Rubies of the Viper

by Martha Marks

“My son is younger than you and inexperienced, but he has a fine career before him.” Vespasian paused, his brow furrowed. “Our line is not as old as yours. Our purse is not as deep. Nor is our name as celebrated as the Terentius Varro name, but it is honest, and we hope that you may accept our offer despite these considerable differences in circumstance.”

  “Oh, but you know my mother was not—”

  “Your mother was good enough to marry Aulus Terentius Varro, and that’s good enough for us. My daughter already considers you her sister, and it’s plain to everyone that my son is hopelessly smitten. We all want you to be a true member of our family, Theodosia, so—on behalf of the entire Flavian clan—I ask you to marry Titus next summer, after he gets his commission.”

  Theodosia felt that familiar warmth creep across her cheeks.

  Even knowing about Stefan and the lost baby, they still accept me.

  She sat looking from face to face until she trusted her voice.

  “You honor me, General. Yes, I will marry Titus next summer. I hope to stand that day at the shrine of my ancestral gods and give thanks to them for showing me the way to walk again.”

  “We’ll all give thanks for that.” Titus kissed her forehead. “And at Flavia’s wedding, I’ll pour an extra libation to Venus in gratitude for her special gift to me.”

  A while later, there was a tap on the door. Flavia opened it.

  Alexander and the two Ethiopian waiters stood outside, silver trays in hand.

  “We’ve got good news,” Flavia said as the slaves entered.

  Titus was standing beside Theodosia’s chair now, one hand on her shoulder, the other holding her hand. Theodosia knew that the rosiness in her face had not faded completely.

  “Alexander, I will marry General Vespasian’s son next summer.”

  Without a word, Alexander poured the Falernian and offered goblets to Vespasian and Flavia.

  His eyes met Theodosia’s again as he bent to serve her. Then he straightened and raised them to Titus.

  “Congratulations, sir.”

  Theodosia felt a twinge of regret as Alexander offered the last cup to the young man who would soon be his master.

  <><><>

  Five days later, Alexander herded a dozen men into the garden to begin preparing the flower beds for the reseeding that would start in a few months. It was a boring chore that the slaves disliked, but now, after last night’s hard rain, the ground would be malleable.

  He had talked with Theodosia about the flowers. Come summer, she could decorate her villa and her marriage bed with blossoms of her own choosing. The date was set. Theodosia Varro would wed Titus Flavius Sabinus Vespasianus the Younger on the last day of July.

  Impulsively, Alexander picked up a shovel and joined the digging. It was almost unheard of for a steward to perform physical labor alongside subordinate slaves, and the mud would soil his tunic, but right now he would do anything to keep his mind from wandering. Theodosia’s wedding day would come soon enough without his dwelling on it.

  Timon remained at the villa to care for Theodosia, but no guests were expected until Flavia came next week for Saturnalia.

  It surprised Alexander, then, to hear a horse in the driveway. The rider turned out to be Senator Otho, without his usual retinue but wearing full military regalia… that same crimson and brass that Alexander had learned to hate so long ago in Corinth.

  “Take me to your mistress.”

  “She is resting, sir.”

  Otho’s eyes jeered at Alexander’s dirty tunic and the shovel in his hand. Then he turned and headed for the house.

  “Excuse me, sir! She does not wish to be disturbed! And she especially does not wish to see you!”

  Otho bounded up the stairs and disappeared. Alexander tossed his shovel aside and reached the atrium just as the senator was starting up toward Theodosia’s private rooms. Alexander followed.

  A few moments later, Otho slammed the door that had stood open since the day Stefan carried Theodosia home from the riverbank.

  Alexander hesitated in the hall. His tunic and sandals were muddy, and no slave—not even a high-ranking one—had a right to barge in through a closed door on his betters. But the memory of Theodosia’s crumpled body in the fountain—plus that blue glass vial and Marcipor’s hunch—made him resolute. For the first time in all his years as a slave in this house, he opened the door of the master suite without permission and walked into the bedroom.

