by Martha Marks
Yesterday’s pre-dawn encounter with Theodosia in the library seemed a decade ago; the strange conference in his cubicle the night before that was like a memory from another lifetime. She had kissed his cheek then; now she might be dead.
I’d give my life to back up and do these last two days over.
Yesterday morning’s fog had not returned. The moon, Theodosia’s favorite point of divine reference, still hung low in the sky.
Maybe Juno’s keeping watch over her.
But Alexander had little faith in such things. His own life had proved that the gods were indifferent—if not openly hostile—to human suffering.
Stefan joined him a while later.
“I know what you’re thinking. This is all my fault. And you’re right, of course.” It was the first time they had spoken since Theodosia’s departure. Even in the early light, Alexander could see the blistered stripes on his neck. “What happens if we don’t find her alive?”
Alexander chuckled without humor.
“I’m sure I’ll enjoy slaving for the emperor. You’ll be a big hit in the arena. I’ll make it a point to go and watch.” He paused. “Why did you go back to Lucilla? Couldn’t you have honored Theodosia’s need for time?”
“Our situation wasn’t gonna change. She was playing with me. Nothing more could come of our relationship and... I needed a woman.”
“Lots of men need a woman. I haven’t had one in nine years, but I don’t use that as an excuse to mess around with the mistress’ maid.”
“Well, that’s your choice. Who says you gotta be loyal to a wife you ain’t never gonna see again?”
Alexander resisted the urge to punch him.
“I guess that’s not something you’ll ever understand.”
<><><>
Vespasian, Titus, and their Egyptian physician, Timon, arrived on horseback an hour later, with a cartload of slaves rumbling up the driveway behind them. There would now be over a hundred searchers.
Alexander marveled at the efficiency with which the veteran general organized the search. Vespasian, Titus, and Alexander—each with a military horn to summon help—would lead the way on horseback in different directions, with three teams of men accompanying them on foot.
Before they set out, Vespasian turned his horse and faced the crowd of slaves.
“Twenty gold pieces to the man who finds her!” It was a generous offer... more than enough for the average slave to buy his freedom.
For half an hour, Alexander led his men into the forest to the east before coming to a stop in a sunny clearing beside a quick-flowing stream. They had picnicked here once—he and Stefan and Theodosia Varro—in the easy, growing camaraderie of last summer.
In his mind, he saw Theodosia smiling in this same patch of sunlight, the shine of her hair matching the flashes of water as it bubbled over the pastel rocks. He recalled the warmth of that day, the pink and yellow wildflowers, the lilt of her laughter. Now the trees were bare, their leaves brown and crisp on the ground... already smelling of rot.
Alexander pursed his lips. Theodosia knew her land well enough to find her way home. Whatever her problems, she’d never flee the place she loved most. That certainty only deepened his anxiety.
She’s hurt, or she’d have come home by now.
He directed the men in his team to fan out into the woods. Nudging his horse around a log that jutted out of the water, he followed the stream to where the Tolfa Mountains began their rolling rise. The crisscross of animal tracks on the muddy banks made him shiver. He could only hope that Theodosia had survived the cold night and the wolves.
<><><>
Some time later, Alexander heard a faint shout behind him, deep in the forest to the northeast.
He wheeled his horse around and plunged into the thicket, following the cries that grew louder as he approached a high bluff overlooking the Mignone River. Rocks crumbled as the horse moved along the precipice. Alexander backed the animal away, then dismounted and peered into the riverbed. At the bottom—amid a pile of loose boulders and smaller rocks—Nicanor stood waving his arms. Beside him lay the crumpled filly. A bit of saffron-colored cotton fluttered in the breeze.
Nicanor had found her.
Alexander tied his horse to a tree. Gripping roots that jutted into the slope, he climbed down the bluff. Rocks gave way at every step, tumbling to the ground below. He saw where others had given way before, plunging the filly and her rider into the riverbed. It had been a long fall. From the position of Lamia’s body, it was plain her neck was broken.
“Good job, man.” Alexander gave Nicanor a clap on the shoulder. “You’ve earned that reward.”
He dropped to his knees, with the stench of dead horse in his nostrils.
Theodosia lay face down in the mud and rocks, pinned from the middle of her back to her ankles by the weight of the filly. Her neck had twisted sharply to the right. Her right hand was draped over a jagged rock near her head; a track in the mud showed she had pulled it away from her cheek. The other arm disappeared beneath her chest. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes shut. Alexander placed his hand to her face for a moment and sighed his relief. She was still breathing.
“We lift the horse?” Nicanor asked.
Alexander shook his head. There was no way the two of them could move the animal without dragging it across Theodosia’s body, which would worsen whatever injuries she had already suffered.
Better let one of the Romans give that order.
“Climb up to my horse and blow on that horn with all your might. Don’t stop till Vespasian or his son gets here.”
Soon the horn was blaring through the woods.
