Rubies of the Viper

by Martha Marks

  “He’s just a boy!” she protested again.

  Stefan seemed to be enjoying this turn in the conversation.

  “The Titus I saw tonight—sparring with a military tribune for your attention—didn’t act much like a boy.”

  “He’s just a friend.”

  “I thought you were in such dire need of friends,” Alexander said, “that you came to us in desperation.”

  “Hey, I’m not that desperate.” Her eyes twinkled, and she took a few more sips. “You needn’t worry about my marrying Titus. Unlike my brother, I do prefer grown men to pretty boys.”

  “What about Marcus Salvius Otho?” Alexander asked, repeating the name that set his teeth on edge. “Should we be worrying about him?”

  Theodosia Varro’s expression slowly changed to an enigmatic smile.

  <><><>

  It was Stefan who broke the long silence that followed.

  “How come folks at the party spent so much time talking about Alexander?”

  Theodosia Varro looked incredulous.

  “How do you know about that? You weren’t in the dining room.”

  “Hang around a kitchen sometime, miss. You’ll see how fast the comments of the master’s guests wind up as gossip for his slaves.”

  “The waiters tell...?” Her voice trailed off in dismay.

  “Want proof?” asked Stefan with an impish gleam as his eyes moved back and forth between the other two. “The wife of Sulla thinks you’re in danger, all alone out here with no one to protect you from us. She thinks it’s a scandal that you consider Lucilla a friend. And General Vespasian wishes he had a steward just like Alexander.”

  Stefan downed the rest of his wine as Alexander leaned forward.

  “Why was I the topic of conversation?”

  Theodosia Varro let out a noisy breath and glared at Stefan, whose impish gleam was fading fast.

  “I wasn’t going to mention that,” she said.

  “But since he did... I’m curious. Why would a group of patricians spend ‘so much time’ talking about me over dinner?”

  “Lucius Sergius Silus asked how things were going here.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you’d need very much time to answer that.”

  “I didn’t, but Otho picked up the subject.”

  Otho would!

  “What did he say?”

  The mistress pointed her finger at Stefan.

  “You got us into this. You can tell him what you heard.”

  Looking chagrined, Stefan rapped a thumb against his cup and made no response.

  “Go on,” she insisted.

  “Well,” Stefan said with obvious reluctance, “it seems the tribune gave our lady some advice on how to deal with you.”

  “And that advice was...?”

  “Something about putting a bit in your mouth and yanking the reins.”

  Damn Otho!

  “Anything else of interest?”

  “He told her how you got that scar on your jaw.”

  “Which, of course,” Theodosia Varro rubbed a thumb over the circle of prongs that surrounded the seal on her finger, “immediately explained the scars on almost every other face around here.”

  Grateful for her reminder that he hadn’t been singled out for special punishment, Alexander bowed his head.

  “I told you... your brother’s favorite form of correction was a series of sharp slaps in the face.”

  “He didn’t bother to remove his ring first?”

  “It wouldn’t have occurred to him.”

  There was another heavy silence. Alexander stood and walked to a window, where he watched the rain hit the panes.

  Anger does a slave no good. It beats away at you till it wears you out. I won’t give Otho the satisfaction of destroying me with anger that I have no chance of turning back on him.

  After a long interval, he returned to his chair and sat down again. Theodosia Varro handed him his cup, filled once more with Falernian. He took a drink.

  A moment later, Stefan laid his hand on Alexander’s shoulder.

  “Want to know something else I learned tonight?”

  “Probably not.”

  Stefan leaned close to Alexander’s ear, but he made no effort to lower his voice.

  “Remember that music we heard a few nights ago? Well, it wasn’t just the wind in the trees. And it seems our mistress don’t mind shocking the patricians.”

  “You played for them?” Alexander asked, unsure if that was what Stefan meant.

  “And sang,” the mistress replied. “It would have been so much better if I hadn’t. Certainly didn’t do my reputation any good.”

  “‘Riffraff’ was the word I heard,” said Stefan.

  “Riffraff?” Alexander was astonished. “Theodosia Varro?”

  “According to the wife of Cornelius Sulla.”

  Alexander whistled.

  “You really didn’t get along, did you?” He was relieved to talk about something other than his own humiliation. “Well, just wait till you’re married to some prince or other. Then you—not the lady Annia—will be the one deciding who’s riffraff and who’s not.”

  “You think some prince or other will want me after word gets out?”

  “Positive. I can think of at least one who might consider that your talent makes you a perfect match for him.”

  Thanks to every blessed god that Nero’s already married!

  Alexander glanced at the window. The most flamboyant part of the storm seemed to be subsiding. He turned to Theodosia Varro.

  “May I be so bold as to ask a favor, miss?”

  “If we’re friends... of course.”

  “Will you grant your friends a special performance?”

  “If you’d like one.” She sounded almost timid.

  Alexander brought her cithara from the other side of the room.

  Self-consciously at first, Theodosia Varro began to play. For an hour, she sang her favorites and impromptu interpretations while Stefan held the lamp close and Alexander selected poems from the scrolls in the rack.

