by Debra Diaz
She stepped backward. “I think you’d better leave.”
His splotchy face turned red. “You cannot tell me when to leave!”
“But I can.” Metellus spoke quietly from the doorway.
Nero twisted around. “You have no authority here! You’re not a Praetorian any longer, and I’m not afraid of you!”
“Perhaps you should be.”
“I’m going to tell Uncle Claudius you threatened me!”
“Go ahead and tell him. Now.”
“I’ll tell my mother, and she’ll have your head!”
Metellus said nothing for a moment. Agrippina was already annoyed with him. She had been trying to draw him into her own circle of intrigue for years…without success. His loyalty was to Claudius, and he had refused to be a pawn in any of her political games. She was perfectly capable of having him killed.
“Nero,” he said mildly, “have I not known you since you were a boy? I served as your protector on more than one occasion. You’re a man now, and what am I to think when I walk in to find you fondling my wife? Neither Claudius nor your mother would be pleased.”
The youth struggled with his outraged dignity. “It wasn’t fair of you to marry her, before anyone got to meet her.”
“Nevertheless, she is my wife.”
“For now!” Without looking back at Rachel, Nero bolted from the room.
Having stepped aside for the boy’s exit, Metellus came into the room and met her eyes. “I think we’d better leave right away. Are you ready?”
She nodded.
“I’ve sent a courier to Apollonia…there’s a man there I’ve heard of who will have horses ready for us when we arrive. I bought some things for you. I left them down the hall when I heard your voices.”
She nodded again as he left the room, then returned with a cloth bag. She took it to the bed to empty its contents.
“Trousers!” she exclaimed, turning to him with a delighted smile.
“That’s the only color the merchants sell, so I was told. I’m not sure what you can wear on your—over your—”
“I can wear the tunics I normally wear underneath—I mean, I have something that will do. Thank you, Tribune.”
He returned her smile and began gathering her bags.
“Oh, leave this one, please. I need something out of it.”
After he left the room, she returned to the bed, looking with delight at the dark red trousers, with drawstrings at the waist. How much more comfortable they would be, for riding a horse! And he had brought plenty of them. She left on her undergarment, a thigh length white tunic with short sleeves, and pulled on a pair of the trousers. They clung to her figure, but she intended to cover herself with a long mantle.
Rachel stuffed her gown and the remaining pairs of trousers into the bag, and was about to close it when her hand touched the shears. Slowly she pulled them out, and went to stand in front of the large bronze mirror.
It was already extremely hot, and would get still hotter before the summer was over. And she would definitely draw less attention without the abundance of her honey-colored hair.
A memory tugged at her. She was sitting in a strange, gloomy room, heartsick and frightened, and someone was cutting off her hair. It was one of the Vestals! And those trousers…hadn’t Daphne worn something much like them on that day they fled from Rome? Rachel had pushed down those memories for years, and now as they came to the surface she braced herself, wondering if they would make her ill, as they used to do. But the feeling that accompanied her thoughts was only a mild sadness, as if those things had happened to someone else. She stared at her reflection. She must not let fear of the past rule her actions…she was not that child anymore!
Before she could convince herself not to, she sat down in front of the mirror, pulled taut a thick lock of hair, and snipped it off. It was more difficult than she had thought, and she was almost in tears before she was finished. The hair on her head was now above chin-length and not evenly cut, resembling the raggedy look of a street urchin. The rest lay in a golden heap on the floor.
“What have you done!”
Metellus grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to her feet. He swore so eloquently that she gasped and jerked away from him.
“I do not like your choice of words, Tribune, and it was my hair, to do with as I please!”
He looked greatly offended, and quite as though capable of snatching out the rest of her hair. Before he could speak, Alda rushed into the room, stopping with a look of horror.
“Oh, my lady!”
Rachel came still closer to tears, feeling that she had done irrevocable damage to her appearance, but she blinked them away and said defiantly to Metellus, “Well, it will grow back, and I’ll always wear something over my head when we get home.”
“Alda, clean up this mess,” Metellus said finally. “And thank you for your service to my wife. We’re leaving now.”
He grabbed the remaining bag and stood waiting for Rachel, who impulsively gave Alda a quick embrace and said goodbye. She caught up her light blue mantle and drew it over her head and shoulders. The slave stood staring after them as they left the room.
Down the halls they went, with Metellus saying not a word. The guards, knowing Metellus, did not try to stop them. He led her out one of the side entrances, toward the stable. Claudius had undone much of the refurbishing undertaken by Caligula, who had built accommodations of marble and gold for his favorite horse, Incitatus. A different donkey stood waiting, most of their baggage already strapped to his back. Metellus began tying on the remaining bag.
“Where’s the other donkey?” she asked, looking up and down the wide corridor.
“Having a much-deserved rest,” he said shortly. She was afraid to ask what he meant. They started down the hill, with Rachel forced to lengthen her stride to catch up with him.
“Are you going to be angry all the way to Judea?” she demanded, watching as the guard at the bottom of the hill gave Metellus a nod and salute.
