The Sign of the Eagle

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Again, he wept, and Macha stroked his straight black hair.

  After another minute, he looked at Macha and struggled on. “I was too scared to move for a long time. But when they were gone I got brave enough to leave. I found Titus and told him.”

  "That's right," Titus said. "I did the right thing, didn't I, Mama?"

  "Yes, you did," Macha answered quietly. "You are a good son."

  Young Titus smiled and vigorously nodded.

  “Now I must ask Demetrios some more questions, so I need you to be still for a while. Can you do that?"

  "Yes, Mama."

  "Good." She turned back to Demetrios. "You said the taller of the two was scarred and big jawed,” Macha said. “Do you remember anything else about him or the other one?”

  “They wore homespun tunics and breeches,” Demetrios answered. “I think they were Gauls. The other man was pale, and had a pushed-in nose. They looked like gladiators—like the ones I’ve seen marching from their school to the arena for the games. That’s all I remember. I was so scared, and I kept thinking about my father.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Metrobius?”

  “I don’t like him, and father didn’t either. And I was afraid he wouldn’t believe me. You do, don’t you?”

  Demetrios breathed louder and faster. He appeared to be seeking an answer from Macha. She knew he wasn’t lying.

  “I know you’re telling the truth, Demetrios,” Macha assured him. She gave the boy a warm hug and noticed a couple little strands of straw in his hair. “You did a brave thing hiding and remaining quiet. There was nothing you could have done for your father. I know he would be proud of you for telling me. I’ll see that he’s cared for. You’ll be cared for, too, Demetrios. You’ll always have a place in this house, I promise.”

  “Why did they kill my father, Mistress? He wouldn’t hurt anybody?”

  “I don’t know why, but I intend to find out.” Macha believed she knew but couldn’t tell the boy.

  Shadows from the afternoon sun crept through the open bedroom doorway, crossing the room which darkened with each passing minute. It was time to round up the other slaves and question them at once, but Macha was exhausted—mentally drained. She would feel better if she stopped now for the evening meal and interviewed them after she finished eating.

  Macha dismissed Demetrios, reminding him it was time for supper. She warned him again, before sending him to the slave quarters, not to tell anyone he had seen his father murdered.

  “Can I go with Demetrios, Mama?” Young Titus asked.

  “No, you stay here. You’ll have to wash up for supper in a few minutes.”

  “Oh, Mama, can’t I be with him? He’s so sad.”

  “I know, but you can see him after we eat.”

  He jutted out his lower lip.

  “Here, come to me,” Macha said. A hesitant grin flashed across Titus’ face. He jumped off the bed and leaped onto her lap, nearly knocking the wind out of her. She recovered and embraced him.

  “You can sit with me for a few minutes if you promise to be quiet. I have to think about some things."

  “Yes, Mama, I promise.”

  As she stroked young Titus’ curly red hair, Macha’s thoughts returned to Nicanor’s death. If the murderers were Gauls as Demetrios described, than finding them could be a nearly impossible task. Half the population of the province, including Mediolanum, were Gauls. The city had been founded by their ancestors four hundred years earlier.

  What about the scroll? Where did Nicanor get the parchment, and was it important? Did it list the conspirators or nothing? The assassins would not have murdered Nicanor unless there was something substantial about the list, perhaps incriminating evidence. Right now, that was all speculation. She had nothing to go on. The list, if that’s what he saw, would further substantiate this fact. But the roll had vanished. The arrest of her husband had distracted the authorities from the real conspirators. Once he was executed, the security around Emperor Vespasian would loosen enough to more easily assassinate him. What puzzled Macha was how they expected to reach the Emperor without help from his household troops, the Praetorian Guard, or others he trusted.

  It all seemed too complex for Macha, her suspicions pure speculation. For a moment she doubted her ideas made any sense. She had to convince Bassus to investigate further. He knew the intrigues of the palace all too well and believed anything was possible.

  “I’m glad I didn’t have to go to the stables,” young Titus said, snapping Macha out of her thoughts. “I’m afraid of going there.”

