Sword of Rome

by Constance O'Banyon

  With tear-bright eyes, she looked at him. “Make ready to leave, and quickly. Now that Caesar is dead, I fear for the life of his son.”

  Apollodorus bowed and backed to the door. “I have already sent a man to have the barge made ready.”

  Adhaniá had dismounted and gathered the reins of both horses, moving away from the crowd of mourning citizens. Both men and women were crying unashamedly. She hung her head, knowing they had not reached Caesar in time. She thought of Queen Cleopatra, and her body shook with helpless tears. She had been too late to help the queen—she had failed her. All was lost.

  She knew Marcellus would have much to do and wondered if she should return to his house or go directly to Queen Cleopatra. Then she knew what she had to do—Marcellus’s mother needed help, and she was going to go to her.

  In that moment, she saw a group of soldiers shoving their way through the crowd, and then she saw Marcellus striding toward her. The citizens moved aside to make way for him, many reaching out, asking if it was really true that Caesar was dead.

  He did not answer but headed straight for Adhaniá. He took the reins of his horse from her. “Everything happened so quickly. There is much I need to do. Can you make it back to my villa on your own?”

  She shook her head. “Nay. You know now your mother spoke the truth. She is in danger, and I shall not desert her.”

  He looked as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “Adhaniá, Caesar was murdered. There will likely be riots breaking out in the city—and even more than that, it is almost a certainty there will be civil war. Our society hangs by a thread. I have no time to go looking for my mother, who is probably with her husband, laughing at us all.”

  “You are wrong! I fear Quadatus will do her harm for warning me of the impending assassination. Caesar is already dead, and there is nothing we can do to help him now. But I will not abandon your mother to Quadatus’s cruelty.”

  He hung his head in weariness. “I don’t seem to be thinking clearly. But let us go to her if it will put your mind at ease.”

  Although it was market day, the Forum was deserted. Shops were closed, and even the vendors had not displayed their wares. It seemed the people of Rome had taken to their houses and were hiding behind locked doors in fear of their lives.

  Marcellus dismounted and helped Adhaniá from her horse. He looked so weary, and his eyes were so sad, she wanted to comfort him.

  He abruptly turned away to enter the inn. “It might be safer if you remain here.”

  “I certainly shall not,” she stated firmly, running to catch up with him. “Your mother may need me.”

  They encountered no innkeeper. Marcellus headed for the stairs, and Adhaniá followed closely. “I’ll open every door to find her if I must,” she said.

  But there was no need—Quadatus had heard their footsteps and opened the door of his room a crack to see who it was. When he saw his stepson, he slammed the door shut and shot the bolt.

  Marcellus threw his weight against the door, and it splintered; with another thrust, the door burst open.

  Marcellus confronted his stepfather, who was cringing in a corner. “How … did you find me?” Quadatus asked, his voice quivering, for he knew he stared into the eyes of death.

  “I just followed the stench of a cowardly traitor. Your plan worked, Quadatus. But you will die the same day as a great man ten times your worth.”

  Quadatus’s face reddened, and the muscles in his neck throbbed. “Of what are you speaking?”

  Marcellus unsheathed his sword. “Do not play games with me. Rather, spend your last moments repenting for a squandered life.”

  “I would never be involved in a plot to kill Caesar. How could you even think it?”

  “Just because you are a fool and a coward, do not mistake me for one.” Marcellus moved closer to Quadatus, and the man went to his knees, shielding his face with his arms.

  Quadatus waited for the sword to strike, and when it did not, he glanced at his stepson. “You kill an innocent man if you strike me dead. I have not left this inn all day.”

  Adhaniá was standing behind Marcellus, and she heard a muffled sound coming from the next room. Rushing forward, she found Sarania gagged and tied to the bed. She removed the gag, distressed by the woman’s weakened condition. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles, and there were bruises on her face and arms.

  Sarania licked her lips. “Little dancer, I have been so worried about you. Is that my Marcellus’s voice I hear?” she asked hopefully.