  It was then, as the dying storm beat itself out against the villa walls and the lamplight flickered seductively around the curves of Theodosia Varro’s face and figure... It was then that Alexander first caught himself thinking the unthinkable, imagining the impossible. Not for a long time had anything or anyone stirred him so deeply. Not since he last held Antibe in his arms had he felt the way he felt right now.

  Theodosia Varro had walked into his life this last week of May and opened up to him in a way that he never would have anticipated. Unexpectedly, he now wanted to give something of himself to her. He knew what it had to be. He had nothing else to give.

  Without a word, he slipped out... leaving her singing to Stefan.

  It surprised him to find Lucilla on the other side of the blue curtain. He grabbed her wrists and marched her across the atrium.

  “What were you doing over there?” he whispered.

  “You ain’t my master,” Lucilla whispered back, trying to shake his grip. “I don’t answer to you.”

  “You’ll answer to our mistress when she finds out you were eavesdropping.”

  “Go ahead and tell her. I’d expect you to.”

  “You were looking for Stefan, weren’t you?”

  “None of your business.”

  “He’s occupied at the moment.”

  Lucilla broke free of his grasp and ran toward the stairs leading to Theodosia’s bedroom suite. Alexander started to follow her, then stopped.

  Why let her ruin this special night?

  He headed instead for his own room at the far end of the peristyle.

  For a while, he sat on his bed, head in his hands, trying to see Antibe in his mind, but the only face that came belonged to Theodosia Varro. At last, he lifted the lamp off the chest and pulled the stack of papyrus sheets from their hiding place.

  Giving his poems to Theodosia would shred what little remained of his privacy. But right now—mor
e than anything else in the world—he wanted to hear them sung in her voice.

  PART II

  A.D. 53, June to December

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alexander stepped out at first light and surveyed the storm damage with dismay. The kitchen lay smashed beneath the old oak, and the underground barracks were flooded. Large chunks of the barn roof had collapsed. Fortunately, the wind had caused no harm to the villa itself.

  Grateful for clear skies, he lined up every hand along three ropes and joined in the palm-blistering pull that hoisted the tree out of the rubble. Then he divided the slaves into teams to begin the cleanup and repairs.

  He was at the bottom of the pit that had been their sleeping quarters, fishing benches, branches, and beams out of the muck, when he spotted Theodosia Varro above him, picking her way around the puddles at ground level.

  He knew that she had slept as little as the rest of them, but no one else would guess it. Her hair and skin glowed this morning, and he noted—as if for the first time—the slimness of her body, the swelling curves of her breasts, and the lovely lines of her arms and hips.

  She passed by without seeing him, peered into the other end of the destroyed building, and nodded to the slaves at work there.

  Waist deep in water, Etrusca grabbed Nicanor’s arm. Then they climbed out of the pit and bowed to their mistress. For a while, the two stood before her, engaged in a conversation that Alexander couldn’t hear.

  The contrast between the radiant young Roman and the slaves she had rescued from the farm was poignant, and—to his surprise—Alexander was glad she had done it. Despite their lash wounds, the rope burns on their wrists, and their overall bad condition, Nicanor and Etrusca had been among the first into the pit this morning, lugging out the smashed timbers without being told, as if eager to justify their salvation and atone for the trouble they had caused last night.

  Though no taller than Theodosia, Nicanor was broad-shouldered and accustomed to hard work. Alexander could find plenty for him to do. Etrusca was scrawny but surprisingly pretty when seen up close. Once their welts and bruises healed and they gained some weight, they would be indistinguishable from others at the villa... except for those bands of toughened skin around their necks, which would mark them forever.

  When their conversation ended, Alexander crawled out of the rubble, uncomfortably aware of the mud on his hands, arms, legs, feet, and tunic.

  Theodosia smiled as he approached.

  “Good morning, Alexander. Get any sleep after I left?”

  Alexander shook his head.

  “Stefan did, though. He curled up in his blanket and fell asleep on the library floor, like a baby.”

  Theodosia’s smile widened.

  “It was nice, you know.”

  “Yes, miss. It was very nice.”

  They stood beside the pit, watching men pass buckets of water to the top. After a while, Theodosia looked at Alexander.

  “I’d like to do all this differently when we rebuild. An above-ground dormitory, with light, air, and a mattress for everyone. Will you see to it?”

  What an improvement. She’s asking, not ordering.

  “It’ll cost you a bit.”

  Theodosia threw him a teasing, sidelong glance.

  “I can’t afford it?”

  “If you can’t, we’ve got bigger trouble than just some storm damage. By the way, I’m hoping everybody can sleep in the barn tonight, so your life can get back to normal.”

  “Whatever ‘normal’ is these days.”

  “Well, ‘normal’ doesn’t usually include singing to your slaves for several hours.”

  Theodosia reddened, and Alexander chuckled to himself. Her quick blushes had annoyed him before, but now he enjoyed seeing her flush.

  Together they strolled to the barn. Half a dozen men were on the roof. After an hour in the humid heat, all had stripped to their loincloths.

  Theodosia stopped, squinted up, and raised one hand against the sun. Some of the men acknowledged her presence with waves and smiles.

