by Tessa Afshar
“So I am asking you, Son. Will you trust me? Come with me to the baths? Let us face this terror together.”
Marcus swallowed. “I . . . Can’t you indulge me one more day? You can love me tomorrow.”
“I can’t. It will not be any easier tomorrow.”
A whimper escaped the child. He clutched his belly as if it ached. Then his chin moved in a sudden downward motion, giving assent.
Aquila laid his hand on one slight shoulder and tapped it with approval. He let his hand remain there, warm and strong, a tether of safety, as they walked outside and made their way to the baths. Their house, though large and in many ways luxurious, was not extensive enough to contain its own bathing facility. Aquila chose a smaller, private establishment, which would not be as crowded as a municipal bath.
At the entrance, he paid a fee that allowed them to store their clothes with the attendant. They headed for the tepidarium, a great hall with vaulted ceilings, which housed the warm pool. He felt the boy shiver under his hand as they approached the bath.
“Shall we go in together?”
Marcus sucked the tip of his thumb. “Can we sit at the edge and dangle our feet in the water first?”
“We can.”
Aquila sat close to the child. He was shaking violently now, though the room was comfortably warm. Part of Aquila felt tempted to call a halt. To cry, Enough. They had come far enough. Then he hardened his resolve. The next time would only grow more dreadful for the boy.
“Shall we go in? I will go first, and then you follow.”
Marcus nodded. His lips had turned a strange shade of blue, as though the very breath had left him. They trembled so much, he could hardly form words. Aquila dropped into the water, careful to keep his hand on the boy’s leg as he did.
“Now you.”
Marcus slithered closer. His fingers clutched the edge of the pool so hard, they turned white.
“You can do it, Marcus. Ask Yeshua for strength. I am here. I won’t leave you.”
Marcus gritted his teeth, winced as if in pain, and jumped. Aquila caught him and held him for a long, comforting moment before releasing him in the water. Marcus clung to him like a barnacle. Aquila took a step away from the side, bringing Marcus with him deeper into the pool. Then another step.
The boy’s teeth were chattering, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Marcus. Open your eyes.”
Brown eyes opened with reluctance.
“You did it, Marcus! You did it!”
The child looked around him quickly, then brought his gaze back to Aquila. Without warning, he broke down, large silent tears coursing down his cheeks. His chest heaved as he took great shuddering breaths.
In the months since he had lived with them, Aquila had not seen him cry. Not once. This silent wailing did not resemble the tears of a child so much as the dammed-up strain of deep anguish.
“I saw him! I saw him drown,” he gasped.
As quickly as he could manage, Aquila picked up the boy and carried him out of the pool. “You saw who drown?”
“My father.”
In a blur of motion, Aquila grabbed their clothes, wrapped Marcus in his own cloak, and herded him to a sheltered corner of the gardens where the sun could warm his chilled flesh. “Your father drowned?” he asked gently, his hand still on the boy’s back, a shield from this storm of memory.
“In the pool at home.”
“You saw this?”
The dark eyes widened in memory. “My father and I were bathing together. He had sent the slave to bring wine, but the slave never returned. I climbed out of the pool to fetch a sword I had carved myself. I wanted to show it to him. We did not spend much time together. Father always seemed so busy.
“I was in the alcove searching through my pile when I heard voices. I thought the slave had returned. Then the voices became louder as if in quarrel. Surprised, I stuck my head out of the alcove to see why the slave dared to raise his voice when speaking to my father. But it was not the slave. It was my uncle.”
“Your uncle?”
“My father’s younger brother. They did not get along. My uncle was always in trouble. He shouted, ‘You can’t do this. He is not of age!’
“My father shouted back, ‘I can do whatever I want. You are no heir of mine. I am ashamed of you. I aim to make the boy my sole heir.’”
Marcus started to weep again, his little body shaking, straining to capture a lungful of air. “Father started to climb out of the water. His back was to my uncle. My uncle moved so fast, I almost missed it. He struck my father from behind. Struck him in the head with the hilt of his dagger. I saw him do it!”
