The Sign of the Eagle

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Dodging the jabbing thrusts of the soldiers’ lances, one outlaw managed to slip through. He grabbed Macha’s ankle and attempted to yank her off Artemis. Trained for battle, the mare instantly turned its body, pulling Macha’s leg out of the bandit’s filthy hand. The horse bit the cutthroat’s cheek. He howled as he cupped his bloody face in his hand. His outcry snapped Macha out of her panic. She spun the mount around; the heavy weight of the animal’s body slammed the bandit to the rocky ground, and trampled him underfoot. She glanced to the side. Bassus and the troopers still battled fiercely. She pulled a dagger from her waistband.

  “Stay in the middle!” Bassus shouted. Frantically, the Praetorians struggled to maintain a protective circle. They were too few, the highwaymen quickly hacked apart five defending soldiers. Appius, Bassus, and the others retaliated slaying a dozen outlaws with their jabbing spears, trampling horses, and slashing longswords.

  Macha screamed when another brigand rode toward her with a drawn sword. Pomponius Appius whirled about, intercepted him, and decapitated him with his longsword—spatha. Blood sprayed from the stump of the victim’s head, splashing Macha and Appius as the body toppled off its mount.

  She had no time to thank him when another bandit on foot grabbed her leg. Without thinking, she drove her dagger through his beard-covered throat and twisted it violently until she heard a bone snap. For a split second his pocked-face froze in disbelief. Blood gurgled and bubbled from his mouth. He slumped to the ground. The smell of his loose bowels and urine gagged Macha—she had never killed anyone before.

  A loud clatter of hooves echoed in the distance, and Macha turned to see a huge swirl of dust rolling along the road. Breaking through the dirty cloud, scarlet cloaked horsemen of the Praetorian Guard galloped in their direction.

  “Soldiers!” One of the bandits shouted. “Run!”

  Vainly attempting to flee, the outlaws scattered. The cavalry, followed by double-timing chain-mailed infantry, charged ahead as the Emperor’s troops fanned both sides of the highway killing all those fleeing.

  Bassus spurred his mount ahead and shouted to the centurion in charge, “Take them alive!”

  A short time later, the guardsmen dragged the three survivors near an outcrop of boulders. After being manacled, the prisoners were brought to the road where the cohort had regrouped. Part of the Guard stood shield-to-shield in a defensive perimeter along both sides of the highway.

  “Looks to be one of these three pieces of scum is a deserter,” a tall burly centurion said. He motioned to one of the prisoners, perhaps in his late twenties. “Found him carrying a spatha and wearing army sandals.” He handed the cavalry longsword to one of his men.

  “Interrogate him first,” Bassus ordered as he dismounted his horse and approached the bandits.

  Macha noticed the ragged leather and hob-nailed caligae on the scarred-face brigand’s feet. Two toes were missing from his left foot. Her gaze shifted to his right hand, and she spied six fingers.

  The centurion saluted Bassus and identified himself as Sextus Humanius, commander of the Fifth Praetorian Cohort. He explained the Emperor Vespasian had dispatched his unit from Rome to Mediolanum to reinforce the First Italic Legion. “I knew there was trouble ahead when one of my scouts signaled that his detail spotted bandits attacking horsemen.”

  “But couldn’t this one have stolen or bought the shoes and weapon?” Macha asked. She motioned to the prisoner.

  The centurion eyed Macha suspiciously.

  “It’s all right, Centurion Humanius,” Bassus said. “She’s Lady Macha Carataca, wife of Tribune Titus Antonius of the First Legion.”

  “I can answer the lady’s question,” Pomponius Appius interjected. “I know this sniveling maggot. His name is Sergius Faunus, a deserter from the First Legion’s cavalry detachment.” Appius grabbed the prisoner’s tunic and ripped it to the waist. Tattooed on his right shoulder was a blue eagle with spreading wings grasping the letter I in its claws. The eagle again, Macha thought.

  Appius spun the bandit around and pointed to the long white scars across his back. “Flogged about a year ago—I forget what for—then he disappeared. He’s from the First Italica Legion all right. A man with six fingers on one hand and missing toes isn’t something I forget.”

  Appius grabbed the man’s sixth finger, and with a slash of his dagger snipped it off. He hurled the bloody appendage into a nearby bush.

  Faunus screamed and fell to his knees, grasping the wrist of his wounded hand.

