The Raven and the Rose

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Larthia nodded wearily, picking up the hem of her diploidion and tossing it over her shoulder. “I will see you in three days, Endymion, first thing in the morning.”

  Endymion bowed.

  Verrix stepped aside as Larthia moved past him, out of the artist’s stall and into the busy street. Larthia walked a short distance and then stopped to examine a pile of silks displayed on a broad wooden table.

  “When did these come in?” she said to the tradesman, a dark eyed Parthian with a curling black beard and a tiered and braided headdress.

  “Just this morning, mistress,” he replied in execrable Latin, bowing.

  Verrix stood behind Larthia, his arms folded, as she examined the bolts of cloth.

  “What color is this?” she asked, holding up a sample of material.

  “Lapis lazuli, my lady Sejana, and may I say you honor my humble establishment with your presence. The cloth is dyed with the ink of the tentacled sea creature called oktopous by the Greeks. The dye is very fast and makes a beautiful shade.”

  Larthia handed the bolt of cloth to Verrix, who looked startled, then sullen as he shoved the rolled material under his arm.

  “And this?” Larthia asked, fingering a small piece of cloth of gold.

  “Ah, a fine choice, you have excellent taste, my lady. That piece was handmade by my wife, interweaving the silk with the gold threads on her own loom.”

  “How much for both pieces?” Larthia asked.

  “Three sesterces,” the Parthian said rapidly.

  Larthia shook her head.

  “Two,” the tradesman said.

  “One,” Larthia offered.

  “Done.”

  Larthia removed the silver coin from the drawstring purse at her waist and handed it over, then accepted the second bolt of cloth and gave it to Verrix. He added it to the first one, his face set. Larthia walked on to the fruit stall next door and poked a pile of dates to test them for ripeness.

  “From Galilee,” the fruit seller said, hovering. “The most succulent, from the choicest palm trees.”

  Larthia made her purchases, walking along the lane from stall to stall, handing everything she bought to Verrix. By the time she returned to her litter his arms were loaded.

  She climbed into her litter and settled back, pulling the curtains closed. In the next instant the curtain was whipped back again and Verrix had dumped her purchases in her lap.

  The two bearers looked at one another in astonishment and then away, waiting for Lathia’s reaction.

  “What are you doing?” Larthia gasped.

  “What does it look like?” Verrix responded.

  Larthia glared at him, opened her mouth, then remembered the presence of the other servants.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” she said shortly. Then, to the bearers, “Take me home.”

  Verrix walked behind the litter as the bearers wove their way back to the Sejanus estate. Once Larthia was ensconced on a couch in her tablinum she dismissed the other servants and then said to Verrix in a deadly tone, “What was the meaning of that rebellious display in the forum?”

  “My purpose is to protect you from harm, not to trot at your heels like your little dog carrying whatever trinkets might catch your eye.”

  “Your purpose is to do whatever I tell you to do!” Larthia responded angrily. “In Gaul you may have been a prince, my arrogant giant, but in this house you are a slave!”

  “I am very aware of my position in this house,” he replied stonily.

  “I don’t think you are,” Larthia said, rising from the couch. “I could have you flogged for this, or prescribe any other punishment I choose, or even sell you.”

  “You won’t sell me,” Verrix replied.

  Larthia gaped at him, unable to comprehend such insolence. “Oh, no?” she finally managed to croak.

  “My presence is keeping your grandfather off your back. And more than that, you need me. You are afraid.”

  Larthia swallowed, her eyes locked with his.

  “Afraid of what?” she said.

  “Afraid that Casca might be right, and you are the target of his enemies. I have been in Rome some time and I know that these politicians employ gangs of young ruffians to do their bidding. The toughs roam the streets at night and hang about the centers of commerce during the day, studying the habits of their victims. We saw one such group today near the Via Sacra. Were they following you? Did you notice them?”

  Larthia’s eyes narrowed. “You are not the only bodyguard in Rome,” she said quietly. “Every colonial rousted from his homeland by the recent wars is looking for a job.”