Marcus folded in on himself, fists clamped around the fabric of Aquila’s cloak. “Father lost his footing and fell to his knees in the pool. My uncle grabbed him by the hair and shoved him underwater.”
“Oh, Marcus!” Aquila stared at the child in horror. No wonder he was afraid of going to the baths.
“I ran out of the alcove and told him to stop. I had found my wooden sword, and I tried to beat him with it. To save my father. But I did not know what I was doing and he knocked it out of my hand.”
The boy went silent. His next words emerged hushed. Raw. “My father drowned before my eyes and I could not stop it. When his body floated to the top, I knew he was gone.”
“That’s why you ran away?”
“Not then. I could not escape my uncle when he grabbed me. He is a large man. Larger even than you. ‘I am master of this house now,’ he said. And he was! My father had not had a chance to make me his heir yet.”
“Your mother?”
“Died birthing me. My uncle was now the paterfamilias, the new head of the household, and had the power to do with me what he wished. I was only eight. I had no right to deny him.”
Aquila felt his mouth turn dry. “Merciful God. What did he do?”
“He gave me to a servant of his and charged him to sell me as a slave in the cinnabar mines. On the way to the traders, I acted like a helpless baby, whimpering and crying, begging the servant for mercy. When he relaxed his guard, thinking me beaten, I ran away and lost him in the market crowds.”
Aquila shook his head in wonder. “You are an amazing boy!” He caressed the child’s head. “What did you do after that?”
“I tried to sneak back home. I thought I could ask one of our old servants to help me. But then I overheard two of my uncle’s men talking together. He had set a reward on me. Ten thousand silver denarii, alive or dead.”
Aquila whistled. That was almost twice as much as a Praetorian Guard earned annually, and they earned more than most. “You are worth a lot.”
Marcus went rigid. It took Aquila a moment to understand the boy’s discomfort. “That’s why you never confided your name to us? You were afraid we would betray you for the reward?”
Marcus flushed. “You said yourself, I am worth a lot.”
Aquila nodded. “I understand your caution. But, Son, the hand of the Lord has guided you to safety. All these months you have lived with us, you must know by now. There are not denarii enough in this world to tempt me to give you up.”
Marcus stared at him for a moment. The air leaked out of his narrow chest in a great heave. Then, so swiftly Aquila was caught off guard, he launched himself into the man’s arms and clung to him, fingers clutching with ferocious strength born of trust and need and hope. Aquila’s eyes filled. His hands wrapped around the boy, gripping him just as tightly, holding him in the haven of his arms.
When Marcus had first come to them, Aquila had not wanted to keep him. He had thought the child would cause too much disruption and bring all manner of trouble upon them. Now, as he held him, he was struck by the depths of love he had for the boy. Made speechless with it. In a way, he had been proven right, for Marcus had brought a baggage full of heavy troubles. His uncle might well prove a fatal enemy. Not for a moment did Aquila regret the cost of sheltering him. Having discovered his history only made him love the ch
ild more. He would fight tooth and nail to protect him.
“Marcus Laurentinus Jovian.” Priscilla said the name slowly. “The son of Vibius Laurentinus.”
“You knew him?” Aquila asked.
“I knew of him. A regular visitor to the palace and a personal friend of Claudius, by all accounts. A man of influence and no small wealth. His death came as a shock. They fished his body out of the Tiber. Everyone assumed he had fallen afoul of thieves.”
“Not according to Marcus.”
Priscilla clutched her chest. “To think of that child witnessing such a thing. Vibius’s younger brother, Aulus, has been in one scandal after another since youth. But to murder his own brother!”
“And Marcus is the sole witness.” Aquila paced, long legs carrying him from one wall to the other in the confines of their chamber, where they had retreated for this private exchange. “That child’s life remains in grave danger because he can identify his uncle as the murderer. Aulus will not feel safe until he is rid of Marcus. I finally understand why the boy runs aground every time a wealthy patron visits the shop. He is afraid he will be recognized. And betrayed.”
