by Debra Diaz
CHILD OF THE KING
DEBRA DIAZ
Kindle Edition
Copyright 2012 Debra Diaz
This (standalone) novel is Book III in the Woman of Sin trilogy:
WOMAN OF SIN
MAN OF GOD
CHILD OF THE KING
PROLOGUS A.D. 50
The white-haired man stood before a long, narrow window as he waited. Night was approaching, and he could see his face dimly reflected in the hazy glass that covered most of the palace windows. After a startled moment, he had to admit he barely recognized his own reflection…so changed was it from that fateful day he had succeeded his nephew as emperor. He’d been extraordinarily thin during those last days of Caligula’s mad rule—always wondering what was going to happen next, never knowing when the emperor would mean it the next time he said, lazily: “You know, I could have your fool head off with a hiccup, don’t you, Uncle?”
Now, ten years later, he was overweight…mostly in the torso…with a full face, long, thick neck, and tired eyes with darkened pouches beneath them. Claudius turned impatiently from the window and surveyed the room, with its glittering brass lamp stands, its colossal desk with all his manuscripts and writing instruments piled upon it, his favorite chairs and couches and rugs. Here, no one was allowed but himself…and whomever he cared to admit. Here he could escape from the strain of constant decision-making, the endless requests and demands of the people, the Senate, his fourth wife…Ah, above all he could come here and forbid Agrippina to follow him. She hated his writing, but she knew better than to disturb him when he had a pen in hand and a thoughtful frown on his brow.
He’d been forced to marry her two years ago…well, not forced…but it had been to his advantage, politically. Certainly he hadn’t wished to marry Caligula’s conniving sister—his own niece. Just as he hadn’t wished to adopt her petulant and narcissistic son, Nero—but that, too, was politics. Never mind that he’d made the Praetorians swear to cut him to pieces should he ever decide to marry again; they’d either forgotten, or pretended to.
He would soon be sixty years old, and if the first fifty years of his life had been difficult, the last ten had been horrendous. There hadn’t been a day that he didn’t wonder—will this be the last? Would he be poisoned, stabbed in the Senate, struck down by an archer in the street, smothered in his own bed? There was always some plot afoot; he himself had uncovered several before they were carried out. He even had to execute his third wife, Messalina, for plotting against him…a calamity from which he had never recovered. And there was no doubt in his mind that Agrippina couldn’t wait for someone to finish him off…preferably without the bloodbath of Caligula’s demise, which had extended to his immediate family.
Claudius found solace in three things: eating, reading, and writing. But eating was often accompanied by a burning sensation so severe that he wanted to swallow up the whole Tiber River, and after reading and studying a while his vision became so blurry he couldn’t see. At least, with writing, he could dictate his words to the imperial secretary and have the satisfaction that he was doing something worthwhile. In his youth he wrote an entire history of Rome’s civil wars, including a frank portrayal of Augustus…that his grandmother quickly squelched; he wrote a history of the Etruscans and eight volumes about the Carthaginians. Lately he had begun his memoirs…though they would probably disappear as soon as he was pronounced dead. Because he wrote the truth.
He thought back over his early years…how, because he stuttered and limped and twitched, his own mother had often referred to him as a monster. Almost all of his family had treated him with contempt—he had been the butt of cruel jokes, the recipient of undeserved blows and whippings. He’d had few friends in his life, and most of them were dead.
And now, he thought—with an incredulity he could never quite overcome—I am emperor!
Caligula, always enamored of the theater, had just left a performance by his favorite actor when he was set upon by members of his own Praetorian Guard. There wasn’t much left of him when they finished. When the emperor’s well-paid German bodyguards came upon the scene, they fell into a barbarous fury and began chasing and killing anyone they could find, while the real assassins went after members of Caligula’s family. A palace guard had observed a set of curtains seeming to move of their own accord and pulled them back to reveal the terrified and violently shaking figure of Uncle Claudius.
