by Bodie Thoene
“Very different from the thick German woods,” the general added. “No arrows being launched, nor spears, but never doubt the dangers here are just as real, if less obvious.”
In honor of the festivities, Marcus was clad in his best armor, burnished for the occasion, and a new red, ankle-length cloak. In contrast, the general wore a purple toga bordered in gold and red boots, matching the way the god Jupiter was portrayed in the temple that was their destination.
Marcus remained silent, uncomfortable at the criticism of Caesar his commander was implying and fearful of the consequences should he be overheard.
Severus accepted two cups of honeyed wine, handed one to Marcus, then waved away the slave before continuing. “You have already proven your loyalty, Centurion. There is no one else to whom I can speak my mind.” Lifting the silver chalice toward the bronzed corona of holly perched above Marcus’s brow, he muttered, “Consider it a duty that goes with that honor. Think of it: No peace treaty has been concluded, yet to please the people, Caesar calls it ‘peace.’ He summons me back here for a ‘triumph,’ reduces the size of the army, and pretends that all is well, while Praetorian Commander Sejanus grows ever more ambitious and powerful. Sometimes I think he’s cast a spell on Tiberius Caesar.”
Marcus, the Hero of Idistaviso and Scourge of the Cherusci, stood with his chin tucked in and his head bowed.
“Centurion,” Severus added, “I’d ten times rather face howling tribesmen screaming out of the woods waving axes than brave the politics here in Rome. Ten times? A thousand! But Caesar will turn our victory . . . your victory,” he corrected himself, “to his advantage.”
Though it was barely daylight, the lines were forming. Excited throngs mobbed the streets. Only twenty-five stadia in length—a distance any Roman soldier could march in half an hour—nevertheless, the triumph’s winding route would take several hours to traverse.
A cadre of priests of Jove arrived, leading a pair of snow-white oxen garlanded with flowers. These would precede Severus to the temple and there be sacrificed in his honor.
“Walk beside my chariot,” Severus insisted as he stepped up, indicating a place for Marcus at the right of the silver-and-gold embossed rig drawn by four white horses. Leaning down, he offered one last observation. “By rights you should ride here beside me. But for your sake, I think it’s better this way. I speak plainly. What you have done has already made enemies for you. There are those who are consumed with envy. Pilate has truly poisoned himself with jealousy while wishing for your death.”
The goal of the cavalcade was the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter, but Severus’s chariot halted before it had moved more than three hundred yards. Once across the Tiber, just through a newly raised triumphal arch, was the sacred boundary of the city. They were met there by the city prefect, accompanied by a pair of senators.
Waving for silence, the prefect intoned in an obnoxiously nasal but piercing voice, “General Severus, do you come in peace?”
“I come in peace,” Severus agreed.
“Do you voluntarily surrender command of your army?”
“I do.”
“Then in the names of the senate and the people of Rome, I welcome you. Let the triumph begin!”
After the general ceremonially handed over his sword, the procession continued. Riding behind Severus in the chariot was a slave, holding a laurel wreath signifying victory over his head. Throughout the parade Marcus heard the slave whisper, “Remember, you are only a man. Sic transit gloria mundi. All earthly glory is fleeting.”
Many in the crowd shouted for Severus.
Some peered toward Marcus and loudly inquired, “Who’s that?”
Then a voice the centurion would have recognized anywhere called his name. “Marcus! Marcus Longinus!”
Leaning over the balustrade of a rooftop was Claudia. The triumph was for Severus, but the smile on Claudia’s heart-shaped face was for Marcus. The sunlight glinting on her coppery hair warmed him. At every wave of her slender, graceful arms his emotions leaped, though he had steeled himself to feel nothing for her at all.
Impossible command.
Forcing himself to look away, he could not help but glance back. Each time he found her still gazing at him. Was that wistful longing he saw there, or did he only imagine it?
Chapter 5
At her first glimpse of Marcus striding beside the chariot of Severus, Claudia gasped and leaned against the balustrade. Centurion Marcus Longinus, the commoner, and Hero of Idistaviso, was again being acclaimed by Rome. Word had swept through Rome’s halls of power like a wind, clearing away the dusty self-aggrandizement from the nobility.
The starling, Claudia’s good omen of rescue, peered out from the bars of a small cage on the table.
Claudia felt a surge of pride. Tears welled in her eyes. The sunlight glinted on his armor. And then, as if by a miracle, his face turned again toward her. This time she was certain he saw her. She raised her hand slightly as if to say, “Yes, I am here. Yes. I see you, my dearest.”
Then the forward motion of the procession carried Marcus from her sight.
Far behind Marcus pranced the horse ridden by Pontius Pilate. Proud and arrogant in his blue cloak and plumed helmet, Pilate curled his lip as he glanced at her. She winced instinctively. It would be he who would enter her bedchamber and lay claim to her body, like the spoils of war, tonight—not the one man she truly loved.