“Aquila.” Priscilla clutched her tunic with hands slippery from perspiration. “I must go to Claudius. I must tell him what we know. We have to try and find justice for the boy, protect him from Aulus, and return his inheritance to him.”
Aquila nodded. “Will he receive you? He is Caesar, after all, with a world to run. Will he even listen to you? Bother to take action on behalf of a child?”
Priscilla remembered her brief meeting with Claudius almost two years ago. The sharp, clear gaze of the old man in whose hands rested the fate of an empire. “If I can manage to gain an audience, I think he will prove receptive. He has a reputation for fairness. I think he will not endure such an outrage against a member of the aristocracy, not to mention a friend, if the gossip be true. But we must bring Marcus before him so he can give his testimony.”
“Therein lies the danger. I have no doubt Aulus will have his men stationed near the palace for this very eventuality. They could seize Marcus before we have a chance to set foot inside the Palatine, and we would have no power to stop them. We have no legal right to the child. He belongs to his uncle.”
She nodded slowly. “I must approach the emperor alone. Explain the situation. If he is convinced by my account, he can send the Praetorian Guard to fetch Marcus. Then he will hear Marcus’s testimony from his own lips.”
Twenty-One
PRISCILLA DECIDED TO TAKE a covered litter to the Palatine, a necessary expense if she wanted to make a good impression. Rome’s streets had turned into rivers of mud since an unceasing deluge had started three days previously. Arriving in the palace with filth caking the hem of her tunic would hardly inspire the officials on duty to think her worthy of an audience with the emperor.
The men carrying her litter were of uneven height, causing the litter to pitch forward as they bumped along the busy streets. Priscilla clung to the pole, wondering if she would have bruises by the end of her ride.
She straightened her tunic and palla when she disembarked, feeling like her internal organs might have shifted to different parts of her body. Murmuring a short prayer under her breath, she entered the Palatine. Even this far from the inner sanctum of Claudius’s residence, Praetorian Guards stood at strategic spots, keeping the activity in the outer courts of the palace under sharp scrutiny.
Priscilla approached a man sitting behind a desk. He was dressed in a sleeveless Greek tunic and wore his thin hair long. Likely an imperial slave, she guessed, a highly educated man who, in spite of his enslaved status, carried a good deal of authority.
She stood before the desk, waiting for him to look up. He did not. “Your business,” he said as he continued writing, his ink-stained hands moving with furious speed.
“I wish to see the emperor.”
“You and half the empire. Business?”
“It’s private.”
The man glanced up briefly. “State your business or shove off.”
If her father had been alive, she would have been granted an audience within moments. As an unknown woman, she carried little influence.
“I am the daughter of General Priscus. I demand to see Caesar on an urgent matter. Now, if you please.”
The official gave a protracted sigh and set his pen aside. “Everyone has an urgent matter.”
Priscilla lifted her chin in annoyance. How was she to get past this pesky official?
Her eyes narrowed as her gaze fell on a familiar figure across the wide, marble-covered hall. Dressed in a tunic made from rarest heliotrope silk, an extravagance that could have purchased as many as twelve slaves, the woman presented the epitome of elegance. Antonia! As the emperor’s favored niece, she had free access to Claudius, no doubt.
Antonia caught sight of Priscilla almost at the same moment. She considered her coolly, then turned on her heels and approached.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Priscilla adjusted her plain green palla. Antonia always had a way of making her feel inferior. “I am trying to gain an audience with the emperor.”
“For what purpose?”
Priscilla felt the blood rushing to her face. She could not speak Marcus’s name in this public place. Nor did she trust Antonia with such a perilous secret. “On a private matter.”
“I see.” Antonia flicked the ostrich feather fan she held in one hand. “Wait here. I’ll see whether he will deign to accommodate you.”
“My thanks!” Priscilla exclaimed to Antonia’s retreating back, her words drowned out by the clicking of her bejeweled shoes.
