merchants, and many Jewish families. The men had noticed Rachel, but were keeping their distance. That was the main reason he wanted her known as his wife.

  The first night proved decidedly uncomfortable. The sea began to roll, and…with it…the ship. Their bags slid back and forth, and somehow, no matter how she tried to avoid it, Rachel kept sliding into Metellus. To make matters worse, she began to feel sick, and finally staggered to the rail to relieve her stomach. She wasn’t the only one, but it was humiliating.

  “Feel better?” Metellus asked, when she returned. He had poured water into a basin for her. She washed her face, and drank a little of the light wine from one of the wineskins he had brought.

  Rachel nodded. The moon was bright, so it was impossible to hide. She lay back on her pallet, and immediately went sliding against the long, hard body next to her. She rolled herself back, only to be thrown forward again. She expected him to make some glib comment about her wanting to be close to him, but he wasn’t laughing at her…she felt him move, and one of her cloth bags plopped down between them.

  “There,” he said. Grabbing another one, he raised up to tuck it around her other side. Wedged in between them, she finally began to relax. But then she heard him mutter, “I never thought I’d have to build a barricade…between myself and a beautiful woman.”

  * * * *

  The days passed, each the same as the one before. The northwesterly wind continued to drive the ship onward. They stopped at Phoenix, on the island of Crete, for more supplies; it was the captain’s responsibility to provide fresh drinking water to the passengers, and to have plenty of food on board. Those who paid an additional amount for their passage were allowed to use the ship’s galley for cooking, with passengers taking turns…sometimes with ever shortening tempers boiling over. Metellus somehow managed to get himself and Rachel into the galley every day, to the growing resentment of the soldiers, who had not paid for the privilege.

  Observing their resentment, and the way they eyed Rachel, Metellus began talking with them, trading army stories, having Rachel cook extra food and sharing it with them. When they were at their most boisterous, which was usually late afternoon, he made Rachel stay at their station on the deck, half hidden. They seemed to respect the fact that he was a former tribune with the Praetorian Guard, and whether or not they believed he was on imperial business, they apparently decided not to cause him any trouble.

  Rachel had to admire the way he carried out his duty to the emperor. He seemed determined that nothing was going to happen to her. She wondered what he was going to do when his duty to her and the emperor was finished. She hadn’t meant to ask him questions, or discuss anything of a personal nature…but the days were so long…

  “Tribune,” she said one morning, as they sat cross-legged on their pallets and shared a breakfast of bread and cheese, “what will you do after you leave me in Bethany?”

  He cast a quick look at her face, which she kept averted from his. “I’m going to choose a place to build a house. I think I’m going to raise horses.”

  “I love horses,” she said, after a moment. “They are such noble animals, aren’t they?”

  “I used to train them on the Campus Martius, when I wasn’t escorting the emperor.”

  “What else did you do? Were you in many battles?”

  “Not many. A few in Britain, when Claudius went there, seven or eight years ago.”

  “What did you do—when Caligula was emperor?”

  Metellus stopped in the act of breaking off a piece of bread, and slowly crumbled it in his fingers. “I was very young then.” He laughed a little and said, “I was one of those fortunate ones who went with Caligula to Britain, when he hoped to conquer it. We were at the ocean between Britain and Gaul. He decided to wage war against Neptune instead, and commanded us to attack the waves with our swords, and to collect seashells as plunder…I could have killed him myself that day!”

  “Why would he—oh, never mind.” Rachel didn’t want to think about Caligula. She didn’t know why she had even mentioned him. “And then, under Claudius?”

  “I was with the horse guard, as part of his escort.”

  “When did you become a tribune? Did that make you commander of the horse guard?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “For a few years.”

  She said, slowly, “You evaded my question that day, when I asked if there is a—a woman, who is special to you.”

  He glanced at her again, and this time she met his gaze. “No,” he answered. “Not the way you mean.”

  Uncertain as to his own meaning, she asked, “Why not?”

  Metellus was silent for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer. And then he said quietly, “I’m not an admirer of womankind, Rachel—not after what my own mother did.”