Claudia remembered her desperate thoughts the night of the bird’s rescue. Who was the starling, and who was the cat? Once again, her heart pattered like a frightened bird’s in need of rescue.
Philo, resting in the arms of Jono, peered over the railing. “Oh, Mother, so many soldiers! Is my father among them?”
She did not answer for a moment. It had been two years since Pilate had been sent to serve the legions in the north. Philo did not remember him.
Jono leaned close to the boy. “See there, young master? Tribune Pontius Pilate rides the proud white horse all trimmed in blue. But this triumph is in honor of General Severus and the heroic centurion Marcus Longinus.”
Philo pondered the scene a moment. “If the centurion is the real hero, why does he not ride in a chariot? Or have a white horse like my father?”
Claudia answered, “He is humble.”
“What is ‘humble,’ Mother?”
“It means . . . recognizing that we are not on earth to show others how important we are, but to make a difference in the lives of others.”
“The centurion needs no chariot,” Jono murmured. “He wears the corona of courage upon his head. There are many who know the meaning of his crown.”
“Do you know him, Jono?” Philo turned in the giant’s arms to gaze into his face.
“Yes. I fought against him in my own country as a champion to decide the last battle. He broke my arm, and I fell. My nation was defeated. My family dead. I did not care if I lived or died. The crowd cried that he should slit my throat in the arena. Instead he kept my life, and I am a slave. After your birth, he brought me here as a gift to serve you and your mother.”
The boy beamed in wonder. “A new story, Jono! You were like our starling. A broken wing, but now you sing for us.”
The giant laughed. “He could have plucked my head off. I would have welcomed it. But now I rejoice. Yes. I owe him everything.”
Philo gazed down at the parade, straining for another glimpse of the centurion. “I would like to meet a true hero, Mother. Will I get to meet him, do you think?”
Claudia nodded. “Your father would approve such a meeting I am sure.”
The looping, wandering course the procession followed cau
sed the pageant to double back on itself several times. At some points Marcus saw the leading edge of the spectacle from his place near its middle. The first such occasion was when they circled the Circus Flaminius.
There, at the head of the column, was a captured Cherusci mother and young son—the living emblem of their defeated nation. Chained by the ankles, she struggled to keep her chin aloft, staring back at the jeering mob. The boy, no more than four or five years old, was plainly terrified. It was a pitiful sight.
These were followed by Cherusci chieftains, dragging even heavier chains and forced to pull carts loaded with captured weapons. In the yellow, hazy light of a Roman morning, the blunted axes and notched swords did not look remotely frightening. The onlookers shook their fists and taunted the prisoners.
Still, when Marcus remembered his fallen comrades, slaughtered ten years ago in the Idistaviso woods and those recently mutilated by Cherusci savages, he clenched his jaw and set his face against any sign of pity. By the time they reached the place where the enemy tribal chiefs were to be executed, he was fully with the crowds in his emotions.
There was no gold and precious little glory returned to Rome in this triumph, no rich spices or ivory or new territory, but the citizens still cheered and capered as if Persia or India had fallen to the Empire’s might. Mobs of bakers and cloth-dyers and wine merchants, who had never been nearer to any battle than hundreds of miles, chanted and sang as if they were personally responsible for the victory.
The procession halted every city block for each of the trade guilds to present their tokens of esteem to Severus—flowers and flowery words. Another loop of the route showed Marcus the soldiers and other officers of the legion, marching in procession.
As the pageant wound through the streets of Rome, Marcus became increasingly aware of Pilate’s black mood. More morose and bitter appearing than Marcus had ever seen him, Pilate glared at the centurion with undisguised hatred.
Marcus felt a surge of irrational guilt, as if Pilate had somehow caught Claudia and Marcus in something improper in their staring at each other.
In that moment the winner of the corona recognized the truth of Severus’s words: envy is a deadly poison, capable of killing twice. True, it may be used to destroy its intended victim, but it will then turn and devour the perpetrator as well.
Marcus shivered at the premonition.
Chapter 6
There was a royal reception for the returning officers after the victory parade. Though Claudia was invited and expected, she begged off, claiming a headache.
Now, alone in her chamber with the starling, she wished she had gone. It might have been easier to greet her husband for the first time in two years while in a crowded room of strutting officers and plumed women.
It was near midnight. Pilate would soon come to her chamber. She sensed it with the same dread the starling felt at the approach of the cat.
The little cage was covered with a dark blue scarf. Starling was sleeping on her perch. Claudia imagined the tiny creature dreaming of soaring dances in the sky with a million others.
“I am like you, Little Starling.” Claudia rested her chin in her hand. “We are captives. Longing for freedom but safe behind our bars.”
Claudia wished she had been attuned to the shifting of seasons the way the birds knew when to fly south. She had fallen deeply in love one summer but had waited too long to flee.
The cold winter of Caesar’s political necessity had doomed her to a marriage of loveless servitude.
