Rubies of the Viper

by Martha Marks

  Theodosia peered around Alexander.

  “Who authorized you to beat my servants?”

  “I asked you a question, fellow. Are you a slave?”

  “And I asked you a question!” It was unbearable to be so helpless while her home was being overrun by rabble.

  “My question’s the only one that matters. Are you a slave, fellow?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get outside with the others.”

  “I’ll not leave my mistress, sir.”

  The soldier brandished his club.

  “You’ll do as I tell you. Go!”

  Theodosia touched Alexander’s arm.

  “Do as he says, please. I’ll be fine.”

  Alexander turned with an apprehensive glance. Theodosia nodded.

  “Please go.”

  At the door, he lingered longer than she would have expected, looking at her, until at last—his head held high—he stepped into the hall.

  Theodosia held her breath, listening for the expected clubbing, but none came. A muffled order and the click of sandals were all she heard.

  Soon she saw Timon, Etrusca, and Alexander join the others inside the crimson-and-brass circle.

  Stefan must be out there, too.

  In another moment, she spotted his huge, shaggy head towering above both slaves and soldiers.

  Alexander’s words came back to her.

  “Have you ever loved someone you were powerless to protect?”

  Theodosia swallowed.

  Juno, watch over Stefan! I do love him still.

  And then she felt guilty for singling Stefan out for special prayer when her entire household was being squeezed into that oppressive circle. She rested her head on the chair, closed her eyes, and begged Jupiter, the father of all mankind, to protect each one of them, since she could not.

  <><><>

  A tall, tanned, tough-looking man carrying a red-crested helmet shouldered past the guard, who saluted smartly. Without ceremony, he approached Theodosia.

  “I am Centurion Quintus Manlius Aquila.”

  “What are you doing with my servants?”

  “The property is being treated with care.”

  “Some of them have been beaten.”

  “They will suffer no long-term effects.” The centurion’s eyes traveled to Theodosia’s splinted legs, propped on the footstool. “You must forgive the abruptness of our intrusion. My orders were to catch this household unawares. The emperor’s order.”

  “Was His Majesty afraid my slaves would escape... or me?”

  “Both, I suspect.”

  “There’s very little risk of my escape, as you can see.”

  Manlius sat in another chair and regarded her solemnly.

  Theodosia tapped her thumbs together a few times. Then—not wanting to appear nervous—she stifled the motion.

  “May I see the emperor’s order?”

  He took a scroll from beneath his breastplate and handed it to her. Theodosia stared at the purple wax seal. It was genuine. She had seen that same mark on imperial decrees posted in the Forum.

  “May I read it?”

  Manlius nodded, and Theodosia unrolled the document. The scribe’s overly ornate writing made it difficult to focus on the message.

  TIBERIUS CLAUDIUS DRUSUS NERO GERMANICUS TO QUINTUS MANLIUS AQUILA, CENTURION, FOURTH COHORT, TENTH LEGION.

  GREETINGS.

  YOU ARE COMMANDED TO LEAD YOUR CENTURY TO THE VILLA OF THE LATE GAIUS TERENTIUS VARRO, SON OF AULUS TERENTIUS VARRO, LATE GOVERNOR OF CORINTH, THEREIN TO ARREST THE WOMAN KNOWN AS THEODOSIA VARRO.

  SUCH ARREST TO BE PERFORMED IMMEDIATELY AND WITH STEALTH, SO THAT NEITHER THE AFORENAMED PRISONER NOR THE PROPERTY ON THE ESTATE SHALL HAVE NOTICE AND SEEK TO ESCAPE.

  Otho was telling the truth!

  The familiar furnishings and frescoes...

  The guard at the door...

  The uniformed stranger before her...

  All fused into one… a wash of crimson and green and gold and brass and bronze swimming before her eyes in a terrifying blur as she accepted as reality the one thing she feared most.

  Beloved gods, they do know about Mother.

  “I don’t understand this at all,” she said, trying to sound confident. “What am I accused of?”

