by Tessa Afshar
“Thank you.”
“And here is my own dear wife, Sabinella.” He made room for a tall woman of mature years who shared Pudentiana’s exquisite brown eyes.
Sabinella gave a wide smile. “I met your mother years ago. A sweet woman. We had a long discussion about the horrors of travel, in spite of good Roman roads.”
Few people talked about her mother without contempt. Sabinella won Priscilla’s instant gratitude by her authentic warmth. “My mother loathed any voyage that lasted longer than an hour,” she said, “and refused to leave Rome even for short excursions.”
“I can’t blame her. If it were not for my husband’s work, I would remain in our estate in Antium and never budge. The capital is too crowded for me. But we do not like to leave each other even for a short while.” She gave the senator a fond look.
Priscilla wanted to embrace this delightful family and take every one of them back to her brother’s house. She had rarely felt so at home with other Romans. But she had to find Volero before her absence offended him. “I should return to my brother,” she explained as she stepped away.
“I would not risk it. Your brother is still speaking to Quintus,” the senator said.
Priscilla shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying to determine which would prove worse: Volero’s ire or Quintus’s roving hands.
As if reading her mind, Pudentiana whispered, “One senator is as good as another, I find. Your brother will not mind you being absent so long as you are with us.”
Priscilla bit down a bubble of laughter. The girl had captured Volero’s preference for influential people with perfect accuracy. “I hope you are right,” she said. “But I fear my brother would insist that I attend Quintus and his fat . . .”
“Fingers?”
There was no covering her laughter this time. “I was going to say purse.”
“Is my daughter corrupting you?” the senator asked.
“I am trying.” Pudentiana linked her arm through the senator’s. “Perhaps you would like to join us in a conversation with the new senator, Father? We could use your protection.”
Pudens groaned. “Must we?” He glanced at Volero’s animated face as he conversed with their host. “I see we must. Come, girls. I shall be your rearguard.”
When they arrived at Volero’s side, Senator Pudens wagged a friendly finger at him. “And why have you not introduced your delightful sister to us before?”
Volero’s face stiffened. “My sister is reserved and not comfortable in unfamiliar company.”
“How odd! I detected no reservation in her manner.”
Without offering a word of excuse, Quintus reached out boldly to take hold of Priscilla’s arm. Moving smoothly, Senator Pudens looped his fingers around her elbow and pulled her to his side. “Hands off, Quintus.” Though he was smiling, his voice emerged hard as iron.
A commotion near the lake’s shoreline brought the awkward silence to an end.
“The emperor has arrived!” Quintus leapt forward, surprisingly agile for a man of his size. All conversation ceased as guests tried to catch a glimpse of Claudius, who had arrived with a tight circle of companions and several members of the Praetorian Guard. As the band of people around him thinned to make room for Quintus, Priscilla gained a clear view of the man who ruled the empire.
He walked a few steps, his gait made uneven by a limp, reducing him to something less than the Roman ideal of masculine perfection. He was a lean man with ears that stuck out a little too much, a narrow chin and deep lines on his forehead that had been put there, she suspected, more by suffering than age.
He had been one of the few males in his family wily enough to have survived the homicidal tendencies of his nephew Caligula. The young emperor had raped and murdered people of Roman nobility at such a rate, it was a wonder any had survived to continue the line. Claudius’s appointment as emperor had astonished many, none perhaps more than himself.
Quintus bellowed his welcome, overcompensating for Claudius’s poor hearing. A clutch of birds exploded from the nearby trees in an agitated welter of flapping wings and noise, distressed by the senator’s loud greeting. Claudius scratched an ear and said something in a low voice that Priscilla could not hear. Quintus moved, his mass blocking the emperor from view.
Priscilla’s gaze wandered into the crowd of people who had arrived with Claudius. She gasped as she recognized a familiar face toward the back. She would know those features with their unforgettable symmetry anywhere, though four years had passed since she last saw them.
Antonia.
