Daughter of Rome

by Tessa Afshar

  An old battle. One she had fought over and over again, sometimes winning. But after every victory, there seemed another battle yet to win. Another round of striving with guilt. She wondered if she would ever truly be free.

  Marcus skipped into the room, his mere presence tugging at the joy that lay curled, hidden beneath the weight of grief. “Ave, mi carissime mater!” he said in jovial tones. He always spoke floral Latin when in a good mood. Switching to Greek, which she insisted he practice, he repeated his words. “Hail, my dearest mother. You have a letter from the senator.”

  She raised an eyebrow. They had received a letter from Pudens the week before and had not expected another for several weeks. She broke the seal and began to read. Her face paled as she took in the short missive.

  Greetings, my beloved friends. I have news. The emperor is willing to receive Priscilla. But only Priscilla. I was with him yesterday when a slave girl served us wine. She had red hair, the same lovely shade as yours. It put him to mind of you. When he asked after you, I told him of your circumstances and reminded him of your father’s valiant service to our empire.

  For the general’s sake, he has agreed to meet with you and hear Marcus’s case. But he refused to countenance Aquila’s return. He seems adamant regarding the expulsion of the Jews and will make no exception.

  Now it is up to you. If you wish to come and bring Marcus, you can. You will, of course, stay with us. Perhaps together we can find the boy a measure of justice.

  Aquila seemed at a loss when he heard the news. “Send you and Marcus to Rome alone, with no protection? How can you ask it, Priscilla! If the boy’s uncle finds out, he will come after you. Both of you.”

  Priscilla reached for his hand. “We have no choice,” she said. “This might be the only opportunity we have to secure our son’s future.”

  Aquila stepped away from her. His hand shook as he pushed a tuft of dark hair out of his eyes. “Is that future worth your safety? Your lives? He is happy as our son. Why not let it be?”

  “He is happy now. But how will he feel when he discovers that we could have pursued justice for him, for his father, and did not? We must face this danger, beloved. For his peace. For his heart.” She swallowed. “I know something about the pain of guilt, and that boy carries a load. I know it is unreasonable. He was just a child when his uncle murdered his father. Still, he feels he ought to have done something. If we do not help him stand up to his uncle now, he will carry that burden for the rest of his life. We owe him this opportunity to cleanse his conscience. Even if it places us at risk.”

  Aquila spun around, turning his back to her. “I couldn’t bear to lose you. Lose you both.”

  She wrapped her arms around his back and held tight, her face buried in his neck. She wanted to promise that no evil would come upon her or Marcus. Promise they would return to him safely. But she had no such assurance. Instead, she held him and waited in silence until the tension drained out of him. Until he arrived at the only conclusion open to them.

  He turned around and drew her close against him. “When do you want to leave?”

  “As soon as we can arrange passage. We need to come before the emperor while his promise is still fresh in his mind.”

  Antonia came to help Priscilla pack. Or at least her version of help, which consisted of sitting on the bed and ordering Priscilla about. “What are you going to wear for your audience with Claudius?”

  Priscilla showed her the pale-green tunic she had set aside. Antonia shook her head. “Don’t wear that. His last wife, Messalina, had a preference for green, and now Claudius abhors the sight of it. Do you have anything in dark blue? That’s his favorite.”

  Priscilla sighed. “I only have four tunics. Two for work, which only leaves the green or this.” She held up a shabby brown tunic which bore the marks of many repairs over the years. She forbore to mention that she had given Antonia the closest thing to a blue tunic she had possessed.

  “Wait here,” Antonia demanded. She returned with a piece of fabric folded over her arm. “Berenice sent me three new outfits this afternoon. You can have this one.” She tossed the garment to Priscilla, who managed to catch it midair. Made of wool so soft it felt like a caress, the short-sleeved tunic had been dyed a dark blue, the color of deepest ocean, and decorated with delicate golden buttons on the shoulders.

  Priscilla whistled. “This is glorious. But I can’t take your beautiful tunic from you, Antonia.”

