by Martha Marks
“Do you read Latin, girl?” Nero’s tone was sharp.
“I not read at all, Sire.”
“She is disqualified. Take her away.”
Nero drank deeply of his wine as Scopan led the weeping German to the door. When the room was still again, Nero nodded toward the bare-chested Numibian.
“Who sponsored that fellow?”
“Niger is mine, Sire,” said a senator sharing a table with Titus, “and I’m happy to say that he does read Greek. He’s an educated man as well as my valet. He was with me in Athens for many years. I can assure Your Majesty that he is an accomplished interpreter.”
“Excellent! And the other two?”
“My slave, Pylades, is a native Greek, Sire.” This time the speaker was a woman on a couch behind Theodosia. “He is a poet, too, and an actor. We have tested him with poetry he has never seen before. I think Your Majesty will be pleased.”
Otho rose now. One corner of his mouth curled upward as he pointed to Theodosia.
“Sire, the girl I am sponsoring speaks, reads, writes, and sings in both Greek and Latin. She is a half-breed, as you know.”
Theodosia winced, but Nero looked satisfied.
“Then we still have three fine contenders. Proceed with the competition.”
Scopan passed the German woman’s poems to the Numibian, who took a few moments to read the one on the top of the stack, then handed the sheet to a page assigned to hold it before him, and—almost without hesitation—began to beat his drum.
The rhythm was gentle now, for Niger had picked a love poem. Theodosia listened with interest. This combination of voice and drum was something she had never heard before. Despite her growing despair, she found herself tapping her fingers to the unusual rhythm that Niger had created. He did equally well with the other three poems. All were different in subject and style, which showed he was picking one from each poet. There was something of the jungle in his music, something free-spirited and soaring that seemed incongruous in such a setting.
The audience erupted in applause after his fourth song.
It was supposed to be Theodosia’s turn next, but when Scopan came to get her, she asked if she might go last.
“That is impossible,” he said.
“Please! I can’t play just now.”
Scopan sighed and turned to face the head table.
“The slave Theodosia has asked to perform last, Sire,” he said. “Is that permissible?”
Nero glanced at Otho.
“Do you suppose your girl is afraid?”
“Timid, Sire,” Otho said, his voice sticky with condescension. “She has been in isolation for a long time. I beg your indulgence for her.”
Nero shrugged and nodded, so Scopan moved on to Pylades, who stepped eagerly to the stool.
His performance was dramatic and confident, as befit an actor and a Greek. Somehow, he managed to convert each poem he was given into a sort of dialogue, with unique characters. He alternately explicated the poem, spoke the various characters’ lines, and played his instrument, changing to a different pipe theme whenever he changed the speaker. Theodosia found it less appealing than the Numibian’s interpretations, but it was clear the audience was delighted. They laughed often and applauded loudly when he finished.
There was no escape now. Theodosia limped to the stool as Scopan made the round of the poets. She accepted the eight poems he handed her and flipped through them nervously, barely able to focus her eyes.
The one she chose first was the most legibly written of the batch and contained a repeated verse at the end of each stanza that she could use as a chorus, as she had always liked to do.
Then, her head bowed over the cithara, she concentrated on picking out a tune to fit. As soon as she began to sing, she relaxed. Improvising was easy if she liked the poem, and this was no frivolous ditty about a lovesick girl and a philandering sailor.
This poem was a work of art, as right for her voice as if it had been written just for her. The words felt soft on her tongue; the intricate pattern was structured in a way that made it easy to sing. The final interlocking rhyme of every other line echoed the intermediate rhyme of the line before it. The meter was perfect, so once she found her melody, it was almost as if the cithara were playing by itself.
But what Theodosia liked most about this poem was its story... the poignant tale of a mythic hero and his lady—separated by years and ruthless, god-like forces—reunited at midnight in some secret hiding place known only to them.
It was the repeating verse—“And she met her lover where the dead heroes lay”—that Theodosia found most moving. She closed her eyes each time she came to that line, and when her voice trailed off at the end, the wave of applause that washed over her assured her that others had been moved, too.
I have a chance!
Reanimated, she selected two other poems in different styles; they, too, came easily to her lips and her cithara. The fire returned to her fingers. The spunk was back in her spirit.
Pausing at the end of her third song, she glanced at the nine people around the head table. Otho, she noted, was beaming.
He’s winning, too. Wonder what favor he intends to ask of Nero?
For her last song, she pulled out the other sheet in the same clear handwriting as the first poem. There was something familiar about this one, but she couldn’t take time to decide what it was.
Four lines into the song, however, her heart began to pound.
I know this poem!
A tingle crept up from the base of her spine.
I’ve sung it before!
Lightly fingering a simple cadence that would allow her to stall between stanzas, she raised her eyes and let them roam the room.
Let them pick out faces in the crowd.
Let them settle for a moment on the bearded poet lounging between Flavia Domitilla and Sergius Silus.
The deep-set eyes met hers then, and though there was no expression on the Greek’s face, a silent surge of energy and emotion swept between them.
