The Sign of the Eagle

by Jess Steven Hughes

  If what Demetrios said was true, Macha thought, she didn’t want anyone to know that he had witnessed his father’s death. Someone might think he could identify the assassins, or, gods forbid her son would have knowledge as well. She couldn’t alarm the boys anymore than necessary, but had to get answers quickly.

  Macha turned to Titus. “I am going to the stables. You and Demetrios are to stay in my bed cubicle until I return. Neither of you is to say a word about this to anybody, do you understand?”

  Young Titus paled as he glanced towards Demetrios’ tear-stained face. The slave boy quickly nodded, followed by her son.

  Upon leaving the boys, Macha found Edain. She explained they were staying in her bed-cubicle for the time being and instructed her slave to make sure they didn’t leave. Apparently Edain hadn’t heard Nicanor had been killed. Knowing she would be devastated, Macha didn’t tell her she was on her way to investigate his death.

  * * * * *

  Macha hurried toward the stables at the far end of the villa. Beyond the barn a gully deep enough to hide anyone’s movement ran a short sprint from the building. The ditch drained into a tree-lined stream, a tributary of the River Addua, at the bottom of a long sloping hill. A light breeze swept up the ravine, swirling around the outbuilding and softly rustling the bushes along one side. The mortared structure with a red tiled roof housed Macha and Titus’ best horses. Eight stalls, four on each side, bordered a hard pack earthen walkway. Overhead rested the hayloft. A storage area for tack and other equipment stood at the far wall. Close by, within a corral, birds flitted and chirped on the dusty ground, pecking seeds trapped in a drying pile of horse dung. As Macha hurried past, one of the mares nickered. Perhaps Metrobius or Juba would know something, but where were they?

  She shook her head and wiped the sweat from her face with her silk handkerchief as she speculated on the assassins escape route. No doubt they used the concealment of the gully to flee after the murder. Macha guessed they headed for the river and used its shelter to complete their escape. They might still be in the area, but it was too dangerous for her and her slaves and Juba to search for them. Others could be waiting for the assassins’ return.

  Macha touched the outline of her dagger hidden within the folds of her dress as she placed her sweat-stained handkerchief back within one. Despite her training with the weapon, she didn’t feel confident enough to challenge any murderer on her own, let alone two or more. Juba hadn’t wielded a javelin since retiring from the army five years ago as an auxiliary cavalry sergeant with the Alae. She considered the dark Numidian too valuable a trainer to risk his life. She would send a messenger to the garrison, and request a detachment of troops to hunt them down.

  As Macha approached the barn, Metrobius dashed outside to meet her. “Something terrible has happened, Mistress. Apollo has killed Nicanor!”

  Brushing him aside, Macha rushed into the barn and halted at the stall entrance. Milling nearby in the breezeway stood Juba and the slave groom, Jason.

  Juba and Jason, both covered in dust and smelling of horse, approached her. She waved them over to where Metrobius hovered just inside the stable entrance.

  She glanced inside beyond the open top of the stall’s split doors. Nicanor’s crumpled body lay on the straw-covered floor next to the iron-grated drainage pit. Buzzing green flies circled and landed on the corpse’s glazed eyes and waxy skin. Macha pinched her nose from the reeking odor of ruptured intestines mixed with the smell of urine and feces. Dark blood oozed from his mouth, and more covered his head and back. Pushing her fist against her teeth, she turned away.

  Macha spied Apollo in a stall at the far end of the barn where he was peacefully munching on a clump of hay and swatting flies with his thick tail. He stopped, his mouth full, and turned. Catching sight of Macha, he swallowed his food and nickered. Juba must have moved him there after Nicanor’s body had been discovered, she thought. But horses don’t rip tunics or intentionally kill people on their own. She steeled herself and asked the Mother Goddess to give her courage. There was no time to weep—too many questions.

  “What was Nicanor doing here?” she asked Metrobius, who had silently moved to the entrance. “He never visits the stables, and he certainly wouldn’t enter Apollo’s stall.”

  For a split second Metrobius hesitated. “I don’t know, Mistress. He hadn’t been seen in the house since early this morning. I assumed he was giving a music lesson elsewhere.”