  That wouldn’t have happened before last night.

  Alexander was about to comment on the change when he caught a rapt expression on Theodosia’s face. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide and tracking some movement on the roof. He followed her gaze.

  Straddling the peak of the roof, with his back to them, stood Stefan, obviously unaware of the scrutiny from below. The sweaty muscles of his arms and shoulders and thighs bulged as he hoisted a log to the ridgepole. Alexander looked again at Theodosia, who appeared oblivious to anything but the big man on the roof.

  It seemed forever before she lowered her eyes.

  “What are you staring at?” she demanded.

  “At you, staring at Stefan.”

  Once more, the blood rushed to her face.

  “You shouldn’t embarrass me, Alexander.”

  “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You have every right to inspect your slaves at work.”

  “Well, it’s not as if he’s totally naked!”

  “Naked or not, that’s up to you.”

  She turned her back to him.

  “You really are trying to embarrass me, aren’t you?”

  “That flush becomes you, miss. Don’t hide it.”

  “I don’t have to take this from you, you know.”

  “I know,” he said, amused. “But there’s no reason to be embarrassed. There aren’t many men around, anywhere, like Stefan.”

  Theodosia turned on him then with the glee of a triumphant fox. Her eyes drifted suggestively down his mud-soaked tunic.

  “No, there certainly aren’t.”

  Now it was Alexander’s turn to blush.

  When his eyes met hers, she grinned. He returned her grin, glad that last night’s freedom and friendship had not vanished with the daylight.

  <><><>

  The joint visit by Otho and Titus was unexpected. Theodosia and her steward had just stepped into the barn when two horses splashed up the driveway. The slave that Alexander had sent at dawn to Caere had already returned with Vespasian’s physician. Apparently, word of the calamity at the Villa Varroniana had spread to the general’s family and overnight guest.

  “I wasn’t about to let Otho come alone,” Titus said as he jumped to the ground. “A man has to look out for his interests, you know.”

  “A man does.” Otho tossed his reins to Alexander. “And a boy usually stays out of his way.”

  “No boys around here that I know of,” Titus retorted.

  Theodosia let the two share her smile.

  “Nor I.” She looked at Alexander. “See that the horses get water. I’ll show these gentlemen what fun we had around here last night.”

  Sunny with pleasure, Theodosia took Titus’ arm... and also Otho’s. Alexander watched as they turned to inspect the work on the roof, wondering how the visitors would have reacted had they arrived in time to catch the enraptured expression in those beautiful, gold-flecked eyes.

  <><><>

  There were few days that summer when Theodosia had no guests. As Alexander had predicted, an array of blue-blooded suitors soon began streaming out from Rome in hopes of winning her fancy and her fortune. Some were invited back a second time, but none of those—no matter how rich or noble or handsome—secured an invitation for the coveted third visit.

  Once a week, Vespasian rode over alone from Caere. There was no flirtation to it, just the easy friendship of a man and a woman young enough to be his daughter.

  Flavia dropped by every day for lunch in the pergola, which she repeatedly proclaimed her favorite place in the world. If Theodosia hadn’t sensed so much affection in her, she might have wondered if Flavia came to visit her or that lovely perch by the sea. Indeed, if anyone appreciated her villa as much as Theodosia, it was Flavia.

  Titus was another frequent guest. He liked to escort Theodosia on her rides, and only when he was along did she go out without Stefan or Alexander. Titus was a fun companion. The four-year di
fference in their ages mattered less as the summer wore on. Vespasian was right, she decided after a few weeks. There were great things in store for Titus.

  Otho’s overnight stays increased in number and duration through June and July, as if he expected to win Theodosia by sheer persistence. If he arrived while she was riding with Titus, he would demand a fresh horse and gallop into the hills in pursuit of his rival. Theodosia continued to find herself drawn to his sardonic-affectionate charm.

  Otho and Titus were different types of men, and the times she spent with them reflected their differences. There was no trace of tension around the villa when Titus was there. Her servants seemed at ease in his presence. Honest and open with Theodosia from the start, he confided his dreams and fears as if laying the groundwork for a long-term relationship. Theodosia felt happy and relaxed in his company.

  But if Titus was a comfortable friend, Otho was her most exciting suitor, though his visits never failed to stir up her household. In mid June, he announced his intention to run for the office of quaestor, a direct route to the Senate open to him only because his father was already a senator. Now their time together was filled with talk of the powerful men who were his allies, and of the emperor’s adopted son and heir, Nero, who—since Gaius died—was Otho’s new best friend.

  Otho was unashamedly ruthless in getting what he wanted. He bragged about it. His name and wealth and connections all but guaranteed he would win election and, with it, a seat in the Senate. From there, he planned to rise to the highest office the empire could bestow.

  “I’ll be emperor some day,” he said one morning, his wicked green eyes flashing an invitation for Theodosia to join him on the throne.

  And she believed him.

  By late June, Theodosia knew how sweet kisses could be... and how different, depending on the man who shared them.

  <><><>

  But Otho and Titus were not the only men in her life that summer. Alexander and Stefan weren’t suitors as the Romans were, but they became her friends just as surely.