Faithful

by Carol Ashby

  Her shrieks fueled the stallion’s panic. It started to rear once more. Dacius leaped, caught the lead at the halter, and pulled its head down and sideways before it could strike the litter again.

  As the hooves came back to earth, he flipped his tunic across the horse’s face and pulled it snug around its eyes. The stallion froze, trembling, when the fire disappeared from view.

  He led the horse into its stall and stood with it, stroking its neck. “Calm, boy. Steady, boy.”

  The fear drained from the trembling stallion as Dacius’s voice and hand caressed him. When the last was gone, Dacius released his tunic and lifted it from the horse’s eyes.

  “Good boy.” Two soft slaps to the horse’s shoulder, and he left the stall.

  The litter escort, a tall, muscular German, carried the limp form of Mistress Livia into the house. Dacius’s brows rose. He would have sworn he’d pulled the horse away before he struck her.

  A boy of about eleven stood with his back pressed against the wall, his eyes flicking toward the overseer like he was hoping not to be noticed.

  Dacius slipped along the wall to stand beside him. “Is the mistress hurt?”

  The boy shook his head. “No. She fainted. She can’t stand blood.”

  “Well, I don’t really like it myself.” Dacius tousled the boy’s hair and smiled at his worried face.

  The boy tipped his head to look up at Dacius. “You ran up to that horse. Why weren’t you afraid?”

  Dacius shrugged. “He was only panicked by the fire. I knew he’d calm down as soon as he couldn’t see it anymore.”

  The boy’s eyes shifted from Dacius to the overseer, and Dacius’s followed. The overseer strode over to the slave who’d been sharpening the hoes and swung the bronze knob on the handle of his three-cord whip into the side of his head, knocking him to the ground.

  “Stupid son of a donkey! Didn’t you see the sparks going into the straw? Move the grindstone over there.” He pointed to the wall farthest from the straw and hay.

  The slave stood, rubbing the side of his head. He bowed. “Yes, overseer.”

  Dacius stared at the whip as the overseer hung it back on his belt. The bronze was polished, the leather supple, as if frequently oiled. The overseer was proud of that whip, and that could only mean one thing. He liked to use it.

  The overseer nudged the trampled bearer with his foot to make sure he was dead. “Move this litter out of the gate.” He turned to one of the other bearers. “You. Get this body out of here.”

  The man bowed. “Yes, overseer.”

  The overseer swung and pointed at Dacius. “You. Clean up that blood so the mistress won’t see it again.”

  Dacius dipped his head. “Yes, overseer.”

  He drew a bucket of water from the cistern and poured it on the blood that had pooled on the paving stone where the man’s head had been. The red diluted and faded in the expanding circle of water, but some had soaked into the stone.

  He’d seen war, and he knew too much about cleaning up blood. It would take soap and hot water and scrubbing to remove most of it. And even then, a faint shadow would remain. The water had washed away enough that the mistress shouldn’t notice it, but he would always know a man had died there.

  Dacius sucked a breath between his teeth and shook his head as he released it. In Roman eyes, not a man. A slave had died there, his body now gone, tossed aside like a piece of broken furniture and just as easy to replace.

  The steward had gone to the slave market yesterday to buy Dacius for stable work. He’d be going tomorrow to get another slave for the mistress’s litter.

  He replaced the bucket by the cistern and returned to the dirty stall. As he scooped up one more shovelful of manure and straw, he sighed. Slaves, obey your earthly masters with respect and fear and sincerity of heart, just as you would obey Christ. That was what Apostle Paul had commanded. Serve with your whole heart, as if you were serving the Lord, not men.

  He hadn’t even been in this household a full day, and it was already clear it would be a place to sorely test him as he tried to serve Jesus, his Lord.

  Livia awoke in her bed chamber as her lady’s maid wiped her cheeks and forehead with a cloth dampened with rose water. Her eyelids drifted open as she threw up her arm to rest the back of her hand on her forehead.

  Apicula dropped the cloth in the blown glass bowl. Its blue and green swirls caught the light to make a dancing pattern on the wall as she set it aside on the small table by the bed. She pushed an escaped strand of graying hair behind her ear. “Are you revived now, mistress? What happened?”