  Macha turned to her tall wiry trainer, Juba, sweat running down the side of his ebony face. Beside him hovered Jason, stepping from one foot to the other, on his bandy legs.

  “Juba, where were you two?”

  “At the ring breaking a new horse, my lady,” Juba replied in heavily accented Latin. He nodded his dark close-curled head to the bow-legged groom. “I ordered Jason to assist me.”

  How convenient, she thought. “How long were you at the ring?”

  “About two hours,” Juba replied.

  More than enough time for the assassins to enter and leave the stables without being noticed, she thought. “Who found Nicanor?”

  “I did,” Juba answered. “I heard a commotion in the barn. I knew by the snorting it was Apollo. He was kicking the sides of the stall. That’s when I went in and saw the body. Apollo wanted out. The smell of blood was driving him mad. I moved him to another stall before he hurt himself.”

  He motioned to the same pen Macha had already observed. “I ran to the house and told Metrobius,” Juba continued.

  “It’s true, Mistress,” the thin Greek steward said. “After seeing the body, I was returning to the house when your carriage arrived at the barn. I knew you would want to know immediately.”

  She nodded. The wagon was always taken to the barn when she returned from a ride. “Didn’t anyone see him enter the stables?”

  “No, Mistress, not that I know of. Everyone was working. It’s impossible to see the barn from inside the courtyard.”

  Metrobius was right. A storage shed, a bake house, the workshops, and slave quarters lined the courtyard’s inside wall. Still, the question lingered in Macha’s mind. She wondered if he might have been lured from the house. How did the killers get Nicanor outside to the stable without anyone seeing them? How and by whom? More importantly, why?

  “Take Apollo out of the stall,” Macha ordered. “I will check his hooves for blood. If he did this, you’ll geld him.”

  “But he’s worth a fortune, Lady Macha,” Juba protested.

  “Not at the cost of Nicanor’s life. He may have been a slave, but I prized him far more than any horse. I’m taking a closer look at his body,” Macha said. She didn’t believe the horse was at fault, but duty demanded she take control of the situation. If Titus were here, he would know where to search. He was a veteran of many battles and seen his share of death.

  It had been Titus’ duty at the garrison to investigate murders, in which legionaries were suspected, whether they were committed in camp or in Mediolanum. Macha remembered him saying he treated everyone as a possible suspect. By conducting interviews, searching crime scenes and collecting evidence, he narrowed down the number of persons who might be involved. Macha didn’t know what she would find and prayed her stomach wouldn’t heave. She entered the stall.

  Covering her nose with a stained handkerchief, Macha stooped and pulled up Nicanor’s shredded tunic. For a split second she turned her head away. She looked back. A piece of bone jutted through Nicanor’s skin and a trickle of drying blood coated the side of his rib cage.

  Macha willed herself not to vomit as she stepped from the stall. No wonder Demetrios was so upset, the poor child. She approached Juba at the far end of the stable, where he stood holding the horse by a halter.

  “Pull up Apollo’s legs, one at a time,” she ordered. She didn’t know exactly why, but something in the back of her mind said she must examine the horse’s hooves. No more than a few strands of straw and dirt from the stable floor were caught in the sole and frog of Ap
ollo’s rear hooves.

  “Show me the left front, Juba,” Macha ordered.

  Standing to one side, the sinewy brown trainer reached down and squeezed the lower tendon forcing the horse to raise its forefoot. Among the matted straw lodged in the hoof Macha spotted a long black splinter. She looked about. It didn’t match the sides of the stall. They were constructed of graying oak timbers. She pulled the sliver from the stallion’s hoof for a closer examination, along with a couple of white threads resembling the color of Nicanor’s tunic. With Juba and Jason peering in her direction, Macha palmed the sliver and placed it in the fold of her stola. She would think later where Apollo might have picked up the black splinter.