No palla covered her elaborately arranged hair, indicating that she remained unmarried. Priscilla felt herself flush and stared at the ground, desperate to quell the rising tide of memories.
“Best go and offer our greetings,” Senator Pudens murmured, drawing his daughter and wife forward. Since he had not let go of Priscilla’s arm, she was forced to follow, her feet dragging with each step.
Volero grabbed his wife’s hand. “Come! We must not lag behind,” he declared, giving Priscilla a furious scowl.
Before Priscilla could step away, Pudens maneuvered them to Claudius’s side, introducing her to the emperor alongside his wife and daughter.
“It is a relief to see a f-f-f-few young faces!” Claudius said. The famous stammer was not as noticeable as some made out. “These events are often populated by old bores like me. My niece Antonia will be happy to know there are some young women at this affair.” He flicked his fingers and Antonia stepped forward. “Here are a couple of charming l-l-l-ladies to keep you company, my dear.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Antonia said in a demure voice very unlike the one she had used at the physician’s house.
“Have you met my niece?” the emperor asked Priscilla.
“Yes, Caesar.”
Antonia gave her a venomous look. “Not that I recall.”
Priscilla blinked. Did the woman fear she might reveal her secret? She need not concern herself on that score. Priscilla could say nothing of that day that would not ruin her own life. “I am easy to forget,” she said, trying to placate Antonia.
“I hardly think so,” Claudius said, looking from one woman to the other. “There can’t be more than a handful of women with that shade of hair in all of Rome.”
An awkward silence ensued. Priscilla cleared her throat. “Antonia is accustomed to better company than I. We only ever met in passing.”
“I see,” Claudius said, though Priscilla suspected that his shrewd eyes missed little. She stepped behind Sabinella’s tall form, using her as a shield. At least in all the excitement, Quintus had forgotten about her existence and kept his fingers to himself.
“Antonia is very popular with Caesar at the moment,” Pudens whispered in her ear. “But she is not appropriate company, I fear. Steer clear of that one.”
Priscilla gave a wan smile. The senator need have no worries. She intended to avoid the woman as fervently as Antonia would no doubt avoid her.
Five
“SIT!” Aquila commanded, moving a small chunk of cooked rabbit behind the dog’s head. Immediately the dog sat. Aquila gave him the longed-for reward. The dog’s tail swept the floor, undulating so fast, he almost elevated into the air. Aquila grinned and ruffled his head. “I told you he is bright.”
“That is not at issue.” Benyamin set aside his awl and the piece of leather he had been working on for the past hour. “We are not in the green meadows of Pontus anymore. There are no sheep for him to herd here.”
“Many people have dogs in Rome. We could use a good guard dog. The same highway that brings hundreds of potential patrons past our store may also bring criminals. We can buy one of those mosaics with the image of a barking dog and put it outside the shop, warning away anyone who has theft on his mind.”
As if sensing that he was the topic of discussion, the dog ambled over to Benyamin and pushed his black muzzle into the man’s hand. “Off with you,” Benyamin cried, trying to ignore t
he beast. The dog sought Benyamin’s hand more insistently, shamelessly seeking attention.
His uncle glared. “If we were in Jerusalem, you would be held in contempt, you scruffy creature, and no one in their right mind would allow you inside their house.”
Aquila scratched the dog’s neck. “You are fortunate you have found yourself a man of Pontus, for though your master is of the lineage of Abraham, our countrymen appreciate your kind.” He nudged his uncle playfully in the shoulder. “Even this old man used to have a dog of his own.”
“That was long ago.”
“What was his name, that giant monster of yours?”
“Ferox,” Benyamin said. Aquila noted his uncle’s softened expression as he spoke the name.
“Ferox. That was it! I believe I shall call you Ferox,” he said to the mutt who now lay at his feet. “It suits you well.” The dog barked as if in agreement. Aquila grinned. Ferox meant “savage.” Even he had to admit his new companion did not exactly exude an air of ruthlessness.
“My dog was a noble creature, well trained and powerful. This shaggy mongrel is far from savage. A mouse would probably send him scrambling.”
