by Martha Marks
Rubies of the Viper
a novel by
Martha Marks
Copyright © 2009 by Martha Marks
www.marthamarks.com
all rights reserved
ISBN: 978-0-9795193-3-8 (Kindle 2009)
978-0-9795193-4-5 (paperback 2010)
978-0-9795193-5-2 (EPUB 2010)
DEDICATION
To Bernie Marks, the talented, patient, and supportive love of my life.
And to the memory of my parents, Truman and Margaret Alford, who took me at an early age to Rome, Pompeii, and Herculaneum and, among other things, taught me to enjoy history and good books.
APPRECIATION
To Professor Fred Mench, who helped me get the historical details right. Whatever errors may still remain are mine alone.
PLEASE NOTE
A map of the places mentioned in this novel is available at marthamarks.com.
“Show me a man who isn’t a slave. One is a slave to sex. Another to money. Another to ambition. All are slaves to hope and fear.”
—Seneca, 4 B.C. - A.D. 65
“You have as many enemies as you have slaves.”
—Roman proverb
CONTENTS
PART I: Chapters 1-12 — A.D. 53, May
PART II: Chapters 13-21 — A.D. 53, June to December
PART III: Chapters 22-30 — A.D. 54 to 56
Historical Note
<><><><><><>
PART I
A.D. 53, May
Chapter One
Rome
Gaius Terentius Varro lurched out of the riverfront brothel, snapped his fingers at the four slaves snoring on the pavement, and crawled into his litter. The bearers hoisted their belching burden and set off through the dark toward the Caelian Hill. It was a trip they had made every third or fourth night for years.
The two men waiting behind a pile of discarded lumber were not there by habit. As the litter neared, they pulled hoods over their heads, drew curved Syrian daggers, and moved into the street. One blade sought the Roman’s heart, spurting hot blood onto his white tunic. The other slashed wide and deep across the patrician throat, nearly severing the head. The groggy, unarmed slaves offered no resistance, and within moments the master of one of Rome’s greatest fortunes lay dead on his plump silk cushions.
Chapter Two
The Villa Varroniana, on the coast northwest of Rome
Her brother’s murder lay heavily on her mind as Theodosia Varro pushed aside the sapphire-blue curtain and stepped into the blackness of the library that their father had added to his ancestral villa eighteen years earlier. It was late, and the bouncy journey up from Rome on the old Via Aurelia had exhausted her, but she had to spend a while here—the one place where she had always felt safe—before she slept.
Accustomed to the well-lit dining room, her eyes could make out little in the library. One small lamp flickered on a table straight ahead; another burned in the corner to her right. The air was thick with the fragrant mix of old leather and costly Egyptian oil.
Theodosia groped toward the nearest lamp and bumped into a bulky object.
Father’s couch.
Her fingers played along its carved wooden side as her eyes, gradually adjusting to the dark, explored the room. The oversize strongbox still stood against one wall, flanked by the Etruscan urns from the necropolis at Caere. And the scrolls that generations of Varros had collected were still there, too, neatly stacked in their niches.
She walked over and chose a scroll at random. Its leather sheath felt warm and familiar in her hand as she held it down to the lamp.
Terence. Father’s favorite playwright.
Aulus Terentius Varro and his daughter had read the comedies aloud here together many times, taking turns at the roles, pitching their voices high or low as the parts required.
Gods, we’d laugh till our cheeks hurt!
Returning to the couch, Theodosia was about to unroll the scroll when, from the corner behind her, came the sound of a man noisily clearing his throat.
She jumped.
There had been too much violence lately for calm nerves.
Then she saw him—beyond the circle of amber light cast by the other lamp—standing on the far side of her father’s desk.
Moments passed. The two stood staring at each other across the great gulf of the room... he stiff as a pillar, she struggling against her fear, feeling alone and vulnerable.
“Who are you?” she said at last. “What are you doing here?”
“My name is Alexander, mistress. I am the steward.”
In an instant, Otho’s mocking words flooded her memory.
Alexander the arrogant. Alexander the conqueror. Alexander the slave.
Through her mind ran snippets of information gleaned from Tribune Marcus Salvius Otho, a senator’s son and her brother’s best friend who had become Theodosia’s own friend and ally in the two weeks since Gaius’ murder.
An insolent Greek who insists on calling himself Alexander...
Refused to accept the name Gaius gave him...
A strange one...
Insufferably arrogant...
Capable but dangerous...
Only slave at the villa allowed off the grounds without permission...
Wields as much power at the villa as Nizzo does on the farm...
And then Otho’s final advice, just last night.
Take control fast.
Don’t believe a thing he tells you.
Don’t ever turn your back on him.
Theodosia remembered her surprise that her brother would bring in a stranger and turn the estate over to him to manage. “I’ll run the place myself, as Father did,” she had promised Otho. “You won’t catch me deferring to a slave!”