Theodosia’s eyes dropped to the cithara, but her heart picked up the rhythm of her song, and she finished the remaining stanzas with the wildest burst of joy she had ever known in her life.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Theodosia hadn’t recognized him yet.
That’s good. Don’t want to rattle her.
Later, of course, she would have to realize he was there or the plan wouldn’t work.
As for Alexander, if they hadn’t announced Theodosia’s name, he might not have known who she was. A while ago, he’d caught a glimpse of that same haggard woman in red standing in the corner, half hidden by the curtains… and didn’t identify her.
Sweet gods of Greece, was that Theodosia?
Emaciated and colorless except for a red welt on her lip and the deep shadows that ringed her eyes, she had aged twenty years. But Alexander remembered his own three miserable months in a Roman prison.
What would I have looked like after thirty months?
His memory had harbored other images of Theodosia Varro.
Studying his records that first morning in the library, her radiance in the pool of sunlight undermining her efforts to look stern...
Flirting on the stairs as her emeralds sparkled in the lamplight...
Dashing in from the storm later that night, barefoot, soaked, wearing Alexander’s muddy cloak, with a slave child clinging to her neck...
Racing her filly through the hills, laughing a challenge to the two grown-up slaves who loved her...
Flavia Domitilla had tried to warn him earlier, but sometimes the mind refuses to believe. Now—as Theodosia limped into the hall behind a flamboyant blonde—Flavia shot him a look that urged self-control. It wasn’t necessary. Years of slavery had taught him that.
Hoping to appear disinterested, he pulled his eyes away from Theodosia and gazed around the room for the first time.
He had been nervous all evening—keeping his head down and avoiding eye c
ontact with anyone—but now the enormity of the risk he was taking crashed into his consciousness. On these thirty couches, surrounded by scores of armed Praetorians, lay the master of the Roman Empire, eighty-five patricians, three free Greek poets, and one runaway slave. Without rising, he spotted a dozen men who could expose him. It wasn’t hard to imagine what the lords of the world would do to a slave who had the temerity to thumb his nose at them this way.
Would I have written that first letter to Flavia if I’d known it would lead to this?
Fortunately, nobody was paying attention to him. Flavia had already introduced “her poet” to her friends and family, though she carefully avoided presenting him to Otho. Titus and Vespasian politely shook the hand that so often in the past had poured their wine, then went to seek out their friends, leaving Alexander queasy with relief at their lack of interest.
He had no idea how much Sergius Silus knew. Ostensibly, they hadn’t met until tonight, and still—after hours of dining side by side—Silus showed no sign of recognizing the Greek he had helped Gaius buy in the slave market eleven years before. In this case, the lack of recognition left Alexander more curious than anything else.
Could Flavia possibly pull this off without his knowledge?
The anxiety was the worst of it. At any moment, this masquerade might fall apart, exposing him for what he was and putting both Flavia and her husband—the emperor’s own legal counselor—in great peril. Alexander couldn’t help thinking about what discovery would mean.
Prison, probably, for them. And for me...?
He shut his eyes for a couple of heartbeats.
Still, all was going well. Flavia had done her part flawlessly: planned everything down to the smallest detail—even bribing a Carcer Tullianus guard several months ago, so Theodosia would have enough time to reacquaint herself with her cithara—and laid the foundation for this night so subtly that neither Nero nor Otho suspected he was being manipulated.
The plan seemed sound. If Theodosia won the competition, as Flavia expected, she would win her freedom, too. Flavia had had to convince Nero of the necessity of providing that incentive for the musicians, but now... success meant that Theodosia could leave Rome openly, without being pursued. Accomplishing Flavia’s goal—to get Theodosia legally free—depended on Theodosia’s winning tonight.
It was just as important that Alexander not be around later when Nero presented honoraria to the poets. So, he and Flavia would leave as soon as the competition ended—the excuse was already arranged—and be at the villa by midnight, if the storm didn’t cause too much delay.
Somebody else—Flavia wouldn’t tell Alexander who it was—had agreed to accompany Theodosia to the necropolis near Caere, where Alexander and Stefan had been hiding for weeks. Stefan was still there, impatient to spirit his beloved Theodosia out of Italy.
Of all Flavia’s servants, only Nicanor knew what was happening, and he would gladly lie and kill—or be killed—for Theodosia.
The one thing Flavia hadn’t counted on was Theodosia’s hostility, which had hindered communication. But maybe it was better that she didn’t realize exactly how much was riding on her performance this evening.
Things would be more difficult if Theodosia lost the competition, but some parts of the plan might still work. She would just have to run away, despite Flavia’s efforts to work it out otherwise.
Alexander had buried clues in one of his poems and tried to ensure by the clear way he wrote it that she would pick that particular poem. When she recognized him, she would understand those clues. And he deliberately had included a poem she had sung many times before, to guarantee that she would recognize him.
Nevertheless, it was chancy. If she lost, Theodosia would have to find her way to the necropolis on her own... tough enough even without such bad weather. Not even Flavia had the nerve to help the emperor’s slave run away.
The boat and rowers hired for their escape had to leave the cove at the villa by dawn, when the household slaves would arise and begin their day’s work. There was no time to spare.
