by Martha Marks
She closed her eyes and tried to recall the repulsive young man she’d met that September morning in Rome. Thirteen months ago, she had chatted with Nero and promised to perform at his palace.
Instead, she was rotting away in his prison.
The dreadful reputation of the Carcer Tullianus was not exaggerated. Built five hundred years earlier when Rome was a cluster of villages in the hills, it had become the primary place of interrogation, torture, and patrician execution—by strangulation—and a dumping ground for anyone the emperor wanted to make disappear. Why Theodosia was being kept alive there, instead of quickly murdered, totally mystified her.
The prison sat atop and alongside the sewer built to drain water from the swampy Forum. Now, in addition to carrying feces and stormwater to the river, the Cloaca Maxima served as a convenient disposal system for those who died in the Carcer. Its putrid odor permeated the cell where Theodosia lay.
At first, the stench had made her vomit, which did nothing to improve the quality of her accommodations. She kept almost no food down for weeks, and soon she suffered from dysentery.
Although she felt lucky to have that overhead crack for a modicum of light and fresh air—and a tiny, blessed view of the sky—it was so high and narrow that little but rain reached her.
Eventually, neither the smells nor the tepid mush and abominable water that she received once a day seemed quite as bad as she first thought. A few things actually improved as the months passed. She no longer noticed the stink of her own body. Nor did her scalp itch so badly. She scarcely remembered her last bath in that steaming pool at home, but at least she had stopped dreaming about it. Her monthly cycle ceased, and she was grateful for that. She had no way to cope with the bleeding.
Below ground that winter, she had battled chills and fever. Dysentery kept her doubled up for days. Memories of home—wildflowers in the meadows, rides in the hills, new leaves in the pergola—tormented her all spring. With summer came new miseries: stifling heat, mosquitoes, fear of plague. Autumn, with its never-ending rains, brought no relief.
Theodosia had now spent ten months in a hopeless, lifeless void.
Seeking relief from the throbbing in her legs, she wadded the old blanket and thrust it under her twisted left knee. Her joints ached from the dampness, but she knew much of her suffering was self-induced.
Determined to walk out of the Carcer Tullianus if given the chance, she had counted sunrises through the crack above to calculate the end of her first month of imprisonment. Then one morning at the end of January, she removed the splints from both legs. With jaws clenched, she pushed herself to the corner, braced against her palms, and hoisted herself to her feet.
Fire raced through her wasted muscles. She collapsed, rasping her arms and elbows against the walls and landing badly on the stone floor. Screaming in pain and self-pity, she sobbed for an hour.
But she tried again that day and again the next, again and again and again until every surface of her body was scraped and bruised. Each collapse brought rage—at herself, at the world, at the gods—but gradually she found herself growing in strength and muscular control.
Her original goal was simply to stand. That took a month.
Then she began to count the duration of the support her right leg alone gave her. When she reached one hundred, she switched her weight to the left. The fall that resulted stripped the skin from an elbow, but she stood up and repeated the right-leg-left-leg drill. Over and over again. Days later—when it seemed she had no more skin to lose—the left leg held solid to a count of ten. When that count reached one hundred, she set her goal at a single step, then two. When two were steady, she aimed at four.
All told, it had taken four months—and thirty-two painful steps—to round the corners of the cell and make it back to her starting place. Theodosia had never known such pride of accomplishment. By mid summer she was up to two trips. By the time of Claudius’ death in October, she could make three... shaky though the last dozen steps were. She had no idea how long it would take to get to four trips, but time appeared to be sadly abundant.
The effort to walk gave her something to live for.
Someday, I’ll walk out of this hellhole!
Crouched now in the corner of her hellhole, she heard a scurrying sound. Without hesitation, she shoved the remains of yesterday’s mush toward the mouse. A bit of the dried-up stuff was fair trade for company.
