by Debra Diaz
“You have done well to bring her here safely,” he said, managing to bring his stammer under control. “I have forgotten the child’s name. Er, wasn’t it Diana?”
“No, sir,” said Rachel firmly. “That is what the former emperor called me.”
That explained her reaction when he had called her Diana, Metellus thought. He replied quickly, “Her name is Rachel.”
Rachel felt suddenly dizzy…someone else had said that, here…in this room. Memories were flooding her again, and it became hard to breathe. A strange feeling burgeoned in her chest, as though something were trying to leap out. She kept her eyes on the emperor and tried to concentrate on what he was saying.
“Metellus Petraeus has told you, I am sure, why you are here, young woman. There are two reasons, one of which I shall explain in a moment. First, I shall tell you that there is a letter which has recently come to light, written by your father and intended for you. It was left with the wife of his friend, Flavius. She was killed—” Claudius paused and seemed to gulp, and then went on, “—on the day my nephew was assassinated. I am certain she intended to send the letter to you, when she knew for certain where you were, and in the meantime—for its safekeeping—she left it in the care of the Vestal Virgins.”
The woman in white bowed her head slightly. Rachel avoided looking at her, and kept her eyes on the almost compassionate face of the emperor. She felt Metellus watching her acutely.
“Because of the sacredness of their duties, the Vestals will give the letter to no one but its owner. But before we proceed, I would like to explain why I have taken the trouble to bring you here—Rachel.”
Claudius shifted his weight on the hard chair, but seemed to be pleased at the prospect of speaking to her.
“I considered your father a friend, in those days when he was prefect of the city. We thought alike about many things. He favored the Republic, and so did I—and I can say that now because I am the emperor and I can say whatever I like! In fact, he was feared because of it, and Tiberius held him back from advancing any further in his military career. But what a career it was! There are politicians, and there are soldiers. He was a soldier. He was very like my brother, Germanicus. A great commander…”
Claudius went on to enumerate the qualities he admired in her father, talking at length of his accomplishments—he had put down revolts in Africa, Spain and other places Claudius couldn’t recall; he had stopped a near mutiny when the army was grumbling about short rations and the stinginess of Tiberius; he had ridden throughout the provinces and put an end to illegal tax collections and all sorts of crooked administration; his legion was the best trained, the most skilled…
“He was stationed for a year at the Rhine, where the Germans kept dashing back and forth across the river, hoping to stir up trouble, but Tiberius wouldn’t let Paulus wage war against them—he was only allowed to chase them back over the river.” Claudius tilted his head to one side. “My brother Germanicus had the same trouble, years before. I think Tiberius was either afraid of the Germans, or considered them so barbaric they were beneath his notice. But then Paulus got tired of that game, and put a stop to it. He routed the Germans far into the country—it was then that Sejanus had him recalled to Rome, where he could watch him. That was Tiberius’ advisor, you know, and he was jealous of your father, and afraid of him…”
Rachel listened with a heavy heart, and though she had not known these things she was not surprised by them. Pride in her father made her lift her chin and almost smile at the old man, who was so earnestly trying to explain why he cared whether or not an unimportant woman such as herself received a certain letter.
“And now, I come to a difficult part in these remembrances.” The emperor peered at her a little anxiously. “I would have written a book about Paulus Valerius, if it hadn’t been for the way his life ended. And I confess I don’t understand it. I don’t understand all this nonsense about a dead Jew, or why anyone would want to worship him!”
Rachel answered without thinking, as though someone else spoke for her. “That is because it must be revealed to you by God. Everyone who really seeks the truth will find it.”
Claudius frowned. “That is just the sort of thing Valerius would have said! Do you remember, Metellus, what he said just before he died? That this Jesus was the truth—and the life—and some claptrap about him being the only way to see God—”
Rachel didn’t hear the rest, for her mind froze at the emperor’s words. Metellus had been present when her father was executed! What part had he played—why had he not stopped it? He had to have known her father was innocent of any crime! She felt him looking at her, willing her to look at him, but she wouldn’t, ever again…
“The letter,” Claudius said, and glanced at the Vestal, who had stood motionless throughout the emperor’s long oration. “I believe I can say with some certainty that this is indeed the daughter of Valerius, for there is a family resemblance, and I put complete trust in Metellus.”
“I would not dream of questioning your word, sir.”
“Then please hand it over to the young woman.”
Rachel watched, her face as white as the marble statues, as the woman slipped her hand inside her outer garment tied at the waist, and withdrew a small leather case. She walked slowly toward Rachel, and held it out to her.
The daughter of Paulus Valerius straightened her shoulders and stretched out her arm, taking the leather case in a steady grip. She met the woman’s eyes—they were familiar eyes, but older, and they locked with her own as though trying to impart a secret.
“Thank you,” Rachel said evenly. “It was good of you to keep this for me.”
“Remember, Diana,” the woman said. “Remember.” Then she stepped back to her place and lowered her head.
Claudius got awkwardly to his feet. “I must get back to my writing. You and Metellus will be my guests at a ban—banquet tomorrow.”