  Otho had already removed his helmet. Now he stared angrily at Alexander. The face on the pillow, however, radiated relief.

  “What are you doing here, Greek? Get out.”

  “My mistress has not instructed me to leave, sir.”

  “Nor did she instruct you to enter.”

  Alexander made no move.

  “Get out!” Otho drew the sword from his scabbard. “By all the gods, Greek, I will kill you if you don’t obey me.”

  “Otho! No!” Theodosia’s voice sounded sleepy, albeit alarmed.

  “Is it your wish that I stay or leave, miss?”

  “Stay.”

  Otho strutted toward Theodosia’s bed and surveyed her at length.

  “You’re in big trouble. Bigger than you can imagine. I’m the only one who can save you.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  Otho cast a contemptuous glance over his shoulder.

  “Sure you want that Greek to hear?”

  “What trouble?”

  “You’re about to lose a chunk of your property. The emperor plans to confiscate your farm; he may take this villa and the rest of your estate.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nizzo. The things he’s saying about you in Rome.”

  I tried to warn you. Only the gods can save you if Nizzo knows that secret.

  “What’s Nizzo saying?” She was fully awake now. “Lies?”

  “Lies? Truth?” Otho shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “What does he have to gain from telling lies about me?”

  “Your farm. You won’t sell it to him, but Claudius will.”

  “What has Nizzo to do with the emperor? How would he even communicate with him?”

  “It seems he shared some information about you with the emperor’s freedmen. They’re among the most influential men at court... and his friends. My source tells me that Claudius ordered an investigation as soon as Nizzo’s information reached his ears.”

  “Your source?”

  “Nero. The heir to the throne. I introduced you to him in Rome, remember? My best friend.”

  “I thought Gaius was your best friend.”

  “Gaius is dead.” Otho smiled. “Nero knows everything that goes on in the palace. He grows more influential every day as the old man totters closer and closer to his well-deserved grave.” The smile grew smug. “The prince is all but emperor now, and there’s nothing he won’t do for me.” He paused, looking even smugger. “Nothing. He’ll save your property for you, Theodosia... but only if I ask it.”

  Theodosia clutched at her blanket.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Marry me. Seven days from now, at Saturnalia. I’ll see to it that you never hear another word about those charges.”

  “I’ve already promised to marry Titus.”

  “Then break that promise. Be smart for once. Aim for the top.”

  “With you? I can do much better.”

  Otho snapped his fingers at Alexander.

  “Fetch me a chair. Poor little Theodosia… still thinking you’re the best catch in the empire?” He sat in the chair that Alexander sullenly set beside the bed. “Face it, you’re an aging cripple with a bad reputation.”

  “I’m also a very rich woman, which seems to be all that’s needed to have men competing for my hand. I don’t have to marry anyone I don’t love, and I definitely don’t love you.”

  “Marriage is about politics, not love. The Flavians want your money for their careers and your Terentius Varro blood for th
eir next generation. They aren’t fooled. They know you’re hot for that stable hand.”

  “They know I’ve had feelings for Stefan. It doesn’t matter to them.”

  “Don’t count on it. Give Titus the chance to be master here and see how fast he sells your hay-seed lover to Camillus for the next games. Tell you what... I’ll make a deal with you. Marry me and you can keep your big stud slave. In fact, be a tad more discrete and you can do whatever you want with any of the slaves out here. I certainly won’t care.”

  “What a disgusting thing to say! You think I’m like you and my loathsome brother?”

  “Sure you are, just more hypocritical. You start with a stable hand. Pretend to be ‘in love’ with him. Which slave will strike your fancy next?” Otho jerked his thumb in Alexander’s direction. “This bookish Greek, maybe? One of the kitchen boys? How ‘bout a shepherd lad?”

  “How dare you?”

  “Live out here, too, if you want. You’ll find me a tolerant master.”

  Alexander watched Theodosia rally as Otho’s words sank in.

  Doesn’t the stupid bastard know he’s saying all the wrong things?

