by Debra Diaz
The room was gaily decorated with banners of all shades of blue, from light to dark to greenish blue, interspersed with white ones. There were lamps burning everywhere, with scented oil, and freshly-cut flowers arranged in vases on the tables. Musicians sat playing their instruments in a slow, soothing rhythm.
There was a slight interruption as the emperor entered the room with his bodyguards. He took his place at the main table, indicating for her and Metellus to join him, as well as his wife and the silent youth. The servants began bringing in the food—smoked fish, vegetables and fruits, and hot bread. For those who didn’t like fish, there were more exotic dishes that Rachel couldn’t identify…but the sight of which made her slightly queasy.
The polite chatter died down as everyone began to eat, and then Agrippina said, in a nasal tone, “So what have you done, my dear, to warrant so great a reception by the emperor?”
Before Rachel could think of a reply, Claudius said, “Sh—she is here because I wish to honor the memory of a fr—friend. Many of you will remember her father, Paulus Valerius Max—Maximus.”
Everyone looked at each other surreptitiously. They remembered him all too well, and the way he had died.
“You are his daughter?” Agrippina said, now looking at her avidly.
Rachel nodded. The young man beside the woman stared at her just as avidly.
“Claudius, why didn’t you invite Selena and her husband?” Agrippina asked. She looked at Rachel. “That would be your aunt. Your grandmother died last year.”
Rachel still didn’t know what to say, and felt like a fool. She had never known her father’s family, for it would have endangered them to know where he was, while he and her mother were being sought by Caligula.
“I chose not to invite them,” said Claudius. “They did nothing to support Paulus in his time of trouble—even after they knew he had been arrested.”
“What could they have done?” Agrippina demanded, with an expansive gesture. “You yourself couldn’t stop my brother from what he did.”
Claudius belatedly perceived that the conversation might be uncomfortable for his guest, and sought a change of subject. But first he said, “It pleases me, Rachel, to be able to say publicly that your father was not guilty of treason. After all, the king he professed to serve does not really exist! You may consider this an early birthday celebration—when is your birthday?”
“It happened on the voyage to Rome, sir.”
“Well then, a late birthday celebration!”
Metellus was tense, waiting, and he stifled a groan as he heard her say, “But he does exist, sir.”
Claudius either did not hear, or pretended that he didn’t. But his wife said hastily, “What do you mean? What does she mean, Claudius?”
“She—she is a member of the Nazarene cult. It doesn’t matter, Agrippina—it will come to nothing.”
The other guests were moving restlessly. Claudius said to someone standing in the shadows, “Bring out the acrobats!”
A trio of men in scanty costumes ran out and demonstrated their agility by tumbling about and climbing each other’s shoulders. They leaped and rolled through hoops of fire and swung from ropes they had secured high overhead.
Claudius ate with gusto and, instead of watching the acrobats, let his dimmed but still observant gaze roam around the room. It was difficult not to look at Rachel, which his wife noticed…but he didn’t care. He was the emperor and he could look at whom he liked. Agrippina was sure to poison him one of these days, anyway. She was probably already doing it, judging from the frequency of his digestive problems. He happened to notice the moment that Metellus’ hand accidentally brushed against Rachel’s, and the deep blush that immediately suffused her cheeks. He also noticed that Agrippina’s son, Nero, was staring at the young woman, and he began to frown. The more he watched, and thought, the more he frowned.
“Whatever is the matter with you, Claudius?” said Agrippina. “You look like Vesuvius on the verge of eruption.”
“May I recite now, Uncle Claudius?” Nero asked, as the acrobats finished their performance and scampered from the room.
“What do you wi—wish to recite?”
“How about Homer’s Iliad?”
“Oh, gods, we don’t want to be here all night! Metellus, I want to consult with you about something. Bring Rachel with you.”
Surprised, Metellus rose and assisted Rachel to her feet, and walked with her to a corner of the room where Claudius waited for them. He was still frowning.
“I have come to a decision, Metellus. You are to marry this young woman tonight. Now, as a matter of fact.”
“My lord—”
“I know you were opposed to it yesterday. But I have decided it would be remiss of me to allow you to escort her back to her home without—well, I see things. And I owe it to her father to see that—you know what I me—mean, Metellus.”
Rachel had turned white, and then red. She could not believe her ears.
“My lord,” Metellus said again, “I beg you to reconsider. I swear I would not—”
“What good is swearing—you’re a man, aren’t you? Besides, that isn’t the only reason.” Claudius lowered his voice. “Look at my grand-nephew. My adopted son. Even now he is plotting, and he always gets what he wants, one way or another. He has hardly taken his eyes off this young woman all night. He is attracted to anything beautiful—male or female!”
Metellus fell silent.
Humiliated, Rachel cried, “But he is only a boy! And—the tribune obviously does not wish to marry me.”
“Nonsense. And Nero will be of marriageable age next year. He is perfectly capable of demanding that his mother allow him to ha—have you, and I may not be here to prevent it! Or even—without marriage…By the gods, the ghost of Paulus Valerius will wreak a terrible vengeance if I allow such a thing to ha—happen.” The emperor was actually sweating. “I should not have placed you in this position—either of you. But I know what I am doing, and you will be married tonight.”
