Rubies of the Viper

by Martha Marks

  Stunned, Theodosia lifted her eyes to Niger, who touched her arm in congratulations... even as his own eyes filled with tears.

  Her gaze swept the room—filled with men and women who had answered her prayers and given back her life—and lingered for a moment on the jubilant faces of Flavia and Alexander. Without them, she would still be lying on the wet rock of the Carcer Tullianus.

  Juno, hear me! I’ll find a way to repay them both... many times over. I swear it!

  “Sire,” called a man at the edge of the hall as the applause subsided, “we request that the winner interpret the unused poems as a final condition for winning her freedom.”

  “Aye!” The cry reverberated around the room.

  Theodosia returned to the stool in the center of the room and began to sing, feeling life and strength enter her voice and her instrument once more. The performance that followed was—she knew as it was happening—her finest ever.

  During the second song, a slave hurried into the hall, approached the emperor, and whispered in his ear. Nero nodded. The man stepped over to Sergius Silus; his message caused a stir among those sharing the couch.

  Theodosia stopped singing.

  Sergius Silus rose and turned to face the emperor as Flavia and her poet swung their feet to the floor.

  “What’s happening?” asked Nero.

  “Sire,” Sergius Silus said, “we have just received word that the wife of the poet Demodocus has fallen ill. Flavia Domitilla requests leave to take him to his wife.”

  The wife of the poet.

  Theodosia heard nothing more. Saw nothing more.

  He found Antibe.

  The selfish hope that had revitalized her dissolved in an instant.

  He came back out of honor. To repay a debt.

  When she looked up, Flavia and Alexander were gone... without a word for the woman who would have died to speak to them.

  She played two more songs, but the muse had abandoned her. The victory she had just won seemed empty in the face of her loneliness and exhaustion.

  Nothing is left but to seek vengeance.

  When her performance ended, Theodosia stood in the center of the banquet hall, listening almost without interest as Nero praised her talent and pronounced her free. Scopan handed her a parchment covered with seals and propelled her toward the door. The other two contestants had already left... returned to their slavery.

  “I have something to say to the emperor.” Theodosia pulled back.

  Scopan increased the pressure on her arm.

  “His Majesty has other concerns. He must thank the poets and those who brought them, then he will grant my lord Otho an imperial favor for having sponsored you.”

  “But that’s— No, I must be there when he does!”

  Scopan hustled her into the hallway and left her.

  Theodosia stared at the ornate document that restored her freedom; then she folded it and stuffed it into the breast of her tunic alongside Reuben ben Judah’s sheet.

  One more challenge tonight. Then I can rest.

  In the next moment, there was a hand on her shoulder. She turned and found herself standing beside Centurion Titus Flavius Sabinus Vespasianus. They hadn’t seen each other since the day she promised to marry him, which had long since become impossible. The wave of fire that always tormented her at such moments swept over her cheeks. She tried to step away, but his grip was firm.

  “You sang beautifully. Congratulations on your victory.”

  Feeling old and ungainly beside him, Theodosia wanted to hide. Time and anger had erased her affection for Titus.

  “Thank you.”

  If only this were Alexander. But he’s gone back to his wife.

  “Come with me,” Titus said. “I’m taking you—”

  “No!” Theodosia could think of one thing only. “I’m going in there.”

  “Listen to me!” It was the tone a Roman would use to address a slave. “You’re to ride with me to Caere, then—”

  “But I don’t want to leave. I’ve got something to tell the emperor.”

  “No. You’ll ruin everything.” Titus’ voice was low but urgent. “Look, I promised Flavia. You’ll escape with the others and—”

  “I don’t have to escape. I’m free! And I’m not leaving until I tell the emperor what I know about Gaius’ murder. I can clear my name, don’t you see?” She paused and looked into Titus’ face. “Please... tell Flavia I’ll join them tomorrow at my—at her—villa.”

  Oh, gods... now it always will be her villa! There’s no way I can try to take it back after what she’s done to free me.