  The answer seemed an eternity in coming. Manlius cleared his throat, passed his helmet from one hand to another, cleared his throat again, and shifted his weight in the chair before responding.

  “Murder. You are accused of the murder of Gaius Terentius Varro.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Murder?” Her laugh was real. “That’s ridiculous!”

  Manlius did not smile.

  “They’re also investigating a separate claim that you are not the legitimate heir to the Terentius Varro properties.”

  “Not the legitimate heir? That’s just as absurd as the other charge.”

  “The emperor has ordered an investigation.”

  “I am Theodosia Varro. I was born in this suite. My father gave me his family name, raised me in his house, and presented me to the world as his daughter. His only son is dead. If I’m not the legitimate heir, who is?”

  “Unclaimed property passes to the emperor.”

  Of course. So what incentive has he to find in my favor?

  “Centurion, do you know who brought these charges?”

  “I am not authorized to discuss the case with you.”

  “Were you at the palace when the accusations were made?”

  No answer.

  “I have enemies,” Theodosia went on. “I know who they are... or some of them, at least. It’s true that my brother was murdered, but I didn’t do it, and my right of inheritance is as solid as his was.” She leaned forward. “Centurion Manlius, please! Give me a chance to defend myself! Tell me who made these accusations!”

  Manlius looked around her sitting room. As his eyes lingered on the frescoes, the inlaid tables, the antique vases and chests, the mosaic floor, the cushioned chair, and the finely crafted lamps, Theodosia noticed—for the first time in months—just how sumptuously appointed it was.

  “You are the obvious beneficiary of the crime.”

  “Yes, but... I wouldn’t have killed Gaius for his property. There can’t possibly be any evidence to implicate me.”

  “If the emperor considers the charges serious enough to arrest you, we must assume he has some evidence. Do you have records of the property that Gaius Terentius Varro owned?”

  He’s using no honorific, no family relationships, not even my name. Gods, have they already stripped away my status and my possessions? My very freedom?

  “I’ll search the villa,” the centurion went on when Theodosia didn’t respond promptly enough. “Question the slaves, if necessary. You do yourself and them no favor by refusing to answer.”

  “You’ll find records for the last eight or nine years in my library.”

  “Valuables?”

  “Also in the library. In the strongbox.”

  She shuddered inside at the thought of what Manlius might have found there… but for Alexander.

  “And the key?”

  “My steward keeps it. He’s dedicated to me,” she said, hoping to excuse any resistance on Alexander’s part. “He may not cooperate.”

  “He’ll cooperate.” Manlius stood. “You’re confined to this apartment until further notice. The emperor wants you isolated, under guard night and day. No visitors. No servants. No physician.”

  Theodosia began to protest, but Manlius cut her off.

  “Be thankful His Majesty is so kind. He could have ordered you held in the Carcer Tullianus while the investigation is carried out.”

  For the first time, Theodosia realized the full extent of her peril. Years before, in the Subura, she had seen an obdurate slave—jaded by years of abuse—cowed into obedience by the simple threat of being sent to the Carcer Tullianus… the most dreaded of imperial prisons.

  “Oh,” Ma
nlius said, “I was about to forget. Caesar claims that signet you’re wearing. To authenticate certain documents.”

  They found a duplicate bill of sale.

  Trapped in the chair with Manlius looming over her, Theodosia could do nothing but acquiesce. She slipped the Varro ring off her finger, studied it briefly, and deposited it into his open palm.

  <><><>

  Theodosia saw only common soldiers for five days. They brought her food, carried her from her bed to the cushioned chair, helped her dress and use her chamber pot. Some turned their heads to give her privacy. Others winked and grinned as they watched.

  Her house was obviously the finest any of them had ever seen. A few decorative bedroom items disappeared, but she said nothing, hoping that would dispose them to treat her well. The only thing she made an effort to tuck away was Lucilla’s ruby-serpent amulet, which she buried as far under her mattress as she could reach.