  Difficult as it was, Macha re-entered the stall and studied Nicanor’s body again. She noticed scrapes on his gaunt cheeks. Near the bottom of the adjacent stucco wall were a couple of bloodstains. Caking dark blood matted the side of Nicanor’s skull. Gray slime dribbled from the same area. Embedded between the thick strands of his curly black hair her eye caught five black splinters she missed before. They had to have been there before the stallion kicked him in the head. Earlier that morning Apollo had been turned out to pasture between the nearby gully and stream at the bottom of the hill. There wasn’t anything in the field containing wood splinters. The nearest trees were elm and sycamores lining the banks of the stream. As was the custom, his hooves were cleaned before returning to the barn.

  Then she remembered Demetrios saying he had witnessed the murderers beating Nicanor with black clubs. Her slave was slightly built, and if the two assassins were as big as Demetrios described, they could have easily have lifted him over the split door and tossed him into the stall. No doubt Apollo kicked Nicanor but only because he smelled blood and panicked. Her slave was already dead.

  “I’ve changed my mind, Juba,” Macha said. “Don’t geld Apollo—just turn him out.”

  “Yes, Lady, thank you,” a relieved Juba answered.

  Macha ordered Metrobius to fetch slaves from the household to carry Nicanor back and prepare him for burial.

  When the servants had removed Nicanor’s body, Macha took Metrobius aside. “Summon all the slaves to the library; I’m going to question them.”

  For the length of a heartbeat, Metrobius’ face tightened. Another second passed before he cleared his throat. “May I ask the reason, Mistress?”

  “I don’t believe Nicanor’s death was accidental.”

  “But Apollo kicked him—the wounds.”

  “I’m not convinced all the injuries were caused by Apollo. Now, do as I say.”

  Metrobius bowed and left the barn.

  Macha was taking a chance by letting her suspicions be known. She was almost certain this was the work of a household spy, but why? Did Nicanor have knowledge regarding Titus' arrest that could exonerate him? No, he couldn't have, Macha thought. Remote as the possibility might be, she had to learn if anyone saw the assassins enter or leave the property. Her household would find out soon enough when she requested assistance from the garrison to hunt for the killers.

  Although it was her right, she wouldn’t see her slaves tortured even if they all denied knowledge of the murder. She didn’t want the death of another innocent person on her hands. Too many had been wrongfully accused by poor slaves giving the first name called to mind to escape the horrible pain of the rack and white hot irons.

  Before she interviewed the slaves, she must return to the boys and see if Demetrios could give her any further details on his father’s murder.

  Chapter 8

  The Young Witness

  By the middle of the afternoon, after Macha finished examining Nicanor’s body and had him removed in preparation for burial, she returned to the bed cubicle. She hadn’t anticipated being away so long and speculated whether the boys would still be there. And if not, where? Macha's heart quickened, the pulse roaring in her ears. If one of them says a word to the other slaves about what Demetrios saw, their lives could be in danger. There must be a spy among them. She shook her head. But I must get a grip on myself. I'm allowing my imagination to run wild.

  She entered her room finding Titus and Demetrios seated on the tiled floor at the foot of the bed, playing latrunculi. She said a silent prayer to Mother Goddess Anu in thanks for the boys' safety. They jumped to their feet and her son ran to her.

  “Mama, I beat Demetrios—the first time! Look at the board!” He pointed excitedly to the square cedar board. Most of the thirty-two pegs were holed at his end of the slate.

  Macha stooped and gave him a big hug. “Good for you. Perhaps one day you’ll be as good as Demetrios.”

  Demetrios met her eyes, and Macha understood. He had allowed Titus to win, and she had no doubt he had only reluctantly joined in the game, his mind on his father’s death. He appeared calmer, not as shaken as he was earlier. Perhaps numbness had set in as sometimes occurs after the initial shock of witnessing a death wears off.

  “I’m pleased that you stayed in the room,” Macha said. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

  “Well, I got tired of waiting, so I said to Demetrios,” Titus's little eyes brightened, “‘let’s play games.’”

  “That’s good,” Macha said.

  “But Demetrios wouldn’t play. I told him if he didn’t play little outlaws with me,” he motioned to the pegged board, “I’d leave the room.”

  “Titus, you didn’t,” she said, ashamed.