Rachel felt someone take her arm; it was Theodora, leading her from the room, back up the great staircase and down the twisting corridors. She ignored Metellus, who had continued to stand stiffly at attention until Claudius limped to the door nearest him and disappeared.
Theodora left Rachel in her room. She stood holding the leather case, staring at it…she finally lay it down on a table and walked out on the balcony. The summer sun beat down on the tiles, a sultry wind teased tendrils of hair from their pins. She reached up and pulled them out, letting her hair fall down around her shoulders. She heard the chamber door open and close. Someone came near her and she said, without turning: “Go away.”
“I will,” Metellus said, “after I have explained about your father’s death.”
Rachel put her hands on the high marble balustrade. “I do not want to hear it.”
He came to stand beside her. “Rachel,” he said gently, “I give you my word, I did not know what was happening. At the time I didn’t even know who he was…only that he was a prisoner accused of treason. We were called to assemble at the last moment to witness the execution—on some whim of Caligula’s. We all hated it—we knew there was something wrong about it—but there was nothing we could do. I had been out of the city until that day, so I knew nothing, then, of your mother’s death.”
Rachel felt the scalding of tears in her eyes.
“Even if I had known that he was innocent, there was nothing anyone could do. But let me tell you this—we saluted him as he died, for he faced it like the soldier he was. By the gods, he almost welcomed it! As did Flavius, the Praetorian who was killed with him.”
“Don’t tell me any more!” she said, in a half-strangled voice.
He reached out, and his hand closed over her wrist. “Look at me, Rachel.”
She jerked away from him and went to stand beside a smooth, stone column, her arm going around it as if to stop him from prying her loose. She let her forehead touch it, feeling its coolness against the heat of her skin.
“Go away, Tribune Metellus,” she whispered. “I
don’t ever want to see you again.”
“Why? Because I had the misfortune to be present at your father’s death?”
Rachel whirled away from the column, striding rapidly toward the door to her chamber. “You should have told me!”
“You didn’t want to hear it…isn’t that what you just said?”
Before Rachel could reach the door, there was a knock upon it, and it opened to reveal the young sentry who had been guarding her apartment for the last three days.
“The emperor wishes to see you, sir.”
“Very well.”
The door closed discreetly. Metellus stood looking at Rachel until she grudgingly lifted her gaze to his.
“You’d better tie a kerchief around your eyes if you don’t want to see me, for it will be hard to avoid me on the journey back.”
“I’m going to ask the emperor to allow someone else to take me home!”
“We will see about that,” he said grimly, opening the door to leave.
“Yes!” she shouted after him, childishly. “We will see about that!” This time, the door closed with a resounding bang.
CHAPTER XIX
He found Claudius in his study, seated at his desk and picking out figs from a large platter of fruit near him. He nodded at the guards to allow Metellus to approach.
“The d—daughter of Valerius is very beautiful,” Claudius said, rubbing his fingers absently on his toga. “If I were a younger man…but no, Paulus wouldn’t like that…although she would make a fine wife…if it weren’t for that confounding religion!”
Metellus gave the emperor a swift, observant look. Claudius was known to be a connoisseur of women, though he had always been discreet in his affairs, and had never forced himself on women as Caligula had—or at least, Metellus thought not. Somehow he didn’t think Claudius would do anything to harm Rachel, out of respect for Paulus Valerius. Still—beauty did things to a man—that he could not deny!
“What about you, Metellus? Why don’t you marry her?” Claudius reached for his cup and said, “Have some wine. Why, that is an excellent idea! For you to marry her, I mean.” He gazed at Metellus brightly, giving him a rare smile. “Consider it a c—command!”
When Metellus did not reply at once, Claudius’ smile faded. “Well, what is it? Is she already married? That can be remedied! Don’t you like her? Is she a sh—shrew, or something?”
“I do—like her, my lord,” Metellus said carefully. “And I do want to marry her. But I would rather not force her into it. If it pleases you, sir, I would rather…convince her that she wants to marry me.”
“How do you know she doesn’t want to? Well, I did notice something—I believe she must loathe you, Metellus Petraeus! Bad luck for you. Now why—” He stopped chuckling and said, “What did you do to her?”
“Nothing, sir. She resents me, for reasons of her own. She is a—troubled young woman. Tomorrow she intends to ask you to allow someone else to escort her back to Palestine, and I respectfully ask that you deny her request, my lord.”
“Well, of course I will deny it. I have decided you are the one to marry the d—daughter of my friend. Like him, you are from one of Rome’s finest families—even if you were adopted into it. And now that your adoptive parents are both dead, you are a very wealthy man.”
Metellus said nothing. He had not touched his inheritance; he had always lived on his soldier’s pay. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do about that money, which, for some reason, he didn’t quite feel belonged to him.
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot why I summoned you.” The emperor clumsily poured himself another cup of wine. “I heard you took some men with you the other day and went back down to Campania. I also heard there was some trouble at the gladiator’s school in Capua. I would like to know on whose authority you did this, Metellus?”
