by Debra Diaz
“Truly, that was a good memory. But that is why I didn’t mention it. I—did not want to talk about it.”
“Ask me something then,” he invited. “Anything you have been wondering about.”
“Well, I have wondered what your life has been like. Before the army, I mean. Tell me about your adoptive parents. Are they still living?”
He shook his head. “They died soon after I joined the army. There was a sickness going around at that time, and they both became ill.”
“I’m sorry. What were they like?”
“Not overly affectionate, but they were good to me.”
Rachel noticed his suddenly indifferent air, and at that moment Sheba began to break away from them and trot off to explore something in the surrounding plain. Metellus whistled sharply and she came back at once to prance alongside the stallion, who stretched out his neck and flashed his tail at her.
“Let’s ride for a while,” he said, and helped her onto Sheba’s back.
Rachel watched him expertly mount his own horse, and her heart went out to the boy who had never known the affection of a mother or father…and had been rejected by the woman who gave him birth.
* * * *
Due to a torrential rain, they were forced to stop for several days at a town somewhere between Edessa and Thessalonica. Fortunately it had an excellent inn, perched on a promontory stretching over a large lake. It was two stories high, with a courtyard that opened onto the marketplace. To keep his patrons from being bored, the innkeeper supplied various board games, and after tiring of several of them, Metellus taught Rachel how to play latrunculi, a game that required much skill and strategy. Rachel seemed to have a natural aptitude for it, and they spent hours in the common room, drawing interested spectators who were, as usual, intrigued by her appearance.
At last the rain ceased, and the natives of the town celebrated by having a festival in the marketplace, cooking rich foods, and performing with songs and dance in their traditional dress. Metellus and Rachel roamed the market until it grew late in the evening, and they retired to the courtyard where they sat under a pergola and were served food and wine. The lamps and torches were lit, and the townspeople continued singing and dancing, to the entertainment of those on the courtyard.
Rachel was accustomed to wine that was almost like water, but this was a robust red wine and she knew after one cup that she shouldn’t drink any more. But Metellus kept on drinking, and presently a woman dressed in the Greek fashion, with a short gown and revealing neckline, sat down beside him. She was very attractive, with copper-colored hair and olive green eyes; she wore enormous earrings and trailed the scent of a heady perfume.
“I’ve been wondering about you,” she drawled, sipping from the chalice she had brought with her. “I’ve been staying here almost a week—my brother and I are on our way to Thessalonica.”
“Where are you from?” Metellus asked politely.
They conversed for a moment, and the woman looked at Rachel. “And who is this young woman with the strange style of hair?”
Rachel bristled, not caring for the way she was leaning toward Metellus.
“I am his wife,” she said, before he could speak. He looked at her with mild surprise and amusement.
“Perhaps we could travel together,” the woman suggested. “Where are you going?”
Metellus evaded her questions, but continued to make polite conversation and to refill both their cups several times from the pitcher on the table. The woman deigned to look at Rachel again, and asked in a slightly slurred voice, “Why doesn’t she drink more wine?”
“Because I know when I’ve had enough,” Rachel answered, noting the way the woman’s hand lay on the table, close to Metellus’ hand.
“Indeed?” said the woman indignantly. “You are a little prude! And what happened to your hair?”
Rachel opened her mouth, her tongue ready with a sharp reply, when Metellus looked at her and said, “My wife was about to retire. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will see her to her room.”
As they went up the wide, wooden stairs, Metellus said, “So, you will be my wife when it suits you.”
“Stop laughing at me, and you needn’t hurry me off to bed! Why are you going back down there?”
“It’s still early, but it’s best that you go to your room. I suspect you were about to make a scene, and I don’t draw nearly as much attention as you do.”
“Well, you have certainly drawn hers! I will not go to my room! I was enjoying myself very much before that woman ensconced herself practically in your lap.”
They stopped in front of the room she had been given, and Metellus grew serious. “I can tell you from experience that from now until after midnight things will become a little different than they were during the day, and it won’t be a suitable place for someone like you.”
“Oh, so there will be drinking and carousing, and you want to be part of it!”
He said nothing, but opened the door and held it.
“Please, Tribune,” she pleaded, putting aside her anger and clutching the stair railing. “Don’t go back there. Let’s play a game of latrunculi.”
He gave her an enigmatic look and said, “I’m weary of games, Rachel.” He kept looking at her and she had no choice but to scurry into the room.
“Don’t worry,” he said, as he closed the door. “I won’t forget that I am a married man.”
CHAPTER XII
Rachel slept little that night, for the noise coming from the courtyard and common room below was indeed much more boisterous than usual. It had been, up until then, an almost idyllic few days. She tried to pray for Metellus but she didn’t think God was of a mind to listen to her. After all, she had ignored him for ten years. She was sorry, and she had meant to tell him so, but there had been no time! It was going to take quite a while to explain to God why she had acted as she had, and either Metellus was always with her, or she was so tired she couldn’t stay awake. And now that she was awake, she couldn’t even think because of the noise downstairs, and for wondering what Metellus was doing.