“There is a man in Judea, who expects to marry Rachel when she returns, sir.”
“Then I expect he will be disappointed. I shall send for the augur, to make sure the signs are favorable, and the priest. I won’t perform the ceremony myself, as I’m likely to stutter. Go and take your seats again.”
Rachel found herself being ushered speedily back to the table, before she could utter a protest. Metellus’ hand on her arm was like a vise.
“Don’t say anything,” he said. “He’s right about Nero.”
“It’s ridiculous! Just because he looks at me—”
“Be quiet.”
Furious and mortified, Rachel lapsed into silence. Nero stood up and recited something less lengthy than Homer’s Iliad, with many graceful and theatrical gestures. His voice was changing from a boy’s to a man’s, and squeaked at inopportune moments.
A man came and whispered something to the emperor. Another man entered the room, dressed in the robes of a priest.
“May I have your attention?” Claudius said, cutting off his grandnephew in mid-soliloquy. Nero glared at him and sat down.
“I have the pleasure of announcing the marriage of Metellus Petraeus to Rachel Valeria. He has just asked me to allow him the honor of marrying her, and I am so pleased that I have decided the wedding should take place tonight, with all of you as witnesses. Agrippina, take a string and measure her finger, and go and fetch a gold ring for her.”
“And where am I to find a string?” his wife said, looking suddenly angry.
“Here,” said Metellus, and pulled one of the ribbons out of Rachel’s hair. “Use this.”
Agrippina snatched it from his hand. Rachel watched as the woman drew the ribbon close around the third finger of her left hand, and then stalked from the room.
Nero was scowling at his great-uncle. The music continued to play, a little faster in tempo. The guests offered their congratulations and looked delighted, as though this were simply anothe
r form of entertainment.
“What a sly one you are, Metellus,” cried one of the senators. “We haven’t seen you hold hands yet! The wedding won’t be legal unless you do!”
Metellus looked at Rachel and laid one of his hands over hers. She flinched…but only he knew it.
Agrippina returned with a slave in tow. The slave handed something to the priest… presumably a ring…and went to Rachel.
“Stand up,” said Agrippina, and when Rachel did so, the slave began tying something around her waist.
“What is this?”
“Why, it’s the ‘belt of Hercules’” Agrippina answered, smirking. “Only your husband can untie it, in the marriage bed.”
Rachel thought she was going to faint. The slave kept wrapping the belt in an intricate knot, for every time she stopped Agrippina insisted she must make it tighter…it must be a challenge for the groom!
“Lydia,” the emperor said to one of the senators’ wives, “you may play the part of Rachel’s mother, since she is not—here. We will have to combine the betrothal and wedding ceremony into one, because our friends must leave us tomorrow. I’m afraid there can be no further fes—festivities. Come, Rachel and Metellus.”
Dazedly, Rachel walked with Metellus toward the priest, who stood at the front of the room. It still smelled of tar or pitch—whatever the acrobats had used to set their hoops afire. The guests began to perceive that something was wrong, for neither the bride nor groom was smiling. Another of Claudius’ whims, they began to think, but redoubled their efforts to be merry, and filled their cups time and again.
The priest assured everyone that the auspices were favorable for the marriage and asked the couple to clasp hands. Rachel felt Metellus take her hand. It was as though she were back in the House of the Vestals, forced to say things she did not mean. Or did she? Where you go I will go… but Metellus did not want to marry her!
She should just start screaming, so they would think she was insane! But then what would they do with her? Lock her away somewhere? Tomorrow she would be back on her way to Bethany—if she could only endure until then…
A ring was sliding onto her finger and she stared at it as though mesmerized. The priest said a few more words and the ceremony was over.
“Seal it with a kiss,” called out one of the men. “After all, it’s the betrothal, too!”
Rachel stood numbly as Metellus’ eyes met hers, and he bent to touch her lips with his own. Someone asked if there was cake, and a prayer was said to Jupiter. All the while Rachel thought, “I’m sorry, please forgive me, this is none of my doing…”
Again congratulations were offered. The guests were drunk, Nero drunkest of all. Agrippina had left, haughty and mysteriously angry. Claudius wished them happiness, and then he, too, disappeared.
The woman named Lydia took her hand and began to lead her down the halls, with Metellus and all the guests following. Nero was singing a ribald song in a high, slurred voice. At the door to her chamber, Lydia put both arms around Rachel and tried to hold onto her as Metellus pulled her away, then he lifted her in his own arms and opened the door to carry her through, to the cheers and encouragement of those behind him. Rachel knew enough about Roman marriage customs to realize it was all symbolic of her being taken away from her parents and given to her husband, who carried her across the threshold so that she might not stumble and start out the marriage on an ill omen.
Metellus set Rachel on her feet and firmly closed the door against the guests, who seemed to want to come in after them. She watched as he slid the bolt into place, the act of which finally loosened her tongue.
