by Martha Marks
“I can’t let you go back there alone. Not after all we’ve been through together.” He tossed the stick away and grasped a branch overhead. “Life is good here. Freedom’s every bit as sweet as I thought it would be. I finally got paid work and a woman who ain’t so complicated. But—”
“Stefan, you mustn’t think of—”
“When you go to Rome, I’m—”
“You’ve got a good future here if you—”
“I’m going back with you!”
“What for?”
“I can’t sit by and watch you get crucified. I can take care of you.”
“It would help more knowing you’re here taking care of those boys.”
“Damn you, Alexander, don’t argue!” Stefan gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Damn me, too, for a fool, but I can’t help it. Iocaste’s warm and lots of fun, but Theodosia’s still the only woman... After all that’s happened, wouldn’t you think I’d finally stop loving her?”
<><><>
Theodosia marked her twenty-second birthday the same way she had marked her twentieth and her twenty-first... sick and cold and hungry, but still alive and mostly sane, although she often wondered how long either would last. Then, a couple of months later, came new reason to hope.
Heightened bird noises and warmer air from the fissure overhead hinted it was spring... her third spring in the Carcer Tullianus.
She was exercising her stiff legs one morning, continuing her paces around the cell. Her meal had been delivered; there would be no more interruptions today.
All of a sudden, she heard activity in the hall. Feet stamping to a halt. The smell of pitch. The rasp of the bolt. The door swung open, and into her cell strode a guard. In one hand he carried a torch, in the other a cithara.
“You’re Theodosia, daughter of Aulus Terentius Varro?”
Theodosia blinked. It was the first time anyone had spoken to her in almost two years.
“I used to be.”
“I’m to give this to you. You’re to practice.”
He shoved the instrument into her hand and was gone.
Theodosia leaned against the wall, pressing the cithara to her breast. Slowly, she turned it over. Her fingers moved to the lower curve and—disbelieving—ran back and forth in the long gouge she’d made as a girl when she dropped it against a bench.
My own!
She slid down the wall, cradling the beloved piece of wood, and plucked the strings as tears overflowed her eyes.
Practice? I’ll play all day! Every day!
Unaccustomed to new thoughts, her mind strained at the questions racing through it like water in a mountain stream.
Who found my cithara?
Where was it?
How would they know it was mine?
Who could have enough influence to smuggle it in?
Who would take the risk?
And finally, the question that kept rising to the surface when all the others had washed away.
Why?
<><><>
Theodosia couldn’t tell if it was the same guard who came to fetch her out, and she didn’t care. It was June. The morning sun shone warm on her face. Sweet spring air filled her lungs. And she walked out of the Carcer Tullianus.
The soldiers who accompanied her refused to adjust to her lopsided, barefoot gait; she struggled to keep up. But still, it was a joyful journey that she made through the streets of Rome, swinging her rigid left leg to the outside and clutching her cithara with both hands.
People stared as she passed. Theodosia just smiled back. She knew she was a strange sight... grimy, gaunt, ragged, stiff, and smiling.
Even before they rounded the last bend of the road that ascended the Palatine Hill, she knew they were taking her to Nero’s palace.
Haven or hell for me?
The question came and went, replaced by an overwhelming thought.
I’m free!
<><><>
The overseer looked her up and down with distaste and passed her on to a trio of silent, sullen women. The bath they gave her bore no resemblance to any she had ever taken before. They stripped her and immediately burned her tattered tunic; then they submerged her in a tub of strong, acrid liquid and scrubbed her scalp with pitiless fingers. When she surfaced, she saw hundreds of lice and other creatures floating around her.
Finally—after another submersion in a fresh tub of the acrid liquid, another rough scrubbing, and a soak in a tub filled with hot water—the women oiled, scraped, and dried her, cut her hair, and handed her a plain, off-white tunic, sandals, and a shawl. After she had dressed, they led her—still not speaking—through a maze of corridors to the kitchen.
It was a vast room with huge beams and enough tables and stools for hundreds of people. Theodosia sat where she was told, trembling at the thought of food. She was watching—and being watched by—slaves at other tables when she caught the flash of a green tunic approaching her.
“Hello, miss.”
Amazed at the honorific, Theodosia looked up. It was Marcipor.
<><><>
“You’re an imperial slave, but they finally decided you weren’t guilty of murder.”
Marcipor sat across the table as Theodosia gulped the hard-cooked eggs, greasy sausage, and brown bread that a cook had set before her. It was a slave’s meal, but still...
She no longer itched.
She smelled something other than sewer gases.
She was sitting at a real table, eating real food with a real spoon, wearing sandals and a clean, untorn tunic.
If this is a slave’s life, I’ll take it.
“It all tastes so good!”
Her hand shook as she reached for the cup of vinegary wine.
“I imagine it does. You’ve been in the Carcer Tullianus all this time?”
Theodosia nodded.
“Tell me,” she whispered, glancing cautiously around the room, “did anyone get away from the villa?”