  Macha gasped, appalled by Appius' barbaric act.

  “First time I ever got to heal a poor deformed cripple and make him normal—like the mad Jew, Cristus,” Appius said. “When I was in Judea, I heard tales he hopped around the countryside raising the dead. Then he was crucified.”

  “Tribune Appius,” Bassus interrupted harshly, “before you conduct another religious miracle, please consider the presence of the lady.”

  Macha nodded her appreciation to the Senator.

  “Is the Tribune telling the truth, deserter?” Centurion Sextus Humanius grabbed the bleeding deserter by the throat and began squeezing. “Answer him!”

  “Y…yes, sir,” the prisoner choked.

  By this time Macha had dismounted Artemis and stood near Bassus as the questioning proceeded.

  Sextus Humanius threw him to the ground. “My Lord Bassus and Tribune Pomponius Appius have a few questions for you. If you don’t tell the truth, my interrogator will perform another miracle for our amusement.” He flicked his eyes to the cohort torturer. The quaestionarius leaned against a boulder, protecting the fire from the wind; he had started heating his irons. One instrument of truth had turned a bright cherry red.

  “I’ll tell him anything he wants to know,” the prisoner blubbered.

  “Only the truth,” Bassus advised. “Is your name Sergius Faunus?”

  “Yes, that’s me.” Appius kicked him as a reminder, and he added, “My lord.”

  “Who sent you to kill us?” Appius questioned.

  “Don’t know his name, sir—he wouldn’t say. Said he followed you from Mediolanum.” Faunus added that the size of Bassus’ contingent made attack impossible. When he learned only a small retinue was escorting Macha south, he recruited Faunus and other bandits with a promise of a large reward if they successfully killed Macha and the troopers.

  “Why did he want our deaths?” Bassus asked.

  “He didn’t say, my lord, and we didn’t ask. He had gold—it didn’t matter why—we took it.”

  “How did he recruit you and the others so quickly?” Bassus inquired. “We left Genua only two days ago.”

  “Easy,” Sergius Faunus answered. “Thieves and honest men out of work will do anything for the right price.”

  Appius kicked him and corrected, “Thieves, deserters, and slackards you mean!”

  “Slaves took all the honest jobs. You can find hungry free men anywhere, and he did.” The prisoner explained they had followed Macha’s band from Genua. “I knew if the storm cleared you’d stop at Luna—couldn’t chance you’d ride to Pisae.”

  He explained that when Macha’s group had spent the night at the village of Bodetia, twenty miles north of Luna, Faunus and his men rode ahead to set their trap.

  “Describe the man who recruited you,” Appius ordered.

  “He’s got a deep nasty scar down the middle of his face,” Faunus answered. “Cuts across the forehead and through a blinded eye. It splits the bridge of his nose and rips right through his lips and chin—ugly sight to see.”

  ”That sounds like Horse Arse,” Centurion Sextus Humanius said.

  “You know him?” Macha asked.

  “Aye, Lady Carataca, he’s a horse trader. He has a contract to supply the way stations with replacement mounts in this part of Italy. They say he killed a man in a tavern after laughter woke him from a drunk. Seems some lout placed a horse-apple on the table by his ‘horse arse’ face. No sense of humor, that one.”

  “Do you
know his real name?” Macha persisted.

  “I don’t know, but you could learn easy enough in Rome.”

  Macha wouldn’t have to wait. By the culprit’s description, she believed she knew him. “I would like to question the prisoner.”

  The centurion turned to Bassus who nodded.

  “Go ahead, Lady Carataca.” Humanius turned to the deserter and glared a warning.

  “Did you see the horse this man was riding?” Macha queried.

  “Aye,” Faunus replied.

  “Describe it.”

  “It’s a black Libyan Barb. It had white stocking feet and a white diamond on its forehead.”

  “I know the man,” Macha said. “His name is Crixus.”

  Bassus raised an eyebrow. “When did you associate with the likes of him?”

  “He’s a Gallic freedman. I wouldn’t have described him as Horse Arse, but his face does remind me of a cleaved melon.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Positive. I didn’t know he held the franchise for providing horses, but I’ve dealt with him before. He’s a cheat. A couple of times he tried selling me sick horses. Thought because I was a woman he could rob me.”

  "Who is his patron?" Bassus asked.

  "As far as I know, his own," Macha replied.