Alexander’s hope disintegrated as Theodosia sang her first song. She sounded frail and flat. Her voice quivered. Her fingers fumbled on the strings. She knew dozens of lovely ballads. Why choose something as insipid as “My Faithless Sailor from Ostia”?
He risked a glance at Otho, whose face was stony, then at Flavia. Her expression said it all... the easy route was lost. If Theodosia was going to leave with Stefan and Alexander on that boat tomorrow morning, she’d have to get there by herself.
But then came the German woman’s embarrassment, and the favorite of the crowd was removed. Alexander shook his head and murmured in disappointment along with everyone else.
Down to three.
The Numibian and the Greek both extemporized well.
But not so well they can’t be beaten.
Then, when Theodosia selected Alexander’s encoded poem first—and rallied—he began to hope again.
She was singing superbly now, improvising with spirit and flair, even before that moment when she looked straight at him and knew!
And after that... it seemed Apollo himself seized control of Theodosia’s voice and gave it wings.
<><><>
Strutting like one of the peacocks in his master’s gardens, Scopan returned to the center of the great hall to supervise the voting of the thirty couches. Acrobats swung into action as the guests began arguing for their favorites. Gradually, one couch after another sent their purple ballots to Scopan; then they settled back to enjoy the Falernian, the more traditional entertainment, and the unexpected drama of freedom for a slave.
Stomach knotted, teeth clenched, body all but paralyzed... Theodosia huddled on her cushion and peered around the room. Her eyes drifted to Sergius Silus’ couch, almost expecting to find that Alexander had disappeared or been an illusion, just another prison fantasy.
What are you doing here? They’ll crucify you!
Her gaze lingered on his face as he chatted with Flavia. As if sensing her eyes on him, Alexander suddenly shifted his glance to Theodosia for a moment that felt like eternity. Then he turned away, as from a stranger.
Theodosia looked away, too, though she wanted to leap up, shout “Alexander came back!” at the top of her lungs, and join the acrobats in their cartwheels.
What an incredibly brave thing to do!
It was her delighted inner voice.
He got away... was safe and free... and he came back!
But why?
It was the voice of her more-cautious self.
Why on earth?
For me! Maybe he didn’t find his family...
No. Pray Juno that he did. Antibe and Niko mean the world to him.
But I love him!
And he loves Antibe!
And yet, if he didn’t find her...
Theodosia shut off the dialogue in her head, refusing to entertain foolish hopes. All she should be thinking about was the terrible risk Alexander was taking. There was nothing Otho would enjoy more than exposing a runaway slave... especially that one. And he’d expose Flavia, too, for what was clearly a conspiracy. Flavia could lose her head, and Sergius Silus, too, and—
Flavia!
Theodosia’s hand flew to her face as fire raced up from her neck.
Oh, my dear, marvelous friend! She planned all this to get me free!
The cithara smuggled in to me...
The pressure on Otho for new testimony to exonerate me...
The competition tonight...
The promise of freedom for the winner...
Blessed Juno, why didn’t I see what she was up to? Why couldn’t I have been more grateful?
She glanced over, desperate to catch Flavia’s eye, but Flavia and Alexander were both watching Scopan.
Theodosia held her breath as Scopan announced the early votes.
Six of the first ten couches had gone for the Numibian, three for Theodosia, and one for the Greek. The agony went on as some cou
ches broke evenly and squabbled over their decision.
By the time twenty couches were tallied, she had gained five, for a total of eight. But the Numibian had gained five, too, and was up to eleven. There were no new votes for the Greek.
Sweat coursed between Theodosia’s breasts. She tried to breathe, but the room was too close.
Alexander took such risks, came back to save me, and now I’m going to lose!
She laid the cithara on the floor, fanned her tunic in and out at the neck, and glanced at her competitors. Both looked anguished. They had obviously been slaves far longer than she.
If I want my liberty, how much more must they?
The final ten votes remained to be tallied before the winner was announced, which consumed more time. The acrobats kept performing until, at Scopan’s signal, they tumbled from the room.
Theodosia braced herself for disaster.
Scopan eloquently and lengthily thanked the poets and their sponsors, the musicians and their masters, the noble Romans whose deliberations had made possible the selection of a winner, and, of course, the brilliant mind of Nero, whose genius had conceived the idea of such a competition in the first place. Then he humbly offered up the tally sheet so that Nero himself could announce the results to his guests.
Nero glanced at the sheet and showed it to Poppaea, who responded with a wan smile. The process of making a simple announcement threatened to last all night. Finally, he rose from his couch. The entire assembly stood, including the three jittery musicians in the center.
“Be at ease, my friends,” said Nero with a broad, inebriated sweep of his hands. He waited until everyone was seated again. “We have a winner. Here are the totals of all thirty tables.”
Theodosia bowed her head.
“For the Greek: two votes.”
There was polite applause from the Romans and a groan from Pylades.
“For the Numibian: thirteen votes.” A slight pause. “And for the half-breed: fifteen votes. We shall have a certificate of manumission prepared for her immediately!”