“I hope you know that I do not consider this a real marriage!”
“Somehow I didn’t think you would,” he replied.
“You’d better go back to your own room!”
“And what would they think? They’ll be roaming the palace, celebrating all night and tomorrow—even if we’re not there.”
“They’ll think we had a quarrel—I don’t care what they think!”
“I’ll sleep on the balcony. It’s not as if we haven’t shared closer quarters than this.”
“Oh!” she said, and burst into tears. It was more than she could stand! She had planned to try to approach God tonight; she was going to get on her knees and plead with him to forgive her. She couldn’t do that with Metellus in the room. And now she had committed an even worse sacrilege, and Metellus had not wanted to marry her.
She sat down abruptly on the bed and began to pluck miserably at the knotted belt at her waist. She didn’t know where to start…it was hopeless!
Metellus knelt down in front of her. “By the—stop crying, Rachel—will you hold still?” He pulled a knife from a sheathe hidden inside his tunic and sawed until the belt fell off.
“You’re not supposed to have that in the palace,” she sobbed.
“No. I would probably be thrown into prison if they found it on me, so please lower your voice.”
“What am I going to tell Lazarus? What will Benjamin do?”
“We’ll explain everything exactly as it happened, and then there will be time enough to decide what to do. Claudius may agree to an annulment, if it’s what you wish. He was mainly trying to protect you from Agrippina’s son. And, believe me, his reasoning is sound.”
Rachel stood up and walked a few paces, struggling to bring her emotions under control. “If only I hadn’t worn these clothes, and made a spectacle of myself!”
Metellus slowly stood up and said, “You could wear sackcloth, and still be the most beautiful woman in the room. In any room.”
Unconsciously, she put her hand against her heart before turning to face him. She took a deep breath. “Tribune Metellus, I am sorry I have been such trouble to you. I—I will be ready to leave in the morning. But, if I could make one final request?”
“What is it?” he asked cautiously.
“I cannot stand the thought of another journey by sea. Could we go back by land?”
Metellus hesitated. “It will take longer and be much more difficult. How do you propose to travel?”
“We can walk, and go part of the way by coach, and—why, I can ride a horse!”
He looked surprised. “Who taught you to ride—Lazarus?”
“No, I’m afraid he’s not a very good horseman. My—father taught me, one summer. I’ve ridden a few times at Simon’s farm, over the years.”
“I’m sure I can find two good horses. I know just the man for it. It will delay us by a few hours.”
“I’ll be ready when you return.”
They stood looking at each other, and Metellus began, “Rachel—”
Someone knocked, rather timidly, on the door. Metellus frowned but slid back the bolt.
It was the slave, Alda, who had apparently heard of their marriage. She bowed her head. “I came to see if you needed help with anything, my lady.”
“Yes, please.” Rachel turned to Metellus. “This gown ties in the back, and I—I want to put on my nightgown.”
He took the hint and walked onto the balcony, staring out at the Circus Maximus, now shrouded in darkness. He could not blame Rachel for being upset, but the only objection he had to their marriage was that it had been ordered by the emperor. It would have been far better if he’d been given time to win her affections, and then he wondered if that were even possible, now that he knew how much her religion meant to her. He was a pagan in her eyes. At the very least she would want a Christian ceremony—for he was sure they must have their own rituals.
Strange…how his mind had changed about marriage in the course of a few weeks. And about women. She was not like other women he had known, even if she was half Roman. She was not manipulative, or hard-hearted, or ready to leap into bed at the crook of a finger…which certainly didn’t make her any less desirable.
He heard the door close and walked back into the bedroom. Alda had put out all the lamps but one. Rachel was standing uncertainly in front of the door, clad in a long, ros
e-colored nightgown, her hair out of its ribbons and cascading down her back.
This was going to be a long night.
“Slide the bolt,” he said brusquely, and went to the closet, where he found a number of blankets. He carried them out onto the balcony and tossed them in a heap near the balustrade, kicked them into some semblance of order, and lay down upon them, his arms under his head. He heard her as she blew out the last lamp, and everything plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER XI
Metellus was gone when Rachel wakened. She dressed in one of her own gowns, and was busily packing when Alda brought her breakfast. She ate hurriedly, returned to her packing and had just stuffed the last article into one of her bags when the door opened. She thought it was the slave again, or Theodora, but when no one said anything, she turned.
Nero was standing close enough to touch her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her heart plummeting, but her voice steady.
“I came to say goodbye,” he said squeakily. He was about the same height as herself, and of a husky build. “Where is your husband?”
“I—I don’t know. He should return any moment.”
“I’ll be fourteen years old soon,” he told her, his large, protuberant eyes resting greedily on her face. “Old enough to marry.”
“How interesting,” she said.
“I’m going to be emperor someday. My great-uncle adopted me.” He waited for her to speak, and when she didn’t, went on, “I’m older than his son, Britannicus, you know.”
She simply stared at him, hoping he would go away.
“Where do you live?”
“A long way from here.”
“I can find out.” He reached out and, before she guessed his intention, touched a lock of her hair.