by Martha Marks
Marcipor. Marcus’ boy. I should have known he once belonged to Otho.
“You were born in his father’s household?”
“Yes. The Senator gave me to him when we were children.”
“How did my brother happen to buy you?”
Marcipor threw a sidelong glance at Lucilla. Her face turned red, which was odd, because she didn’t usually suffer from the quick blushes that plagued Theodosia.
“He didn’t buy me, mistress,” Marcipor said in a hushed tone. “My former master made a gift of me.”
“A gift? Why?”
“I don’t know. My lord Otho simply said I was now his friend’s property. He gave my lord Gaius other gifts, too, not just me.”
Theodosia turned to Lucilla.
“Go draw my bath. Hot water, and lots of it.”
Lucilla reacted with a curious look, but she left obediently. Marcipor watched her until she disappeared into the house.
“You strike me as a bright fellow, Marcipor,” Theodosia said when her maid was out of earshot. “I have a few more questions for you, but you’re to tell no one about them. Understand?”
Marcipor’s eyes met Theodosia’s for the first time, and he nodded.
“What did you think about all this gift-giving?”
“Not much, mistress, since I didn’t have a say. The only thing…”
“Was what?”
“Just the way my new master gloated about getting me from my old master. It didn’t seem the right way to act after someone gave you a gift.”
“That’s odd. Did you ever—any time you were in Rome—hear anyone refer to my brother as ‘the viper’?”
Marcipor shook his head.
“Those silver serving pieces—the ones set with rubies... Were they here when you first came to the villa?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Did you ever see them in Rome?”
“No.”
“Does the design have any meaning for you?”
“No, mistress.”
Another dead end... unless someone’s lying to me.
<><><>
The vaulted, gaily frescoed bath sat on the ground floor, but it was accessible only by an interior stairway leading down from the second floor. Once the door was shut, it was private.
Aulus Terentius Varro had had this room built twelve years ago. Theodosia remembered her awe when her father first showed her the two marble pools... one for cold water, the other for hot water piped in from an underground chamber, where the houseboys kept a fire stoked year round. From the start, this room had been reserved for the Terentius Varros and their guests, hence the limited access. Their servants still used the original bathhouse at the edge of the woods.
Aching from two days of unaccustomed exercise, Theodosia tossed aside her sweaty clothing, sprawled naked on the massage table, and allowed Lucilla to work on the sore spots with her fists and a vial of perfumed oil. Half an hour later, tired of the pounding and rubbing, she slipped into the hot water that now filled the pool, grateful for its sting.
“Have you talked much with Marcipor?”
“Some.” Lucilla waded in to scrape the oil off Theodosia’s skin. Later, she would rinse and comb her hair. “He really hated to leave Tribune Otho. Says the tribune’s a fine man and a good master. Marcipor told me about your brother, too. Said his moods was awful. He’d change like—” She snapped her fingers. “Marcipor said that whenever he was angry he’d hit them. He’d hold his hand right in front of their faces when he asked a question, and if he didn’t like the answer—or if it didn’t come fast enough—he’d smack them on the cheeks, over and over.”
“Slapping in the face was the master’s favorite form of correction.” Alexander’s words. And what was it Stefan said? “It was always dangerous to talk to my lord Gaius.”
She remembered the old scars and newer, healing cuts she’d seen on almost every face around the villa... except Marcipor’s.
Wonder if there’s something to be read into that?
“He did that to everyone? Even Alexander?”
“Alexander most of all, according to Marcipor. Said he loved to humiliate Alexander in front of his rich friends.”
“Alexander must have hated him a lot.”
“Sure did. He was glad your brother spent so much time in Rome. Bet that’s why he was upset when he heard you was coming here to live full time. He figured you’d be just like your brother.”
<><><>
Alexander returned from the big seaport at Ostia in midafternoon. Theodosia was sitting in a sunny corner of the pergola, sipping wine and letting her hair dry in the wind, when he appeared.
“Successful trip?”
“I have the word of the captain of the fleet that the letter will go on the next ship that sails for Greece. Thank you, miss, for that.” He made a little bow to her. “I ran my other errand, too. Ended up dragging half of Rome back with me.”
“You did what?”
Just as she asked the question, she heard wagons in the driveway.
“The fabric merchant, miss. Once he knew it was you I was shopping for, he wouldn’t just sell me a roll of silk. He insisted on showing you his other wares. And I paid a visit to the goldsmith who did work for your brother. He’s here, too, so you can have that ring sized to fit your finger.”
“The man came all this way to adjust a single ring? Hmmm. Couldn’t wait to start getting his hands on my money. Well... I’ll indulge Sordus. My old clothes are a disgrace. Unfortunately for the goldsmith, I have enough jewels to last a lifetime.”
<><><>
The merchants followed Alexander into the pergola, accompanied by a dozen sturdy slaves bearing wooden chests on their shoulders. Lucilla arrived with a silver-backed hand mirror, followed by Lycos, who stood wide-eyed... as if watching a troop of mimes in the Forum.
Theodosia felt like Cleopatra on her throne, surrounded by a flock of obsequious minions.
