“Go away,” Vitas groaned. “Leave the wine but go away.”
There was a final soothing touch on his upper back.
“Certainly,” John said. “I will pray for your quick healing.” The man stood.
Then Vitas was left alone.
He struggled to drink from the wineskin by himself. Yet more wine could not help him escape the Jew’s questions.
What are you afraid of, Roman? What makes you so determined to contain yourself against the world? to be the one so arrogant that you help others and refuse to be helped yourself?
The wine and myrrh began to take effect, a mercy that took away more and more of his pain.
“My name is Vitas,” Vitas mumbled just before he fell into an exhausted sleep. He had not shed tears since boyhood and hardly realized he was weeping now. “Gallus Sergius Vitas. And I want forgiveness for killing my son.”
Hora Duodecima
Jerome stepped through the archway into a strangely silent household.
Usually, even when he arrived home after sunset, like he had on this evening, his two little boys and the daughter who was still a toddler were waiting to squeal and giggle as they jumped on his massive body. He would walk around with them clinging to him, his heart filled with gratitude and joy that in his domestic refuge he was not a mute freak to be feared or marveled at, that nothing within these walls would require him to use his strength to hurt other humans.
Not on this night.
The light of a lamp glowed in the room beyond.
Jerome frowned. Where are they?
The too-short hours spent with his wife and children were all in this life that sustained his soul. Damian permitted Jerome the late afternoon and early evening with his wife and three young children. Damian did expect, however, that Jerome would return from the slaves’ quarters to Damian’s bedroom by the second watch of the night, when Jerome and two dogs would sleep in the doorway as Damian’s protectors.
Jerome called out as best as he could, a low-pitched mewling sound. It was a noise he hated. Too soon his children would grow up and realize what it meant about their father. That he was a man incapable of expressing his thoughts, which for all practical purposes made him less than human.
No children came running from the darkness of the other room.
He thought, however, that he heard the sound of sobbing.
Marcia! His wife.
Marcia had been given to Jerome years before by the Roman who owned him before Damian. She was Parthian, taken in a battle as booty, and at the first sight of Jerome, she’d fainted in fear.
But Jerome had proven unwilling to use her in the way that his previous owner had intended—as a gift for the giant—and for the first month, they had lived in Jerome’s slave’s quarters, shyly aware of the other but sleeping separately. Because Jerome could not speak or read or write, Marcia had been forced to take the first steps, speaking short monologues at first, then longer and longer, trying to judge his reaction by watching the muscles of his face.
Now, all these years later, it gave Marcia great pride that he only smiled for her and for the children; outside of their quarters his expression had a perpetual impassiveness that hid his feelings from the world.
In the kitchen area, he found her on the floor, sitting against the wall.
Yes, sobbing. Her face was buried almost in her chest, the glow of the lamplight bouncing off her dark hair.
Jerome lurched forward and knelt beside her. He put a massive arm around her delicate shoulders.
She refused to look up at him.
Where were the children? He despised himself for being unable to do something as simple as ask.
Again, he forced himself to mewl, hoping she would respond, knowing that he made noise only under great duress.
She continued to sob.
Jerome saw that the fingers of each hand were clenched.
He lifted her hands in the lamplight.
She did not resist.
In her left hand, he recognized a wooden doll that he had carved for their daughter.
On the fingers of her right hand were dark, wet smudges. When he opened those fingers, something fell at his feet. Lightly. It landed with no noise.
He couldn’t make sense of it immediately.
When he picked it up and placed it in his palm to see better in the light, a great fear and horror washed through him.
It was a tiny ear.
“You look ridiculous,” Helius said. “Take that wig off.”
Castinus gave Helius a craven smile, blinking both eyes. “I decided today it would be safer to come in disguise,” Castinus said. “If Damian ever suspected—”
“Of course it’s a disguise.” Helius found both habits irritating. The frequent smile. The blinking that made it appear as if Castinus flinched with each smile. “Are you suggesting I’m not capable of realizing that myself?”
“N-no, no,” Castinus stammered. Another smile. More blinking.
“Well then?” Helius demanded. “Get on with it.”
“Today, there was a woman at the steam bath—”
“I meant, well then, why haven’t you removed that ridiculous wig?”
“Oh.” Castinus did as ordered.
He stood before Helius in a woman’s tunic. Skinny hunched shoulders. Chicken neck with prominent Adam’s apple. Rouged cheeks. Darkened eyebrows. Wig tucked under arm.
Helius snapped, “Now you look even more ridiculous.”
Castinus began to stammer an apology.
“Enough,” Helius said. “I’ll endure what I have to. Tell me why I should care about a woman at the steam bath. From what I hear, women visitors are common for Damian. I’m not interested in sordid details.”
Indeed, he was not. With Nero as emperor, a man or woman’s improprieties had no leverage. Nero, as he often exclaimed, was convinced that nobody could remain chaste or pure in any part of the body; if anybody confessed to obscene practices, Nero would forgive that person of any crime except treason.