  Without another word, she extricated herself from Titus’ grasp and headed back to the banquet hall, certain that he could not force her to leave with so many others looking on.

  “Tomorrow,” he called behind her, “will be too late!”

  But Theodosia—thinking only of revenge—ignored him. She made her way along the back wall until she stood opposite Nero’s couch.

  Otho was speaking... laying the groundwork for the personal reward that Nero had promised to the sponsor of the winning musician by praising the emperor’s generosity and genius for government.

  The object of this acclaim looked drowsy as Otho droned on. The bored empress had already left. Poppaea Sabina toyed with the pearls at her throat, wearing the smile of a cat after a kill.

  And then Otho made the request that everyone was waiting for and nobody expected.

  “My request, Sire, is simple: a public declaration of your oft-stated pledge to me... that should our most-beloved Empress Octavia—for whose fertility we all pray each day—that should she by some terrible fate—may the immortal gods prevent it!—fail to produce an heir... that those present should bear witness that Your Majesty tonight appoints your life-long friend and most faithful servant,” Otho thumped his own chest, “to succeed you.”

  Whispers and snickers rippling throughout the hall abruptly ceased.

  Two hundred eyes turned to Nero, who was at that moment pouring the contents of an enormous goblet down his throat. He burped, wiped his mouth with the side of his heavily jeweled hand, and stared expressionless at Otho.

  And then—when the atmosphere inside the hall had grown as ominous as the storm outside—the emperor’s mouth opened wide, sending volleys of laughter blasting against the ceiling.

  The guests—apparently unsure how to react to such a vigorous display of imperial mirth—regarded one other in cautious silence.

  Slaves and Praetorian Guards froze in action.

  Poppaea released her pearls and shifted her astonished eyes back and forth between the two men who flanked her. Theodosia wondered, briefly, what she had been expecting Otho to ask for.

  Otho stood beside the couch—his face rigid, his chin tilted upward—until Nero’s guffaws subsided.

  “So,” said the emperor of Rome, “you aspire to be my successor?”

  Otho didn’t flinch.

  “In private, Your Majesty has encouraged that ambition.”

  “In private, one says many things.”

  “And in public, one honors one’s promise to grant a favor.”

  There was another long silence.

  Theodosia pressed her back to the wall, as awestruck by the scene as everyone else in the room.

  “Very well,” said Nero at last, “we shall refer this matter to our noble guests. Another issue of profound importance for them to decide this evening.” The emperor’s words rang with the most delicious, mocking irony that Theodosia could have imagined from such an inebriated source. “Illustrious Romans, most worthy descendants of your proud forebears, fearless conquerors of the world... I beg you, speak your minds on the direction of our ship of state.”

  Not a single senator, knight, tribune, general, consul, quaestor, or praetor raised his voice in comment.

  Nero looked at Otho and expanded his naval metaphor.

  “You have little backing, it seems, from our loyal sailors.”

  �
�They are frightened, Sire. They fear that supporting me will be interpreted as mutiny.”

  “So... they would support you but for fear of their captain? Very well, let’s sail the opposite tack.” Nero lifted himself from his elbow and propped his weight on one hand. “Does anyone in this hall have a reason to offer why we should not designate Senator Marcus Salvius Otho as our successor and the next emperor of Rome?”

  Theodosia laid her cithara on the floor, held her breath, and waited for the inevitable uproar of objections. Otho’s reputation was as unsavory as a patrician’s could get. No one could possibly want to see him named as Nero’s successor.

  From her place at the edge of the room, she watched the crowd.

  Suddenly—as if choreographed—faces buried themselves in golden cups. Women laden with gems caressed their husbands’ arms in subtle restraint. Men famed for battlefield heroics rolled onto their stomachs and smiled sheepishly at their neighbors.

  Otho was still standing. The subtle smirk that had been playing across his lips grew blatant. Now he bowed to Nero.

  “You see how well received is Your Majesty’s choice! Of this vast assembly of highborn Romans, not one opposes me!”