Her hungry companion hadn’t always been so welcome. Watching him eat, Theodosia remembered that late-December night when the soldiers had carried her to this cell and dumped her on the floor. The icy draft from the cleft in the rock instantly penetrated to her bones, unimpeded by the light tunic she’d been wearing when they hustled her out of her villa earlier that day. The shred of blanket left by a predecessor in the cell provided little warmth, and the stench—far worse than what had sickened her in Nizzo’s slave barracks—brought up the remnants of her last breakfast at home.
Panic hit her hard as they slammed the door, leaving her in darkness.
Then she had heard the scurrying. Terrified, she pushed backwards with all her strength until she hit the wall. But the tiny creature left, and came and left again, and eventually she began to welcome his visits.
Take your friends where and as you find them.
Thoughts of friends—or home—led to tormenting questions.
Who’s living in my villa now?
Is the family of slaves still mostly intact?
Alexander, Stefan, and Lycos... did they get away?
That last question bedeviled her more than any other. Her rubies could have bought them safe passage out of Italy, helped Alexander find Antibe and Niko, and built new lives in a secure hiding place. But it was just as likely that the jewels had ended up in a legionary’s gunny sack and the runaways in the clutches of some corrupt palace freedman. Theodosia feared she’d never learn the answer.
She also knew it was ridiculous to worry about others when she still didn’t know what her own status was. Most likely, old Claudius had simply declared her guilty and seized her property.
But...
Was she condemned for Gaius’ murder?
For impersonating a Roman?
For false claims of inheritance?
Did they know her mother was a slave?
What were those documents that Centurion Manlius had said needed authenticating?
Nobody ever bothered to tell her.
The nine defaced silver vessels had been discovered the day after Saturnalia. Three slaves went missing about the same time. Manlius returned from Rome in a nasty temper and interrogated Theodosia. She admitted digging out the rubies, refused to say what she had done with them, and was intimately—and humiliatingly—searched by Manlius.
That night, she prayed that Silvanus and Vitello would escape punishment for their laxity with her, but she sought no divine intercession for Cyrus, the lecherous Sicilian.
The next morning, the soldiers deposited her—splints and all—in an army cart and hauled her away to the Carcer Tullianus.
At first, she assumed it was temporary. They’d soon take her out for questioning, for trial, for execution. But nothing happened. Theodosia just lay in her cell, waiting and wondering. The tongueless slave who came once a day to bring food and remove her waste bucket could say nothing. The guard who unlocked the door was equally unresponsive. Only the death and accession of emperors seemed to make him talk.
Now, huddled under her blanket, Theodosia reviewed—again—everything that might have condemned her. It was a game she couldn’t stop playing.
Maybe Claudius’ freedmen—anxious to please their patron—had turned up new “facts” in Gaius’ murder. The old goat wouldn’t have troubled himself to dig for the truth if the imperial purse, always short of funds, stood to be fattened so spectacularly. Theodosia wouldn’t be the first rich Roman brought down by an emperor’s greed.
Maybe Otho—angry at her rejection—had accused her himself. By custo
m, anyone who contributed to the emperor’s enrichment was entitled to a share of the wealth. The benefits of accusing Theodosia might have proven tempting even to someone with more scruples than Otho.
Maybe some slaves in Gaius’ mansion in Rome—bargaining for their freedom—had turned up “evidence” of the mistress’ complicity in their master’s death.
Maybe Lucilla and the elderly slaves—desperate to stop the torture in that infamous lower level of the Carcer Tullianus—had flat-out lied.
Maybe... Maybe... Maybe...
Theodosia had plowed this ground for months, always ending with the same cry: “Tell me the charges! Tell me who brought them!” Shivering, she gritted her teeth and—
Nizzo! Of course! And the bastard even had the gall to warn me!
She had thought of him often since Otho told her he was spreading rumors about her. Now the name hit with the power of summer lightning.
Aloud, she repeated Nizzo’s taunting couplet.
“The sad fate of the brother will soon come to the sister.”
In an instant, all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.
Nizzo had everything: motivation, credibility, access to information, and—according to both Otho and Alexander—powerful friends.