  The centurion proceeded to question the other two prisoners. They added little to what Faunus had told Bassus and Macha.

  After Humanius finished the interrogation, Sergius Faunus asked, “Are you going to take me to Mediolanum for court-martial?”

  Pomponius Appius flicked his eyebrow in the direction of a distant stand of trees.

  A look of horror crossed the deserter’s face. “What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll see.” Sextus Humanius motioned to a squad of ten infantrymen standing nearby and nodded to the prisoners. “Take these pieces of slime far enough from the road, so as not give an odorous offense to passersbys.” They dragged the screaming prisoners away to behead them.

  Moments after the outlaws had been executed, Macha remembered that she too, had killed a man. Guilt, disgust, and pain enveloped her. She had slain the thug in self defense and her horse had trampled another to death. If she hadn’t killed him, he certainly would have butchered her, after doing gods knew what.

  Macha had been trained since she was a child to use a dagger in self-defense. She was the wife of a soldier and knew of their hardships and dangers. Titus had told her many soldiers, after fighting in their first battle and slaying the enemy, felt what she was now experiencing. It was nothing for which to be ashamed. Then why did she feel the way she did? Suddenly nauseous, she couldn’t hold it back. Macha ran behind a nearby poplar and vomited. Afterwards, in the shade of the trees, she slumped to the weed-covered ground and wept.

  * * * * *

  “Crixus must be arrested as soon as we reach Rome,” Macha said to Bassus as they approached the outskirts of Luna. "He must be involved with the plot. Why else would he pay the bandits to attack us?"

  "I will start an investigation once we arrive in Rome," Bassus answered. They followed behind a dusty convoy of eight teams of oxen-drawn wagons filled with blocks of white marble, heading for the docks.

  "By himself," Macha said, "Crixus is too lowly of a man to have hatched this conspiracy by himself. Don't you think?"

  “If he is involved. But you're right. A plot to succeed against Vespasian would require a person or persons in high positions. If Crixus does confess, the political ramifications might be such that everything must be in place before we make any arrests. All those involved in the conspiracy must be seized and imprisoned at the same time.”

  “How many people do you think are involved?”

  “I don’t know, but we shall arrest Horse Arse and put his feet to the fire.”

  Chapter 16

  Welcome to Rome

  About dawn, after a four-day voyage from Luna, Macha, with Bassus and Appius, arrived in Ostia, Rome’s seaport at the mouth of the River Tiber. Leaning against the merchantman’s oaken rail, Macha viewed the noisy activity along the wharf as the ship docked. An army of clerks, money changers, and port officials shouted and haggled with sea captains and merchants about the stacked goods sprawled about the dock and porticoed warehouses. Moored bow first, the squat hulled vessels lined the concrete and granite quay. Stripped to the waist in dirty tunics, a churning river of sweating slaves and freedmen, unloaded cargo arriving from all parts of the Empire. Shipmasters and warehouse foremen shouted and snarled orders to the hapless laborers. Toting sacks of grain and large amphorae of wine and oil, the workers trudged with their burdens to the awaiting barges for transportation upstream on the Tiber. Others unloaded their cargo into carts and wagons traveling the Ostian Way to Rome.

  Raucous seagulls circled and dived for scraps and garbage dumped from anchored vessels into the harbor’s filthy waters, seething with offal, dead fish, and rotten food. The rank odors assaulted Macha’s slightly turned-up nose like a volley of flying arrows. One small aggressive flock alighted on the quay near a fishing boat unloading a fresh catch of mullet—a delicacy for Rome’s nobility. Several slaves using clubs vainly attempted to chase away the thieving birds from this expensive catch.

  Macha had changed from her sweat-stained tartans to a green linen stola trimmed in yellow. The dress was one of three she hastily packed for the journey. A woolen blue palla draped her shoulders and head, covering the long twisted braid flowing down her back. Two plain golden bracelets encircled each wrist and small looped gold earrings, encrusted with tiny rubies, hung from her pierced ear lobes.

  She had managed to take a quick bath in Luna, but desperately needed another. Four days was too long without a decent wash. Fresh water stored aboard ship was for cooking and drinking, not for the luxury of bathing. Wishing she had fresh water, Macha scrubbed off the stink and perspiration with a bucket of salt water in the captain’s tiny cabin. Although cleaner, the salt left a crusty film on her body.