“I’m not angry,” he replied, not looking at her. “What you do with your hair is none of my concern.”
“Well, you are right about that, Tribune!”
In a moment they turned onto the Appian Way, and immediately Rachel slowed her pace, forcing Metellus to slacken his own steps. Her face became almost apprehensive as she began looking at the tombs on the right hand side of the road. They passed monument after monument, and as he realized what she was doing, his irritation with her abruptly died.
There were others visiting the tombs…there was even a family sitting on the grass in front of one that stood slightly off the road, having a meal. Romans venerated their dead, and visited them often. Rachel stopped before one towering edifice, and Metellus was surprised by its size and ostentatious carvings, but she went on to the next one, and stopped again. It was much smaller than its neighbor, square-shaped, and made of white marble. There was a little shelf in the middle of it, and over it an inscription in bas-relief.
BELOVED.
Rachel’s fingers touched it, tracing lightly over the letters. Tears flowed silently down her cheeks, and she turned to look at Metellus.
“They are not here, you know. Only their bodies.”
Metellus tried to remember what he knew of Christian beliefs…obviously she spoke of some spirit form in which they had entered the afterlife.
“And someday,” she whispered, “they will rise again.”
The rejoining of spirit and body? Ah, yes—that had already happened to Jesus, the Nazarene. Supposedly.
“Tribune, would you open the last bag I gave you, and hand me what lies on top?”
Metellus did as she asked, and his fingers encountered a roll of damp papyrus. He withdrew it and handed it to her.
Rachel unrolled the sheet of papyrus. Inside were bunches of violets tied together and long stems bearing crimson roses …somehow still fresh and well-formed. She held them in her hands for a moment, and gently placed them on the shelf
under the tomb’s inscription. She whispered something he couldn’t hear. Then she walked out onto the road again, her shoulders straight and stiff, and waited for him to join her. They resumed walking.
He was moved by what she had done. He had already begun to admire, even respect, her…feelings he had rarely experienced for women. He was courteous by nature, but respect was something to be earned.
After a long time, she looked up at him dubiously. “I took those from the room at the palace,” she said, looking up at him dubiously. “I hope that isn’t stealing. Alda used to throw the flowers out, at night.”
“Somehow, I don’t think they are going to send the Praetorian Guard after you.”
She smiled faintly. He stopped and caught her arm.
“Rachel, I’m sorry. Sorry that any of this had to happen. I wish there was something I could have done—to help you.”
“Only God could help me,” she answered. “And I’m beginning to see…that he has.”
* * * *
Brindisi, settled by the Greeks and called Brundisium by the Romans, lay at the end of the Appian Way…almost at the southernmost tip of Italy. Close to the water’s edge stood two tall columns, signaling the end of the most traveled road in the Empire. A short sail across the Adriatic Sea took them to the flourishing city of Apollonia.
It had been a journey of several days. Once again they had passed through Capua, with Rachel keeping an uneasy vigil for the two gladiators who had challenged Metellus, and noticed there were watchmen patrolling the streets. Metellus did not mention that he and a few other troops had visited the city after his and Rachel’s arrival in Rome.
They stayed again with the Christian family, Lepidus, Porcia and Junia—who said not a word about her short hair, but looked mystified. They were able to find lodging in other homes, as well, for Metellus seemed to have an aversion to Roman inns. The harbor at Apollonia, named after the god, Apollo, was large and busy, and as they came into the city Metellus led them straight through the forum and turned left, heading into the surrounding countryside. After a mile or two he stopped at a house with a paddock alongside it, and a brick stable at its rear.
“This is the man with the horses,” he told Rachel, tying the donkey’s reins to a post in front of the house. “Cover your hair.”
She drew the top of her mantle over her head. She had learned it was best to obey him in small matters, since she was certain that larger ones were looming and she would seem less contrary when her opinion differed from his. She followed him demurely as he knocked on the door and they were admitted by a tall, thin man, and on hearing Metellus’ name he led them outside to the stable. It was clean and spacious, with a wood floor and a stairway that ran upward to a loft. Almost all the stalls were occupied, and Metellus examined each horse minutely…finally deciding on two, a Spanish stallion and mare, which he asked to ride around the paddock.
Rachel watched, admiring his easy manner and the skill with which he handled them. They were powerful, elegant animals, with lean, beautiful heads and long, graceful necks. The stallion was as black and polished as jet, with a black mane, and the mare was spotted white and silver, with a flowing silver mane. Metellus led them first, with ropes attached to their bridles, and they seemed to posture for him, almost dancing around the enclosure. He made them stand still and examined their teeth and hooves; he rode the stallion first, with no saddle, and then the mare.
She stood by the fence and gazed delightedly at the horses while Metellus bargained with the owner, and after a while he came and stood by her.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“They are magnificent!” she exclaimed. “They take my breath away!”
He looked pleased. “It is a brave and gallant breed, and loyal. These are already well trained.”
“Are you going to buy them?”
He nodded. “I think so. This place may not seem impressive, but Eugenios is well known for his horses. He’s agreed to let us stay here a few days to get acquainted with them.”