  “Dear lady, it is your son. Save your voice and your strength. You are safe now.” Deftly, Adhaniá untied the ropes and helped Sarania to stand.

  She swayed on her feet and clung to Adhaniá. “Help me get to my son.”

  “How dare you suggest—” Quadatus blustered as Adhaniá reentered the room.

  “I do dare, Quadatus. I know you were not at the Senate today—you are not that brave. Perhaps your death will send proof to your surrogates that they will be next.”

  “Those senators are not my surrogates.”

  Marcellus stepped closer. “I will hear no more words from you.”

  “Wait!” Sarania leaned heavily on Adhaniá.

  Marcellus paused with his sword raised, taking in his mother’s appearance with a sweeping gaze. “Would you have me spare him?”

  She stumbled forward. “I would have him tell the truth of your father’s death.” She raised a pleading gaze to her son. “I beg this one thing of you.”

  Quadatus rose to his feet. “You have no say here, woman. Get back to the other room.”

  “She has every right to be here.” Marcellus’s sword was leveled on Quadatus’s heart. “Ask what you will, Mother.”

  She stood, swaying before her husband. “First, Marcellus, I would have you know I did not marry this man of my own free will. He killed your father, and he threatened to take your life if I did not become his wife.”

  Marcellus looked as if he had been delivered a mortal blow. “You married him to save me? Did you not know you could have told me the truth, and I would have protected you?”

  Sarania shook her head. “Not after what you witnessed between us in the garden that day.” Tears dampened her eyes. “I did not give myself to this man that day, Marcellus—he forced himself on me.”

  Marcellus cried out and swung his sword, but Sarania stepped between it and her husband, not even flinching when the blade stopped just short of her head. “Give him your word, Marcellus, that you will not harm him if he speaks the truth.”

  Marcellus scowled. “No!”

  “Give your word, my son.”

  Marcellus wanted nothing more than to plunge his sword into the man’s black heart. Why did his mother want him spared? Looking at her, as if seeing her for the first time in years, he wanted to take her frail body in his arms and beg her forgiveness for his heartless neglect. He wanted to ask her pardon because he had suspected her of plotting with Quadatus to slay his father. He looked over at Adhaniá, who nodded at him through her tears. To give his mother what she asked might in some way atone for all the years he had hated her. “I give my word,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “You see, husband, my son will not harm you.” She stumbled forward, and when Marcellus reached out to catch her, she slid her arms around him as if to embrace him, but instead slowly lifted the dagger from his scabbard. Marcellus looked at her questioningly, but she shook her head and turned to face Quadatus. “Tell my son why you killed his father—you know Marcellus is a man of his word and will not strike you down.”

  Quadatus had thought he was a dead man, but for reasons he didn’t understand, Sarania was standing between him and death. Knowing he was safe from reprisal, he unleashed the full force of his hatred on Marcellus. “Your father had something I wanted,” he spat.

  “My mother,” Marcellus said with disgust.

  “I swore I would have her as my wife, but she would not have me. I did what I had to,” he said, as if hi
s wants made his methods acceptable, at least in his own mind. “It was a cold bed she offered me, but in my way, I have loved her above all else.”

  Sarania still stood between Quadatus and her son, the dagger hidden in the folds of her gown. “Did you slay my husband?”

  “Not personally, though I was there. It took three of my men to overcome his resistance.”

  “I am so sorry,” Sarania mouthed to her son when she saw the rage burning in his eyes.

  Quadatus saw the rage in Marcellus’s eyes as well. “You gave your word,” he reminded his stepson. “Am I free to leave?”

  Sarania took a step closer to the man who had killed her beloved husband, then tormented her for so many years. “You say you love me, yet you threatened my son if I did not marry you. You kept me prisoner for years. I despise you now, as I did the first day I saw you.” She took another step toward Quadatus, and before Marcellus or Adhaniá realized what she was about to do, Sarania raised the dagger and plunged it into his heart.

  “This,” she cried, “is for the husband I still love, and for the son you denied me.”