  “But I am the only one who has your grandfather’s confidence, and again the only one so highly motivated by the thought of his potential freedom that he would die to protect you,” Verrix responded evenly.

  Larthia stared back at him, silenced.

  Verrix waited patiently.

  “You do think you have me at a disadvantage, don’t you?” she finally observed quietly, forcing herself to hold his cool blue gaze directly.

  “No, mistress,” he replied. “I think I have an accurate understanding of our relative positions, and yours is still far superior to mine.”

  Larthia took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Just so you understand that,” she said firmly.

  He bowed his head.

  “I am dining with my sister at the Atrium Vestae this evening,” Larthia continued. “You will accompany me there. You are dismissed until then.”

  Verrix bowed again and backed out of the room.

  Larthia resumed her seat slowly, staring at the space where the slave had been.

  * * *

  “So, did you see her?” Septimus asked, sitting on the edge of the pool as a slave scraped his back with a strigil.

  “I saw her,” Marcus replied, rolling over in the steaming water and pushing his wet hair back from his face.

  “And?”

  “And she is incredibly lovely,” Marcus said.

  Both men were naked. They were lolling in a pool fed by a stone pipe emerging from an exterior wall and heated by a hypocaust extending beneath the floor of the bath. Under his feet Marcus could feel the scraping of coins tossed into the spring outside as an offering to the deity of the baths and then carried inside with the rush of water. The goddess Minerva, depicted holding an owl and helmeted for war in a carving on the bronze dome above their heads, was the target of this largesse. It was an act of extreme impiety, punishable by the gods, to remove any of the money.

  Marcus rubbed his arms briskly; the air was getting just a trifle chilly, and he sank into the water. The domed ceiling could be raised or lowered to control the room’s temperature. The walls surrounding the men were lined with ceramic tiles, and the floor skirting the edge of the pool was terracotta flagged. Slaves stood at the ready to scrape the bathers’ skin clean, hand out towels, or perform a massage in the adjoining cool room.

  “So what’s the next step?” Septimus asked. “Looking for a prostitute who resembles her?”

  Marcus said nothing to this standard advice; he merely leaned back on his elbows at the edge of the pool and watched the steam rising off the water.

  “I’m going to the Suburra tonight,” Septimus added, extending an arm for the slave to scrape. “Why don’t you come with me? I hear there are some new offerings from Phrygia. They’re said to be quite tasty.”

  Marcus shook his head.

  Septimus grabbed a towel from the slave’s arm and threw it at his friend. “You are no fun any more! You’ve become such a tiresome bore since you saw that woman. I’m going in for a massage. Are you coming?”

  “I think I’ll soak here a while longer,” Marcus replied, closing his eyes.

  “I’ll meet you in the changing room, then,” Septimus said, turning away.

  “No, on the western terrace,” Marcus said. “I want a cup of wine.”

  “I hope you’re not taking to drink over this girl,” Septimus called jokingl
y. He stood and walked into the tepidarium, the slave padding softly after him. There he stretched out on a stone slab and the slave began to pound his flesh rhythmically.

  Marcus sank beneath the surface of the water again, sighing as the hot water soothed his aching muscles. He and Septimus had spent the early afternoon playing handball on the field of Mars, then relaxing in the solarium of the baths, the southern terrace which allowed the sun to caress the tan worshipping Romans to a golden brown. A brown skin was associated with health and virility, linked as it was to a soldier’s outdoor life, and a pallid complexion was the sign of effeminacy.

  The solaria all over the city were very busy.

  Marcus finally emerged from the water and, bypassing the tepidarium where Septimus reclined, walked to the cold pool and rinsed off briskly. Then he headed to the lockers to dress. He slipped into his uniform quickly, nodding briefly to other bathers who caught his eye in the crush of men. Once dressed, he went outside to the western facing terrace and sought a vendor, buying a cup of golden wine from the Abruzzi district of Italy. He sipped it slowly, watching the sun sink below the hills as the departing crowd chattered behind him, heading home for the evening meal.