  To make matters worse, she suffered from three days of seasickness, and the foul taste of vomit still lingered in her mouth. Aggravating her misery, a day into her sickness she developed painful cramps in the lower abdomen. She prayed to Mother Goddess Anu her monthly cycle wouldn’t start until she arrived at Bassus’ house in Rome. There she could bathe again and suffer in comfort.

  At the sound of heavy footsteps behind her, Macha turned about. Beak-nosed Pomponius Appius, dressed in a clean uniform, with a shined cuirass and helmet, swaggered to her side. A foul odor emanated from the Tribune's body. She didn't know if he had bathed while they were in Luna but was certain he had not rinsed himself off during the voyage. She slipped back along the railing a couple of paces.

  “Lady Carataca,” he said, “I know I’ve treated you roughly, and offended you and your husband’s name.”

  “Quite true, Tribune Appius,” she answered coolly, “you’ve made your contempt abundantly clear for both of us.”

  For a second his face tightened. “Unfortunately, yes. But after the attack and confession by the deserter, I could be wrong. The way you held your ground and slew that highwayman showed more bal-uh, spirit, than most men would boast.”

  “I know you have misjudged us, but still I’m grateful you saved my life.”

  “All in the line of duty,” he said gruffly, “I’m not completely convinced Titus is innocent, but too many events have occurred that don’t make sense. Faunus’ confession is one of them. The closeness of your two slave’s deaths is another.” Pausing, Appius gazed upward, he searched the hazy blue sky beyond the port. A couple of silent minutes elapsed before he turned back to Macha.

  “Providing the deserter wasn’t lying and this horse trader isn’t either, maybe your husband isn’t a traitor.”

  “I appreciate your considering the possibility, Tribune Appius,” Macha said. “Titus had no part in this terrible situation. He’s a loyal Roman.”

  Appius exhaled, readjusted his helmet, and tugged at the pu
rple sash strung across his silver cuirass. “Your stubbornness was another reason for my doubts. Most women would have thrown up their hands in defeat or fallen at the feet of the Emperor, begging for mercy. You’re no sniveler.”

  “It’s considered an admission of the husband’s guilt. That’s why I refuse to do it. If it will free Titus, I may yet kiss Vespasian's feet.”

  Appius grinned. “I’m assisting Senator Bassus in his inquiries. It’s my intention to find and arrest Crixus, better known as Horse Arse. With a face like his, he won’t be too difficult to catch.”

  “If he’s in Rome.”

  Was this a ruse? Macha questioned herself. Does Appius believe Titus is innocent or is he attempting to throw me off his scent? Perhaps he saved my life, during the attack on the coast road, because Bassus was close by. I must remain cautious about his true intentions.

  * * * * *

  Within the hour after arriving in Ostia, Macha, Bassus, Pomponius Appius, and the Senator’s Praetorian retainers transferred to a shallow draft naval bireme for the seventeen mile journey up the River Tiber to Rome. The Legate’s banners fluttered as the ship glided past large villas and flourishing truck gardens on the Campanian Plain. In the distance, snaking among the gentle ridges, the gray-brown Aqueduct of Appius carried drinking water from the distant Alban Hills to Rome. Built upon solemn stone arches, the flume stretched to the horizon and melted into the golden haze of the Italian sky.

  Standing near the stern, Macha turned and caught a glimpse of Tribune Appius as he conversed with Senator Bassus and the ship's captain a few paces away. She smirked as she thought, Appius is a common name. I'm sure he is no relation to the great family who built the aqueduct more than three-hundred-fifty years ago.

  By late afternoon the ship approached Rome, and Macha saw an ugly sight that was all too familiar. A brown haze hung over the area like a blanket, the result of smoke blending from dozens of huge rubbish heaps that circled and continually burned day and night outside the city gates. The vessel glided toward the Emporium, the Capitol’s huge grain dock. Beyond the port, overlooking the rest of the city stood the majestic Temple of Jupiter on Capitoline Hill. Jutting past the temple, the Palace of Augustus pierced the smoky skyline on top of Palatine Hill. Macha found the activity along the river front as noisy and hectic as in Ostia. The hortator, who pounded a slow rhythmic cadence on his drum, to which the ship's oarsmen rowed, bellowed a command. The sailors drew in the ship’s double bank of oars as other crewmen tied hawsers to the granite quay alongside dozens of barges.