  It was an illiterate but talkative Sicilian named Cyrus—who reeked of garlic and fish sauce—whom she chose to cast a spell on. He was rude and rough but willing to make a few discrete inquiries for the prisoner who had charmed him.

  From Cyrus she learned that Manlius had sent the oldest servants—Milo, Jason, and half a dozen others from her father’s time—to Rome to be questioned about Theodosia’s claim on the estate. She winced at the news. Questioning, for a slave, meant torture. Always.

  “They’re gonna question ‘em ‘bout how Aulus Terentius Varro treated that woman he brung with him from Greece.”

  “‘That woman’ was my mother!”

  “Guess that’s the point, ain’t it?”

  “But slaves can’t be forced to testify against their owner. It’s the law. Since I’m their owner, how can they be forced to testify against my interests?”

  “Guess the emperor’s legal advisors found a way ‘round it.”

  Of course.

  “Which way around it?”

  “Well... best I can figger, the investigators bought them slaves off you, so now they kin do anything they want to ‘em.”

  “How can they buy slaves from me without my knowledge or consent?”

  And how could they pull that off without Sergius Silus’ knowledge or consent? He’s Emperor Claudius’ main legal advisor, but he’s also my friend and Flavia’s husband. He’d never let them do that to me.

  “Beats me. But don’t you go complaining ‘bout it to the centurion. Just git me in trouble for telling you.”

  “Do you know if I got paid in this transaction?”

  “I hear they credited some money to the estate.”

  “Oh, how clever! So... when the emperor winds up with my property, there’s no need of payment. And if by some chance they find me innocent, they’ll just cancel the credit when they ‘sell’ them back to me.”

  “‘Course... if them slaves git broke up, they ain’t gonna be worth much when the investigators sell ‘em back to you. You’re gonna lose there, lady, no matter how it turns out.”

  Stunned by the unfairness of it all, Theodosia wrapped her arms across her chest and rocked in the chair. She knew the elderly slaves would “remember” whatever the torturers wanted them to.

  As the week progressed, Cyrus told her of other developments.

  One of the Greeks had been reclaimed by his former master, who had ridden out from Rome with an imperial order allowing him to remove the slave. By now, Cyrus added with a wink, the pretty fellow would be cozily restored to his old master’s affections.

  Remembering her promise that Marcipor would never fall into Otho’s hands again, Theodosia clenched her fists and choked back tears of remorse and frustration.

  There had been a few problems, Cyrus reported. A couple of houseboys had been flogged the first afternoon... mostly as an example to the rest. Cyrus grew even more verbose than usual in describing the scene, as if certain it would amuse Theodosia. Though revolted at the joy he took in every gruesome detail, she still managed to reward him with a smile.

  Anything to keep him talking.

  Her steward, chuckled Cyrus the next day, had declined to produce the key to the strongbox, but an energetic clubbing on the shoulders had persuaded him. Then he was caught sneaking some sheets of writing out of a cubicle near the back door of the villa. The soldiers couldn’t read, so they just tossed the sheets into a campfire. For resisting, the Greek had been confined to the supply tent, chained to the center post. They planned to let him out for Saturnalia, though, the Sicilian assured her.

  None of this troubled her smelly guard, and Theodosia tried to keep her distress to herself. The morning of the Ides, however, she could no longer hide it.

  Cyrus came in with a report of discontent among the legionaries.

  “When we got here, we found only three young female slaves on the whole place. Manlius tossed ‘em into a tent that first night and let us at ‘em. Nobody got enough, of course, long as it’s been for most of us, but he said we’d git ‘nother chance the next night.”

  Three young female slaves. Etrusca, Lucilla, and... who else?

  Then she remembered.

  Rila, the goatherd’s daughter.

  Theodosia convulsed in horror, but Cyrus didn’t seem to notice.

  “And then—as if having just three of ‘em for a hundred of us wasn’t bad enough—yesterday Manlius hauls one back to Rome for questioning. Big blonde bitch. Real hot duckie, too, and we only got two nights with her. Won’t be much left of her once they git done interrogating. That meant we only had a couple of wenches last night... and one of ‘em babbling on and on ‘bout how she’s pregnant.”