  She had never seen him look quite that way, and glimp
sed a vulnerability that caught at her heart. “Perhaps it wasn’t your mother who abandoned you. I know the Roman way. It’s the father who decides whether a child is to be kept, or—exposed.”

  He shook his head. “After I was grown, I wanted to know who my real parents were. I didn’t let my adoptive parents know, but I did some investigating. The man didn’t believe I was his child, and decided I must not be allowed to live. His wife obviously agreed. I don’t know which of them left me to die, but it doesn’t matter.”

  Rachel said softly, “I can see that it does matter.”

  This time, he avoided looking at her. She saw him clench his jaw. Without thinking, she put out her hand to touch his.

  “Perhaps she came back for you, and you were gone.”

  “A false sentiment,” he said harshly. “What kind of woman would do such a thing to her own child?”

  “I—I don’t know—I can’t even imagine. But, she must have been very troubled.”

  Metellus looked at her, and saw tears in her eyes. Abruptly, he rose and left her, not returning for some time. When he did, something about him had changed; it was as though he had built his own brick wall to stand opposite hers…and it seemed there would be no breaching either of them.

  * * * *

  The western coast of Italy was coming slowly closer, and Rachel had never been so glad to see land …she hoped never again to feel the sharp wind in her ears or a briny mist in her face, and decided she would ask Metellus if they could return to Bethany by some other route. But it could wait, for he still wasn’t speaking to her much, nor she to him. She saw the tall, sloping mountain, Vesuvius, which in the past had thundered and spat flames of fire… even now a thin plume of smoke hovered over it. As she watched, the ship seemed to be steering toward the mountain.

  “This isn’t Rome,” she said to Metellus, who stood next to her at the rail. “Why are we stopping here?”

  “This is Puteoli. The ship is going to dock here for a few days, before going on to Ostia. If we walk, we can make it to Rome before the ship.”

  “Oh, it will be so pleasant to walk again!”

  Metellus permitted himself to smile at her, and they went to take down the improvised tent and gather their belongings. At last the ship sailed into port and edged its way to the wharf, where a ramp was thrown down and the passengers hurried to disembark. Rachel waited while Metellus spoke to the officers who looked over their baggage, watching in fascination as several cages of wild animals were being unloaded from one of the other ships. The animals’ roars and growls resounded over the vast landing area, even over the voices of people and all the cacophony of a busy harbor. There must be a large amphitheater, somewhere near. She was still watching them when a short, thin man in a robe and turban approached her eagerly.

  “Damsel, would you like a wagon, or a coach?”

  Metellus was instantly at her side. “Yes—what do you have?”

  “Everything is at the gate, sir—I get a commission if you rent something.”

  “Help me carry these bags, will you?”

  The two men managed to pick everything up and headed for the city gate, where Metellus paid for the rental of a small wagon pulled by a shaggy, flea-bitten donkey. The thin man helped load the baggage into the wagon and, accepting the coins Metellus handed him, ran eagerly back to the wharf.

  “Do you want to ride?” Metellus asked politely, and as politely she replied, “No, thank you.”

  She stretched her limbs as they walked through the forum, where there were endless booths selling exquisite pottery and every color of fine, woven cloth…and over which stood a blatantly nude statue of the Greek-Egyptian god, Serapis. It was not the first such statue she had seen, but she was not prepared for it and turned crimson. Metellus didn’t seem to notice it; he stopped and filled their waterskins from the public fountain, and they walked on.

  “It’s early yet, and I think we can reach Capua by dark, maybe a little after,” he told her. “Is that agreeable with you?”

  “Oh, yes, let’s not waste a day here!”

  They were accompanied by many travelers intent on reaching the Appian Way, the main highway to Rome. The road to Capua was flat and uninteresting…finally Rachel climbed onto the wagon and rode the last few miles. The donkey was slower than Huldah; he was ill-natured and recalcitrant, and more than once stopped abruptly and had to be coaxed forward. The day grew late; soon there were fewer and fewer people around them. As they entered the surroundings of Capua they came to the tombs… no one was allowed to be buried within the boundaries of a city. Passing through the gate, they came to rows of perfectly laid out streets...there was a temple, a theater, the ubiquitous baths. When they came to the forum, the donkey halted and let out a series of groans and screeches loud enough to wake the nearby dead. He had obviously come to the end of his working day.