  In that instant—as if prodded by some malevolent force—Theodosia began to move forward. She was halfway across the room when she heard a voice she barely recognized as her own.

  “I have a reason, Sire.”

  Throughout the hall came an echo of the silence that had followed Otho’s brash request. Theodosia kept her eyes on her enemy as she approached. His smirk faded fast... replaced by a look of homicidal fury.

  “This is unacceptable, Sire!” Otho shouted.

  “Marcus Salvius Otho is not fit to be a senator,” Theodosia said as she neared the head table, “much less emperor of Rome.”

  Otho’s face had turned as purple as the robe he longed to wear.

  “That is a decision for Romans, not slaves convicted of murder.”

  “I never was a murderer. I should never have been declared a slave. And I am now freed by the emperor’s own hand.” Theodosia’s voice rose, increasingly strong and confident. She knew that everyone in the room could hear her. “In the name of my patrician father, Aulus Terentius Varro, whom many of you still remember with affection… I tell you that Marcus Salvius Otho not only instigated but also—with the help of a man who can be identified here tonight—carried out the murder of my brother, an act he later managed to blame on me.”

  “Ridiculous!” Otho’s laugh was just a bit too loud. “Gaius was my friend. Why would I want to kill him?”

  “To possess the Terentius Varro fortune by marrying me.”

  “What nonsense. Sire, this woman is insane.”

  Otho’s stare was chilling. It was dangerous to accuse him, but she was sure that making the accusation in public kept her safe. The presence of other nobles—many of whom no doubt despised Otho as much as she and probably did remember her father with affection—would force the emperor to investigate her charges and prevent Otho from harming her.

  “I offer this document and other evidence... in hopes of getting the justice that my family was denied years ago.”

  She walked toward the emperor’s couch, taking out ben Judah’s parchment as she went, increasingly conscious of Nero’s raspy breathing, of Poppaea’s perfume, of Otho’s eyes boring into her.

  “Sire, there is a Roman citizen who will testify that Marcus Salvius Otho admitted killing my brother and then bribed the citizen to lie about my mother’s legal status. And this parchment contains a drawing of a ring that my brother was wearing the night of the crime... a ring that Otho and his accomplice stole from him as they were slaughtering him. Find the man who wears the ring described here, Sire, and you will have found Otho’s accomplice in murder.”

  Theodosia stopped directly in front of Nero, bent her right knee before him, and stretched the document out to him.

  “I ask only for justice, Sire,” she said, looking confidently into the emperor’s eyes.

  Nero glanced at Otho. Then he rose on unsteady feet and reached for the parchment.

  As in a nightmare, Theodosia saw the spindly legs under the corpulent torso.

  The fat hand coming closer…

  The fingers heavy with rings...

  The flash of an enormous ruby in the mouth of a golden serpent...

  The marks of her teeth in the fleshy palm...

  Reacting instinctively, Theodosia pulled her hand back, her eyes frozen in horror under the icy glare of the emperor’s own.

  “Sire... I am... ill!” She crumpled the parchment with both hands and clutched it to her stomach as she stumbled toward the curtain at the rear of the room. “Forgive me!”

  Without looking back, she dashed as quickly as she could toward the spot where she had stood a few hours earlier, and lurched into the labyrinth of service corridors behind the dining hall.

  “Catch her!” screamed Otho.

  Theodosia pushed open the first door she came to and escaped into another corridor. There was no light, but she knew from the aroma of Falernian that the wine cellars were nearby. Dropping ben Judah’s parchment into her tunic to free her hands, she groped along the walls until she came to another door, which she opened and quickly shut behind her.

  Still blinded by the darkness, she picked a zigzag route through a maze of kegs. Whenever she hit a wall she followed it to the left... hoping that she wasn’t somehow taking herself straight to Otho and the Praetorian Guards and the spindly legged emperor with the bitten, bejeweled hand.