Nizzo had motivation.
He was ambitious. He wanted to own that farm.
Nizzo had credibility.
Father had freed him, made him a citizen, and gave him his name... plus a good income, responsibility, and respectability. Who would believe that someone could lie about the daughter of such a kind patron?
Nizzo had access to information.
He always acted as if he knew everything about me. Maybe he did!
Nizzo had powerful friends.
All those influential palace freedmen... What was it Alexander once told me? “Antagonize Nizzo and you’ll have more enemies than you can imagine.” Well, he was right. I antagonized Nizzo, and now I can’t even begin to imagine who all my enemies are.
Nizzo’s words taunted her.
“That’s exactly what your brother said a month ago, last time I proposed the deal to him.”
That simple statement of fact echoed in Theodosia’s head as her fingers dug into her bony arms.
I remember speculating that Nizzo had murdered Gaius. Alexander didn’t think so, but... Gaius refused to sell to Nizzo, and Gaius died. I refused to sell to Nizzo, and I’m all but dead. Coincidence or cunning?
The more she thought about it, the less coincidental it seemed.
Rain was still splashing onto the floor hours later when Theodosia heard footsteps and jangling keys at the far end of the corridor. Finally, her creaky door swung open.
The guard glanced toward the corner where Theodosia lay, as the mute slave shuffled in with the bowl of mush and chunk of bread that were her daily rations. He dipped a gourd in a bucket and held it while she drank.
For months, Theodosia had tried to make one-sided conversation with this slave. But his eyes never rose to her face, and his grunts ultimately discouraged her. Now he picked up the pot of her waste, dumped it into his cart, and tossed it back at her.
“Nero decided to forego the procession this morning,” the guard said as he closed the door. “Just too wet. Guess you’ll have to wait for the next emperor.”
<><><>
The Greek merchantman Arsinoe weighed anchor at dawn on a crisp October morning, oblivious to the money-lust sweeping the port of Itanos, where hucksters of wines and sweets and sex had begun battling for position in the gritty alleyways alongside the waterfront. Their cries floated through the mist and dissolved among the bells of a dozen boats contesting the central channel of the harbor. Equally frenzied were the preparations going on in the bars and brothels along the wharves, where stomping squads of soldiers were already patrolling in preparation for a week of no-holds-barred carousing.
Even the seabirds seemed to screech more exuberantly this morning as they soared and dipped in search of fish.
This was a big day in faraway Rome... and little Itanos intended to be a full partner in the celebration. It wasn’t often that the world acquired a new master. Hopes were high for this latest Caesar.
A fleet of Roman warships had sailed into port last night, docking around the merchantman that rode low in the water by the third pier. Their crews—held on board till morning to prevent trouble—swarmed over the decks now, shouting their enthusiasm for five days on shore and scrambling down the rope ladders to the dinghies bobbing below.
It was a good time for a fugitive to leave, although this eastern tip of Crete was a long way—in miles and months and memories—from Rome.
Watching the Roman ruckus from the upper deck of the departing Arsinoe, Alexander smoothed his new white wool cloak with the self-confidence of the prosperous merchant he professed to be and wished he could know he was hearing Latin for the last time.
Tempted ashore in hopes of a hot bath and clean clothes, he had just spent two nervous nights in an overcrowded inn three blocks from the water’s edge, happy to share a tiny room with a pair of unwashed muleteers if it meant he could avoid the legionaries occupying the more spacious quarters.
It was comforting to be back aboard the ship that had brought him from the coast north of Athens. Roman naval commanders were used to Greek vessels in these waters. They ignored the Arsinoe... to Alexander’s great relief.
If I never saw another Roman again, that’d be soon enough.
Such a miracle wasn’t likely to happen, of course. There would be as many Romans to elude in Antioch as in Athens or Itanos or any other enslaved city.
The Arsinoe’s bandy-legged Peloponnese captain began shouting orders to his men as they hoisted the anchors and clambered up the high riggings. Alexander turned to watch as first the square sail, then the triangular topsail, unfurled, flapped with all the joy of a sailor on leave, and snapped, white and crisp, in the wind. Movement was instantaneous.