  Theodosia lifted herself on one elbow.

  “I’ve given my word that I’ll marry Titus when he completes his training next summer and, by Juno, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “Poor little Theo. Such a waste.” Otho laughed. “Don’t you know I can see to it that your soldier-boy husband burns himself out battling dysentery and the Druids in the swamps of northern Britain?”

  “Don’t belittle Titus. He’s the son of one of the greatest generals of our time.”

  “And the general’s the spawn of a tax collector. You’d waste patrician blood on them?”

  “So... you admit I’m a patrician? Last time we had a pleasant little chat like this—out by the fountain—you called me a filthy Greek whore.”

  Otho leaped from his chair, knocked her elbow out from under her, and snapped his hands onto her shoulders, pinning her to the mattress.

  “Don’t give me that shit!” he shouted into Theodosia’s face as she yelped in pain. “You admitted sleeping with a slave. You gloated about it, damn you. Well, a filthy, slave-fucking whore is exactly what you are!”

  Alexander sprang to the side of the bed, seized Otho’s shoulders, and jerked him back. The senator broke free of his grasp, swirled around, and took a swing at him. Alexander dodged the blow.

  “You’ve laid your hands on me once too often, Greek. Time to learn how a Roman officer deals with an insolent, disobedient slave.”

  “No one talks to her like that!” Alexander was no longer willing to waste his breath calling Otho sir.

  In the next instant, Otho punched him in the chin with his fist, knocking him off his feet. A flash of fire shot through Alexander’s jaw as he staggered.

  “Hold your tongue, Greek, or I’ll cut it out.”

  “You aren’t my master. You haven’t the authority.”

  Otho yanked his sword out once more.

  “I have not only the authority but the weapons.”

  As Alexander glanced around for something to use to defend himself, Otho lunged at him, flattened him against the wall, and pressed the sharp edge into his gullet. Then—keeping his sword firmly in place—he drew a dagger from his breastplate and began gouging its tip into Alexander’s clenched teeth.

  Desperate for air and room to maneuver, Alexander put both his hands on the blade of the sword and began pushing back as Otho’s dagger sliced across the left corner of his mouth and into his cheek.

  Simultaneous with the pain and the red spurt on his hand, Alexander heard a thump! against the wall, followed by a clatter on the floor.

  Moments later, another thump! and another clatter.

  Then a third missile hit the back of Otho’s head. Hard.

  The Roman yelled and turned as a fourth silver-colored missile crashed into the wall nearby.

  The distraction gave Alexander the chance he needed. He rammed his palms straight out against the sword, knocked it into Otho’s chest, and dashed the blood-covered dagger away from his cheek.

  If he comes for me again, I’ll grab the dagger.

  But that didn’t happen.

  Instead, Otho turned his eyes to Theodosia, his face a feline mix of curiosity and fury. He replaced his sword in its scabbard and retrieved the four silver objects from the floor.

  Ignoring Alexander—who had pressed a towel to his bleeding mouth and cheek and was edging sideways toward Theodosia—Otho deposited the dented cup, pitcher, and small bowl on her bedside table. Then he held out Lucilla’s ruby-eating serpent on his palm, showing no surprise that someone had found it.

  “You threw this, I believe.” Otho tossed the talisman onto the blanket beside Theodosia.

  “You’re the one who threw it first at me. Last spring, when you gave it to Lucilla.”

  “Are you going to marry me?”

  “No. And I tell you... the coarsest slave on my estate has more chance of marrying me than you do. If you think I’d break my word to Vespasian for the gratification of a foul-mouthed rodent like you—”

  “You think Vespasian will let his son marry a penniless whore? Oh, a rich whore offers some benefits, so an ambitious man may overlook certain defects of character. But a penniless whore...” Otho chuckled, but his tone was icy. “If Nizzo’s charges hold up, not even the low-born Flavians will have anything to do with you by this time next month.”

  Theodosia studied the coiled silver serpent, circling a finger over the tiny ruby in its mouth. After a long interval, she raised her eyes to Otho.