Still unmarried at the shamefully old age of nineteen—and with no living male relative to direct her affairs—Theodosia had unexpectedly become the sole owner of the family fortune. Her unique situation placed unique burdens on her. No one else had any claim to her property, but she had to prove she could manage it.
She tightened her grip on the scroll and looked back at the man in the shadows.
My slave.
“I can’t see you over there. Come here.” There was nothing gentle in the command.
The steward obeyed, then bowed and stood silently. It was not his place to speak first. His comportment was perfect for a servant except for his dark, deep-set eyes, which remained fixed on her face.
She kept him standing awkwardly before her as she inspected him at leisure.
Otho had said the steward was Greek, and he looked it. He was taller than Theodosia and lean, with a sloping nose and high cheekbones that carved strong angles on his face. The lamplight picked out a deep, jagged scar on his right jaw.
Without saying a word, Theodosia stepped around him to replace the scroll on its shelf. Determined not to reveal her nervousness, she returned to the couch, rested her hands on its side, and faced him again.
Finally, having prolonged the silence as long as she cared to, she spoke. Her voice had lost none of its pique.
“Why didn’t you make your presence known when I first came in?”
“I stood up when you entered, mistress, and thought you would see me. It wasn’t fitting for me to speak.”
For some reason, Theodosia was annoyed by the correctness of this Greek’s Latin. Though accented, it sounded as educated as her own.
“I was told my brother gave you a more appropriate name. ‘Servus,’ I believe.”
“Your brother called me many things, mistress, but my name is Alexander.”
“Your name is whatever your master chooses to call you.”
Silence.
“Isn’t that so?”
“I had a name,” the tone was soft but insistent, “long before I had a master.”
Astonished by his self-assurance, Theodosia let the matter drop.
What does a slave’s name matter, anyway?
“What were you doing there?”
“Compiling a list of household slaves for your inspection. I would have finished it by now, but Tribune Otho sent a message late this morning that he wanted delivered to the farm today. Since I’m the only one from here who goes there—”
“Does Tribune Otho often send you on errands?”
“Sometimes, yes. My lord Gaius told me that I was to treat an order from Tribune Otho as if it came directly from him, my own master.” Alexander paused. “Tribune Otho also sent word that you would arrive tomorrow, mistress, instead of today... as we were originally informed. I intended to present myself to you then, along with a full inventory of your property.”
Theodosia looked aside, puzzled.
Otho knew I was planning to travel today. This Greek must have misunderstood.
“Why were you doing your work here?”
“This is my office. My lord Gaius instructed me to work here.”
“Are you telling me that my brother turned our father’s library—the most beautiful room in the villa—over for the private use of a slave?”
For the first time, the man hesitated.
“My lord Gaius hardly ever came here, mistress. And I have done no harm to anything.”
Theodosia breathed deeply and glanced around the room.
If I must battle for control of my estate, then let Father’s library be the first conquered territory.
“Well, Alexander,” she said, exaggerating the syllables of his name, “this room is now reserved for my use. You’re not to come here unless I’ve summoned you. There must be plenty of cubicles in the house that will do for you. Find one. And you will bring me that report first thing in the morning. We have much to discuss tomorrow. Now,” she flicked her hand impatiently, “be gone, fellow!”
<><><>
Alexander dropped the pile of papyrus sheets on top of the chest in the tiny room where he slept and collapsed onto the narrow straw mattress.
“Damn these Varros!”
Eight years spent trying to please the haughty, irascible Gaius were enough. Alexander had hoped Theodosia Varro would be different.
Damn the great Tribune Otho, too.
If he hadn’t sent that message—or at least if he’d gotten it right—Alexander’s updated inventory would have been finished before the new mistress arrived; the kitchen staff would have known to prepare an appropriate dinner for her, instead of having to rush something out at the last minute; and Alexander would have been here to welcome her properly, instead of coming in from his farm errand while she was eating.
Damn you, too, man. Only a fool would believe anything Otho says.
He lifted the top sheets off the stack and spread them across the bed, smoothing the worn blanket so the pages lay flat. “First thing in the morning,” she had said. “Much to discuss tomorrow.”
Tomorrow sounds delightful.
<><><>
The lamp burned low. Alexander sat hunched over his inventory when he heard a tap on the door. In the next instant, Stefan ducked his head and shoulders under the frame.
“She’s here!” A smile played across Stefan’s shaggy face. “Got in about dinnertime.”
“I know. We met.”
“Well...?” The smile grew wider.
“Oh, she’s a charmer!”
Stefan grinned.
“What’d I tell you?”
Alexander glanced sidelong at his friend and shook his head. Irony wasn’t something Stefan ever understood.
“Have you had a friendly little chat with her yet?”
“Not yet. Too busy with her carriage and horses.”
“Well, you better plan on sticking with the goatherd’s daughter. Not even your legendary luck with the ladies is going to help you much with Theodosia Varro.”
“I don’t understand.” Stefan’s grin faded.
Of course not.
“That sweet girl you remember has grown up.” Alexander rubbed his burning eyes. “Become a Varro. Become a Roman.”