“On my own authority, sir, as the protector of Paulus Valerius’ daughter. Some men from the school tried to attack her, and they needed to be taught a lesson.”
Claudius laughed out loud, spilling wine on his already soiled toga. “It’s quite a joke on them, don’t you think, that you have taught soldiers the art of swordplay? Little did they know what they were getting into—I am sure you gave them something to think about, Metellus!”
“In your name, sir.”
“Well, good enough. I’ll keep an eye on them from now on. That’s my old home, you know, before—” He broke off, and took a rather noisy gulp from his cup. “I am serious about this marriage, Metellus. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I’m surprised she hasn’t married! She must be nearly twenty years old.”
“It seems she has an aversion to marriage. I intend to change her mind.”
“How, may I ask?”
“I know that she—that is—” Claudius was bemused to see a flush creep up the other man’s face. “I believe that she has feelings for me, my lord. With time, she may come to—admit this to herself.”
“Well, if it doesn’t work, you must tell me,” Claudius said, beginning to roll up his sleeves. “Where is my pen? You may go now, Metellus. I will see you both at supper tomorrow.”
Metellus bowed slightly. One of the guards opened the door for him and he left the room. The long passageway was filled with niches and alcoves containing immense statues of past emperors and famous Romans, but he didn’t even see them as his mind fixed on the problem of Rachel. He needed to talk to her—immediately.
* * * *
She had to see the house.
The thought came to her out of nowhere, but as though it had been there… somewhere in her mind…all the time. Even if there were people living in it, as surely there were, Rachel had to see it. She had to walk down the long road…past the mansions and fine houses, going along as it narrowed and became a lane, ending at the edge of the woods…and at the house she had lived in as a girl. Somewhere near she would find a place to read the letter, even if it had to be deep in the woods.
It wasn’t far; she could easily walk there and be back before dark. She and her mother had often walked to the marketplace from their house. But then it became a matter of how she was to leave the palace without being seen. Again she remembered the side entrance, where she’d been whisked out of the house and hurried across the street to the House of the Vestals. If she went there, she had only to keep going east until she reached the main thoroughfare, then north, and east again. She knew she could find the way.
An idea presented itself. She ran to the enormous closet and threw back the curtains that covered it. Surely, of all the clothes there must be a white gown…there! But, although it had long sleeves it was obviously not the robe-like garment of a Vestal. Searching further, she found a white shawl and snatched it out. Hurriedly, she took off the sea-blue gown and donned the white one, and draped the shawl around her shoulders, pulling the top part over her head to half conceal her face. She criss-crossed the two ends under her neck and pulled them tight. Looking in the mirror, she decided she could pass as the Vestal who had been here earlier, if she made her pace slow and decorous. The problem would be getting past the sentry outside her door.
Why she was being guarded she didn’t know, but every time she had opened the door in the past three days he had been there. But he had to leave sometime, she reasoned, even if for only a moment or two. She simply had to watch, and take advantage of that moment.
She opened the door a mere crack, and saw him standing a few steps away, a javelin in his hand. She crept back to the closet and withdrew one of her own dark-colored mantles and folded it into a small square. Hesitantly, almost reverently, she lifted the leather case holding the letter, and slipped it underneath the folded mantle. Going back to the door, she stood and waited.
It seemed an aeon before he began to move about restlessly. No one else had passed down the hall. As soon as he disappeared around the corner, Rachel slipped out and walked solemnly, her head slightly lowered, toward the north side of the palace. She had to stop a few times and try to rec
all which passage to take. She passed other sentries and servants, who glanced at her and immediately looked away…and she supposed that Vestals were not to be the object of stares. She found the outer door, descended the steps, and found herself looking up at the domed roof of the Temple of Vesta. A strange feeling surged through her body and resolutely she shook it off…I won’t think about that now! She deliberately focused on the street before her, and coming to the end of it, turned left.
She pulled the shawl off her head and let it fall about her shoulders, replacing it with the dark mantle that covered her head and most of the white gown. There were people everywhere, but no one was paying her any attention. The street was the same and yet different; it was so strange, this feeling inside her… like a combination of nostalgia and great dread. Before long she came to the road leading to the house, her house. Without looking at them she passed the mansions of the wealthy; the trees grew thicker, the road narrower...finally for a long stretch there were no houses…and then, there it was.
* * * *
Metellus had been intercepted on his way to Rachel’s room by Theodora, who said that since tomorrow’s banquet was to be in Rachel’s honor, the cook needed to know what dishes she liked to eat. What were her favorite colors, for the decorations, and what sort of music would she like to listen to, and did she favor any special poet who could perform a reading? Would she prefer jugglers or acrobats for entertainment, and what about dancers? Metellus gave up trying to answer while standing in the hallway, for the woman looked impatient and eyed him with an active dislike. He didn’t think he’d done anything to offend her, so it must be men in general that she didn’t like.
“Why don’t we go to the kitchen where we can sit and discuss all this?” he suggested. “She is not going to want a lot of fanfare, I can tell you.”