  Oh, Etrusca!

  “Then, to top things off, when someone pulled a kid away from the pregnant one—couldn’t stand it squalling in the tent, y’know—the crazy thing grabbed his sword and attacked him.”

  Cyrus turned a leering, yellow-toothed grin on his prisoner.

  “Her death means there’s only two young females left on the whole place.”

  Theodosia doubled over in her chair, covered her head with her arms, and wept for Lucilla, Etrusca, Rila... and herself.

  <><><>

  “Have you ever loved someone you were powerless to protect?”

  Alexander’s haunting question kept running through Theodosia’s head. Although she couldn’t imagine what would happen to her, it wasn’t hard to guess what the Fates had in store for those who had served her.

  Stefan would go to the arena and die.

  Alexander, Lycos, Dabini, Selicio, and all her other better-quality servants would be sold to new masters in Rome.

  Nicanor would wind up back at the farm, mourning his beloved Etrusca and laboring under Nizzo’s whip for whatever was left of his life.

  Nizzo would find a way to possess her farm.

  Someone else would buy her villa and the land around it.

  The old goat in the imperial palace would keep the jewels and the mines and vineyards for himself and pocket the profit from the rest.

  Not much I can do to save myself.

  She had accepted that now.

  But by Juno... I’ll find some way to save the ones I love.

  <><><>

  It was a dreary Saturnalia. Not a single ray of sunshine pierced the clouds to brighten her mood.

  She spent the morning in bed pretending to be asleep, but actually finalizing a scheme to cheat the emperor just a bit. She had thought of little else for two days.

  Getting access to papyrus, a reed-pen, and ink—the part she originally thought would be the hardest—had turned out to be easy.

  Yesterday morning, she had persuaded Cyrus to bring writing materials from the library... on the pretext that she would teach him to write his name. They spent four hours side by side, bent over a table; by the time his shift ended, the Sicilian could scrawl not only his name but Theodosia’s and his mother’s as well. And when he departed—excited about his new literacy—he forgot to remove the things he had brought.

  Taking advantage of the
lull between shifts, Theodosia wrote a message in one corner of a papyrus sheet and blew on the ink to dry it. As the relief guards were coming in, she tore off the corner and dropped it down the front of her tunic. Later, she tucked the scrap under her mattress, alongside Lucilla’s ruby-serpent amulet.

  Silvanus and Vespillo, the soldiers assigned to the evening shift, always treated her better than the rest did, so the night before, Theodosia had suggested that they bring an additional pair of silver cups and join her in a celebratory toast to Saturn. With Manlius gone, his men were more relaxed, and the bored twosome had been delighted to sip good wine from elegant ruby-set goblets at their prisoner’s bedside.

  So now—as Cyrus and another guard planned their Saturnalian binge in her sitting room—Theodosia feigned sleep. Silver serving pieces from last night’s dinner and toasts still sat on the chest beside her bed, with others brought in for her breakfast.

  Occasionally, Cyrus came to check on the prisoner.

  Whenever she heard his footsteps, Theodosia froze under her covers. Whenever she heard the door close, she went back to work.

  Just before noon, she finished. Her fingernails were shredded to the quick, but she grinned with exultation. The long, draping blanket hid the pile of nine defaced silver vessels under the bed. The nine fat rubies that she had pried out of the serpents’ mouths lay clustered under her pillow, along with five small ones that she had managed to pop out of their eyes.

  Keeping watch on the door, she ripped off a strip of blanket. The rubies clicked as she nestled them into one end and wrapped the fabric around them until it was halfway used. She took Lucilla’s twisted-serpent amulet from under the mattress and added it to the rubies. Next, she wrapped the remaining length of the strip around and around and tucked in the end. The bundle seemed too flimsy, so she tore off a second strip of blanket, wound its length snugly around the first, and tied the ends.