Reuben ben Judah, the goldsmith, was a somber, middle-aged Jew with the squinty-eyed look of a man who had spent too much time at his craft. Pride in himself, his heritage, and his workmanship showed in every line on his face as his slaves knelt at Theodosia’s feet with an extensive sample of their master’s wares.
Ben Judah was disappointed in failing to tempt her and reluctantly confessed that all he needed was a forge and a correctly sized ring to do the job he had been asked to do. Lucilla fetched the signet ring and a plain silver band that Theodosia had worn for years; then she took ben Judah to the barn with instructions for Stefan to prepare the forge.
Theodosia was delighted by the rainbow of silk, cotton, linen, and woolen goods that Sordus—the legendary cloth merchant to the elite of Rome—had brought for her inspection. At one point, she felt a flutter of conscience, but she managed to brush it off.
No way this compares with what Gaius spent. I could dress well for a year for the price of just one pretty boy in Rome.
When she had selected all the fabrics she wanted, Alexander took Sordus into the library to negotiate the price. Lucilla and Lycos left, too. Reuben ben Judah returned to the pergola just as Sordus’ slaves were hauling away the last of their burdens.
Theodosia slipped the heavy ring onto her finger. It was a perfect fit.
“It’s beautifully done.” She smiled at the goldsmith. “When I’m ready to have some jewels made up, I’ll send for you.”
“Thank you, lady.” Ben Judah’s intense eyes looked straight at hers. “I hope you also like that last commissioned piece I made for your brother.”
“Which piece was that?”
“A very different kind of gold ring, with a special design I created just for him. A serpent with an enormous ruby in its mouth. Your brother picked it up late in the day... only a few hours before he was killed. He was wearing it when he left my shop.”
The goldsmith shook his head to show his sympathy.
“I’ll be glad to size that one for you, too, whenever you can bring yourse
lf to wear it.”
“Thank you,” Theodosia said, revealing none of the questions in her head. “I’ll call on you when I’m ready.”
<><><>
Theodosia lingered in the pergola, admiring the family ring that now actually felt like it belonged to her. She had just finished a cup of red wine when she heard footsteps. Alexander was back.
“Is there more wine in the pitcher?”
Alexander refilled her cup and wiped its edge with a white linen cloth. It was the same attention to detail that she had seen in all the servants at her villa.
“Thank you,” she said as he returned the cup to her. “Watching you at work makes me glad you’re the one who trained the rest of my staff.”
She took a sip.
“I’m glad you appreciate what I do,” Alexander said. “May I ask, then, why it is you still don’t trust me?”
Theodosia choked; the wine spattered the front of her stola. Alexander lifted the goblet from her hand and offered his service cloth. Tears blinded her as the blood rushed to her cheeks. She accepted the cloth and buried her face in it. It was a while before she could speak.
“Stefan had no business—” she sputtered, “telling you about— our conversation.”
“Nevertheless, he did.”
“Leave me. Go to the house.”
“You can’t banish your fears so simply, miss.” Alexander made no move to obey. “Might as well confront them right now.”
“Very well.” Theodosia wiped her eyes, certain that her face was still as red as the wine stain on her stola. “Did you have anything to do with my brother’s murder?”
“No, miss, I did not.”
“Of course, you wouldn’t admit it if you did.”
“Probably not, so does it do you any good to ask me?”
“Probably not. That story about the viper... Rather farfetched, don’t you think?”
“Too farfetched to invent, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. What Lycos told me…”
“I put no words in his mouth. What he told you was the same thing he told me that afternoon in Rome.”
“Can you produce the note you claim you got from Gaius?”
“I destroyed it. On purpose.”
Theodosia cocked her head and cast him a lingering glance.
“Reuben ben Judah made an unusual ruby ring and delivered it to Gaius the very day he died. What do you know about that?”
The genuine surprise on Alexander’s face answered her question.
Carefully, she sipped the wine again.
It may be risky, but I’ve got to trust him.
“You will take me to the farm tomorrow. If I survive the trip, I’ll know I can trust you.”
“Oh, you’ll survive the trip, miss. Just don’t hold me responsible for your encounter with Nizzo.”
<><><>
The trip took longer than Theodosia had expected.
They left the Via Aurelia a few miles north of the villa and headed east toward the western spur of the Apennines. Unlike Stefan, Alexander rode alongside Theodosia for most of the first hour and even took the lead once they entered the forest. Determined to prove she trusted him, Theodosia followed him into a thicket she would have called impenetrable. Alexander stopped at intervals to lift branches so she could pass through unscratched.
It had rained the night before, and an intoxicating scent rose from the lichens and last year’s fallen leaves. Shafts of sunlight swept the ground. New leaves whispered overhead as birds trilled provocatively to their mates. Smelly, raucous Rome seemed very far away.
Neither Theodosia nor Alexander spoke much until they moved out of the forest, and passage became easier. Soon the sun was directly overhead. Accustomed to the shelter of the woodlands, Theodosia began to feel its heat in a short time.
“The farm’s just ahead,” Alexander said a while later. “This would be a good opportunity for you to eat.”