  “I don’t care what charges Nizzo has brought against me. I’d rather lose all my property and rot in the Carcer Tullianus than spend a single night in bed with you.”

  Otho’s expression did not change.

  “It’s good to know that, because—if you won’t have me—that’s exactly what’s going to happen to you.”

  <><><>

  Three days before the Ides of December, Theodosia sat by the open south-facing balcony, her legs on a stool, staring out at the gulls circling in the gray winter sky. Saturnalia was only five days off, and though she ought to be looking forward to the holiday, she was dreading it.

  If it weren’t for Flavia’s visit and the fact that the slaves expect it, I’d call the whole thing off this year.

  The rowdy mid-winter festival had been Theodosia’s favorite as a child, when she and Gaius and even their father gleefully participated in the merrymaking.

  By ancient tradition, every slave enjoyed two days of lightened labor and one long, joyous night of make-believe equality with his master. All three Varros would don ragged tunics—artistically torn up for the occasion—and circulate among their impertinent slaves with pitchers of wine and treats. Then they would sing or bestow kisses or join in the wild chain dances or perform whatever other silly feats the slave selected “Lord of Misrule” might order them to do.

  Theodosia remembered the laughter...

  The delicious shedding of caste roles and rules...

  The teasing faces of Gerta, Simi, Arisata, and little Stefan...

  The crackling bonfires that burned until dawn on the rocks overlooking the sea...

  And hot tears spilled onto her cheeks.

  She had tried to recreate those Saturnalian memories with Lucilla in Rome, but their feasts always paled in comparison. This year, it seemed that Otho, Lucilla, Stefan, and the splints on her legs had conspired to ruin things again.

  Stefan continued to treat her with the formality of a newly purchased slave. Even the waiters and houseboys were sullen these days, as if they resented the extra demands her injuries made on them.

  The only servants whose attitude was unchanged were Marcipor and Alexander.

  Lucilla was still confined to a storeroom. Theodosia had decreed that she not be let out for the upcoming frolic, but she knew it would be tough to stand by that edict when the holiday actually
arrived.

  This morning, Alexander—his facial cuts healing under Timon’s care—was crouched beside the physician to help him adjust the splints and rewrap Theodosia’s improving right leg. Her left shin, thigh, and knee would need protection for a long time yet and might never support her weight. It was obvious now that—if by some miracle she ever walked again—she would have a severely hobbled gait.

  Timon was about to check the left leg when they heard hooves and footfalls in the driveway. Alexander rose and stepped onto the balcony.

  “Legionaries. There must be a hundred of them.”

  Theodosia leaned forward and saw them, too. She had worried for a day after Otho’s visit before banishing his threats from her mind. Now the fears returned in a rush.

  Waves of armed men were swarming over the grounds as slaves began to pour into the driveway, holding their hands above their heads to defend themselves from the soldiers’ spears and swinging wooden clubs. Soon there were scores of them encircled by crimson uniforms.

  Etrusca had just left the room with an empty water pitcher. From out in the hallway came the crash of pottery and an anguished cry.

  Timon jumped to his feet and moved toward the door, but before he reached it a soldier carrying a club burst through and landed a blow that sent the physician sprawling to the floor.

  “Get out!”

  Timon picked himself up and bolted through the door. Theodosia heard new shouts, the smack of another club, and the thud of a body hitting the floor. Etrusca screamed again, more distressed than before.

  “You the woman who calls herself Theodosia Varro?” A pleased-to-be-the-one-to-find-her smirk spread across the legionary’s peasant face.

  “By what right do you invade my home?”

  The man’s expression grew surly as he swaggered forward, weapons in both hands. His rancid body odor engulfed her.

  Alexander had already come in from the balcony. Now he stepped in front of Theodosia... a touchingly futile gesture by an unarmed man for whom it was a capital offense to raise a defensive hand against even so raunchy a representative of the emperor’s legions.

  “You a slave?” The intruder’s voice was raspy and loud.