“My lord Otho hauled me off the day the soldiers arrived. Alexander, Stefan, and Lycos ran away at Saturnalia. I never heard if they were caught.” He lowered his voice. “I knew I was in trouble even before the senator got there. The moment I saw Centurion Manlius, I knew it.”
“You knew Manlius before then?”
“His family lives next door to my lord Otho’s. They were friends as boys. I used to wish I belonged to him. He’s a better sort.”
“Wish I had such fond memories of him. What’re you doing here?”
“My master’s visiting the emperor. He always brings a horde of us along so people in the street can see how important he is.”
“How’ve things been for you?”
Marcipor’s shrug was noncommittal.
“I’m sorry,” Theodosia said. “I promised you were safe from him. Has Otho forgiven you for refusing to spy on me?”
“He’ll never forgive me for that.”
Neither spoke for a time.
“Whatever happened to Lucilla?”
“She died. Under torture. My lord Otho told me. He knew I was sweet on her, so he made it into a big joke.”
Theodosia wanted to feel sorrow for Lucilla, but after so long she found herself incapable of it.
“Do you know what’s in store for me? Why they let me out?”
Marcipor shook his head and shrugged again.
“What happened to my villa?”
“You didn’t hear? The lady Flavia lives there now.”
“Flavia?”
“Her husband bought it a couple of months after they married. She’s there a lot, I understand, although I see her around here quite often. Not sure if she recognizes me. She never acknowledges me.”
Flavia in my villa? That so-called “friend” always wanted my villa. Made no secret of it. Talked about it all the time.
Theodosia experienced a rush of hatred as powerful as any emotion she had ever known.
So... Sergius Silus did help Claudius figure out how to get his hands on my older slaves. Forcing t
hem to testify was the key to giving his precious Flavia her heart’s desire.
“It’s a shame, you know,” Marcipor went on. “After being married for several years, the lady Flavia still has no children. And I hear she wants them badly.”
So... all this time—while I was praying my friends would save me—they’ve been merrily helping themselves to what was mine. And there’s no way to get back at them except...
Theodosia’s hatred changed instantly to delicious, malicious joy.
Praise Juno, who found a way to avenge me! Flavia is barren!
<><><>
Novelty. Variety. That was what they wanted. Nero was tired of his musicians, said Scopan, the pompous freedman who scheduled entertainment for the palace. Somehow, the master of the world had remembered a young singer he’d met long ago, learned she was in prison, and ordered her released to serve at his pleasure.
Theodosia stood before Scopan’s desk, chafing under his condescension but grateful to have been remembered by someone. Right now, she would cheerfully sing and play and scrub floors and serve Nero’s table and do almost anything else that would keep her out of the Carcer Tullianus.
“You’re to perform tonight,” Scopan said. “A small party... just His Majesty and a few friends. Meanwhile, Senator Marcus Salvius Otho commands your presence in the emperor’s salon. The page outside will take you there. Don’t keep the senator waiting.”
<><><>
Theodosia followed the liveried slave through a network of passageways to the most elegant chamber she had ever seen. Frescoed walls of purple and gold soared into a gilded dome. Fine Greek statues stood guard around the perimeter, and in the center an enormous fish of hammered gold spouted purple-tinted water into a golden pond. The white marble furniture was draped and cushioned with such opulence that someone raised with ordinary wealth would feel out of place. Even if Theodosia hadn’t spent the last thirty months in a cave cell, the splendor of this room would have overwhelmed her.
“Theodosia.”
Her eyes followed the voice to her right, where Otho lay sprawled on a couch beside a statue of Zeus. He had put on weight, and though he wore the toga of a senator, his face had the look of a sated cat.
Same old Otho. Lounging around the emperor’s house as he once lounged around mine.
“I see you’re walking again,” he said.
“Yes.”
I’ll be as civil as he gives me cause to be. Maybe he played some part in getting me out of the Carcer Tullianus.
“You look every bit as bad as I expected.”
Theodosia felt herself blush and hated it.
“This is outstanding wine.” Otho lifted his golden goblet. “The finest product of the emperor’s vineyards. Formerly the Varro vineyards.”
For an instant, Theodosia thought she would knock the cup from his manicured hand and the smile from his smooth, smug face.
“Lucius Sergius Silus,” Otho went on, “bought your villa and household slaves. Someone else owns your hovel in the Subura. Gaius’ mansion sold fast, too, once the question of your identity was resolved.”
“Who did they decide I am?”
“The bastard daughter of Aulus Terentius Varro by his Greek slave girl. Just as Nizzo said.”
I was right. It was Nizzo who destroyed me.
“Since Gaius’ death ended the Terentius Varro line, everything he owned reverted to the state... including you. Came at a good time, too, not long before the start of Nero’s reign. Selling off the residential properties gave him quick cash, not to mention that amazing pile of gems and gold they found in Gaius’ strongbox.”
My strongbox.
“Nero had great fun selecting the jewels he’d keep for himself. And, of course, income from the farm, mines, and quarries provides steady funding for the circuses that make him so popular.”
“And the slaves at the villa?”
“Still there. All but Marcipor and those who died or got away.”