  She followed a sliver of light to the stone-arched door where just yesterday she had slipped out past the men unloading wine. She heard voices and heavy footfalls in the passageway. In desperation, she pounded her palms up half a dozen bone-jarring times, until the bolt gave way.

  Blessing Juno once more for the strength of her arms, she yanked the bar and plunged out into a torrential downpour.

  The service alley behind the palace was empty, but over the thunder Theodosia heard soldiers and horses around the corner. Guided by the lightning, she fled down the rain-slick Palatine Hill, heading for the treacherous streets of the Subura.

  <><><>

  An hour later, soaked and exhausted, Theodosia rapped on the door of Rubol’s shop. The younger of his slaves opened the door and stared sleepily at the caller.

  “May I come in?”

  “Who is it, boy?”

  It was Rubol’s voice, but Theodosia couldn’t see him. There was a rustle in the back of the shop; the sandal maker emerged, looking as sleepy as his apprentice. He held up a lamp to see her face, clearly surprised by who was there. Then he drew her into his shop, out of the rain.

  “You in trouble, lady?”

  “I need a horse, Rubol, and a change of clothes. Urgently.”

  “I’ll go get a horse.”

  He fetched a stool for her, and she collapsed onto it, too spent to care that she was dripping all over his floor.

  “I’ve no money to pay.”

  “I got money.”

  Rubol donned a long, hooded cloak and disappeared into the night. The boy stood gaping, but the older slave poured a cup of wine from a black-clay pitcher and handed it to Theodosia. The wine was cheap and vinegary, but she swallowed it gratefully and smiled at him as she returned the cup.

  “What happened to you, lady?” the man asked. “Where’ve you been? Where’re you going?”

  “You’ll be in danger if you know. Both of you... say nothing about my visit to anyone.”

  Rubol returned before she had completely caught her breath. He gave her a pair of sandals and led her to the workroom, where he dug into a chest and brought out a heavy tunic and a rope to tie around her waist.

  “Change into these.”

  When she stepped back into the front room, Rubol held out the wet cloak he had taken off just a few moments ago.

  “This is wool, so the rain rolls right off.”

  He draped the cloak around h
er shoulders, pulled the hood over her head, and tied the cords securely under her chin and across her chest. It dragged on the floor, but she could walk by carrying it.

  Then Rubol opened the door again and led her to a large dray horse waiting in the rain.

  “Where’d you get the horse?”

  “Belongs to my friend down the street.” He lifted her onto the animal’s bare back. “I’ll pay him in the morning.”

  “I won’t be able to repay you for any of this.”

  “It’s a small part of what you gave me over the years.”

  Theodosia pulled the hem of the cloak forward and sat on it, glad it was dry on the inside and long enough to cover her limbs. Her deformed left leg could no longer hug a horse’s ribs; riding with only a single functioning leg would require all her skill and strength.

  Rubol gathered the reins and placed them in her hands.

  She looked into his gaunt face.

  “May the gods bless you, Rubol.”

  She was about to tug the horse away when she remembered.

  Reaching through the ties of the cloak and into the tunic, she pulled out ben Judah’s crumpled drawing. She would carry only her certificate of manumission and her knife... which she had moved to the outside of her right thigh for greater comfort and accessibility.

  “Burn this.” She handed the parchment to Rubol. “Right now! Don’t look at it. Don’t let your workers even catch sight of it. Burn that red tunic I was wearing, too, and forget you saw me tonight.”

  <><><>

  The sodden heart of Rome overflowed with oxcarts and horse-drawn wagons hauling in building materials and goods for the morning markets. Hundreds of drivers helped nighttime Rome live up to its reputation as the noisiest place in the empire. There was much comment tonight on the unusual presence of soldiers. They were everywhere... poking their smelly, pitch-soaked torches into every alley, bar, corner, and doorway, shouting inquiries about a lame woman in a bright red tunic.

  Meanwhile, the object of their search rode straight through the city astride a dray horse, enshrouded in the hooded cape of a laborer. No one paid her any attention.