Alexander eased his fingers under Theodosia’s head and cleared away the smaller rocks from her bruised face and neck. Then he tore a strip from his tunic and wiped the caked mud from her eyes, mouth, and nose, watching for some sign of movement. There was none, but still… she was faintly breathing.
He moved the rock she held and wrapped his hand around hers.
“Come back, Theodosia,” he said, stroking her matted hair. Never before had he called her by her name. Now he repeated it over and over.
It seemed forever before Nicanor let up on the horn.
Alexander raised his eyes when the sound stopped. Vespasian, Titus, and Timon were just reaching the spot where Nicanor waited; they made their way down the embankment together. Stefan and a dozen other slaves were already in the riverbed, heading Alexander’s way.
He released Theodosia’s hand and rose to his feet.
“We were afraid to move the horse, sir,” he said as Vespasian ran up. “Our mistress is still alive.”
“Praise the gods! Timon, see what you think.”
The physician knelt beside Theodosia, raised her right eyelid, checked her breath, and felt the bones of her neck. Then he ran his arm as far as he could reach underneath the horse’s belly. His hand, when he brought it out, was streaked with blood.
“One leg broken below knee, master.” Timon’s Latin was poor and so heavily accented that even Alexander—who knew his own accent branded him a foreigner—found it annoying. “I not know all hurts. Lady lying in blood and too cold. Horse keep her warm some, but not enough.”
“Get six of the strongest men over here,” Vespasian said to Alexander. “Your big friend and five others.”
Alexander shouted the names of those he wanted; soon they were grouped around the dead horse. He pointed to the stubby fellow bending over Lamia’s neck.
“Nicanor is the one who found her, sir.”
“He’ll get his reward, soon as we’re back in Caere.”
At Vespasian’s command, the slaves lifted the heavy corpse and dropped it a few paces away.
Alexander caught his breath at the sight of Theodosia’s body covered with mud and blood. There appeared to be a clean break on the right leg, but the other one was badly twisted. He heard gasps from several of the brawny men who had raised the horse. Stefan looked sick, as did Titus.
Timon
felt above and below the break on Theodosia’s lower right leg. Then he ran his hands down her left leg, stopping and shaking his head each time he detected a break. He stopped five times.
“Maybe she not walk again, master.”
“Can’t you do something?” Titus said. “What do we keep you for?”
“I do if I can, sir,” said Timon. “Right leg not bad hurt, but left leg and knee... Treatment not certain work.”
“We’ll discuss it later,” Vespasian said. “Right now, we’ve got to move her out of here.”
He turned to Stefan.
“Can you get her up the cliff?”
Stefan nodded and stepped toward Theodosia. In the next instant, Titus came forward and blocked his path.
“No! I’ll carry her.”
Titus eased Theodosia onto her back and with one finger gingerly touched her swollen, blackened left cheek. He was slipping his arms under her shoulders and hips when Vespasian stopped him with a few quiet words.
“My son, the slave is stronger. He’ll carry her more steadily.”
Titus kept his head bowed over Theodosia for a long moment. When at last he stood, he glowered at Stefan.
“See that you handle her gently!”
Stefan looked into the young Roman’s face and nodded again. Then he dropped to the ground, cradled Theodosia in his arms, and carried her up the embankment.
<><><>
The pain in her cheek was as keen as the pain in her legs. Slowly, Theodosia willed her hand out of the muck, dragged it across the rocks, and clutched at the sharp edge that most tormented her. Little by little, she worked the stone out of the mud and away from her face.
Gradually, the pain in her legs eased; she felt only throbbing cold.
Finally, she felt nothing at all.
<><><>
She didn’t know when she first heard the voice. Voices and faces and disconnected memories had been bobbing through her darkness for an eternity of pain. But this voice was different.
Came close.
Bent over her.
A presence attached to the voice touched her shoulder, then shouted and shouted until she thought her head would burst.
Abruptly, the shouting stopped.
A different presence knelt beside her.
Cleared the rocks from her cheek.
Brushed the mud from her nostrils.
Took her hand.
Caressed her hair.
Spoke her name.
Theodosia faded into blackness again, vaguely aware that she was safe.
<><><>
She awoke to movement, to pain. She heard herself cry as she clutched at the scratchy fabric pressed against her arm and cheek.
More voices above her head...
More presences...
More pain...
A hand touched her forehead, slipped to her throat, her wrist.
Clearer voices...
“Much pain when lady wakes, master.”
“Better get her to Caere fast.”
“I’ll take her on my horse, Father.”
“No, we’ll get the carriage at her villa.”
Theodosia strained to move the fingers of her right hand. One of the presences took them. She tried to open her eyes. The left refused, but the right did open and, desperate to focus, made out several heads hovering above her. The light stabbed her open eye, but—when the voices and the heads connected—she knew it was Titus holding her hand.
Not Caere.
She tried to make her lips work.
Not...
“She’s trying to say something, sir.”
“Get her to Caere before she comes to. Bring her along, fellow.”
Theodosia felt herself being lifted once again to the broad chest she now knew was Stefan’s. She heard horses, then Titus’ voice.