“But I told you, I know how to ride.”
“Nevertheless,” he answered, “you will practice.”
She shrugged off her annoyance. “What are their names?”
Metellus seemed to restrain a grin. “Eros,” he answered. “And Nike.”
“Oh.” After a moment she asked, “Can we name them something else?”
“I am hoping my stallion will be a god of love and fertility—but you are welcome to change their names. It might confuse them for a while, but they will learn quickly.” He glanced down at her. “What do you suggest?”
“How about—Samson, because he is strong and powerful? And for mine, Sheba.”
“Sheba?” he asked, lifting a brow.
“It means ‘oath’. Because of your oath to return me to my home.”
She felt confused when he searched her eyes for a moment, not seeming to find what he sought. “As you wish. Now, come and show me how well you ride.”
She waited in the stable as Metellus and Eugenios saddled the horses. The man seldom spoke, and she later learned it was because he had no teeth. She draped her mantle over the stair railing and followed as the two men led the horses out to the paddock. She tried to look calm and self-assured, but it had been years since she had sat on a horse. She put her foot on a wooden block and Metellus lifted her up.
Her training instantly came back to her, and though she made a few mistakes, managed to complete several good circuits around the enclosure. Metellus seemed satisfied by her performance, but didn’t change his mind about staying for several days. The man, who lived alone, had two rooms he allowed them to use. He often stood at the fence and observed them, seeming fascinated by her crimson trousers and short-cropped hair.
Metellus spent hours with a long lead rope and light whip, working to gain the trust of the horses. He taught Rachel to always keep one hand on the horse while grooming or brushing. “Always let her know where you are,” he said. “Never surprise or startle.” The next day she and Metellus took the horses riding in the country, and down the lanes of villages where there were people milling about. The horses, though spirited, exhibited excellent behavior, and Metellus was well pleased with them. Then he began to train them to come at his whistle, and to walk alongside him on a long rope. If they attempted to get too close, or too far ahead, he flicked them on their soft noses with the rope. They soon learned what he expected.
“Why are you teaching them that?” Rachel asked curiously, as she watched.
“So as not to abuse a certain part of your anatomy,” he answered. “we will do a lot of walking, and leading the horses.”
She blushed profusely, as he had known she would, and he turned away with a smile. They left the next day, having strapped the baggage to the horses and leaving the docile little donkey behind. Heading north, they reached the town of Claudiana before dark, and thus came to the main Roman road leading eastward through Macedonia and Thrace. The end of that road, at the city of Byzantium, would be the completion of not quite half of their journey.
Rachel had to admit that Metellus was very solicitous of her comfort, for when he observed her becoming restless on the horse, they walked, and when he saw her growing tired, they rested, or stopped for the remainder of the day and night. He was also quick to ensure her privacy when she needed it, which fortunately was no more often than he. Along the way there were stopping places that kept a change of horses for soldiers and couriers, and which also had accommodations for travelers. The managers of these way stations had no scruples about filling every room and corner and hallway with people. The inns were little better, but there were a few of high quality, and they often stayed in the homes of town and village residents.
The Egnatian Way was, for the most part, straight and smooth, bearing upon its close-fitting stones not only pedestrians, but carriages, carts and wagons, and the occasional horseman on imperial business. Comfortably wide, it became narrower on more difficult terrain. Large ston
e blocks separated the opposing traffic. Metellus and Rachel stayed on the strip of land bordering the road, except when they walked, and when they did so the horses walked alongside on the edge just as they had been trained to do. Metellus seldom had to control them with the rope, but did so when the road became overly congested. The horses received many admiring and respectful glances.
“Better watch out for thieves!” one man shouted at them good-naturedly. “Wouldn’t mind taking off with one of those myself!”
In most cases Roman engineers had plowed straight through hills and mountains, but there were occasions when the way was steep and the curves were sharp. The sky was usually clear, giving a picturesque view of the villages and farms, and the surrounding rugged mountains. A considerable breeze accompanied them, giving some relief from the relentless sun. Rippling rivers and lakes, forests of oaks and pines, valleys that narrowed into a gorge and then widened into a meadow, neat, well-cultivated orchards as they descended toward Edessa…the days seemed to merge into one, though each day was different, with new sights and smells and foods to taste.
When the way lay straight before them, Rachel sometimes lifted her eyes to the mountains lined against the far horizon and saw the long ribbon of road stretching toward them, and she wondered how they would ever get that far…but they always did. She knew that she would never forget this journey, or this man.
Metellus did not speak to her much, and she was content not to speak to him. There were too many listening ears, except when they were on the horses, and then he made her ride in front of him. But on one particular day there was hardly any traffic on the road as they walked, and Rachel found the silence uncomfortable. Metellus, too, seemed to search for something to say.
“I’m sorry I missed your birthday. I believe you said it happened on the ship. Why did you not say anything?”
“My—eighth birthday was at sea. None of them since have meant anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was the last year I had with my parents.”
Metellus glanced at her. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories, Rachel.”