  “Of course you can.” She shrugged. “Don’t make a fuss about it. I took your tunic, didn’t I? And you can’t come before the emperor in that. Now, do you have a palla that is remotely suitable?”

  Priscilla rummaged through her chest. “This belonged to my mother. It’s in reasonably good shape. Will it do?”

  Antonia examined the light-blue fabric with its delicate needlework flowers. “Merciful heavens! I must be dreaming. This is almost pretty.” She tossed it back to Priscilla. “Pack this one. Claudius will appreciate your modesty. He’s had enough of flashy women. And be sure to seek his audience before noon. Last I saw him, he had grown accustomed to drinking heavily. By noon, he was often befuddled. If you need him clearheaded, approach him earlier in the day.”

  On impulse, Priscilla reached out and gave the woman’s hand a grateful squeeze. To her astonishment, Antonia clung to her hand for a moment and gave a regal nod before untangling her fingers.

  Priscilla and Marcus arrived at the port of Ostia and disembarked to the warm welcome of a gaggle of friends. Pudens and his family stood alongside Mary and Rufus. At the sight of them, the exhaustion of the journey evaporated, and Priscilla ran into her friends’ arms, the ache of months of separation dissolving in a moment.

  They spent hours sharing stories, catching up on the precious details of life that could never fit in a letter. Priscilla had not written about Antonia, fearing that the letter might fall into the wrong hands. Now, they stared wide-eyed with shock as she told them the story of finding Claudius’s niece curled up on a sidewalk and how the woman who had once been her nemesis was slowly finding her way to the Lord. Midnight had come and gone when they finally decided to retire to bed.

  The following morning, Priscilla, Marcus, and the senator sat in the courtyard of his villa, the sun shining down through the opening in the roof, warming their tired bones. The gangly olive trees had grown fuller, and the patch of rosemary and thyme she remembered now overflowed their stone ledge.

  “Marcus’s biggest problem is one of identity,” the senator said, sipping from his cup. “He can’t merely charge in and demand justice. He could be anyone. He needs to prove that he is his father’s son.”

  “How do I do that?” Marcus asked, fidgeting awkwardly in his chair. His body had shot up over the past year, and he had not become accustomed to the extra length yet.

  “Is there anyone who could recognize you? Vouch that you are, indeed, Marcus Laurentinus Jovian?”

  Marcus thought. “There were a few slaves I was close to.”

  Pudens made a slashing gesture. “Their testimony won’t count.”

  Marcus’s shoulders sank. “My father’s steward would know me. He was a citizen. But my uncle had already sent him away by the time I left the house. I have no idea how to locate him.”

  “What is his name?” the senator asked. “I will do my best to find the man.”

  Marcus slumped in his chair. “He could be anywhere in the empire. He could be dead.”

  Priscilla patted his shoulder. “Nothing is impossible with God, my boy.”

  Marcus turned to her, seeking assurance without words. The time she had spent alone with him on the ship from Corinth to Ostia had solidified their bond in a fresh way. Until now, she had felt that she had hardly been a true mother to this child. She had not nursed him at night or sung lullabies to him when he could not sleep. She had not taught him to speak or held his hand as he toddled.

  Something had shifted between them during this journey. With his future hanging in the b
alance, Marcus had turned to Priscilla with a child’s clinging need for reassurance. For nurture. And hungry to give reassurance and nurture, Priscilla poured her heart into the boy. For the first time, she began to know, deep in her bones, the treasure of being a mother and of belonging to the boy whom God had brought her.

  “We cannot locate your steward,” Pudens said. “My men have searched everywhere. But there is no sign of him, I’m afraid.”

  Marcus slumped against Priscilla’s side. “It’s hopeless, then. Claudius will never believe me.”

  “It’s never hopeless,” Priscilla said. “Let us think through this. What do you recall about this man?

  “He was always kind to me. My father trusted him. Called him clever and honest.”

  Priscilla nodded encouragingly. “Did he have family?”