Claudius still wasn’t sure how it happened, but he had immediately been proclaimed the new emperor. So great was the soldiers’ animosity toward Caligula, so foolish had Caligula made his position and the reputation of Rome, that it seemed they decided to put a real “fool” on the throne…perhaps out of scorn, perhaps as a joke. And once the Praetorians had decided upon Claudius, the Senate was afraid to oppose them. On the other hand, he’d often wondered if the Senate had been in conspiracy with the Praetorians and had already selected him to succeed Caligula, thinking him worthy…oh, but that is an absurd idea, Claudius!
Once he had dreamed of being emperor. He would right so many old wrongs, he would undo the damage done by Tiberius and Caligula, he would bring back the days of Augustus! Though even the great Augustus had not been beyond reproach, as Claudius’ history book would have divulged. Eventually he, Claudius, would give the power back to the people of Rome, where it belonged.
But somehow, over the years, that worthy ambition had slipped away. He had lost confidence in the Roman people, just as he had lost confidence in practically everyone he had ever known. Except for one or two, and one thing he could not do, even as emperor, was bring back the dead.
Claudius had been prudent enough not to probe too deeply into Caligula’s grisly death, even pardoning most of the known assassins. He regretted having to kill the main conspirator, Cassius Chaerea, who had been a staunch Republican and had voiced his opposition to any emperor with such vehemence that Claudius had no choice but to silence him…permanently.
The door to the room opened suddenly. One of his freedmen entered with a slight bow. “The tribune is here, sir.”
Claudius’ head jerked and he couldn’t remember for a moment which tribune he had summoned, and why. A tall man, in a plain belted tunic with no cuirass or other trappings of a uniform, entered with a long, confident stride.
“Ah, that will do,” Claudius said to the freedman, whose name escaped him at the moment. He bowed again and closed the door behind him.
The tall man inclined his head respectfully and waited for Claudius to speak. The emperor limped around to stand behind his desk.
“As I said during your re—retirement ceremony, Metellus Petraeus, I shall be sorry to see you go. Your sixteen years with the Guard seemed to go very fast! Are you certain you don’t wish to re—re—reenlist?”
The former soldier smiled at him. “You have been more than generous with me, sir. I look forward to doing something with the land you have granted me. I’m not sure yet what course my life will take, but I’d like to try something different.”
“Well then, you have ‘bravely and faithfully’ completed your service, as they say. I cannot complain. But as commander of my own personal cavalry, you will not easily be replaced.”
“It has been an honor, sir.”
Claudius blinked at him, trying to remember the purpose for this visit. Ah, the letter!
“I shall continue to call you ‘tribune’ for a while longer. There is something I would like you to do for me, Metellus.”
A look of concern crossed the man’s face. “I am at your command, my lord.”
Claudius nodded, pleased at the response. “Do you recall the execution of a man some ten years ago, shortly before Caligula’s…death? His name was Paulus Va—Valerius.”
Now th
e man became very still. “I remember. I was present.”
“Yes, I know. You were quite young then. It was very distressing to me. He was a friend.”
“I heard that. It was regrettable, sir.”
Claudius turned toward the window again, but now it was so dark he saw nothing but himself, his white, puffy face gleaming in the glass. The hem of his toga just touched his ankles, revealing swollen, sandaled feet, and he gave a rumpled and disheveled appearance.
“There are some things I never forget,” he said, so softly the other man almost didn’t hear him. “I encountered him several times—the library, basilicas, the forums. He never failed to speak to me, to inquire about me as if he actually ca—cared. He never laughed, never flinched away when I had a, well, a spasm of some sort.”
A silence fell, and then the emperor shook his head and turned to face the other man. “He treated me like a person, long before anyone ever dreamed I would be emp—emp—emperor.” Claudius raised his faded blue eyes and said, “If I could have saved Paulus Valerius, I would have! But you saw Caligula’s fury, and how hopeless it was. You saw how the Guard hated watching it. I shall always believe it was one of those final acts of madness that stiffened Cassius Chaerea’s resolve to kill my nephew.”