Castinus wiped at his greasy hair, and Helius grimaced openly. The slave was a hideous man, but to see him as a parody of a woman made it even worse. Castinus explained the appearance of the private litter outside the steam bath and how he had stood close enough to the curtains to hear all that had been spoken.
“Let me understand this,” Helius said. “The widow of Lucius Bellator is on a determined quest to find her stepson and stepdaughter.”
“She is willing to pay any amount for Damian to find them in Judea and return them to Rome.”
Helius knew Alypia and knew her reputation. It was odd, this sudden maternal devotion. He had a good guess as to her real intentions. It would bear watching; if he was correct, it would prove a good opportunity to bleed her estate. Without Nero’s knowledge.
“Excellent,” Helius said. And regretted it immediately. The hideous man’s face lit as if Helius had patted him on the head.
“What of the slave Jerome? Were Tigellinus’s men able to find his wife?” Helius said.
“Yes. His men found the woman as I directed.”
“Her children?” Helius asked.
“Gone. She was nearly hysterical, waiting for Jerome to return.”
“Excellent,” Helius repeated, not caring this time that the slave beamed again. At least one thing was going well. He knew where Tigellinus had intended to keep the children and would deal with it later. “Most excellent.”
“There’s more,” Castinus said. “It’s about the captive that Damian has held hidden since the evening of Saturn.”
“Then continue,” Helius said. “This is what I pay you for.”
A steady drumming woke Vitas. He was still facedown on blankets on the deck, and afternoon light was fading.
It took him a moment to realize that a portion of the growing darkness resulted from a tentlike shelter that had been built above him. And that the drumming resulted from a steady rain.
His ears told him that the wind, too, had
lessened. The sails snapped with less frequency; the mast did not creak as loudly from the strain of ropes holding the sails.
He was shivering. Perhaps his muscles trembled in a delayed reaction to the whipping. Or perhaps because the air temperature had dropped—the pleasant afternoon warmth was giving way to the bite of the evening.
Vitas moved his arms and legs cautiously, intending to stop if the scabs on his back and thighs began to crack. But the salve that the Jew had applied allowed an unexpected suppleness.
The wine he’d taken earlier to ease his pain, however, had left him with a terrible thirst, made more excruciating by the sound of the fresh, clean water falling from the skies onto the sheeting that had been rigged to protect him.
Vitas doubted he had the strength to rise to his feet and look for a wineskin of water. Not yet.
He wanted to call for the Jew but had too much pride. He’d sent the man away in anger. To call out now would be a sign of weakness. That thought brought a snort to Vitas. A sign of weakness.
Had he ever been more broken in his life than this? A month earlier, he’d had all he ever believed a man could want. Enough wealth. Enough power. And a completion of his life through the marriage to a woman he loved and adored and cherished.
Now? She’d been taken from him. He was a fugitive from the emperor. He was powerless to stop the ship that carried him away from Rome, too powerless even to look for water, a substance so inexpensive and plentiful that even the poorest of poor in the slums of Rome never lacked for it.
What in his life could he truly control?
It was a terrifying thought. He tried to push it out of his mind. But could not.
The Jew had called him arrogant. Vitas wanted to believe he’d made a decision to jump off the ship and rescue the man from drowning because he hated injustice. Because the man had needed help. Because in his lifetime, Vitas had seen far too much of the abuse of power.
But had he really done it to prove to the captain that he, Vitas, still controlled the situation? Was John right? Had he done it because he was arrogant enough to believe that he controlled not only his destiny but the destiny of others?
Or worse, had he done it because of the horror he could never escape, memories of his final battle against the Iceni in Britannia? Had he done it to try to repay the gods for the unpunished wrong he had committed there?
Vitas growled.
He was a man. A Roman whose family had been founded almost as far back as Rome itself. A Roman who had fought savage battles and lived to receive the spoils of triumph because of it.
He was a man of action. Why was he wasting his energy on these thoughts?
Despite his pain, Vitas felt his resolve grow. And that gave him strength. A man did what a man must do. It was that simple. His situation looked bleak now, but he was alive.
He would heal. He would find a way back to Rome. He would rescue his wife, find a place in the provinces where Nero would not know of his existence, and use his brains and talent to recover what he had lost.
A man did what a man must do.
With that settled in his mind, his desperate sense of thirst returned.
Water!
He decided it would be strength, not weakness, that allowed him to call out for John. He needed the water to begin his healing process. A man of will knew that, and a man of will would do what a man must do.
Even with this argument in his mind, he could not force himself to call out for the Jew.
Soon enough, he told himself, he would find the strength to leave the shelter and find his own water. But his thirst overwhelmed him. Could he not even control the desires of his body?
As he fought his pride, the Jew appeared unbidden. Silently, John handed him a wineskin, this one filled with cool water.
Vitas drank with savage greed. “Thank you.” It was enough of a concession, was it not?
John nodded. There was still enough light for Vitas to see the man’s features. There was gentleness in his face. And strength.
“This is yours,” John said. “It fell from your tunic earlier. When I brought you up on the deck during your fever. I intended to give it to you much sooner, but circumstances, of course, did not allow it.”
John placed a scroll in the hands of Vitas.
