by Martha Marks
It’s hopeless. Nobody will ever give me the proof I need.
Glancing around, she identified the building as the Temple of Jupiter Stator... established eight centuries earlier in fulfillment of a vow made by Romulus at a moment of apparent defeat by the Sabines. Romulus had managed to turn that defeat into victory, but Theodosia saw little chance of such a turnabout for herself.
Desperate for a place to rest, she stood and sidled along the perimeter wall to a gate that led into a quiet garden at the rear of the temple. Well-tended roses in orange and yellow raised their heads as if to defy the increasingly dark sky, but they did nothing to cheer the woman who limped past them. Theodosia lowered herself onto a long bench in a secluded spot behind the flowerbeds and gave in to her tears.
All last night—her second sleepless night in a row—she had thought of nothing but meeting with ben Judah. Nothing else had mattered as she lay awake in the women’s attic. Not being attacked twice on the street. Not her cut and swollen lip. Not the scolding she received when she came in late. Not even the prospect of the competition that would take place tonight. Nothing mattered now except identifying the owner of that ruby-serpent ring and the plump hand she had bitten. Surely that was all she would need to expose Otho and his fellow thugs.
She sat in the garden as the morning sky grew black.
Better get back before the downpour.
But still she stayed. Fat drops began to shake the roses and spatter on the ground around her. Savoring the unaccustomed freedom, Theodosia stretched out on the bench, closed her eyes and lifted her face to the warm spring rain as her hair and tunic went from damp to wet to soaked.
After a while, she turned on her side, cradled her head in her arms, and—as if blessed by some magical temple spirit—fell into a deep, restorative sleep.
<><><>
She awoke to footsteps on the gravel walk.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you. For hours.”
Theodosia opened her eyes and gasped at sight of Joseph, the goldsmith’s young clerk. It was still raining, and he was as drenched as she.
“Reuben will tell you what you want to know.”
<><><>
Reuben ben Judah nodded as Theodosia stood dripping just inside the door of his shop. Another clerk offered towels to her and Joseph.
“This is undoubtedly the most foolish thing I’ve ever done,” ben Judah said as Theodosia blotted water from her tunic and hair, “but I fear God too much to refuse to help you.”
He led her to his workroom, where a series of parchment sheets lay on the table.
Theodosia stared at the drawings in silence. There were sketches of those serving pieces at her villa—each one with that familiar ruby-serpent motif—as well as a ring in the same design. She took the drawing of the ring and studied it at length.
Unlike the other sketches, the only specification here was that the ring was to be of gold. No notation as to the sort of stone to be set into the serpent’s mouth.
Even so, Theodosia’s skin began to crawl as she read the writing at the bottom of the page: “Ring commissioned and paid in advance by Marcus Salvius Otho. Deliver when completed to Gaius Terentius Varro.”
The page bore two seals. The upper one was Otho’s; the lower one the Varro seal acknowledging receipt of goods. Alongside it was the date of Gaius’ death.
“May I have this?”
“To take to the Praetorians?”
“No! I mean to present my case to the emperor himself.”
Ben Judah ran his fingers through his hair.
“It’s too dangerous. We’ll both be put to death.”
“I don’t think so. See—” She groped for convincing words. “I know Nero. He’s a fair man, and Gaius was his friend. The emperor knows now that I’m innocent. It’s because of him that I’m out of the Carcer Tullianus. I believe he’ll do whatever he can to see the real murderers brought to justice.”
“And you can prove who they are?”
“With this and some testimony that’s pledged to me... yes. But I need to document the gem you set into that ring. Do you remember?”
“Oh, I’ll never forget that.” Ben Judah took the sketch, jotted a notation on it, and returned it to her. “It was the stone that held things up. Must have taken me eight months to get it.”
“Why? What was so special about it?”
“The color—blood red—and the size. Your brother refused three or four others before my suppliers found the one he finally accepted. Tribune Otho was disgusted when he discovered he’d have to pay so much more. He said his father would disinherit him if he ever learned how much money he’d wasted on gifts to Gaius Terentius Varro.”
Ben Judah shook his head, as if it still amazed him.
“I set the biggest ruby I’ve ever seen in my life into that ring!”
<><><>
The banquet hall glowed with hundreds of lamps, but the perfumed oil that fueled their flames had long since lost its duel with the aromatic dishes on their golden platters. Gigantic vases of cobalt-blue glass—overflowing with purple and gold lilies—set off the ten trios of couches where the emperor and his eighty-nine guests had been lounging for over three hours.
Playing in one corner, the palace musicians were occasionally drowned out by thunder. An aggressive squadron of belly dancers had left the open area in the center. Around the room, restless guests stirred to ease their overburdened stomachs... or maybe just impatient for the next phase of the entertainment.
Uncomfortable in the mass of slaves awaiting their masters in the kitchen, Theodosia had wandered past the men hauling wine out of the storage cubicles and made her way to one end of the banquet hall, where she was now standing in front of the purple draperies.
Her discussions with Nizzo and Ruben ben Judah, that restful sleep in the temple garden, a warm-up hour on her cithara, and a cup of wine had combined to relax her and build her confidence. She would play and sing like a demon tonight, win the newly announced prize of freedom, and then, in her moment of triumph, present her case to Nero.