He leaned on the starboard rail, relishing the roll of the waves and the salt-sting of the bracing air. Sailing this way was a pleasure.
The memory of that other sea voyage he had made a decade earlier—chained to the floor in the stinking bowels of a prison ship bound for Rome—was another advocate of caution. Prisons were closely linked to Romans in his mind. He had to avoid the latter to avoid the former.
Once the Arsinoe had cleared the other ships in the harbor, the skipper joined his only passenger at the railing.
“Sorry you’re not staying around for the fun?” Captain Andros said in Greek, his brown face crinkling around the eyes. “Every soldier and sailor and strumpet in town will be down on the waterfront tonight.”
“And miss a ride on the best ship sailing the Aegean? Wouldn’t think of it! Besides, my business won’t wait. I’ve come too far to get my hands on those stones to let someone beat me to them.”
“Well, if they’re half as nice as that ruby you showed me in Eretria, I don’t doubt you’re onto a good thing.”
“They’ll be good. My contact in Antioch knows what sells in Rome.” Alexander peered into the fog. “Still say we’ll make port by next week?”
“Guaranteed. Once we clear the islands, the rest of the run’s easy. One quick stopover in Cyprus and we’re there. You do business in Rome?”
“I’ve spent some time there.”
Too much time there.
“Actually, my partner is better at dealing with Romans.”
“You’re not crazy about Romans?” Captain Andros grinned.
“I prefer to leave them to him. I’m better at sniffing out the gems.”
There was a crash in the under deck of the ship. Andros hurried to the ladder and disappeared into the hold.
Alexander turned to watch the port fade into the mist.
So, it’s almost over.
It had been a difficult journey.
First, the winter... an arduous trek on foot for three unarmed, poorly clad, easily identifiable, runaway slaves. They had
slipped away that chaotic December night—with nothing but Theodosia’s pouch and the clothes they were wearing—and followed the Mignone River past the very spot where Theodosia and her filly had fallen over the cliff, and on through the densely wooded Tolfa Mountains.
For two weeks, they headed north across the snow-covered Apennines, skirting the towns and crossing the roads at night to avoid challenge. They became proficient at trapping rabbits for food and fur, but finding dry wood for fires was harder. Exposure took a toll on their strength.
Twenty days into the escape, Lycos developed chills and a fever. Alexander and Stefan took turns bundling him under their tunics, holding him close to their chests for warmth. It was a chore neither man resented, but it did slow them down, so it wasn’t hard to decide to risk a week in an abandoned mountain cottage, nursing Lycos and their blistered feet.
The hut proved to be a treasure trove of firewood and old blankets, from which they fashioned capes and wraps for their hands, feet, and legs.
When Lycos was better, they reluctantly left the cottage, resisting the temptation to spend the rest of the winter there.
Begging at farms and trading two of Theodosia’s little serpent-eye rubies in village markets for food, clothing, and sandals, they reached the northeast coast of Italy by mid March. Just outside Altinum, a brown-spotted hound bit Stefan’s left hand when he petted it. In compensation, the dog’s owners took in the bedraggled trio and provided food and a dry barn for a second restorative week.
After that—with spring in the air—the trip over the cap of the Adriatic seemed easy. At Pola, they traded the last three little rubies for passages on a south-bound fishing boat to the island of Paxos. Once ashore on the craggy western shore of Epirus—surrounded by clumps of yellow toadflax and delicate white sea squill—Alexander and Lycos wept and danced and shouted for joy. They had made it home, to Greece.
Then the summer... on foot across the mountains of Thessaly toward the coast, carefully shunning any place where Romans might spot them.
Near Eretria, on the long island of Euboea, drooping from eight months of foot travel, they found shelter in the home of a prosperous farmer who accepted their strange story of shipwreck and pirates and storms at sea without betraying the doubts he must have harbored.