The tribune remained silent.
“Don’t worry—I know you had nothing to do with the plot, Tribune! You weren’t much more than a youth, then. But as for Paulus, there is one thing I can do for him. A letter has been found, a long-forgotten letter, written by Paulus from prison, to his daughter. He gave it to Susanna, the wife of the man who was executed with Paulus. Do you remember what happened to Susanna?”
A furrow appeared on the man’s brow. “She was murdered by the assassins. Even though her husband, Flavius, had been a member of the Guard himself.”
Claudius nodded. “That circumstance did not save her. She was attempting to protect Caligula’s daughter. Susanna was her nurse, and she tried to stop them from taking her. And then—what they did to the child—” The emperor shuddered. “At least it was quick, I should hope.”
“What happened to this letter, sir?” the tribune asked, when Claudius said nothing more and seemed to be looking back over the years, the events of that day still touching him with horror.
“The letter? Oh, the letter. Susanna had intended to find someone to take it to Paulus’ daughter. You will recall, of course, that his daughter was being—whi—whisked out of the country before Caligula could get hold of her. I was the one who finally convinced my nephew to call off the search for her—what purpose would it serve if he did find and kill her? It would only have angered the Praetorians more, because of their respect for P—Paulus Valerius.”
When Claudius paused again, the man asked, “Would you like me to deliver the letter to her?”
Claudius looked at him and shook his head. “Susanna had taken it to the Vestal Virgins for safekeeping, until such a time as she could find someone to deliver it. Obviously she was afraid Caligula might hear of the letter. The Vestals are very discreet, and they take their responsibilities very seriously. They stored it away, unread I am sure, and somehow it was forgotten. It has recently come to light, and one of the Vestals remembered the whole situation. But they will not release it, even to me. They will only give it to the person to whom it was written.”
“But, sir, you are the emperor—”
Claudius stared at him. “There are some people I will not tangle with, young Metellus, and among them are the Vestal Vir—Virgins.”
The man seemed to restrain a smile and said solemnly, “I agree, sir. The Vestals are beyond reproach. Would you like me to find the child and bring her to Rome?”
“She is hardly a child now, but yes. They say I’m a paranoid old man and I don’t trust anyone—which is true—but you are more than capable of doing this for me, and I want to do it for Paulus. I shall not, however, force you. I shall pay you handsomely. Will you do it?”
If the tribune was dismayed at this abrupt change in his plans, he gave no indication. “I would be honored, my lord.”
“It will take several months,” Claudius reminded him. “You will have to go and bring her here, and then return her safely to her home. If she consents to come, that is. If she does not, that is beyond my con—”
The emperor stopped. He cocked his head and smiled a little. “No, by the gods, it is not beyond my control! You will tell her she must come, at once, whether she wishes it or not. I am the emp—emperor, after all. I will write out an edict. My friend will have his dying wish!”
“I pledge to you her safety, in the sacred name of Paulus Valerius Maximus.”
“You knew him?” Claudius asked sharply.
There was a pause, and the tribune replied, “I saw him die. It was enough.”
Claudius turned away, surprised that even now the memory of it could cause his eyes to sting and his throat to burn.
“He was a man of strong beliefs. He would not have wanted you to call his name sacred. Otherwise I should have made him a g—g—god. He was more so than a lot of other people I could name!” His eyes grew misty with remembrance. “To be frank, Tribune, I only made my grandmother a goddess because she threatened to come back and haunt me if I didn’t! Some oracle had told her I would be emperor. I daresay she never really believed it. And if you think my uncle Tiberius was a wicked man, his mother was responsible for a great deal of it! She no more deserves to be a goddess than a—a toad!”