  What was he going to do? He could not forget the Vestal; his visit to the temple that morning had inflamed his itch rather than soothed it. Even swathed in the heavy veil she wore for sacrificing, she was so ethereally beautiful that the sight of her took his breath away.

  He had a plan, but it would draw him deeper into dangerous territory, and the rational side of his nature counseled against putting it into action. But the mental debate was mostly an exercise; no matter what his good sense told him, he knew that he had to speak to her, touch her, turn her pristine image into reality.

  He had seen the Vestals’ schedule. He knew that she would be going to the sacred spring near the Porta Capena again in just three days. Although she would surely be guarded, her companions shouldn’t be much of a problem for a man like himself, who’d been victorious in hand to hand combat against all manner of opponents for the last decade.

  Marcus knew the route, and the exact spot where he could intercept her.

  He drained his wooden cup and then returned the vessel to the vendor, who scoured it with sand and rinsed it with water before setting it back on his rack. When Marcus turned away he saw Septimus coming toward him, his hand raised in greeting.

  Marcus smiled at his friend, resolved to keep his scandalous thoughts to himself.

  * * *

  “Margo, did you get these lampreys from the piscinae on my grandfather’s estate?” Julia asked, examining the platters of food set out for the gustatio, or appetizer. “My sister is especially fond of those.”

  “I did exactly as you requested, mistress,” Margo replied patiently, as Julia fluttered around the anteroom of her suite in the Atrium Vestae, making sure that everything was in readiness for Larthia’s visit. The Vestals were not permitted many guests so this was a special occasion. Only female relatives could be received in a Vestal’s private apartment; male relatives and all others had to be seen in the common room off the main hall, in the presence of Livia Versalia or Junia Distania, the official greeter. A chance like this to talk in private with someone close to her own age was a rare treat for Julia.

  “And the honeyed wine?” Julia said.

  Margo indicated the ornamental jug on the table. “Are you sure you don’t want me to remain and serve you?” Margo asked.

  “No,” Julia said firmly. “I am perfectly capable of pouring wine and passing a tray of sweetmeats across a table. You may retire to your room.”

  Margo bowed and retreated, and seconds later Junia Distania entered with Larthia fast on her heels.

  “Little Rosalba, how well you are looking!” Larthia said, embracing her sister and kissing her on both cheeks. Junia bowed and left, and Larthia looked over her shoulder to make sure she was gone before saying, “I don’t know how you can bear it here, this place is loaded with spies.”

  Julia made a face. “Larthia, how you exaggerate.” She indicated a chair of carved mahogany drawn up to the serving table and Larthia sat in it.

  “Do I? What about that servant of yours who is always lurking in the shadows, taking notes?”

  “I dismissed Margo for the evening.”

  “Good.” Larthia reached for a shelled walnut and popped it into her mouth. “This place is deadly dull, Julia, I always feel like I’m entering a tomb when I come here. How do you tolerate such a cloistered existence?”

  Julia sat across from her sister and said dryly, “I have no choice. Do you have anything else complimentary to say before I pour the wine?”

  Larthia shrugged dismissively. “You know how I’ve always felt about your life being tossed away in the service of some statue in a temple,” she said.

  “Lower your voice,” Julia hissed. “Such statements can be construed as heresy, not to mention treason. And my life has not been tossed away, I’m still breathing.”

  Larthia reached for a silver serving spoon and helped herself to several of the eels. “You can’t tell me you’re happy here,” she said insistently.

  Julia did not reply as she lifted the jug of Falernian wine and poured it into two goblets. Larthia picked up her cup and sipped from it gingerly, then took a bigger drink.

  “Very good,” she said approvingly, nodding. “I like honeyed wine.”

  Julia nodded. “It was too strong, the Falernian generally is, so I asked Margo to temper it.”