At last she fell asleep, but it seemed that immediately he was knocking lightly on her door as usual, and it was time to leave. He carried her things downstairs as she dressed, and finally she went down and watched sleepily as he paid the innkeeper. They ate breakfast on the courtyard, where a mist drifted in the rising rays of the sun.
“Why must we leave so early?” Rachel asked. “I should think you would want to get at least an hour’s sleep.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “You have never complained before. I slept well—didn’t you?”
“I hope you did not invite that woman to travel with us.”
“That woman—oh, do you mean Penelope? I don’t think she will be going anywhere until midday, at the soonest.”
“Why?”
“Allay your suspicions, Rachel. I have a feeling she was more interested in my money than my person. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she and her brother are involved in some nefarious enterprise… taking advantage of innocent wayfarers such as myself.”
“I may be young, and inexperienced,” she said stiffly, “but I know that look on a woman’s face, and she was not thinking of your money.”
He only smiled at her and answered, “You sound like a jealous wife.”
“I am your—I mean I—”
He waited expectantly for her to finish.
“Never mind,” she said loftily, tearing off a last piece of bread, and standing. “I’ll wait for you in the stable.”
He joined her almost at once, and they mounted the horses, went slowly down the hill and entered the road. Soon the mist lifted, revealing a beautiful landscape lined with fruit trees and vines. They began a steep, twisting climb and entered a vast forest of pine trees, which began to thin as they drew near Thessalonica. They soon passed around the city, where the traffic was heavy. The sky grew increasingly cloudy…a hazy film encircled the moon, and a passerby rem
arked that it was going to rain.
Soon after nightfall they found lodging in the house of a buxom middle-aged woman, whose front door bore a friendly sign stating she would not be liable for lost coinage or jewelry. The next morning showed glimpses of blue sky in the midst of the trailing gray clouds, and they resumed their journey.
They had not gone far when the clouds thickened and gusts of wind caused the shrubs and bushes along the road to ripple, as though brushed by an unseen hand. A long roll of thunder rumbled over their heads. Rain began falling with erratic, great drops.
“We need to find shelter!” Metellus shouted over the wind, casting his gaze swiftly over the landscape. Far off the road was a building of some sort, and he said, “Just ahead—quickly!”
She understood, and both horses took off at a gallop, side by side. The rain beat hard against them, as they splattered through quickly spreading puddles and headed for the back of the building. It proved to be a deserted house. Metellus called for her to go inside, and slipping down from the saddle, she spied the door and ran into the house. Metellus came in behind her, leading the horses, and slammed the door closed.
The house stank atrociously, having become the haven of rodents. It had two empty rooms, with the first room on a higher level so that the horses were several steps down from where Rachel stopped her flight in front of a single window. It had no lattice or shutters. Gasping to catch her breath, she pushed back her short hair and tried to pull the soaked cloth of her tunic away from her body. Rain slanted into the room to dampen the grimy stone floor.
She glanced at Metellus, his dark hair wet and his own clothes clinging to him. “Why do you suppose they left?” she asked, for want of something to say.
“Likely because of the smell,” he grunted, looking around with disgust. He came forward to stand beside her and they watched the rain pelt the ground, and the wind twist and bend the nearby trees.
“We can’t stay in this horrible place,” Rachel said, in a low voice that barely carried over the sound of the storm. “Can we go back to Thessalonica?”
“According to the maps I looked at this morning, there should be a village a few miles east of here. Closer than the city. And you’re right—we can’t stay here—I’d sooner sleep in a pig sty. But let’s wait a little longer.”
Rachel was uncomfortably aware of his nearness, and as always the sound of his voice resonated through her own body. The wind found its way into the room, pushing against her wet clothes with a vengeance. She shivered and Metellus glanced at her, and then away.
The storm seemed to quiet, and unexpectedly erupted again…this time with violence, rattling the small structure from roof to floor, and the wind seemed like a wild creature—screeching and threatening to devour them. It drowned out even the constant crash of thunder and came howling into the room, causing the horses to rear up in fright.
Metellus pulled Rachel away from the window and almost threw her against the opposite wall. Large pellets of hail followed the wind and rain. In another swift movement Metellus turned her to face the wall and covered her body with his, taking the impact of the hail upon his own back.
Rachel thought for a moment they would all be blown away, never to be found. She could hear nothing but a roar in her ears, and felt only the wind and Metellus bending over her, protecting even her head from the onslaught of rain and hail. The roof flew off the building and she realized she was screaming.
“God, save us!”
She found herself in the middle of rivers of rain, mixing with the stench and filth on the floor. She felt the house shaking. Metellus still covered her, and it seemed that time stopped as they lay there, braced against the fury of the wind. Then as suddenly she realized he was standing up, drawing her to her feet. The shaking was over and she could hear again, though the wind still whistled through the open window. The floor was covered with hailstones almost the size of pomegranates.
“Are you hurt?” Metellus asked, as though out of breath, and she answered as breathlessly, “No—are you?”