“Ferox it is!” Aquila announced, knowing his uncle was pleased with the choice in spite of his protestations. He settled the dog in a corner of the room and returned to the job of cleaning the storefront they had rented, a tiny shop that had the advantage of sitting close to the famed Via Appia.
Benyamin stretched his back and brushed his apron. “Where are you going to put that dog tonight?”
“In my chamber.”
“The one that happens to be my chamber, also?”
“Yes, now that you mention it. He will guard you as well as me. No need to thank me. Consider it a family favor.”
Behind the store sat two cramped rooms, which Aquila and Benyamin had set up for their private use. He had to admit that their living arrangements were not ideal for a dog of Ferox’s size. But he was determined to give the dog shelter. He could not bear the thought of casting the friendly animal back into the merciless streets of Rome.
He stacked colored squares of leather neatly on a small shelf so that customers could see the variety available to them for special orders. A piece of red leather slipped through his fingers and fell to the ground.
The color reminded him of Priscilla’s rich hair. Priscilla! When had he taken it into his head to refer to her by her familiar name, as if they enjoyed the intimacy of close friendship?
Unbidden, he remembered her face as she dragged herself out of the rosebushes, her hair awry, cheeks as pink as the petals she had been submerged in. He had gone from alarm to laughter in the span of a moment. Noticing the faint scratch on her face, he had ached to stroke the pale skin grazed by thorns. Ached.
He kicked the piece of red leather and it flew to the other side of the cramped chamber. His uncle raised his eyebrows. “Has the leather offended in some way?”
Aquila was saved from answering when an older man stopped to admire the awning they had hung over the entrance of the shop. He wore a fine tunic, and though he sported few jewels, the exquisite quality of each proclaimed him a man of means.
The man fingered the side of the awning, examining the stitching carefully. “Fine workmanship,” he said. “My wife wishes to place an awning similar to this in our garden. We don’t want to erect a permanent structure there, which might ruin our view. But we do need extra shade in the excessive heat of summer. Is this awning retractable?”
“It is,” Aquila said, demonstrating how the awning could be looped around a central pole using a lever so that it furled and unfurled with ease.
The older man watched, fascinated. “We have never found one that is both pleasing to the eye and easy to operate. This is quality work.”
After examining the leather samples, the man selected the color and size he wanted and settled on a price. “My estate is in the Esquiline hills to the north,” he said, handing a few coins for deposit on his order. “Ask for Senator Pudens. You won’t miss it.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I expect you will set it up personally?”
“We will, Senator.” Aquila gave his new patron precise instructions on a suitable frame before the man took his leave.
When he was out of earshot, Aquila whistled. “Our first senator!”
“The Lord loves senators, too,” Benyamin said.
“I myself am not averse to them.” Aquila jangled the coins in his hand before putting them away. “He never mentioned his elevated office until he had to, in order for me to know where to deliver his awning. Did you notice? Most men of high status are sure to push their honorifics under your nose as soon as you meet them.”
Benyamin shook the heavy hide on his lap, dropping tiny bits of leather onto the floor. “A rare man, then. Perhaps God has a purpose in this meeting.”
Priscilla startled awake to the sound of shouting and the noise of scurrying feet. Confused, she sat up in bed and reached for the lamp.
“Lollia!” she called out.
The older woman stirred on her pallet next to Priscilla’s bed. “Is it an earthquake? Because unless the world is collapsing on my head, I prefer to keep sleeping.”
“There is some disturbance in the house.” Priscilla’s chamber was not in the main villa, which had been built around a traditional atrium over a hundred years earlier. After her father’s death, her brother had demanded that she pack her belongings and move to one of the shacks reserved for the slaves, telling her he needed the extra room for himself and his wife and any children they might have. Though the children had never materialized, Volero’s desire for additional room had not diminished.
Priscilla’s chamber now sat behind the house proper, enclosed by the ancient perimeter wall that surrounded their land, but farther from the main gate. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and sped toward the noise, Lollia following slowly.