<><><>
Lucilla was busy unpacking. Theodosia heard her singing in the second bedroom.
She never sounded so happy before.
Over the past two years, Theodosia and her only slave had worked out a mostly amicable relationship despite a hostile start and Lucilla’s occasional surly moods.
Getting out of Rome will be good for her, too.
Theodosia strolled into the sitting room, still unable to believe it belonged to her. It was to this magnificent suite that Aulus Terentius Varro had brought the first Theodosia twenty years before. As a child, their daughter had come here often, sometimes inviting the slave children who were her playmates upstairs for a giggly game of hide-and-seek among the master’s bulky furniture.
Theodosia had always loved this room, where tall bronze lamp-trees cast their golden glow into every corner and Odysseus reenacted his exploits in vibrant frescoes of crimson, green, and gold.
On this warm night, the shutters stood open to the balconies on two sides, offering panoramas of the sea and gardens and filling the suite with crisp, salty air. The mosaic floor had been polished to a high gleam, and an enormous bouquet of sweet-smelling red roses dominated a low chest. There might have been some confusion about the day of her arrival, but someone had prepared the room well.
“Juno,” Theodosia said to herself, “it’s really mine!”
Gaius had been the heir. Only through an advantageous marriage could a girl with a brother hope for splendors like this, and no such match had ever been arranged for Theodosia.
She walked onto the western balcony, propped her arms on the railing, and looked out at the Etruscan Sea. The upturned crescent of Juno the moon, goddess of women, floated over the water, and Theodosia fancied that she smiled.
It’s over eight years since Father died, right here.
She peered down into the garden, remembering how she had huddled there with her friends that night, crying and wondering what would happen to them now that the despotic Gaius had taken his father’s place as master of them all.
In her mind, she called up the names and faces of those slave playmates: Simi, so dainty and finicky about what she ate; Gerta, smarter than any of the rest of them, Theodosia included; the lovely little Arisata, whom Theodosia always envied for her fine, curly hair; and Stefan, so funny and gentle, with his bright-blue eyes... the son of a housemaid and Aulus Terentius Varro’s life-long body servant. As a child, Theodosia had been unable to say his true name, Stefanus, so she dubbed him “Stefan” and it stuck.
She could hardly wait to see her childhood pals again.
Why haven’t any of them come in for a visit tonight?
Lucilla joined her on the balcony and took a deep breath of the briny air. Born in Rome of German slave parents, she had never seen the sea before this evening.
“Well, what do you think?” Theodosia asked with a smile.
Lucilla turned her broad, blonde face to her mistress and shook her head in wonder, jingling her glass-bead earrings. Her long, looped yellow braids glistened in the lamplight. She stood a full hand’s length taller than Theodosia.
“Oh, miss, I didn’t know places like this even existed!”
“Well, they do, and this is not the finest. Just the best.”
Theodosia stepped back into the room, dropped into a chair with a fat cushion, and stuck her feet out for the slave to remove her sandals.
“Try to be happy here,” she said to the kneeling Lucilla. “I don’t intend to live in Rome ever again. This house is what matters most to me. So... start making friends, because we’re going to be here forever.”
“I talked with a few of the houseboys at dinner. They’re all so good-looking!” Lucilla rose and took the silver pins from her mist
ress’ hair, then smoothed it with a tortoise-shell comb. “And there’s a stable hand who’s an absolute giant.”
“Well, I’ll not stand in your way this time. That’s a promise.”
Theodosia closed her eyes, surrendered to Lucilla’s big-boned fingers on her neck and shoulders, and let herself be lulled nearly to sleep.
Suddenly—as unwelcome as a nightmare—the face of the man in the library came into her mind, shattering her peace for the second time that night. She jerked her head up as if for another confrontation.
“Did I hurt you, miss?”
Theodosia shook her head and pulled her maid into a crouch.
“Tell me something. During your dinner tonight, did you hear the man Alexander mentioned?”
Lucilla’s brow furrowed.
“Alexander? Oh, yes. His name came up a lot. Someone said he had gone somewhere, to see somebody. A couple of men wanted his permission to do something. I’m sorry! I can’t remember any details.”
“How did they sound when they talked about him? Like they resented him?”
“It was more like they felt sorry for him.”
“Why? What did they say?”
A wary look appeared in Lucilla’s eyes.
“Do I have to report everything I hear in the kitchen?”
“Of course not. I don’t need spies in my own house. But there may be some danger. After what happened to Gaius…”
After what happened to Gaius in Rome, only the gods know what might happen to me... all alone out here.
“Tell me what you heard, Lucilla.”
“Just some men complaining about how you was planning to live here full time and take charge. Someone said it ain’t natural to be owned just by a woman. It seemed to slip out before they realized I was there. Then they shut up. But first, a bunch of them was saying that maybe things wasn’t so bad before, that at least the master left this Alexander in charge. And that he was one of them. You know... a slave and a man.”