He led her to a grove of sycamores atop a hill, where he dismounted, helped her down, and pointed toward a gray line in the distance.
“There it is... the outer limits of Nizzo’s empire. No farm slave is allowed near that stone wall.”
“I can see groups of men farther on, I think.”
“Women, too. Chained together at the neck. Those iron rings bear the name Varro. They wear them all their lives.”
Alexander pulled a blanket from his pack, spread it in the shade, and returned for the provisions Milo had packed. Theodosia settled onto the blanket as he placed bread, cheese, olives, and a small cup before her.
“You need to eat, too,” she said, deciding to give friendship another try. “Care to join me for lunch?”
A flicker of amusement crossed Alexander’s eyes.
“This is not a social outing, miss, nor am I your invited guest. We must both remember that.”
So, he stood as she ate, keeping her cup filled from a wineskin. When she was done, she dusted the breadcrumbs from her lap.
“Eat something before we go on. I’ll stroll around a bit.”
She wandered under the sycamores, peeking over occasionally as Alexander finished the leftovers before leading the horses to her.
“Sure you want to go through with this?” he asked.
Theodosia nodded but said nothing.
“Well,” he went on, “I can’t stop you. I do have a request, though, if I’m not being too bold.”
“A bold man would have joined me for lunch.”
Alexander chuckled, but his eyes remained serious.
“Please don’t order any major changes today.”
“Don’t do anything foolish, you mean.”
One corner of Alexander’s mouth angled up.
“Just realize that what you do could impact your income. And as someone who wishes you well—whether you trust me or not—I must repeat my warning. Nizzo won’t be bullied, and he can be dangerous.”
“You always make me think you know more than you’re saying.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Don’t be so cryptic! And don’t give me any more argument either.”
She turned to the filly and waited for Alexander to help her mount. The pleasant part of the day was over, and she knew it.
Chapter Nine
The noon sun boiled the air, sending waves of visible heat rolling across the fields. Mounted, whip-armed overseers rode back and forth, forcing a steady work pace. Angry shouts and agonized cries rose simultaneously and died in the stifling air. Spring planting was underway.
As far as Theodosia could see, ragged, dirt-encrusted figures bent low, dropping seeds into long, muddy furrows. Men with bulging ribs and raw sores and women with leathery faces gazed at her as she passed, showing more curiosity than resentment.
Do they have any idea who I am?
Those iron rings were everywhere. After years of wearing such a collar, a slave’s neck would have the texture of a tree trunk.
Four thousand slaves!
She began to sweat.
The farther they rode, the more her discomfort grew. The soft wool horse blanket she was sitting on seemed of goat hair, so badly did it chafe her legs. Her nostrils clogged with dust. Hair stuck to her neck, plastered with sweat. Rivulets ran between her breasts. Her heart pounded. Her vision blurred. Her lunch rose to her mouth. A thousand bees came out of nowhere to swarm inside her head.
Alexander was leading the way across the fields. Theodosia tried to get his attention but found she had no voice. She was swaying to the left, desperately trying to hold on, when he turned to say something. In an instant, he whirled about and grabbed the filly’s reins.
“Dismount before you fall off,” he ordered, leaping to the ground as he spoke and holding up his hands to her.
Theodosia obeyed and pressed her forehead to his chest as the world dissolved around her in a roaring hum of bees.
Gradually, the vertigo passed. Theodosia came to consciousness on the ground between two crop rows, propped against A
lexander, aware of his arms supporting her.
“Drink some wine?” His voice sounded far away.
Theodosia nodded.
Keeping one arm around her shoulders, Alexander yanked the wineskin from its strap on his horse and pressed it to her lips.
They stayed there—waving away the overseers who offered assistance—until finally Theodosia looked up at Alexander. He helped her stand, boosted her onto the filly, and from then on rode at her side, watching her closely. But she felt no further nausea.
“You were right,” she said at last. “I wasn’t prepared for this. How can you remain impassive at the sight of so much wretchedness?”
“I’ve been here many times, remember? I will admit though... whenever I catch myself cursing the gods for my lot in life, I have only to think of this place. It does wonders for one’s perspective.”
<><><>
Whatever image Theodosia had of her father’s freedman, Aulus Terentius Nizzo lived up to it and more. Nearing fifty, he was a humorless man, as gaunt and baked and dirty as the slaves he ruled. Around his neck—still visible after two decades of freedom—was a ring of toughened skin.
Nizzo’s response to Theodosia’s visit was not warm, but he greeted her respectfully and led her into the compound at the heart of the vast farm complex. Alexander followed a few paces behind with the horses.
The first gangs in from the fields were gathering for their only meal of the workday. They would, Nizzo assured her, be fed again in the evening. There was no conversation, no acknowledgement of friends. The air reeked of unwashed bodies, including Nizzo’s. Despite her sweat-soaked tunic and gritty hair, Theodosia felt so out of place, so clean.
She glanced at a bowl that a slave had just received. Inside was a mound of brown pottage and some brown beans. The man immediately began devouring the stuff, using a chunk of brown bread as a scoop.