The Peacekeeper

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Sabinus stood quietly, stepped to the window, and looked out beyond Campus Martius, the great parade Field of Mars, and across the river. “Why must so many die every time?” he whispered as if thinking aloud. “True, there must be a better way. Even as I speak, hundreds of funeral pyres line the banks of the Tiber.”

  I sensed his resolve to support Rome, and yet the language of his eyes and hands supported my observation of true Roman justice.

  For the first time, I became aware of the odor of pine-scented wood and burning flesh. The acrid stink of burnt hair drifted on the night air—a unique stench I will remember for a lifetime.

  “It’ll go on the rest of the night,” he said. “A cryptic reminder.” He returned and slumped at the desk and stared into space.

  “Aye, the Watch will never live it down,” I added bitterly.

  “The people fear us, and well they should,” Sabinus said. He glanced up to me. “We shall be known as butchers—no better than the Praetorians,” he whispered. “You know well their record. It’s possible the emperor will disband the Seventh and discharge the lot, although I think not.”

  A moment of silence passed between us. My eyes fell to the dark blood upon my uniform. “Crispus is dead.”

  Sabinus closed his eyes and lowered his head.

  “You have been my retainer for many years, Marcellus. And what I do now saddens me. But if I’m to discipline the Watch, then I must start at the top.” His eyes opened and twisting in my direction, locked with mine. “You know what that means?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered as the taste of bile rose in my throat.

  “An example must be made,” he added, “much to my regret. If I am to maintain credibility with the Senate and the emperor.”

  My face grew hot and knuckles turned white when I clenched the hilt of my sword. Although I had expected it, I did not deserve this fate. Would I be executed? Crispus was right, Sabinus was still a Roman. I wanted to lash out at anybody and anything—including him.

  Why was I being punished? It was the logical—political—thing to do, and were I in his place, I would have ordered the same. But it was no consolation.

  At that moment, I hated Sabinus with my entire being. Fortunately, I managed to suppress my heated passions, and eventually steadied myself. To lose self-control again, so soon after grieving for Crispus, was stupid and, perhaps, fatal.

  “However,” Sabinus said, drawing me out of my thoughts, “I shall see that you are not executed.”

  I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding. At least Eleyne would not be left a widow in a hostile city. “I’m grateful for your sense of justice, sir.”

  “Unfortunately, you have one remaining choice—exile.”

  “Lord,” I said slowly, “unlike others, who would consider the penalty a disgrace worse than death, I accept the punishment as honey from the gods.”

  At long last, I could return to Hispania—home. After witnessing Candra’s death, Eleyne would have no qualms on fleeing the city’s cruel boundaries.

  “Before I leave your office, may I ask if you had any word from Lady Aurelia as to her and Eleyne’s safety?”

  Sabinus said he had dispatched a messenger to the emperor’s palace home. The courier returned and informed him that his wife and Eleyne stayed with the Imperial entourage until the worst of the rioting was over before returning to Sabinus’s home, under Praetorian escort.

  I was relieved to hear that and prayed that Eleyne, who was probably still grief stricken over Candra’s death, would have sense enough to stay with Aurelia. She needed someone who she could trust and who would console her.

  “Thank you for the information, Lord, it places my mind at ease.”

  “Then perhaps your leaving Rome is for the best, my friend.” Sabinus shook his head and exhaled. “I’m sorry. There is no other way.”

  “Aye,” I answered, biting my lower lip.

  “Will you be returning to Hispania?”

  “Yes, and it’s just as well. My mother’s health is failing—she needs me,” I said. “The latifundia is an excellent place for Eleyne and me to raise our sons.” No truer words were spoken.

  “Indeed, I envy you. No longer must you concern yourself with the city’s turmoil.” Sabinus gestured to the office window. “Forget Rome. There is nothing more soothing to one’s soul than the peaceful countryside.”

  Placing a parchment roll upon his desk, I offered a list of those men in the Seventh whose bravery during the riot merited they be spared.