He shook his head, though he had a pained look; she knew he must have been severely bruised. He went swiftly to the horses and caught their bridles, calming them with his words, soothing them with his hands. They quieted under his touch, but their eyes rolled and they moved restlessly.
Rachel looked up where the roof had been. The thunder and lightning had stopped, and a light rain was still falling. She lifted her head and spread her arms, wanting the rain to wash away every trace of the malodorous floor. She began to tremble violently with reaction to the storm…and to the chill brought on by the abrupt drop in temperature.
Metellus came to her and drew her against him, his arms enfolding her, his head lowered. Her face was against his chest, and she stood rigidly until the heat of his body gradually seeped into her, taking away her shivering and causing her to relax against him. Time stopped again, and she wanted to stand there forever. She wanted him to kiss her and never stop and she knew that she loved him.
The realization struck her like a blow. She stiffened again and pulled slowly away from him, her head down to avoid his gaze even in the gloominess of the room.
“We should go,” she said, almost inaudibly.
Metellus hesitated, his hands still holding her arms. “Rachel—”
“Please,” she said, and looked at him with tears in her eyes.
After a moment he released her, but again took one of her arms and led her down the slippery steps to the area where the horses stood. “Will you open the door?” he asked her. She had to pull hard to make it open, and she went outside as Metellus took Samson’s bridle and made him walk backwards through the doorway. He brought out Sheba, and helped Rachel to mount. He mounted his own horse, and when they had turned to ride back to the road, they looked around them with disbelief.
Trees and bushes had been uprooted….torn off branches and a carpet of leaves littered the countryside. Portions of the roof had been flung haphazardly, and a small wooden shed, unnoticed until now, lay in ruins. A cold mist hung in the air, and the light rain continued to fall.
“I’d say we barely escaped with our lives,” Metellus said, “thanks to your God.”
She looked at him quickly, but he had started his horse forward at a trot. Soon they were on the road, observing more of the damaged landscape, and once had to jump their horses over a downed tree blocking their way. It was too wet and muddy to ride alongside the road as they usually did. Just before dark they arrived at a long, twisting row of houses and a single tavern, from which issued a steady loud stream of men’s voices. A house with several outbuildings had a sign offering a room for rent.
By now, words were not necessary. Metellus slowed his horse and Rachel did the same, following him. He dismounted and walked to the door. An elderly man and woman answered his knock.
Metellus talked with them for a moment, and asked, “Do you have two rooms, by any chance?”
The old woman answered, peering up at Rachel, “Only one room, but it is partially divided—my daughter used the smaller one for a nursery. The boy can stay there.”
“Not a boy,” said the old man, who had keener eyesight.
“My wife,” Metellus said. “May we see the room?”
The couple led the way into the house, offered supper and breakfast with the cost of the room, and Metellus gave them a handful of coins. The room was indeed small, with only a bed, and the adjoining room was empty, but large enough for a pallet. Metellus gave it a dark look and went outside for their baggage.
When he returned, he said, “Everything will be damp—see if the woman will let you dry things in the kitchen. I’m going out.”
“Where—” she began, but he was already walking away.
She stood staring after him in astonishment. After a moment she did as he suggested and the old woman allowed her to spread their clothes near the cooking stove, on which sat a bubbling pot of soup. The woman looked with interest at all the pairs of red trousers.
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Rachel ate a large bowl of soup made of chickpeas and herbs, in which floated some kind of boiled meat. It was good, and warmed her considerably. She chose a nightgown that was reasonably dry, took it to the little room and put it on, laying her wet clothes across the floor. The hour grew late and Metellus did not return.
He must have gone to the tavern…there was nowhere else for him to go. Finally she got into the bed, not even noticing how lumpy it was, and lay sleepless for a long time. She sat up suddenly as the door opened and Metellus came inside.
He stood weaving in the darkness and the smell of strong drink emanated from him. “I am very drunk,” she heard him mumble. “Not for the first time, and not for the last. And I’m sleeping in the stable.”
“Oh!” she cried. Except for strangers reeling about in city streets, she had never seen anyone drunk…certainly no one she had ever known! It was too dark to see him clearly, but she could tell from his unsteadiness and thick voice that he spoke the truth.
“Call out the window if you need me. But not very—loud.” The door closed, and he was gone.
Rachel threw herself back against the flimsy pillow, bumping her head against the wooden headboard. She felt betrayed. How could he do such a thing? Her eyes strayed to the alcove where he should be sleeping. Yes, it was small, but they’d managed to sleep under worse conditions! She tossed and turned on the little bed, and it seemed that she had just closed her eyes when she heard the crowing of a rooster. It was still dark, but she could hear the old man and woman moving about in the house. She finally rose and crept through the dark to the kitchen, where the man was lighting the stove. He didn’t seem to notice her as she grabbed some clothes and ran back to the room. When she was dressed, she made her way out to the stable.
The dim light of dawn revealed Metellus putting the saddle on her horse.
“Why did you do this?” she asked indignantly.
He didn’t answer at first, tightening straps and belts, and finally turned to look at her. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, but direct.