  Larthia sat back and surveyed her sister, a younger, more sanguine version of herself. “You must be wondering why I sent word that I wanted to come and see you.”

  Julia waited.

  “Our grandfather has supplied me with a bodyguard,” Larthia said.

  “What, a slave?”

  “A slave.”

  “You already have hundreds of slaves, Larthia, what do you mean?”

  “He’s a Gaul, to be exact, but his assignment is to watch over me when I go out to make sure I don’t come to harm.”

  Julia stared at her sister. “Is someone trying to hurt you?” she asked.

  “According to grandfather, it’s a possibility.”

  “Why?”

  “His politics, and I suppose my late husband’s. Caesar’s faction is growing in power every day, soon he will be sole dictator in name as well as practice. Casca thinks that the Caesarion gangs could go after me to get to him. The Senators and the other politicians are too well protected, but a lone woman out shopping with just a set of bearers and an old man like Nestor might be a target.”

  “Have things gotten that bad?” Julia murmured.

  Larthia shrugged. “Apparently so.”

  “Caesar doesn’t seem that ruthless,” Julia said.

  “He hasn’t gotten where he is with displays of kindness. He eliminates without a qualm anyone who stands in his way.” Larthia swallowed another sip of her wine appreciatively. “How do you know him?”

  “He’s been to the temple a few times to file and amend his will. The last time he came I took the dictation.”

  “You took Caesar’s dictation? Aren’t you a little young for that distinction?”

  Julia smiled. “Livia Versalia found herself unprepared. Caesar came on short notice and I was the only one available.”

  “What is he like in close quarters? I’ve only seen him at banquets when my husband was alive. He just greeted the women and then moved off to talk politics with the men, so it was difficult to judge his personality.”

  “I was only with him a short time myself, but it’s clear he’s... powerful. With the Vestals he was very charming and courtly, of course.”

  Larthia nodded. “That’s the type you have to watch. Did he come alone?”

  Julia rose from the table and turned away, fiddling with a water jug on a stand nearby. “No, he had a centurion of the first cohort with him.”

  “The raven?” Larthia said, sitting up alertly. “That Greek sidek
ick of his? What’s his name? Demeter!”

  “Yes,” Julia replied, not meeting her sister’s eyes.

  “Isn’t he something? They say there’s hardly a space on his body that isn’t marked from some campaign.” She chuckled. “Quite a few ladies in Rome would like to find out for themselves.”

  Julia turned back to the table with the water jug. As she added some liquid to her cup the jug flew out of her hand and splashed to the floor.

  Larthia bent immediately to help her, staying her hand as Julia began to pick up the pieces of the shattered terra cotta vessel.

  “Don’t bother with that, leave it for the servants. Come back and sit down, you haven’t eaten anything.”

  Julia sat again, bringing forward a platter of salted bass, already cut into pieces for finger food. She offered it to Larthia, who took a piece and then watched as Julia sipped from her cup of diluted wine but ate nothing.

  “Are you feeling well, Julia?” Larthia asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You seemed distracted.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, you certainly do. You’re jittery as a street cat, you’re smashing crockery, and you seem to be fasting.”

  “I’m just not hungry.”

  “But this is delicious, you should try some.”

  Julia shook her head.

  “All right. It looks as though the timing of my visit was fortuitous. You appear to be bothered by something and there are shadows under your eyes as if you didn’t sleep well last night. What could possibly be haunting you in this glorious haven of peace and tranquility?”

  Julia looked up at her suddenly and Larthia saw with concern that her sister’s eyes were full of tears.

  Larthia dropped the piece of fish in her hand and leaned forward across the table. “By all the gods, Julia, what is wrong with you?”

  Julia swallowed hard and whispered, “It’s that centurion you mentioned, Caesar’s aide. The one they call the raven.”

  Larthia watched her, transfixed. When Julia said nothing further Larthia nodded encouragingly.

  “I met him when he came here with Caesar,” Julia went on.