  He nodded. A long pause followed, and I sensed, too, he was uneasy with a task that had drawn out too long.

  I had lost everything my father struggled for. I had failed Rome and my family.

  Sabinus extended his hand and forearm. “Will you not clasp my hand and arm?”

  A silence passed between us.

  “Are you, Sabinus, the man, my friend?” I asked. “Or are you, Sabinus, the emperor’s man?”

  His hand wavered slightly. “There is but one Sabinus—the Roman—there shall never be another.”

  I did not reach out to him, although my heart cried out to do so. I watched as he lowered his hand to his side.

  “It is finished between us,” I heard a distant voice say; the words were mine.

  I turned to leave and paused as the senator called, “Farewell, my friend.”

  I stepped into the night.

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 15

  After leaving Sabinus’s quarters, I returned to the Augustan Naumachia. Painful though it was, before I could pick up Eleyne and take her home, I needed to sort out the day’s events and better understand why the calamity occurred. I trudged past damaged booths and shops littering the adjacent park and climbed to the empty stadium’s top row of cement benches. A bright, full moon in a cloudless sky filled with a barrage of winking stars lighted the city in a false dawn. A soft breeze teased the limp-wavering purple streamers above the emperor’s podium. In one grand view, I surveyed the surrounding silver hills of the city, and the murky waters of the basin below. Carefully, slaves stepped between the aisles, cleaning up the rubbish left by the spectators. More glided in canoes on the glassy water, fishing out debris. Crocodiles lined the two islands’ artificial beaches in peaceful repose. Nocturnal hippos fed upon the vegetation lining the shore.

  Standing in quiet solitude, I tightly wrapped the sagum about my shoulders, bracing against the night chill. I leaned over the top guard rail and studied the devastated shops, overturned statues, and shattered monuments in the plaza beyond. In the distance, columns of smoke drifted above the funeral pyres along the Tiber, blotting out the lustrous moonlight. Sounds of wailing mourners floated on a mild breeze. A child’s cry stabbed my being as sharply as if a Cretan arrow had pierced my heart. I, too, experienced the pain of losing someone close to me. Fearing he would think me strange, I’d never told Crispus I had loved him like a brother.

  In less than twelve hours my world had fallen apart. Until the first light of day I stood motionless, deep in thought. The sun glared over the red horizon, and then slipped behind the lid of smoke hanging above Rome. The old days and life had vanished forever. Would the new day bring a new beginning?

  As I was about to leave for Sabinus’s house to see Eleyne, a runner dispatched by Sabinus found me and said that my wife had returned home, despite Aurelia’s protests to stay. Even though the worst of the uprising had passed and she had Chulainn to protect her, the streets of Rome were still dangerous. I prayed they arrived safely at our residence.

  *

  Tired and full of despair, I went home. However, any further personal agony and bitterness had to wait. Certain that Candra’s death had devastated Eleyne, I had to put on a strong front to console her.

  A worried Porus greeted me at the door. “Master! I’m so pleased you’re not injured. After last night, I—”

  “Never mind me, where is the mistress?” I stepped into the small vestibule.

  “Lady Eleyne is
gone.”

  “Gone? Where?” Gods, I needed a bath. Porus’s words about Eleyne and the accompanying dangers had not registered in my mind. I removed my helmet from sticky hair, caked with dust and perspiration.

  “The cemetery of the aliens, the catacombs, to be with her Christian friends.” He took my cloak.

  My head snapped in Porus’s direction as I awoke from my daze. I fully comprehended the ramifications of Eleyne’s acts. “But why? That’s nearly five miles from here. Didn’t she realize the streets are still dangerous?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Porus answered, shaking his head. “She was very upset after returning from the games. The Lady Aurelia pleaded for the mistress to stay with her, but she refused. Is it true Candra was killed?”

  “Yes,” I answered controlling my emotions. “How long has she been gone?”

  “She left early this morning when you did not return.”

  “Gods, what is wrong with her—the streets are still full of looters and bandits.” Why would Eleyne leave the safety of our home to be with a religious cult of questionable and suspicious origins? Something was painfully awry.