  Livia started to sit up, then flopped back on the bed. “Not quite. The room is still spinning. That horrible horse my brother just bought―it killed one of my bearers and almost killed me. Someone pulled it away, and then I saw the crushed head. All the blood―you know what that does to me.”

  She tried to sit up again, and this time she succeeded. “Am I ever going to grow out of this? I feel so stupid when I faint over the smallest amount of blood. A Roman woman shouldn’t be so squeamish.” She touched Apicula’s arm. “I’m glad you weren’t walking beside the litter today. You might have been killed, too.”

  Apicula offered her hand to help Livia back to her feet. “I’m glad, too. Who did the stallion kill, mistress?”

  “I don’t know. Whoever was standing at the right rear. I didn’t notice who was there earlier, and I couldn’t bear to look at him all bloody.”

  “It’s a good thing, mistress, that someone reached that horse before it hurt you. Who was it? Perhaps he would like something extra to eat tonight. You could have some of the leftovers sent out to him.”

  Livia raised her shoulders and arched her back after she stood. Her dizziness was gone. “I like that idea. It was one of the stable slaves, but I don’t know which one. I didn’t look at him before I saw all the blood and then… Gallio can find the right one. I would think our steward knows all the slaves, even if I don’t.”

  Livia pressed her palms to her cheeks and pulled them off sideways. “I’m planning to go to my sister’s house tomorrow morning. It’s been almost a week since I went there and played with her little girls.”

  Five steps took her to the dressing table. Her hair was still tidy, and the reflection in the polished silver mirror showed her color had returned to normal. “I promised Flavia I would do her hair up pretty like mine the next time I came, and I don’t want to disappoint her. I need a box to take some of my hair ornaments. I’d better take enough to do Sabina’s as well, since she’s three now and likes to mimic her older sister.”

  “Shall I get the box now, mistress? Do you feel well enough for me to leave you?”

  “Yes. That’s over. Let’s pack now so I have everything ready. They’re such precious children, and I want to go early.”

  Apicula smiled her agreement. “You’ll make a wonderful mother yourself, mistress. When your betrothed returns from Britannia, perhaps the gods will smile on you and give you a child during your wedding week.”

  “Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I don’t remember much about Fabius Eburnus, except he’s handsome. I was only twelve when we celebrated the betrothal at Flavia’s town house, and we didn’t talk alone.”

  Her stomach fluttered. In a few months, she’d marry the man her father had chosen. But that was the Roman way, and Father loved her too much to pick someone unsuitable.

  “Fabia says he’s such a dear, kind brother. If she thinks he’ll be a wonderful husband and father, I’m sure he will. In only a few more months, I’ll find out.”

  As Apicula left the room to find a box, Livia began selecting the ornaments she was sure the little girls would love.

  Aulus walked up the marble steps of the cold-water pool at the Baths of Trajan. The bath slave handed him a towel, and he wiped his face. He moved away from the pool edge before toweling his hair. His eyes were closed when something hard rammed into his stomach.

&
nbsp; “What the―” He stepped back as he tossed the towel aside. A man muscled like an ox stood before him with a hinged wax tablet clutched in a hand large enough to crush a melon.

  “Aulus Livius Macatus?” His voice was a low growl.

  A shiver ran up Aulus’s spine. “Yes.”

  The man thrust the wooden frame of the wax tablet into his stomach again. “Take it.”

  Aulus snatched it from his hand and stepped back again.

  With spread legs and crossed arms, the thug glared at him. “Your brother-in-law’s cousin, Sextus Sabinus, let you continue to gamble on promise of prompt payment. Four months paying nothing is too long, and his father is calling in the debt.” He dipped his head toward the tablet and held out a stylus. “Read and sign.”

  Aulus flipped the tablet open and scanned the text.

  Marcus Livius Macatus owes Quintus Flavius Sabinus 10,000 denarii for debts incurred by his son, Aulus Livius Macatus. Unless other arrangements are made, M. Livius Macatus will pay in full within thirty days of his return to Roma at the end of his governorship of Sicilia.