  “I understand, darling,” Macha answered, as she brushed back the hair drooping over her son’s forehead. “One of these days you’ll have to get over your fear.”

  The year before, she remembered, a feral cat had attacked Titus in one of the horse's stalls. He had found and attempted to pet her litter of newborn kittens nesting in a recess behind the manger. Instantly, the cat pounced on his hands, and bit once savagely and clawed his fingers and thumbs. One thumb required three stitches to close the deep wound. The nail split and never grew back. He had not returned to the stables since the incident.

  Macha smiled at her son. “It’s time for you to clean up.” He scampered from the room.

  As soon as Titus left, Macha summoned Metrobius.

  “My lady, the slaves are waiting in library.”

  “And by now they must be hungry like me,” Macha said. “I had not realized how late it had grown. Reassemble them after the evening meal is finished.”

  A sense of relief seemed to cross his ferret face. “Yes, Mistress.”

  “But again, you are to say nothing as to the reason. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  After supper, Macha interviewed the slaves one at a time in the library. They all swore they hadn’t seen any strangers on the grounds. She wasn’t satisfied with their answers--something was missing, but she didn't know what. When she finished, Macha sent a message asking Senator Bassus to question them the following day. As a veteran soldier of many campaigns, he had interrogated hundreds of prisoners-of-war and short of torture would be far more persuasive than she.

  * * * * *

  The next morning came too early for Macha. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dawning light creeping through the latticed mahogany door. The growing sunlight illuminated the pastoral paintings etched into the upper half of the bed cubicle’s walls and caught her attention. Softened by the copper tone of the wall’s lower sections, the bucolic settings seemed out of place after yesterday’s dreadful events.

  Macha felt Titus’ side of the bed, cold and empty. When he wasn't on campaign, she was used to snuggling next to him in the early morning hours, and now he was gone. Stiffly, she climbed out of the covers. Feeling empty inside, she shook out of the clinging woolen nightshift and drank tepid water from a silver cup embossed with a crown of daisies. She missed him more than she believed possible.

  Macha looked up as Edain entered the room. She wore a beige chiton and carried a bronze pan of warm water and a blue woolen towel for Macha’s morning ablutions. Dark rings surrounded the eyes of Edain’s usually pleasant face, now glum. The slave lit the charcoal-filled iron brazier, resting on three fawn-shaped legs, and rearranged Macha’s combs, ivory hairpins, and bronze mirror on a table at the foot of the bed.

  “You couldn’t sleep either, Edain?”

  She shook her head. “No, Mistress, I kept thinking about Nicanor.” She placed the pan and towel on the dressing table near the bed.

  “Tragic.”

  Cupping her face in her hands, Edain burst into tears.

  Macha motioned for the young woman to sit next to her. She placed an arm about her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry Edain. I should have realized what a terrible loss this must be for you.”

  Edain barely nodded as she attempted to dry her tear-stained face. Macha handed her a cloth for her nose. For a moment the room lapsed into silence as Macha pondered Edain’s g
rief.

  “You two were lovers, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” Edain sniffled. “He wanted to marry me, but slaves are forbidden the right. Now it doesn’t matter.”

  “But it does. You’ll have his memories, and what’s more important—he was a good man. I’ll miss him, too.”

  Edain eyes darted to the cubicle entrance. “Mistress,” she whispered, “I couldn’t say anything before.” She took a small crumpled piece of parchment from inside her waistband, and handed it to Macha. “I thought you might know what the writing said.”

  With trembling fingers, Macha unfolded the tattered-edged document. ”Where did you find this?”

  “When I was preparing Nicanor’s body for burial, Mistress. I removed his clothing and found it tucked in a secret pocket inside his tunic.”

  “I don't recognize this handwriting,” Macha said as she scanned the text. “It’s in Greek.” It must be part of the scroll Demetrios had seen, she thought. What was Nicanor doing with the scroll? Why didn't he tell me? Was he involved with the plotters after all? I can't believe it! Why did the assassins kill him? Did he know too much? Did they think he might be arrested and tortured to reveal the conspirators?