Even when the lamps were out, Claudia could not close her eyes and simply imagine Pilate loved her. She was merely a convenient means for his physical gratification. She meant no more to him than the ritual prostitutes in the temple of Venus.
For a time she had hoped Caesar had chosen her husband because of some sentimental reason. Claudia’s mother had been a shopgirl from a family of Jewish wine merchants, and the estates of Ponti owned the vineyards in the north.
Like those who wait for winter to pass, she had waited for the curtain of her life to be pulled back to reveal color, light, and joy. But spring had never come to her heart. The curtains opened, and all was leafless desolation.
As long as Pilate was in Rome, his ambition forced her to live in the metropolis. How she detested the intrigue, clamor, and brutality of this wicked place.
Two years of Pilate’s absence when she and Philo lived in the vineyards had been heaven. Now the landowner was back. He was coming for her tonight.
She groaned and, needing air, stepped out onto the balcony of the Ponti townhouse. The breeze carried on it the stench of sewage.
She whispered the song her mother had sung. “If only I had the wings of a dove, then I would fly away.”
In the street below, the clip-clop of shod hooves sounded on the cobblestones.
“Oh, God of all the gods, God of my mother . . . help me. He is coming.”
Claudia turned in panic and entered her chamber. She hovered above Starling’s cage, remembering the cat.
“He is coming.”
Five deep bruises formed the print of a man’s hand on Claudia’s arm. Her back carried the black mark of Pilate’s fist.
“I was drunk.” He smirked.
“I am the daughter of Tiberius.”
“In the dark, how could I tell who or what you are? The way you howled, I thought you were a Cherusci peasant’s wife.” He laughed and took another sip of wine.
Claudia did not look at him. She brushed her hair angrily. “If you ever lay a hand on me again, I will—”
Pilate leapt to his feet and threw his cup against the wall. “You will what?” He rushed toward her and grabbed her hair at the base of her neck.
“Stop!” she said through gritted teeth.
He planted his lips against her cheek. “Do you know I once saw a legionary bite the nose off a captive woman before he raped her?”
She grabbed his wrists with both hands. “Pilate! The boy will hear you. Please, stop!”
He shoved her down and glowered over her. “And don’t think I am unaware who you prayed for to your gods!”
“You are mad!” She cowered, expecting a kick, but it did not come.
He hesitated. Clenching his fists, he stepped back. “That father of yours. Placed both your lover and your husband together on the front lines. Well, we both lived, Claudia. I know that disappoints you and your father as well. But at least my spies tell me you had no other men to bed while I was gone.” He nudged her with his toe.
“I can’t go to the banquet tonight,” she stammered, unmoving on the floor.
“You WILL GO!” he roared.
“My father will see the marks. He will know.”
“I am careful not to beat your pretty face. And if Tiberius did see, do you think he would care? He would simply think it was the sport of a soldier bedding his woman after two years apart.”
“All right, Pilate. Yes. Yes.” She prayed that he would leave her.
Silence. He glared at her, then spat. “Get up. Get dressed. You will be the most beautiful woman at the banquet tonight. And every man . . . every man . . . will look at you and know I own you.”
Chapter 7
After the battlefield shelters Marcus had endured in the service of Rome, the buildings of the capital were like another world. Marching from his temporary quarters in the Praetorian Guard barracks, marble columns closed in like the forests of the north. Much about Rome made Marcus uneasy. At least in Germania the enemies were recognizable by their weapons and actions. Here an enemy might smile while fingering an unseen dagger or a vial of poison.
A century of Praetorian soldiers, acting as the emperor’s bodyguards, were stationed within the colonnade surrounding the Imperial dining hall. They were easily recognized by their black-and-white dress uniforms, their distinctive oval-shaped shields, and their perpetually arrogant sneers. However, at the sight of the bronzed leaves on Marcus’s head, each trooper offered a proper salute as he approached.
When the bronze doors were opened to admit the centurion, the lilting music of harps and soft mewing of flutes poured out. A low hum of conversation and the aromas of wine and flowers added another octave to the note of welcome.
This evening was partly in his honor. Why then was Marcus still so suspicious and doubtful of his safety?
The center portion of the room was occupied by a triclinium—three tables set in a U-shape, all furnished with silver and gold platters and goblets. Each table was provided with three couches on which the high-ranking guests would recline . . . nine places of special honor in all.
The rest of the room was filled with additional tables and couches so that the number in attendance would exceed two hundred, waited on by twice that number of servants.
The tables were already occupied when Marcus entered. At his appearance there was a brieflull in the conversations between senators and favored officials. The chatter amongst Imperial praetors and aediles, as well as their wives, quickly resumed.
He was escorted to a place at the foot of one leg of the horseshoe. By Marcus’s request, his armor-bearer, Carta, was present to serve the centurion. From a curved-necked pitcher of ruby red wine, the teenager filled a silver cup depicting a stag-hunting scene, handed it to his master, then stepped back.