  A wide finger tapped the wax below the text. “Sign.” Two more taps. “Now.”

  Aulus rolled the stylus between his fingers as his stomach churned. He’d lost money that wasn’t his to lose. Everything he treated as his own was legally Father’s as paterfamilias. And every debt he owed was a claim against his father.

  Father’s red face on the pier in Portus swirled in his memory. Father’s anger at him betting too much on the Red faction to win in the Circus Maximus was seared into Aulus’s brain. He’d promised Father he wouldn’t do that again while his father was away from Rome. And he hadn’t…he’d bet on the Greens, and they almost always won.

  He’d been money ahead until that dinner party at his step-sister’s house.

  He planned to pay the debt, but to sign a legal promise committing Father to pay as soon as he returned…

  The thug’s mouth turned down. “If you don’t sign now, I will come back.” His scowl turned into a cruel smile. “But you don’t want me to.”

  His fist hit his open palm, then twisted slowly.

  Aulus’s clenched his jaw and hoped that was enough to hide his fear. Better another tongue-lashing from Father than a beating from a gladiator.

  He pressed the stylus into the wax, concentrating on keeping his letters from wiggling and betraying him.

  With a snap, he closed the tablet and handed it back to the brute.

  “Wise choice.” The thug smirked as his gaze raked Aulus from head to foot and back. Then he spun on his heal and disappeared into the crowd.

  “What was that about?”

  Aulus jerked at the quiet voice of his best friend, Marcus Drusus.

  He ran shaky fingers through his hair. “I’m in big trouble. I was at my step-sister’s villa a few months ago, and I gambled with her husband’s cousin. I lost 10,000 denarii, and I don’t have the money to pay.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sextus said that wasn’t a problem, that he’d give me time to pay him. But now he’s told his father, and his father is demanding the money…from Father.”

  “Your father’s rich. He can pay that without even noticing it.”

  “That’s not the problem. Sabinus and Father have been political enemies for years. Sabinus will try to use this to hurt him.”

  Marcus’s brow furrowed. “Your father seems more than a match for anyone.”

  “But I wasn’t supposed to be gambling. Not at that level, anyway. I hadn’t planned to, but they had this great Falerian wine. I drank too much of it before we started. His shoulders drooped. “Father’s going to kill me when he comes back to find I’ve exposed him to his enemy like this. Sextus’s father is Quintus Sabinus.”

  “Quintus Sabinus?” Marcus sucked air through his teeth. “He wanted to marry my aunt Claudia right after Grandfather died. Mother fought with Father for saying yes before Sabinus married someone else.”

  His brows lowered, then relaxed. “I can ask Father to give me the money. Ten thousand isn’t much for him. He’d do anything for his best friend.” Marcus nudged Aulus’s arm. “He’ll let me help mine.”

  Some tension drained from Aulus’s shoulders, but not all. “But what if he won’t?”

  “Then we’ll figure out another way to get it.” A twisted smile curved Marcus’s lips. “I know. We can fake your kidnapping to get enough ransom money to pay the debt.” The smile turned into a chuckle. “But Gallio already took away your key to the strongbox after you bought that stallion that’s too jumpy to ride. Maybe he won’t want to pay that much for you.”

  Marcus slapped Aulus’s shoulder. “We can fake Livia’s kidnapping instead. Gallio would pay any amount to get her back.”

  Aulus chuckled. “He would.” He punched Marcus’s arm. “I can always count on you to come up with a good plan.” The last of the tension vanished. Marcus’s father would help, and his own father would never know.

  Chapter 2: A Bad Idea

  Dacius had almost finished feeding and watering the horses the next morning when the steward entered the stable yard with the overseer.

  The overseer nodded as the steward spoke. “The young master’s stallion created a problem, Vilicus. She wants to go as soon as she finishes her breakfast, so I need one the same height. There isn’t time to go to the market. Do you have one you can spare?”