  Quadatus’s eyes widened in disbelief, and he fell hard against the floor, flailing his legs and reaching out to her. Then the light went out of his eyes, and he stilled in death.

  Sarania stared at her bloody hands and said softly, “Now you cannot hurt my son.”

  She stepped back and collapsed in Marcellus’s arms.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Torchlight fell across the Forum, throwing ghostlike shadows against brick walls. Marcellus stood stoically beside General Rufio, commander of the Sixth Legion, so they could both show their support for Marc Antony.

  Antony had finished addressing a weeping mob, and silence ensued as Caesar’s funeral pyre was lit. Antony’s shoulders slumped with the heavy weight of his responsibilities. He had the daunting task of pulling together a wounded nation and reuniting opposing parties to help heal the rifts.

  Marcellus looked at Rufio. “The sun has set on a day that has changed Roman history forever.”

  “Aye,” Rufio agreed. “Blood has been spilled, and now the assassins are on the run.”

  “But we shall catch them,” Marc Antony said, stepping back, looking exhausted. There was a long silence as the pyre burned. Finally Antony said, “I have sent a message to Caesar’s nephew, Octavian, strongly suggesting the little weasel come to Rome.”

  Marcellus took a last glance at the fire, which was now merely flickering embers and ashes. “If there is nothing else you need of me, I will go home,” he said.

  Antony clapped his arm. “You have been my support in these days since Caesar’s murder, and neither of us has slept much. Find what little repose you may. I will need to see you in the morning.”

  Marcellus nodded as he descended the steep steps and mounted his horse. He needed to see Adhaniá, to hold her in his arms so he could forget, if only for a moment, the tragedy of Caesar’s death. He had asked her to take his mother to his villa so she could rest and heal. That was where he’d find them both.

  Guilt rode beside him as he entered the arched gateway of his home. He had much to say to his mother. He had misunderstood the situation, and she had suffered for it. It would be a lot to ask of his mother, but he needed her forgiveness.

  A young boy ran forward to take his horse, and he entered his house, rubbing the back of his neck, thinking he could even fall asleep on the hard floor if he could just lie down.

  Planus greeted him. “You look tired, master. Would you like to bathe?”

  Marcellus let out a long breath. “Not just yet. Find out if Adhaniá has gone to bed. If she hasn’t, ask if she will see me.”

  “But, master,” Planus said worriedly, “she … Lady Adhaniá has gone.”

  Marcellus snapped around to face his servant. “Gone! Gone where?”

  “The queen’s man, Apollodorus, came for her yesterday afternoon. She was to sail with Queen Cleopatra this morning.”

  Marcellus felt as if his heart had turned to stone. He turned away, braced his hand on the wall and lowered his head. Of course. He should have expected her to return to Egypt, but not so soon. He felt as if a part of him had been ripped away.

  Straightening, he spoke in a weary voice. “Is my mother here?”

  “Yes, master. Lady Adhaniá settled your mother in her own bedchamber. When the rioting was going on in the streets, Lady Adhaniá sat beside her all night so she wouldn’t be upset.”

  “Tell her I have returned and will see her tomorrow.”

  “Yes, master.”

  Marcellus went to his chamber, tossed his helm on the couch and removed his own breastplate, dropping it on the floor. He lowered himself onto the bed and stared at the wall, feeling so much he could not grasp it all.

  Laying back, he stared at the ceiling. She had left him. She had gone where he could not reach her. His heart cried out for her—his body craved hers.

  Turning on his side, he closed his eyes on the nightmare he was living and slept.

  Adhaniá watched the waves crash against Queen Cleopatra’s barge, knowing each stroke of the oar was taking her farther from Rome and Marcellus. She had not wanted to leave, but a command from the queen must be obeyed.

  Even if Adhaniá had defied the order, there was nothing for her in Rome—no reason to stay. One day Marcellus would marry a beautiful woman of his own people, and he would father children, and he would be happy. But Adhaniá knew she would never find happiness for herself. She would always yearn for a love she could not have.