She waited a long time, watching the shadows lengthen on the sundial outside. To her surprise, rather than sending a servant, Antonia returned in person.
“He does not wish to see you.”
Priscilla’s heart sank. “He is busy today? I could return tomorrow.”
“My uncle does not wish to see you at any time. At all. It is better that you cease to pester him before you irk him in earnest.” She tapped a restless foot on the marble. “Well? Why are you still standing here? Clear out.”
“Why would Claudius refuse you so utterly?” Aquila asked, his forehead furrowed. “Is there some enmity between you?”
Priscilla dropped her palla to her drooping shoulders. “He hardly knows me. We only met the once, and he seemed pleasant enough then.”
“Could Antonia have poisoned him against you?”
Priscilla thought of their history, of the secret she knew that could destroy the young woman. Antonia would never be able to look at Priscilla without remembering that day. Priscilla’s very presence was an indictment. “I fear she could.”
“For what purpose?”
She felt herself flush. Though they had no secrets, she still found it hard to speak of that day. “I saw Antonia in the physician’s house. When I . . . when I was with child.”
It took Aquila a moment to comprehend her meaning. “Did she . . . ?”
“She did.”
“And she holds that against you?”
“It seems likely. No woman wants a witness to her worst indiscretion.”
Aquila drew her into his arms. “No matter. We will try again. Seek another audience with Caesar. Perhaps I can ask Senator Pudens for his aid.”
Priscilla nodded. It seemed like a sound plan. Pudens would be willing to help them, especially once they explained Marcus’s situation. But she could not dispel an underlying sense of dread that had settled on her like a millstone.
The synagogue at Campi had turned into a cauldron of bubbling trouble. Those who opposed Yeshua had turned against those who were drawn to him. Every Sabbath spiraled into a drawn-out argument with raised voices hurling accusations. Rufus and Benyamin did what they could to calm those in the congregation who denied Yeshua as the promised Messiah. They might as well have tried to put out a house fire with a cup of water.
On the Sabbath fo
llowing her visit to the Palatine, Priscilla and her family arrived at the synagogue early so they could pray before the services began. She smiled when she spotted Rufus and Mary ambling down the road toward them.
As the others filed inside, she lingered to speak with Rufus. She wanted to hear how the group gathering at his house was progressing. Since they were all Jewish, they were under greater pressure from the rest of the congregations.
Priscilla noticed a man walking directly toward them and turned to smile, thinking he might be a member of the synagogue. She did not recognize his face, which was round and pockmarked, dominated by a bulbous nose and thin lips. He stared at her boldly, his eyes a strange pale hazel that reminded her of a wild tiger. Her smile faltered. The man continued to approach them with purposeful steps.
“Watch out!” Rufus cried with sudden alarm as the man withdrew a short sword from the folds of his cloak.
Not again, Priscilla thought.
She could not remember screaming, though the sound reverberated in the narrow street. Rufus lunged in front of her just as the man slashed the sword in a fierce arc.
The blade descended into Rufus’s chest.
Rufus’s sudden leap forward had made his gait unsteady and he pitched backward, crashing into Priscilla. The deadly edge of steel found its mark on Rufus’s flesh, and he gasped as his tunic parted in a sharp, diagonal line. Blood bloomed on the fabric covering his chest.
But the assailant’s aim proved short. Having been directed at Rufus’s original position, the sword slash lacked the power to gut him as he had intended and merely wounded him. Ruthlessly, the assailant shoved Rufus’s sagging form out of the way and, raising his bloodied sword, turned on Priscilla.
“Time to die,” he said.
The world turned hazy and sluggish, making Priscilla feel as if she were moving through an eerie landscape of molten wax. Every sense grew more acute, the air carrying with each inhalation the iron tang of Rufus’s blood, mingling with the salt of her own sweat. Fear had a taste, she discovered. It tasted bitter and briny and sulfurous. She could not get it out of her mouth.