  “Chulainn is with her,” Porus said. “I’m certain she’s safe.”

  “Where are my sons?” I glanced to the atrium where they usually played. “Don’t tell me they’re with her, too?”

  Porus motioned over his shoulder. “They’re in the nursery, sir. Imogen is taking good care of them.”

  Relieved, I pulled off my cuirass and sent it crashing to the tiled floor, no longer caring if the breast plate was damaged. There were no inspections in exile.

  “Porus, I’m going to Eleyne.” I glared at him menacingly, suspecting his sympathies were with those people. “You will take me to their meeting place.”

  He grimaced and looked away. “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “Good. Bring me a shrouded cloak. I won’t waste any more time changing clothes.”

  “At least it will hide your uniform,” Porus said. “Soldiers terrify Christians, especially after last night.”

  “They have nothing to fear from me—I’ve been relieved of my command.”

  “Thundering, Zeus, no!” He paused for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  I’m not.

  *

  Outside the city wall, near the Appian Way, we entered the subterranean burial chambers. Guided only by our small lanterns, Porus and I passed entombed bodies marked by simple slab wall markers and through the shadowy maze of cold and dank narrow passageways. A large vault loomed ahead, lighted by a dozen acrid pitch torches. A cloud of wispy smoke drifted up to the smudge-covered ceiling. Two hooded sentries dressed in simple robes blocked our entry. Challenging us, they asked for a sign. I glanced to Porus, not understanding their request. He hesitated as the suspicious guards visually inspected me. Their eyes settled on my soldier’s boots.

  “He is one of us,” Porus said.

  With the edge of his leather sandal, Porus made the simple outline of the top part of a fish in the dirt.

  The bottom was completed by one of the guards. “Pass in peace, my brothers,” he said solemnly.

  Several primitive drawings decorated the walls of the stifling, smoke-blackened chamber. A silent crowd congregated in the center stood listening to a man speaking about their God.

  “It’s Marcus from Judea, the one they call John-Mark,” Porus whispered. “He’s writing about the life of our Lord Christus.”

  John-Mark was dressed in a simple, homespun, woolen robe. His brown beard speckled with gray concealed a youthful face, but not the gleam in his copper eyes.

  As he spoke, I searched the room for Eleyne. Adorned in a dark-blue stola, and shrouded in a lighter-blue, woolen mantle, she stood a few feet from John-Mark. Next to her hovered Chulainn, strong and wiry, wearing a cloak with a cowl. Her eyes, full of hatred, fixed on mine. It was if they warned: Stay away from me, Roman! You are one of them. The crowd appeared to be protecting Eleyne, drawing closer to her and John-Mark.

  I gazed about, studying the worshipers. Only two or three couples wore rich clothing. The majority were slaves, ex-slaves, and poor plebeians dressed in simple garb. Despite leading miserable lives and experiencing the horrors of the riots, their faces radiated with hope. Did their religion promise something better in the future? Perhaps in another life? Certainly not in this one.

  Etched in charcoal, crude pictures depicting stories of Christus and other prophets, which Eleyne had told me about, peered down upon the group from the domed ceiling and high masonry walls. Two images stood out in my mind. One portrayed a naked, young man, Christus, wearing a long, soft beard, hanging from a tree on top of a mound. Below him, a gathering of people knelt in prayer, and a short distance away a detail of Roman auxiliaries kept guard. Christus’s pain-ridden face searched the dark heavens for something or someone. Crucified, he hung alone on the hill—a feeling I knew all too well.

  In another picture, draped in white robes, he appeared ghost-like, hovering above an empty tomb or cave in a grotto. This was the resurrection scene described to me by Eleyne. A raising from the dead—unbelievable. How can people believe such drivel? Yet, the gullible do. Beneath the pictures, inscribed in Greek and Latin were the words, “This is life!” Whose? The smoky pulsating torchlight gave the simple etchings a warm supernatural countenance, which perhaps inspired these plain people.