  A jolt shot through Macha's body. On one corner was a crudely drawn picture of an eagle holding a wreath crown in its talons. Not only did the eagle represent the power of Rome but also the legions, without whose support no Emperor could rule. Macha recalled passing the legion chapel with Bassus and seeing the eagle proudly displayed by Legion 1st Italica. Somebody from the legion must be involved in the plot against the Emperor, but whom? The wreath had to symbolize the Emperor Vespasian. What else could it mean? There were dozens of officers in the 1st Legion. But officers from other legions might be involved and perhaps, gods forbid, the Praetorian Guard, which had been loyal to him. Why had the picture of the eagle been drawn? Was it supposed to be the symbol of the conspirators and their intentions against the Emperor? The possibilities were endless.

  She scanned the names. They were abbreviated, and she didn’t recognize any of them. Some type of code denoted their meaning. One name was underlined and another circled. A third name was lined out. A fourth name or word contained only the first two letters, the Greek equivalent of the Latin VE. Were the names related to the plot? Perhaps the one crossed out belonged to someone who backed out of the conspiracy. But the VE could mean anything.

  "Edain, what do you know about this?" Macha asked. She pointed to the list.

  The slave gulped and pressed her lips together. "I just found it on him. I can't read." She looked about.

  "Don't be afraid to tell me the truth," Macha said in a quiet voice. "I believe there is more to this than you are telling me."

  "That's all I know, Mistress."

  "Edain," Macha said in a firmer voice, "you have never lied to me before. This is not the time to start. Do you like being my hand-maiden?"

  She nodded. "Yes, Mistress, very much."

  "Have I not always treated you well?"

  "You are very kind."

  Macha narrowed her green eyes. "Then why do you hesitate in telling me the truth?"

  Edain kneeled before Macha and bowed her head. Her ruddy face tightened, as if holding back further tears. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She shook her head. "Forgive me, Mistress, I'm afraid," she answered a few seconds later.

  "Look at me, Edain."

  The slave raised her head, her eyes darting from side to side.

  "What are you afraid of?" Macha asked.

  Edain stammered. "The ones who k...killed Nicanor will kill me."

  "Why?"

  "Because if they learn that I found the parchment and gave it to you, they will think I know what's in it."

  "Do they know who you are, and do you know what's in the parchment?"

  "They don't know me, and I can't read. Nicanor wouldn't tell me."

  "Why didn't he tell you?"

  Edain glanced to the bed-cubicle opening and back to Macha. "Because he stole the list."

  The breath caught in Macha's throat. She rasped. "What! Where did he steal it and from whom?"

  "He wouldn't tell me." She shook her head. "He said it was too dangerous for me to know. I could be arrested and tortured, if I wasn't killed first."

  "What was he going to do with this information?"

  "I don't know, I swear it. I wish he had brought it to you. He would still be alive."

  "So do I, Edain. I hope that's what he had meant to do. His information might have vindicated my husband. I do hope Nicanor was not a spy."

  "Oh, no, Mistress, I'm sure he wasn't. He respected you too much, and so do I."

  "I believe you." Or did she? Had Nicanor meant to give the names to her? If so, why did he wait so long? Had he stolen the parchment while she was visiting Titus at the stockade? Was he part of the plot but changed his mind? I just cannot see him betraying Titus and the Emperor, Macha thought. Whatever the truth, Macha would have to solve the mystery of the parchment herself and see if she could clear Titus. To do otherwise meant losing everything she held dear and unthinkable bondage to Falco.

  “I don’t know if this had anything to do with Nicanor’s death,” Edain said, jolting Macha from her thoughts, “but I saw Metrobius leave early yesterday morning, riding in the direction of town. I thought he was going on weekly business as usual, but he returned about an hour before Nicanor was killed. Maybe he had nothing to do with his death, but now, I’m not sure. I’ve never trusted Metrobius and neither did Nicanor.”

  Macha told Edain to stand. “What about Jason?”