“It’s taking too long like this. Why don’t I carry her on from here?”
The hooves came close.
“Hand her up to me, fellow. I’ll get her to Caere.”
“Not Caere!”
Forcing her right eye to open fully and focus, she saw a set of welts on Stefan’s neck. She had a faint memory of striking him with a whip.
Juno, how long ago was that?
“What is it, miss?”
“Not Caere!” Although she felt she was shouting, she knew her words were barely audible, if at all. “Home!”
“Tell them yourself,” Stefan said under his breath. “Ain’t nothing I can do to stop it.”
“She’s saying something, sir.” The voice came from behind her head.
“Not Caere!” A spasm of pain raced through her chest. “Vespasian!”
“She’s calling you, sir.” It was Alexander’s voice behind her head.
A gnarled hand that felt like the general’s touched her arm.
“What is it, child?”
“Not Caere! Home!”
“Nonsense,” Titus said from atop his horse. “Father, someone responsible must supervise her care.”
“Home!”
“Child, that’s unthinkable.” Vespasian’s voice was kind, his words frustrating. “You can’t lie helpless and alone... at the mercy of slaves.”
If Theodosia could have laughed, she would have laughed.
I’ll be no more alone than before and not much more helpless.
She gathered her energy for one more desperate, gasping effort.
“I must go... home please let... your physician stay… my people will... care for me!”
Totally spent, she collapsed against Stefan’s chest.
“Theodosia, that’s impossible,” Titus said. “Hand her to me, fellow!”
“May I say something, sir?” It was Alexander again.
“What?”
“Just that... you are concerned for our mistress’ well-being, sir, but you must know that we are also concerned. Our own well-being depends on her survival.”
Through her exhaustion, Theodosia marveled at Alexander’s daring.
That’s his future master he’s confronting, and everyone knows it.
“My lord,” Alexander went on, “there’s not a slave in this lady’s household who would do the slightest harm to her. And it does seem that she might recover faster and better in her own bed, tended by the servants she’s used to.”
“You make the decision, my son.” It was Vespasian. “Just let me suggest… there is a certain logic to what he says.”
Titus sighed loudly, sounding very annoyed.
“Very well,” he said after an interval. “But we will hold you personally responsible, Alexander, if anything happens to her.”
Chapter Nineteen
Each step brought searing waves of pain as Stefan carried Theodosia through the forest to her villa. And when her body touched the bed, her own screams echoed through the dense gray stupor of her consciousness.
Clutching at Stefan’s tunic, she struggled to pull herself off the mattress. Someone restrained her as someone else held a bitter liquid to her lips and forced her to drink. Gradually, the pain faded as she escaped into blessed darkness once more.
Disembodied voices returned in the fiery air that threatened to consume her. Presences at her side and over her head and around her legs... singly and in pairs and in groups...
Forcing more foul liquid down her throat...
Doing things to her body that she couldn’t see, couldn’t resist, couldn’t even imagine...
Talking, sitting, standing, coming, going...
Leaving only the faintest impressions in her mind...
Gradually, however, the impressions became more coherent. Little by little, she grew in awareness of the activities around her. Still too weak to signal her increasing lucidity, Theodosia began to notice a single presence in a disproportionate number of the memories she retained.
Is it just a coincidence that I’m conscious when Alexander’s on duty?
Each time, she smiled as she glided into an ever-gentler sleep.
How like Alexa
nder to take his responsibility so seriously.
<><><>
Alexander yawned, shifted his weight in the chair, set Book XVI of Livy’s History of Rome on the table, picked up the lighter scroll that a courier had delivered three days earlier, and read—for at least the hundredth time—“Sold to a slave dealer from Antioch-near-Daphne.”
He re-rolled the document and glanced by habit toward that other small circle of light beside the bed. And then he started.
In the dim amber glow, Theodosia Varro was staring back at him.
Alexander rose and stepped to her side, peering with wonder into her eyes. Timon had removed the bandages from her hands and arms a week ago. The black bruises that once covered her body had paled to a light purple or a lemony green. Those on her face had already vanished, so—except for her tangled hair and overall gauntness—she looked almost normal.
A smile crept across Theodosia’s face as Alexander laid his hand on her shoulder.
“How long have you been awake?”
“A while.” It was the chirp of an injured bird.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Enjoyed watching you read.”
He took her hand and rubbed her fingers.
“Speaking of watching... There must be a lot of gods watching over you. Timon wasn’t sure you’d survive the fever.”
“Timon?”
“Vespasian’s physician.”
“With a funny way of talking?”
“He’s Egyptian. Vespasian bought him in Alexandria. They couldn’t pronounce his name, so they changed it.”
“A very Roman thing to do.” Theodosia half-laughed, and her mouth twisted in agony. She squeezed Alexander’s hand as she clenched her teeth. “How long’s it been?” she asked when the spasm had passed.
“Three weeks. It’s December now.”
“Pull your chair over.”
Alexander obeyed and sat down beside her.
“What were you reading?”