  Thalia came up beside her and stared at the churning water. “Never could I have imagined such an adventure. I have always wanted to see Egypt, but I never thought I would take a voyage on Queen Cleopatra’s own barge.”

  Adhaniá smiled down at the child. The day Apollodorus had arrived at Marcellus’s villa with a message that the queen wanted her immediately, Adhaniá had known they would be leaving Rome. Thalia had gathered her few belongings and piled them in a heap on the bed. With hands on hips and chin angled stubbornly, she had announced that Adhaniá was not leaving without her. The little imp was a comfort to her. She always said, or did, something amusing.

  Adhaniá thought of Queen Cleopatra in seclusion, too upset to see anyone but her handmaidens. She and the queen had both lost men they loved.

  To pass the time Adhaniá helped little Caesarion’s nurse with his care. The child was sweet and unspoiled, which was surprising, considering he was granted his slightest wish.

  She thought of Ramtat’s son, Julian, and hoped he had not forgotten her. It would be good to see him again.

  Sometimes in the late evening the queen would come on deck and stare back in the direction of Rome, and at those times, Adhaniá imagined her thoughts were of Caesar. Even a queen with the world at her feet could suffer a tragic loss, and Adhaniá hurt for her.

  Then Adhaniá’s thoughts would turn to her own grief.

  What was Marcellus doing at that moment?

  He had said their night together had been perfect—did he still feel that way?

  Marcellus was up and dressed before dawn. When he was preparing to leave, his mother came to him. Her smile was hesitant.

  “Mother,” he said, seating her in a chair, “you have more color in your face today. I hope you are well.”

  “I truly am. Your Adhaniá is quite extraordinary. Were you aware that she is versed in herbal healing?”

  “She had mentioned it.”

  “Apparently it is an age-old Egyptian science. I drank the herbs she mixed with honey and had the first peaceful night’s sleep I have had in years. She left herbs with me which I am to take each day—she said they would restore my strength. Do you not think she is rather young to be so wise?” She shook her head. “I thought she was a mere dancer—I had no notion she was a highborn lady of Egypt. I misjudged her, but she behaved like the lady she is. I have much to ask her to forgive.”

  “Mother, now that you mention forgiveness, it
is a wonder you will even speak to me. I ask your forgiveness for all you have suffered. I am your son—I should have taken care of you. Instead, I believed the worst, and that must have wounded you deeply.”

  She placed her hand on his. “Do not take this burden on your shoulders. There was no way you could have known the truth.”

  He rubbed his forehead, still feeling exhausted. “I promise you that I will make it up to you now.”

  “My son, a mother’s love has no conditions and places no blame.”

  He lowered his head, touched by her words, and he knew he had to speak of other matters. “There is so much to do. I have a meeting with Antony. The assassins will have to be hunted down and brought to justice. I hear Cassius is raising an army, and likely Brutus is doing the same.”

  Sarania looked into her son’s eyes and saw heavy sadness. “I have a scroll Lady Adhaniá left for you.” She reached into her overdress, withdrew it and placed it in his hand. “Read it when you are alone.”

  He stood up. “Unfortunately, I have no time now. I must not be late for my meeting with Antony.”

  “I see clearly that you love her.”

  “I—” Marcellus started to deny it, then shook his head. “It is a hopeless love.”

  “If it is real love, the kind I had with your father, you will find a way, my son. Love is so precious, and you never know when it will be taken away from you.” She took a deep breath. “Did she ever tell you what I asked of her?”

  “Do you mean about the meeting by the fountain?”

  “No. The night I sent Durra to beg her to keep you home. I knew Quadatus had arranged for your assassination.”

  Marcellus lowered his head as understanding slammed into him. “So that was why she insisted on dancing for me. I thought it strange at the time. When I insisted she leave, she …” He threw his head back and stared at the decorative cupola. “Is there no end to the harm I have done to those I love?”

  “I can guess what you are feeling. But do not punish yourself for what has passed. I have learned to let go of those things I cannot change—perhaps you should do the same.”