  Edain frowned, the nostrils of her button nose flaring. “Jason is nothing. He hated Nicanor. Metrobius warned Jason to stay away, but he keeps looking for the chance to see me.”

  Macha got to her feet, shook out her night shift, and stepped to the dressing table. She splashed the luke-warm water on her face, toweled off and dropped the cloth by the bowl. She turned to Edain, who had not moved, and studied her tear-stained face. “You know I ordered him to stay away from you after we returned from Helena’s the other night.”

  “Yes, Mistress. Now that Nicanor is gone, I hope he will continue to obey you.”

  “He will, if he is wise.”

  Edain nodded.

  “Do you think Jason would betray my husband?”

  “I don’t think so. He isn’t clever enough. I think he is only interested in gaining his freedom so he can be a horse trainer.”

  Macha pointed to the long work tunic hanging in the latticed cupboard used for storing clothes. "Bring it to me, Edain," she said. She took off her shift and Edain assisted her in pulling on the tunic. She sat before the table and motioned to the slave to comb her hair. As Edain pulled the whale-bone comb through her thick tresses she asked, “What about Metrobius?”

  “I don’t know, Mistress. All I know is Nicanor didn’t trust him. I can’t say exactly why, but I don't trust him either.”

  She winced slightly as her hand-maiden gently combed out the tangles. Was Metrobius or Nicanor the spy Macha had suspected to be among the household slaves? Mother Goddess, what a terrible thought. Metrobius had been her trusted steward for years, and Nicanor an extremely loyal servant and loving father. She prayed Edain was wrong about her house steward and that she was in error about Nicanor's part in the plot.

  What shall I do next?

  Chapter 9

  A Matter of Torture

  Late in the morning, the day after the murder, Macha passed through the hallway on the way to the study. A slave hurried towards her and announced the arrival of Senator Bassus. Macha paused. So soon? Was something amiss? Nevertheless, any news would be better than none.

  “Send him in; I’ll wait for him here. Macha stopped in front of the pink marbled impluvium, the small pool in the center of the atrium.

  “Thank gods you’re here, Senator Bassus,” Macha said, as he approached her. “I couldn’t say it in the message I sent you, but I may have information pr
oving Titus's innocence.” They turned and strolled across the reception area toward the study. Slaves hurried about their morning duties, cleaning and dusting, their chattering dropping to whispers as Macha and Bassus passed.

  “Is this related to Nicanor’s death?” He asked.

  “It is.”

  The Senator removed his helmet and rubbed the red line across his forehead. The clattering on the mosaic floor of his red hobnailed boots echoed down the corridor.

  “For your sake, the information better be good—the outlook for your husband is very grim,” Bassus said. “The day after tomorrow he’ll be escorted to Genua, where he’ll set sail for Ostia and Rome.”

  A sudden chill ran through Macha’s body. For a moment she crossed her arms and braced her shoulders. She had thought it would be at least five days before Titus was moved. “Great Mother Goddess, then what I’ve learned is more important than ever, but I can’t tell you out here. You never know who’s listening.”

  In the library Macha and Bassus sat on stools built with crossed bronze legs. She peered at the tall senator across an ornately carved table, its wood encrusted with coral from the coast of Gaul.

  “Nicanor’s death was no accident—he was murdered,” Macha said.

  Bassus leaned forward, placed an elbow on the table, and rested his chin on his thumb and forefingers. For a few seconds he studied Macha. “Where did you receive that news?”

  Why is the Senator looking at me like that? Macha puzzled. Does he think I'm lying? She told Bassus about what Demetrios had seen.

  “Are you positive the boy is telling the truth?” Bassus inquired. "We don't know what was in the scroll, if anything."

  “I’m certain he is being truthful. But the scroll must be related to the conspirators. Why else would anyone murder Nicanor? He must have known it was related to Titus' arrest.”

  "Yes, and it may have shown that Titus was involved."

  "I refuse to believe that."

  "Your belief is not enough." Bassus dropped his hand to his knee, and straightened in his chair. “You know children sometimes get facts mixed up, or allow their imaginations to get in the way of the truth.”