  “Not that I know.” Marcus twisted the corner of his tunic with agitated fingers. “He was an ordinary man. Nothing remarkable. Well, except for his speech.”

  “His speech?” Priscilla prompted.

  “He had an odd accent. Not from Rome. But a touch of the countryside.”

  Priscilla’s focus sharpened. “Have you ever heard anyone else with that accent?”

  Marcus narrowed his eyes. “I have. Somewhere . . . I know! The senator’s gardener! The one with the bald head.”

  “Constantius?” the senator asked.

  “That’s the one,” Marcus nodded.

  They sent for the man. He arrived within moments, looking alarmed. The poor man was probably unaccustomed to being rushed into the senator’s presence. “What’s amiss, master?”

  “Nothing is amiss, Constantius. Be at your ease. I have a question for you. Were you born in Rome?”

  The man scratched his shining pate. “Me? Gods no, master. I wouldn’t know nothing about gardens if I had been.”

  Pudens gazed at Marcus. “Does his speech sound familiar?”

  Marcus nodded excitedly.

  “Where were you born, Constantius? Where did you grow up?”

  “Why, I was born in a village near Aternum.”

  Aternum! A city that sat at the mouth of the river Aternus, on the eastern border of Italia, a day’s journey from Rome. Priscilla had never been there. But she had heard of it.

  “Thank you, Constantius. That will be all,” the senator murmured. When the befuddled gardener made his way back to his precious flowers, Pudens said, “I will seek for him in Aternum. If he has returned there, we will find him.”

  The days passed slowly as they waited, hope stretching thin with each passing hour. On the fifth day, Pudens called them into his tablinum. “Found your man,” he said as soon as they entered. “Working in a warehouse in Aternum. You were right, Marcus. Festus was born there, and he returned home when your uncle dismissed him.”

  Marcus gave Priscilla a wide-eyed stare. “We will go right away,” she assured him.

  Festus, they discovered, had charge of a small warehouse in Aternum, which they found without trouble.

  They spotted him unpacking plates under a bright window. Marcus whispered his name, and the man turned with a pleasant smile. His jaw sagged when he saw the child. Nerveless fingers dropped the plate they were holding, and the red clay smashed on the floor, scattering around their feet.

  “Master Marcus?”

  Marcus nodded, his throat bobbing. “It’s me.”

  “Praise the gods!” The man leapt forward and grabbed Marcus’s hand. “I thought you were dead! Or moldering in a cinnabar mine.”

  Marcus laughed. “That was my uncle’s plan. But it did not suit me.” He hesitated. “Have you seen him?”

  “Your uncle? Not since he took over the household.”

  “I have a favor to ask of you,” Marcus said. “Will you swear before a magistrate that I am my father’s son?”

  “Of course. But it will do you no good. Your father never had the chance to change his will. He meant to change it in your favor, you know? But he died before he could.”

  “Except that I saw my uncle kill my father.”

  Festus’s eyes grew round. “I knew it! I knew his death was suspicious. Your father was much too careful to allow himself to be captured by thieves.”

  Marcus’s mouth tightened. “There was no thief. Just a wicked brother.”

  He turned and pointed to Priscilla. “This is Prisca, daughter of General Priscus and wife to Aquila of Pontus. They took me in. They have been my mother and father. Now they are helping me to seek justice against my uncle. That’s why I need your help. I need you to confirm my rightful identity. Are you willing to give me aid, Festus? It may prove dangerous, especially if the courts do not rule in our favor. My uncle is not a good man to cross, as I well know.”

  Festus squared his shoulders. “I will help you, Master Marcus.”

  After over a year of silence, Aulus must have considered himself safe from his nephew and impervious to the sword of justice. Likely he assumed Marcus dead. His brashness worked in their favor. Without bothering with subterfuge, they walked into their meeting with the emperor in broad daylight. By the time Aulus would hear of this audience, it would be too late.