  “It worked didn’t it?” His rosy-face beamed. “He said he didn’t want to get in trouble because he couldn’t stay in the room without me.”

  Macha shook her head, scarlet strands flicking alongside her face. “Don’t you ever threaten him again over a game. He’s a good boy.”

  “Is it true, Mama? Demetrios said slaves get in trouble if they don’t do what they’re told.”

  “Yes, they’re punished.”

  “He said he couldn’t disobey you.”

  “Demetrios is very obedient and wise for his age.”

  The young Greek slave stood silently, dried tearstains still smeared his long pale face.

  “So am I.” Titus’s expression was both sulky and defensive, and she knew he was unnerved despite his behavior.

  Macha summoned a smile. “Of course you are—most of the time.”

  Sitting in the chair by her dressing stand, Macha removed the mantle from her shoulders and draped it over the table’s end. She motioned to Demetrios to sit on the stool next to her. Titus bounced onto Macha’s bed and sat at the foot, his freckled legs dangling over the side.

  Bending her head, Macha studied Demetrios’ dark puffy eyes. The smell of hay and horse oozed from his slight frame. She lightly touched his bony shoulder. “This may be very hard for you, Demetrios, but I want you to tell me everything you can remember about your father’s death. Can you do that?”

  Demetrios bowed his head. Bangs the color of a dark bay horse drooped down his forehead touching his thin eyebrows. “I…I went to the stables about noon to feed a pony I like. When I was ready to leave, I heard footsteps outside the barn. I heard voices, and they sounded mad, like they were fighting.”

  The young slave stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. Then he related, “I peeked through the barn’s open door and saw strangers walking toward it. They were wrestling with someone held between them, and at first I couldn’t see who it was.

  “I…I don’t understand,” he croaked. “How they could have gotten that far without being seen. Usually, there are other workers around the compound. I was afraid they would see me, and so I ran up a ladder just inside the barn door and hid in the hayloft.”

  Demetrios paused, his intelligent eyes searching beyond the bed cubicle.

  Macha nodded. “It’s all right Demetrios, you are safe with us. Please continue.”

  He swallowed before he went on, “The men drew closer, and I heard a familiar voice. I peeked over the edge and saw Father held by two men. Father groaned and there was blood running down the side of his face.
He started to say something, and the tall one, he had a big jaw, hit him across the mouth.” The young slave grimaced, his body shaking, he wept.

  Macha reached out and pulled Demetrios to her lap and quietly held him. “You don’t have to say another word, Demetrios. I am so sorry.”

  “But…but I have to,” he stammered as he pulled away from her. He sniffed and rubbed his face on his dirty sleeve. “Someone has to find them—Father was a good man.”

  “And we will,” Macha answered. “What did they hit him with?”

  Demetrios wiped the tears from his face. “They pulled out big black sticks and beat him all over. I was really scared because they were killing Father, but if I yelled they’d kill me, too.”

  “Why didn’t you run for help?” Macha inquired. "There is an opening at the back of the loft and a ladder to escape."

  Demetrios shook his head. “I…I don’t know. I was afraid they’d see me, and I couldn’t move. My hands and feet wouldn’t let me. I should have, shouldn't I?"

  Macha sighed. The poor boy had been terrified, and now he was experiencing pangs of guilt. “Go on, Demetrios.”

  “I saw one of them take a torn sheet,” he rasped. “A scroll I think, from father’s tunic.”

  What scroll? Her mind raced ahead. What would Nicanor be doing with a scroll? Did it contain a list of conspirators or was it nothing at all? Is that why they killed him? Mother Goddess, don't tell me he was involved with the plot? My loyal Nicanor? It can't be!

  “Can you tell me more about this scroll, Demetrios?” Macha asked.

  “Only that it’s torn and made of parchment—the kind I’ve written my lessons on.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Demetrios face tightened and he snuffled. “They threw father’s body into the stall with Apollo, and they walked away like nothing happened. But Apollo reared and…and I thought he would trample Father, but he didn’t. It was like he knew he was dead. He just lunged back and forth, and kicked at the sides of the stall.”