Surely she could convince him, given Nizzo’s promise to tell the truth and ben Judah’s ring sketch, which was now folded and waiting inside her tunic. Somewhere out there—on one of those overfed patrician fingers—was an equally oversize ruby-serpent ring that would incriminate its unwary owner. And even if no one were wearing that particular ring tonight, others would remember seeing it.
A few well-put questions to Otho—Theodosia already had them worked out in her head—and the truth would be plain to everyone in the hall. Nero would have no choice but to restore her name and property.
I’ll make Flavia regret she dreamed up this competition!
Hope for justice had done a great deal to restore Theodosia’s spirits. Scopan had insisted that she put on that hideous radish-red tunic again, but the freedwoman had provided a finer comb, so now her hair looked as good as it could after years of sickness and neglect. Even her cut lip felt better tonight. She had worried that the swelling might interfere with her singing, but that hour of practice had eased her mind.
And right before she left the attic—following some compulsion she did not understand but knew she had to obey—she had torn a strip from her shawl, wrapped it around her right thigh to create a smooth, wide band, and slipped Phoebe’s knife up into it, on the inside of her leg.
The weapon lay there now, snug and invisible under her tunic... a comforting presence in this risky venture she was about to undertake.
Occasionally, looking into the banquet hall, she recognized one or another of the guests heading for the toilet. She spotted Sergius Silus that way, and by watching his return, picked out Flavia near the center of the room. Cornelius Sulla was there with his wife, Annia. So was Marcia, the woman who had tried to buy Stefan four summers ago.
Theodosia’s heart almost stopped when she saw Titus... wearing a scarlet uniform that looked splendidly out of place among the togas of the other men. He entered the ha
ll on the opposite side and waved to someone across the room. Theodosia pulled her eyes away from him in time to see Vespasian wave back.
Juno... every Roman I know is here tonight. What a chance to present my evidence!
As at the dinner two nights earlier, Otho was positioned next to the head table, with only the gold-and-pearl-wrapped Poppaea Sabina between him and Nero. The Empress Octavia, on her husband’s other side, looked every bit as bored as before.
Scopan bounded into the center of the hall and bowed with an exaggerated flourish. Theodosia cocked her head to listen.
“Illustrious Romans... our featured entertainment will be among the most memorable ever presented in this imperial capital. Perhaps even worthy,” Scopan made another obeisance to Nero, “to be heard by the greatest poet and musician the world has ever known.”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“Exalted nobles... it is my pleasure to present a competition of outstanding talent: four superb musicians and an equal number of poets divinely inspired by the muse. The poets are all Greeks, of course: free men who will be generously rewarded for their participation, as will those who discovered them and brought them here for your enjoyment. But the musicians come from your own great households. I beg your assistance in selecting for freedom the one talented slave who comes closest to exemplifying the sublime gifts of our beloved emperor.”
The hyperbole was continuing, but Theodosia ducked behind the curtain, pressing her hand across her mouth to restrain the laughter that would destroy any hope of carrying out her plan. A few moments later, she made her way through the labyrinthine corridors to the kitchen.
But, try as she might, she couldn’t rid her mind of Scopan’s excessive adjectives.
Who are the other outstanding musicians? The divinely inspired poets?
All Scopan had said was that they were sponsored by Nero’s friends, which had the potential to make the evening explode with court rivalry.
No doubt that’s part of the appeal of this event.
According to Otho, the idea of a competition had been Flavia’s.
That little social climber would do anything to ingratiate herself with Nero.
But Theodosia smiled to herself. For some reason that she didn’t understand, Theodosia had ended up under Otho’s sponsorship, which would make exposing him doubly satisfying.
And I bet Flavia’s having a fit right now, since there’s a chance I might go free. She’s got to know I’ll fight to get my home back.
<><><>
In the kitchen, Scopan’s assistant was calling for the musicians, and Theodosia presented herself.
After they entered the great hall, Scopan began explaining the rules of the competition. First, the musicians would perform numbers of their own choosing, to let the emperor’s guests hear how they sounded when familiar with their material. Then each one would be given eight poems—two by each poet—from which they were to select four that would serve as the bases for their improvisations. Finally, each couch of three guests would make its choice.
The musician with the most of the thirty votes, Scopan announced with drama, would be set free by the grace of His Majesty. Whoever sponsored the winner would be granted a special imperial favor of his choosing.
So, that’s why Otho’s sponsoring me. To put Nero on the spot and win some favor he wouldn’t be able to get otherwise. What fun it’s going to be to turn the tables on him. Otho and his fellow thugs will be the ones on the spot tonight, not Nero.
Theodosia watched as the poets were introduced.
A rumble of admiration swept the room as Marcia presented the handsome, athletic-looking Greek at her side.
An elderly senator rose to announce the name of the bearded Greek who accompanied him. Both poet and sponsor had the wizened look of philosophers.
Another sponsor was a woman whom Theodosia didn’t recognize. Her Greek was younger than the others and taller, too, though not so good looking as Marcia’s.