“You’ve read it?” Vitas said.
“It is not mine,” John answered.
The man departed, leaving Vitas with a vague shame for questioning his honor.
Vitas pushed himself up on his elbows to examine the scroll.
That the scroll had not been read was easily confirmed, for the wax seal was unbroken. Vitas hoped the seal would give him a clue to identify the person who had sent it through the stranger in the cell. He examined it closely, but it gave nothing away.
Then, with only minutes of light remaining until it would be too dark to read further, Vitas broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.
Jerome was standing, and Marcia was cradled in his arms, holding his neck, sobbing noiselessly.
He heard footsteps outside the kitchen area, the slap of leather sandals on brick. He turned, still cradling Marcia.
It was only one man stepping into the lamplight. He was medium height, wearing a dark tunic with a hood. He carried a stylus and a wax tablet.
“It gave me no pleasure to disturb your woman.” The man’s voice was muffled. “And a child’s ear is a barbaric way to get your attention. But I am only a messenger.”
Marcia snapped her head toward the sound. Clutched Jerome fiercely. “He . . . he . . . gave it to me. Just before you got here. . . .” She was unable to finish as her body convulsed with the effort of holding back hysterics.
Jerome set her down. Slowly, purposely, he took a step toward the hooded man.
“I know you can snap my neck,” the man said. “But if you do, you’ll never see your children again.”
Jerome turned his eyes to Marcia.
“In the market,” she said, understanding the question he could not speak. “This afternoon. Two men started pushing me, arguing that I’d stolen vegetables. When I turned back for our children, they were gone.”
“You’ll get the children back.” The hooded man extended the wax tablet and stylus to Jerome. “Write down their names and the time and place tomorrow where you would like to meet them, and they will be waiting for you.”
Jerome bowed his head.
“He can’t read or write,” Marcia said. “Let me speak for him. Whatever it takes to get our children.”
“I’m only a messenger. I was told that he must write it down.”
Jerome strained to talk, a vestige of the days before he’d been captured by pirates. But he swallowed the sounds before they left his throat. Stared at the hooded man, wishing he could reach forward and shake the life from him.
The hooded man then spoke to the woman. “I’m not afraid that he’ll ask for help. He can’t. But if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll return with much more than an ear.”
He turned back to Jerome.
“I was told if you couldn’t write anything down for me, to pass on some instructions.” He dropped the wax tablet and the stylus from his hand. “Damian is going to learn that his brother, Vitas, is still alive and needs his help. Once Damian finds his brother, you are to kill Vitas. Bring back his hand with his signet ring on it as proof of his death. Then you will see your children again.”
“But a slave who kills a Roman citizen faces execution!” Marcia said. “As does his entire family! Either way, our children will be killed.”
“Damian trusts your Jerome,” the hooded man said. “I’m sure your husband will find a way to kill Vitas and not be suspected. And since Vitas is officially believed dead, there will be no investigation. Your children will be safe. As long as Jerome does what is required.”
“At the steam room,” Castinus told Helius, “Damian gave me orders to return to the estate and have the captive released.”
“Why?”
“I
don’t know. But he did tell me to follow him.”
“And?”
“The captive went to the estate of Caius Sennius Ruso.”
“Ruso.”
“A senator,” Castinus explained.
“Did I ask you a question?”
“No.”
“Then keep your mouth shut. You get paid to tell me what I don’t know. Not what I know.”
Helius took several paces. They were in his private apartment. The floor was inlaid with gleaming mosaics. The plaster of the wall was painted with elaborate designs. Statues of varying sizes and materials—from ivory to gold—had been arranged in an array of obvious luxury, with ostentation winning over taste.
Helius returned to Castinus. What did Senator Ruso have to do with all of this? “What else can you tell me about this Jew?” Helius asked. “Did Damian learn anything from him before releasing him?”
“In answer to your second question, I heard no rumors among the other slaves. And in answer to your first question, the man wasn’t a Jew.”
Helius frowned. “You told me he was. Explain yourself.”
“I told you he was because Damian believed he was. But Damian was wrong. The man I followed to Senator Ruso’s estate was Ruso himself.”
“Damian had captured the wrong man?” Helius asked.
Castinus nodded.
Helius could think of no reason that Ruso would have endured over two days’ captivity without declaring his identity and immediately demanding freedom. Why had Damian captured the wrong man? How had he discovered the mistaken identity? This, like the matter with Alypia, would bear further investigation, simply because it was so unusual.
“And the rest of Damian’s day?”
“He took all his bodyguards to the Tiber, then boarded a river ship to Ostia. With only Jerome as protection. This is what I heard when his bodyguards returned.”
“Is Damian still in Ostia?”
“He and Jerome arrived back at the villa just as I was sneaking out.”
“So you have no idea what he was searching for in Ostia.”
“You made it clear that I was not to be late for this meeting.”
Helius paced again. Ostia. What would Damian want in Ostia? “All right then,” he told the slave. “Find out everything you can about the matter. I want you here again tomorrow evening.” Helius shook his head. “Without the dress and wig.”
The Last Sacrifice Page 11