Otho looked up abruptly—as if hoping to catch a betraying reaction—but Theodosia held her face steady.
They got away! He would have expressed it differently if they were captured later.
“Who got away?”
“That arrogant Greek. What was his name?”
“Alexander.”
So... it worked!
“That’s it. Well, the coward ran away. Somehow, he managed to steal a bunch of rubies from the silverware; then he made off with a child and that stable hand you liked to fuck.”
Gloating inside, Theodosia refused to flinch.
“I’m glad they got away.”
“I bet you are.”
She smiled at that.
Let him wonder if I helped them.
“You said somebody bought my house in the Subura?”
“Nizzo. Of course, what he really wanted was your farm.”
“I knew that. How did you?”
Otho took another swallow of wine.
“I bet you’re wondering how you happened to get out of your cozy little hole by the sewer. And why they kept you alive there all those years.”
Theodosia was curious but refused to ask. She was more interested in Nizzo, anyway.
“How did you know Nizzo wanted my farm?”
Otho rose and looked down into her eyes, bringing memories of that same conceited face glowering over her as she lay in bed, with Alexander fuming a few steps away.
“I’ll tell you how you got out. It started a while ago at a little dinner party for Nero’s friends. He’s quite an artist, you know—even entertains us himself sometimes—but he gets bored fast and needs lots of variety. Always has. So, lately Scopan’s been beating the bushes, finding dancers, poets, and musicians under all sorts of odd rocks.”
“Such as the Carcer Tullianus?”
The sardonic lips curled up.
“Someone mentioned your name at the dinner that night. Quite out of the blue. Remembered your curious knack for setting poems to music, even ones you’d never seen before.”
“Who?”
“We decided it might be fun to set up a competition, to see how you and a few others could handle the pressure when there was something really desirable at stake.”
“Who mentioned me?”
“Nero was interested but not quite ready to let a convicted murderer go free.”
“Tell me who mentioned me to the emperor!”
Otho smiled indulgently and sipped his wine.
“Your old friend Flavia Domitilla, I think it was.”
Fury flashed through Theodosia’s body once more.
Of course! She’s got my house and my servants. My pergola. What’s left for her to enjoy but my total humiliation?
“Well,” Otho’s too-jolly voice went on, “Nero couldn’t just turn a killer loose, could he? So I—out of love for my emperor—set out to prove you innocent of Gaius’ death.”
“I am innocent!”
“So we all know now.”
“You knew it all along. Why didn’t you prove it thirty months ago?”
Otho smiled again, drained his cup, and snapped his fingers.
A serving boy came running from behind a curtain, refilled the cup from a pitcher on the table, and returned to his hiding place.
He commands Nero’s servants as casually as he once commanded mine.
“Who provided the evidence against me in the first place?” Theodosia demanded in a whisper, aware that there might be someone else besides the slave boy behind the curtain.
“The same clever fellow who discovered new evidence last week.”
“Who?”
“Who discovered the new evidence? Or the old?”
“Both, damn you!”
“Why... I did, of course!” A laugh gurgled up from Otho’s throat. “Don’t believe me? Poor little Theo... always so gullible before. Now she really doesn’t know what to believe.”
“What—exactly!—was this ‘evidence’ you found to implicate me in Gaius’ murder?”
>
“Ho! Such a lofty tone! I would have thought you learned something about humility in the famous pleasure halls of the Carcer Tullianus.”
“Well, it’s clear you want to tell me. Otherwise you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Oh, it wasn’t hard to come up with evidence. Not when the feeble emperor’s heir is your best friend. Not when the Senate is clamoring to solve the murder of a fellow patrician. Not when your prime suspect is a Greek-whore slave masquerading as a Roman heiress.”
“Not when you’ve spent the better part of a year bribing the heiress’ maidservant.”
“Just turn up a bit of evidence, some damning testimony, and you’ve got the matter settled.”
“So... what was this ‘evidence’ you turned up?”
Otho strolled back to his couch and stretched out again.
“A slave of mine. Nervous fellow named Calchas. You may remember him. He was always with me whenever I visited your... what was then believed to be your villa. One day, he came to me with a strange story. Right after we’d been there that last time. When you were lying in bed, remember? Calchas said he’d heard something I should know about. A slave... your maid, I believe—”
“Lucilla? The one you bribed?”
“Calchas said she told him that you forced her to recruit street thugs to murder your brother. Said you threatened to kill her if she told anyone.”
Theodosia stared at the smug figure sprawled on the couch and wondered if she wasn’t still in the Carcer Tullianus, sleeping on that slimy rock, dreaming all of this.
“That’s ludicrous. A totally ludicrous, made-up story. But even if it were true,” she said, recalling the sequence of events, “Lucilla couldn’t have talked with Calchas or anyone else at that time. I had her locked in a storage room for trying to poison Titus. On your behalf,” she added emphatically. “I could have proved my innocence back then, if I’d ever been given a chance.”
“But your girl later confessed—gave all sorts of convincing details—and when my Calchas corroborated everything she said—”