  John-Mark’s strong voice echoed throughout the maze, and my mind turned to his words.

  “I have come out of Ephesus to Rome,” he preached, “so that you might know what our Lord has done. He is risen these many years past, of that I am certain.” He turned in my direction as if reading my thoughts. “For I have seen the empty tomb and heard His words. The Anointed One was not in the tomb. His linen clothes, before you now, laid draped within the sepulcher. The napkin shaped upon His face laid folded neatly nearby—and he was gone. He is risen.” John-Mark nodded to me. For a moment the hair on the back of my shoulders and arms stood on end, and a chill flashed through my body.

  “Come this morning,” he resumed, “and see the blood-stained cloth, and know the truth, so that you might bear witness for those who will not see it. Then return to your homes, your families, and tell them—He lives.”

  The group stepped closer, whispering excitedly as they viewed and touched reverently the simple piece of white, homespun cloth. I jostled my way through to Eleyne as John-Mark continued to speak.

  Hostility flamed in her sea-blue eyes. She raised a hand and jabbed a finger towards me. “Why did you come here? Go away!”

  “Eleyne, I’m sorry about Candra,” I blurted, “but your place is with me—I need you.” I reached for her hand, but she shoved mine away. A few worshipers cast side glances at us.

  “No!” She glared defiantly, narrowed her eyes, and pinched her black tapered brows together. “These are my people. Here, I’m safe from Roman butchers.”

  Stunned, for a moment I said nothing, attempting to understand why she had turned her anger against me. I, too, was an alien to Rome. “Do you know what you are saying? Would you leave our sons?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” she answered in a calmer voice. “You would be free to raise them as little Romans to grow up and slaughter innocent people.” She gestured toward the entryway.

  “That’s not true—where did you get such a mad idea?” Our voices were easily overheard by all. Many exchanged whispered comments or admonished us with their glares.

  “From the horrible games—isn’t that proof enough?” She turned to John-Mark and then the worshipers gathered around the shroud. “Why don’t you leave now, without me! I’m sure you’ll find a Roman woman who’ll be delighted to become their mother.”

  My breath caught in my throat. The muscles tightened in my shoulders and arms. “I don’t want any woman except you—my wife! You’re the only mother I want for our sons. Don’t you understand?”

  Eleyne violently shook her head. “No, I don’t!”

  By now, th
e gathering openly stared at us. John-Mark seemed to falter, no doubt puzzled by our harsh whispers. Then he, too, fell silent as all present turned towards the family drama before them.

  “Eleyne,” I said in a softer tone, “I love you very much. You’re the only woman I want at my side.”

  John-Mark approached and touched Eleyne’s arm and looked into her eyes. “Your husband is right, Eleyne. You cannot stay here and hide from life. Our Master did not mean for us to bury ourselves within His teachings to escape from the world or our responsibilities to our families.”

  “But the Romans are so cruel,” she rasped. “Look what they did to our Lord, and to Candra!”

  John-Mark nodded and sighed. “The Lord knew He would die.”

  He turned to the people who were watching us intently. “It’s to His death we owe our salvation. He allowed it to save humanity, and in so doing brought light into a world of darkness.”

  The Christian leader turned back to my wife and touched her arm again. “No, Eleyne, the Lord does not want His people to run away from life.”

  He pulled his hand from Eleyne’s arm and gestured to the worshipers. “On the contrary, He wants His people to go forth and spread His word—to spread the Good News, each in his own way.”

  He motioned to Eleyne. “You are to convey it to your husband, your children, your household. You cannot teach them his peaceful ways if you hide.” He made a wide gesture with his hand toward the gathering. “For all those here know and believe, they need no one to tell them the Word.”

  John-Mark paused. “No, Eleyne, you must return to the outside world.”

  Eleyne shook her head and gesticulated with her hands. “But I hate Rome! Dear God, I know it’s wrong to hate, but I do.”

  “Come now, did not our Lord say that we must forgive and love our enemies?”