  Dacius emptied his bucket into Niger’s water trough. The steward’s request shouldn’t affect him. He was the only slave working in the stable. There had been another, but yesterday Vilicus sent him into the garden to help dig a new reflecting pond. No sign of him this morning, so Dacius had to do the feeding, grooming, and cleaning alone. He couldn’t be spared from the horses.

  He patted the young stallion’s neck before fetching another bucket of water from the cistern.

  Vilicus didn’t like a slave to look directly at him, so Dacius kept his eyes down. Since he tried to serve as unto the Lord, he never avoided work. But it was obvious why the other slaves tried to be invisible when this overseer came near. He’d jerk a man off one task to do another. Later, he’d curse and sometimes strike him for not completing the first task. It was a chaotic place to serve.

  As Dacius poured the last bucket into the stallion’s trough, he heard the guttural voice. “You.”

  He turned and bowed his head. “Yes, overseer.”

  “Go stand by the litter.”

  He froze his eyebrows to hide his shock. Was Vilicus planning to leave the horses untended? But no matter how foolish the command, he had to obey.

  Three bearers already stood by the litter, so he joined them.

  Satisfaction lifted the corners of the steward’s mouth. “He’s the right size. I’ll take that one for today. Have him wash to get rid of the stable smell and put him in the litter tunic. She’ll be wanting to leave in perhaps a half an hour.”

  Vilicus tipped his head. “Yes, steward.” He watched the steward enter the house before spinning on Dacius. “You. Wash that stench off, then dress for litter work.”

  Dacius lowered his eyes. “Yes, overseer.”

  The overseer strode through the small archway that connected the stable yard to the garden, and Dacius sighed. It was a good thing he’d risen early. Otherwise, the poor animals would have gone without. He’d barely finished placing the feed and water in the last stall, but Vilicus didn’t know that when he ordered him to litter duty.

  He scanned the stable yard as he headed to the cistern to draw some water. The horses needed grooming. The stalls needed cleaning. If he were a betting man, he’d bet the work would still be waiting for him when he returned, and Vilicus would yell at him because he hadn’t finished.

  Slaves, obey your earthly masters with respect and fear and sincerity of heart, just as you would obey Christ. He’d reminded himself at least ten times yesterday. Another sigh escaped. He’d probably hit twenty today.

  When Marcus entered
his father’s library, Lucius Drusus Fidelis had a hinged wax tablet open before him.

  “Good morning, Father.” Marcus lowered himself into the second chair by the desk.

  His father closed the tablet. “A letter from your brother.”

  Marcus raised his eyebrows to feign interest. “How is he?”

  “You know your brother. It’s impossible to tell. He never complains, no matter what his situation.” Father’s lips tightened. “I went to some trouble to get him a good tribune posting near Rome, but he’s decided to apply for a posting in a frontier province. He going to ask for Britannia, Dacia, or Judaea. He hasn’t decided which.”

  Marcus pasted on a smile. “That sounds like Lucius. He’ll want to go to the most dangerous place where no one else would volunteer to serve, so I’d bet on Judaea.”

  Father drummed on the tablet with a silver-tipped ivory stylus. “You’re probably right. Your brother would put the needs of Rome above his own self-interest. Someone needs to serve there, but I’d rather it wasn’t my son.”

  Marcus picked up a brass stylus and rolled it between his fingers. “There’s glory to be found in battle. Lucius probably wants some excitement while he’s tribune.”

  “Judaea isn’t like Germania before it was pacified. The Germans fought you like warriors. They didn’t stick a knife into you as you were going down the street and then keep walking as if they’d done nothing. Lucius might get himself killed by some zealot and left like the bodies the urban cohorts gather after they were murdered during the night. There’s no glory in that.” Father rolled his eyes. “But Lucius is too much like his grandfather, so he’ll probably volunteer for the most dangerous place.”

  Father placed the stylus atop the closed tablet and leaned back in his chair. “But you didn’t come to discuss your brother.” His eyes warmed as they rested on Marcus. “So, why have you sought me out so early?”

  Marcus stopped rolling the stylus. “I need 10,000 denarii.”

  Father rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. “What for?”