  Rachel jumped down off the wagon, not knowing what to do. She could tell that Metellus was uneasy, as everyone turned to stare. He drew the lead rope tightly in his hand, placing his hand strongly under the donkey’s chin, and pushed his other hand over the flaring nostrils. The donkey jerked and tried to move backward, but finally ceased the noise-making. Apparently he also tried to bite Metellus, who gave him a well-deserved cuff on the ears.

  Two Roman men, tall and exceptionally muscular, came close to them and began laughing. Both had long swords in their belts. Rachel caught a smell of strong wine as they stood by, and lowered her gaze as they stared at her. One of them addressed Metellus.

  “Looks like he’s trying to tell you something!” he called, in a slurred voice. “No need to beat the poor beast!”

  “It’s the only language he understands,” Metellus replied casually, but Rachel could tell his entire body was tense and alert. “We are just passing through. Do you live here?”

  “For a while,” said the other man, who had a short face with wide jaws and a crooked nose. “We go to the gladiator’s school.” He eyed Metellus’ sword, then ran his gaze over him in an assessing manner. His eyes went back to Rachel. She exchanged a look with Metellus, realized her head was uncovered, and hurriedly pulled the mantle close about her face.

  “There’s an inn the next street over,” the first man informed them. A long, jagged scar ran down the side of his face.

  Metellus nodded, and stood waiting for them to walk away. They finally did, slowly, and disappeared around the corner of a building.

  “Rachel, hold this creature and don’t move—I’m going to talk to those people over there.”

  Before she could say anything he had walked swiftly toward a group of people around a booth festooned with roses. He spoke with them for a moment, and soon was back by her side.

  “There is a family on the other side of town who takes in travelers. We’re not going to stop here.”

  “But can’t we—”

  “Let’s go,” he said, and feeling rebuffed, she tightened her lips and flounced ahead of him.

  They proceeded up the street. Looking back, Rachel saw the two would-be gladiators standing across from the inn they had mentioned, as though waiting for someone. Metellus saw them, too.

  “Get on the wagon,” Metellus told her. “If anything happens, jump off and run back to the inn as fast as you can.”

  “If you think I’m going to just go and leave you—”

  “Do as I say!”

  She climbed up in a huff and ignored him, staring straight ahead into the darkening road. The forum had emptied, as had most of the streets. They were almost to the city gate when she heard a stealthy scamper of footfalls behind them.

  CHAPTER VII

  Metellus came to an abrupt stop. Rachel’s heart began to pound sickeningly in her chest as she twisted back to see two dark shadows running toward them.

  “Get down beside the donkey and try to stay hidden,” Metellus said, in a low voice. “Stay there unless I tell you to run.”

  “But you said—”

  “Never mind. Do whatever you ha
ve to do—to be safe.”

  Out of the shadows and into the streaming moonlight the two gladiators ran. Rachel, standing close to the donkey, was amazed by the change in them—as if they both had one countenance, and it was sly and malicious…and determined.

  “You didn’t stop at the inn,” said the one with the crooked nose, staring at Metellus. “We were waiting to give you and the woman a proper welcome to Capua.”

  In front of her, Metellus stood perfectly still, tall, straight, unafraid. Or, at least, he seemed that way to her. He stared unwaveringly back at them.

  “We were not planning to stay here.”

  The two men looked at each other. They no longer seemed drunk, as though their intentions…whatever they were…had sobered them.

  “All we want is the woman. We’ll give her back to you, none the worse—and what’s more we won’t have to kill you, if you don’t cause any trouble.”

  “What’s the matter?” Metellus said tauntingly. “You cannot find women of your own?”

  The man with the scar surged forward, but the other one stopped him. “You are sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I am a former soldier in the Roman army. This woman has been summoned by the emperor, and she is under his protection. If anything happens to either of us, he will seek you out and reward you accordingly.”

  “Even if we believed you,” said the scarred man, “the fool wouldn’t know where to start looking. Now get out of our way.”

  The two men withdrew their swords. Metellus’ hand went to his own sword so quickly that it sang as it came out of its sheathe.