After another tactful pause, the tribune asked, “Where is the child, sir?”
Claudius whirled awkwardly, ashamed of showing such emotion before the other man. “How should I know? Susanna surely told the Vestals—consult with them. I can’t remember everything!”
CHAPTER I
Rachel hurried along the narrow road toward Bethany, conscious of the servant, Josiah, following close behind. Her guardian never allowed her to visit Jerusalem alone…someone always accompanied her, whether it was himself, one of his friends, or a trusted servant. It was ridiculous, she thought indignantly—he knew very well that she was capable of taking care of herself!
She loved Jerusalem, in all its fine architecture and twisting streets, its startling combination of Jewish heritage and Roman influences, its sharp contrasts between rich and poor. But the main fascination, for her, were the places where Jesus of Nazareth had walked, and been seen…the Temple, the marketplaces, and above all, the Antonia fortress.
There, at the Antonia, the Nazarene had stood trial and been condemned. Her father, Paulus Valerius, had been a witness—not only to the trial, but to the man’s crucifixion.
Rachel didn’t know why she was drawn to these places. She refused to think of her father, or her mother. She never allowed her thoughts to turn back to those last, nightmarish days in Rome. And though she still loved God…she had not spoken to him in ten years.
The early summer sun caught glints of gold in her hair, just as she raised the light mantle to cover it. She disliked covering her head; she felt constricted and, on days like this, uncomfortably warm. But she was passing through the village gate and would soon be at Lazarus’ house, and he expected her to dress in the manner of the Jews. She had a guilty notion that it would disturb him to know that she roamed bareheaded through the streets of Jerusalem, but it was only a small act of rebellion. It was so boring in little Bethany! But, soon it would be time for her yearly visit to Simon and Daphne’s farm in Bethlehem…
Rachel rushed through the courtyard, grateful for its shade and coolness. She went into the house, as the servant behind her turned the opposite way to resume his tasks. Before she could reach her bedroom, Lazarus’ wife appeared in the corridor.
“Why, Rachel! Where have you been?”
“Just—walking.”
“Lazarus thought you should be home an hour ago, dear. He’s waiting to speak with you.”
Another lecture about spending too much time away from home, no doubt. Lazarus was a dear man, but very prot
ective.
“Yes, Judith. I will go to him.”
Once, long ago, there had been another Judith that she had no memory of, but her mother had spoken of her often. She had been a servant in Lazarus’ household, and had gone to live for a while with Rachel’s mother, Alysia, when she was left alone with a baby daughter to raise. That Judith had died, years ago. This woman seemed just as kind, though, and just as devoted to her. Her plain features glowed with an inner beauty as she reached out to touch Rachel’s face.
“You must listen to him, Rachel, with your heart, and not just your ears.”
An alarm sounded in Rachel’s mind. A sense of foreboding filled her. This was going to be more than a lecture.
She went into her bedroom and straightened her clothes…the plum-colored gown covered by a mantle of a lighter hue…and smoothed her hair before drawing the mantle back over it. Then she stiffened her shoulders and walked toward Lazarus’ study.
It was a large house, built in the Jewish fashion around an inner courtyard. Her guardian was the owner of orchards and vineyards all around the town. A stone stairway ran up one side of the house to the flat rooftop, which was like another house in itself. It was her refuge…whenever an escape to Jerusalem was not possible.
Rachel knocked lightly on the door and went inside the room. It smelled of cedar and parchment; the desk and bookcases were full of scrolls. The man sitting behind the small desk was gray-haired and gray-bearded, with dark eyes as warm and kind as his wife’s. But they were now very sober.
“You spent all morning in Jerusalem,” he said, though not accusingly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Rachel.” He stood up, tall and thin, with shoulders slightly stooped. “I know that since you completed your studies that you have been somewhat—restless. I confess I don’t understand these frequent visits to Jerusalem, but I have allowed them. You’ve always loved to go there, since you came to us.”