  Claudius turned to Priscilla, giving her a benign politician’s smile. His years as emperor sat heavily upon him, creasing his narrow face with too many lines for a man of his age. “I knew Laurentinus personally, though I never met his son. I will give the boy a fair hearing. We cannot have brother murdering brother in Rome as if we were savages. If the boy’s testimony proves convincing, I will ensure that Aulus receives just punishment.”

  Next he addressed Marcus, treating the boy not as a child but with the dignity he would have offered an adult. “You claim to be the son of Vibius Laurentinus?”

  “I do, Caesar.”

  Priscilla looked approvingly at her son, his bearing erect, his voice confident.

  “Do you have proof?”

  “I offer this man’s testimony.”

  Festus stepped forward and introduced himself, stammering before this potentate who ruled the world.

  “Can you prove that you served Laurentinus?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Festus offered a sheaf of papers to the emperor. “I kept copies of many of my master’s dealings, including letters of instruction he wrote me in matters of business.”

  Claudius took his time studying the papers. “It is clear that this man was Laurentinus’s steward and trusted by him,” he said aloud for the benefit of his secretary and several other officials who were present. “And you personally know this youth?” he asked Festus.

  “I do, my lord. He is the son of Vibius Laurentinus, Marcus Laurentinus Jovian.”

  “You are certain?”

  “I have no doubt, my lord. Furthermore, two days before his death, his father confided in me that he was about to change his will in his son’s favor in spite of Marcus’s young age. He felt that his brother should no longer be considered a viable heir.”

  Claudius frowned. “Does the will reflect such a change?”

  “It does not, my lord. Vibius Laurentinus died before he could alter it.”

  The emperor nodded to Marcus. “Now that we have established your identity, what is your case?”

  “I witnessed the murder of my father at the hands of my uncle.” Eyes bright with tears he refused to shed, Marcus told his story. Priscilla watched Claudius’s face as he listened, brow furrowed in concentration.

  Marcus chose every word with care, his emotions held in check, evident only in the deep flush of his face and the faint trembling of his fingers. Claudius nodded in approval once, pleased by Marcus’s speech. He swore when Marcus described the murder, then made the boy demonstrate Aulus’s strike, the angle of the sword, his father’s location, meticulously examining every detail for lies.

  Finding none, he said, “Why did you not seek justice before now?”

  Marcus explained their failed attempt to reach Claudius, though he did not make mention of Antonia’s treachery. “I only survived because the
se good people took me into their home and raised me as their own. Remaining with them meant that I had to leave Rome when they did. For all I know, it saved my life. My uncle had put a price on my head.”

  When the emperor heard the amount, he swore again. “That treacherous water snake.” He sent several members of the Praetorian Guard to arrest Aulus. To Priscilla’s surprise, he limped over to Marcus and took the boy’s hand in his. “I know your uncle. He cheated me at dice once, when I was younger and considered a nobody. It will be my pleasure to give you back what is rightfully yours. And to make him pay for the blood he shed.”

  When Aulus arrived, hemmed in by two Praetorians, he appeared shaken. At first, he did not notice Marcus or the emperor. “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted and cursed the guard who dragged him forward roughly.

  “Keep a civil tongue before your emperor,” Claudius drawled. “You have a visitor,” he added calmly and stepped aside so Aulus could see his nephew.

  It took him a moment to recognize the boy. Then he paled. “That miscreant is still under my rule. He has not reached the age of majority,” he hissed.

  “That miscreant has an interesting story to tell.”

  “He lies!” Aulus lunged toward Marcus. One of the guards grabbed him by the back of his tunic and pulled him away.

  Claudius crossed his arms. “You haven’t even heard it.”

  There was a commotion at the door and another Praetorian Guard walked in with a wide-shouldered man with scarred arms in tow. He saluted the emperor. “Found one, Caesar. Didn’t have to look very hard,” he said.

  Priscilla threw Pudens a questioning glance. The senator shrugged.

  “What is this?” Aulus’s voice shook.

  “This,” Claudius said, “is your funeral.” He turned to the new arrival and, pointing at Aulus, asked, “Did this man tell you that he would pay you a sum of money if you were to find his nephew? Alive or dead?”