And—of course!—Flavia had her own Greek to show off... a shy-looking fellow with a beard who kept his eyes lowered and, when introduced, only rose half-way from his place beside her on the couch.
It was a given that all the poets were Greeks. Even the proudest Romans readily admitted that they had yet to produce a poet the equal of a moderately gifted Greek... Scopan’s effusive praise of Nero notwithstanding.
Next came introductions of the slave musicians. There were two men and two women, so Scopan had paired them as couples for the procession.
The other woman, who carried no instrument, was a tall, willowy German with a radiant smile and waist-long yellow hair that caught the glow of every lamp. Her escort, a brawny Numibian with a drum strapped to his bare ebony torso, made for the sort of amusing color contrast that the Romans always enjoyed.
Theodosia knew that she—with her old-fashioned cithara and stiff, side-swinging gait—and the hollow-chested Greek pipe player she was standing beside would look pathetic in comparison.
Scopan announced their names as each pair entered. The crowd roared its approval of the German and the Numibian, but at Theodosia’s name the roar subsided, replaced by a wave of murmurs. She held her head high as ninety necks stretched to look at her... and managed to avoid Titus’ eyes as she passed his couch near the door.
They went to the center clearing, where they sat on large white cushions. A stool stood in the middle, a blessedly long way from the purple mass that was Nero. Their order of performance was established as the German, the Numibian, Theodosia, and the Greek.
The blonde Venus bowed in every direction and, spurning the stool, sauntered sensuously toward Nero’s table. Her voice had a wild, barbaric edge as she sang a haunting ballad in her native tongue. Although few of the Romans could have understood it, they responded with such vigorous applause that Theodosia’s confidence quickly began to fade.
The Numibian took the stool, unstrapped his drum, bent over it, and began a soft beat, steady and lovely, which rose to a loud pounding that rivaled the thunder outside. Abruptly, it stopped. And then his song began... with an identical soft, sobbing rhythm in his voice that swelled until it, too, threatened to shake loose the roof tiles.
There was an uncertain silence when the Numibian finished. But soon the applause came, even more appreciative than for the German. Theodosia took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and said a quick prayer to Juno.
Unable to rise easily from the low cushion, she laid the cithara down, braced herself on her hands and slowly stood, supported only by her right leg. The Greek piper handed her the instrument, which she accepted with gratitude... conscious of the whispers all around.
Making an effort to swing her left leg as little as possible, she moved to the stool. She bowed to Nero, sat as gracefully as she could, and cradled her cithara in her lap, trying not to think of the once-friendly eyes now reveling in her shame.
She had planned to play one of the traditional Greek hymns that Phoebe had taught her, but after hearing her competitors, she knew that wouldn’t be exciting enough. She made a quick decision to change to a bawdy popular tune, “My Faithless Sailor from Ostia,” which everyone would know and could join her in singing.
But almost as soon as she began, she knew the switch was a mistake. She had never liked that song, so she hadn’t practiced it much in the Carcer Tullianus. Her fingers missed some notes. Her voice sounded thin. She felt her face turning the same ugly red as her tunic. When at last she finished, half-hearted clapping and louder murmurs accompanied her back to her cushion.
Theodosia hardly heard the Greek piper as she slumped over her cithara, eyes squeezed shut.
It’s lost. Hopeless. No chance now to win my freedom or present the evidence I struggled so hard to get.
She would lose the competition and disappear into Nero’s kitchens or laundry until someday, in a fit of economy, they’d sell her to someone else. As she raised her hands to applaud the piper’s performance, an edge of ben Judah’s document—tucke
d into the front of her tunic—pricked her breast... as if to taunt her.
Beloved Juno, let this be finished soon!
Scopan came forward and, with all the manners of a courtier, ushered the luminous German back to the center. The poets had been dining with their sponsors at tables along both sides of the clearing. Scopan collected two sheets from each and handed them to the blonde with instructions to improvise a performance of four of the eight poems. But she hesitated so long—stared at the pages so long—that at last Nero rolled onto his stomach and glared at her.
“What’s the matter?”
The woman looked at him with a stricken expression.
“Sire, I not—” she said in broken Latin, “I not read this!”
“Jupiter’s shit! Who sponsored this woman?”
A doughy-faced patrician rose from a nearby table.
“I did, Sire. The girl is mine.”
“The rules were announced in advance,” Nero said. “The contestants must be able to read the poems they are given.”
“I only knew the palace desired superlative talent, Sire.”
“You only knew that I would grant a favor to whoever sponsored the winner. Do you deny it, Numicius Priscus?”
“No, Sire, but... your freedman made her perform when I brought her in. He said he found her acceptable, so I assumed she fulfilled the requirements.”
Scopan—all defensively raised shoulders, palms, and elbows—came forward to explain.
“The girl sings wonderfully well, Sire, as Your Majesty has heard. It is not her fault she does not read Greek.”
“Nonsense. You knew we were using Greek poets. You should have made sure she could read what those poets had written.”
“Perhaps the girl reads Latin,” Scopan said. “There are among this illustrious group any number of fine poets. Your Majesty included, of course. We could certainly find a few poems in Latin for her to interpret.”