“What has happened?” she asked the steward, who stood by the main entrance, his face pale in the light of his burning torch.
He pointed to a terra-cotta planter of geraniums, shattered into several pieces. “Someone tried to sneak in by climbing over the wall. One of the slaves saw him and raised the alarm.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
The steward shook his head. “But we haven’t managed to capture him yet.”
Priscilla raised a brow. “You mean he is still in the house?”
The steward nodded, his mouth a grim line. He could lose his position over such a breach. Without another word, he walked away to supervise the search on the opposite side of the garden.
From the corner of her eye, Priscilla caught a blur of motion and turned, expecting to find one of the house slaves. Her jaw slackened when she spotted a strange man, chest as thick as a tree trunk, rushing her way.
Priscilla froze, heart banging against the wall of her chest. If she remained perfectly still, she reasoned, surely he would swerve past her to get to the wall in order to make his escape. Instead, the man trained his eyes on her face and raced directly toward her.
Without warning, an arm shot out, broad-boned and hard as concrete, reaching for Priscilla. Viselike fingers wrapped around her neck and squeezed until she felt the delicate bones of her throat give way. The pain grew excruciating. Swallowing became impossible. She clawed his wrists, trying to dislodge the implacable hold. It was like trying to fell a tree with her bare fingers. She could not breathe. A rushing sound filled her ears, drowning out all other noise.
Lord, she cried silently, unable to think of another word or a single prayer. Her vision darkened, and the world started to fade. This, then, was death. This raging pain that swallowed mind and body with its torment. Abruptly the ruthless fingers at her throat loosened a notch, enough to allow Priscilla a gasping mouthful of air into burning lungs.
Like a dreamer, she heard the steward shout, his voice close. Several slaves started to run toward them. The intruder swore under his breath. He released
his hold on Priscilla, and like a boneless doll, she collapsed to her knees. Groping her neck, she gulped in a lungful of air, then another. As her vision cleared, she saw her attacker vault into a tree that bordered the wall. In the blink of an eye, he had climbed over the wall and into the street beyond.
Lollia huffed to a stop next to Priscilla. In the darkness, she had missed the intruder’s savage attack on her young mistress. “What are you doing in the bushes again?” she said.
“Trying not to die.” Priscilla’s voice emerged hoarse, every syllable making her throat ache.
Lollia stared at her in dawning horror. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
Shivering, Priscilla pushed herself to her feet, rubbing her throbbing throat. “The man was insane. He could have just weaved past me. But he seemed to think I posed some threat and tried to throttle me on his way out.”
Her brother did not bother to ask Priscilla if she felt ill after the attack or whether she needed a physician. His only interest was for his house. He strutted around, shouting orders, instructing his men to pursue the intruder. Priscilla doubted they would catch him. The cover of night and the dense trees of Pincio would work to his advantage.
“What an outrage,” Volero screamed. “Even here in Pincio the thieves will not let us be. Hire extra men to stand guard at nights,” he hissed at the steward. “The gates must be barred by sunset, except by my permission. If anyone is late, they can spend the night in the street.”
Her brother, always apprehensive about thieves, would turn the house into a veritable fortress after this night. Priscilla hoped his precautions would keep them safe from further intrusions. It was a miracle she had survived that madman. Truly, the criminals of Rome were growing bolder by the hour. She swallowed past the pain in her throat. She would have a spectacular bruise come morning, and all because she had been standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Aquila and Benyamin finished the senator’s awning the day before the Sabbath. Aquila had stayed up half the night stitching leather, Ferox dozing at his feet. Benyamin could not see well enough in the light of the lamp to sew, and it fell to Aquila to complete the work once dusk fell. The senator had wanted a quick delivery and had paid for the privilege. Aquila was grateful for the work, though his shoulders felt stiff as they walked up the Esquiline Hill. The awning lay in their cart, pulled by a young donkey they had purchased the day before. Ferox, who could not bear to be parted from his new master, had come along in spite of Benyamin’s misgivings.