The Sign of the Eagle Read online

  The Sign of the Eagle

  Jess Steven Hughes

  The Sign of the Eagle

  Copyright © 2012, by Jess Steven Hughes.

  Cover Copyright © 2012 by Sunbury Press, Inc. Cover painting by Katrina Hughes Brennan – used with permission.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 2200 Market St., Camp Hill, PA 17011 USA or [email protected].

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  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  March 2012

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-036-0

  Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-037-7

  ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-038-4

  Published by:

  Sunbury Press

  Camp Hill, PA

  www.sunburypress.com

  Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA

  Dedication

  To Patricia DeMars Pfeiffer: Mentor, friend, and fellow writer. Your honest critique and advice kept me writing at times when I was on the brink of despair. I will always be grateful.

  Dramatis Personae

  Antonia – Vestal Virgin.

  Helena Antonia – Sister of Titus and Macha’s friend.

  Titus Antonius – Military Tribune and Husband of Macha Carataca.

  Titus Antonius the Younger – Son of Macha and Titus.

  Pomponius Appius – Roman Officer.

  M. Valerius Bassus – Roman Senator.

  Macha Carataca – Celtic woman, protagonist, wife of Titus.

  Clodia – Woman shopkeeper in Rome.

  Crixus – Gallic horse trader.

  Demetrios – Son of Nicanor.

  Edain – Slave woman.

  Rubellius Falco – Roman Tribune.

  Jason - Horse groom from Thessaly.

  Metrobius – House Steward.

  Nicanor – Greek music teacher and slave.

  Pollia – Aristocratic woman from Rome.

  Cnidius Rufus – Friend of Titus.

  Shafer – Moorish slave woman.

  Titus Flavius Vespasianus (Vespasian) – Roman Emperor (historical character).

  Viriatus – Spanish Slave.

  Cities and Geographical Locations

  Italy

  Ancient Name Modern Name

  Cremona Cremona

  Genua Genoa

  Luna Luni

  Mediolanum Milan

  Pisae Pisa

  Placentia Piacenza

  Dertona Tortona

  Other Locations

  Ancient Name Modern Name

  Britannia Britain

  Dacia Romania

  Gaul France

  Germania Germany

  Hispania Spain

  Moguntiacum Mainz, Germany

  River Danubus River Danube

  River Rhenus River Rhine

  Chapter 1

  Behold, the Traitor

  Mediolanum - Late March, AD 71

  "Mistress, armed cavalry are approaching the house!" The house steward's face was drawn and pale as he approached with the news. Macha leapt to her feet.

  "Mother Goddess, it must be Titus," Macha said. "He's come with his whole command. I pray it's not another war. I'll meet him in the courtyard."

  Metrobius bowed and raced away, his sandals clattering on the mosaic tiled pathway that cut through the garden. Quickly, Macha stood from the flower bed that she had been tending and brushed black soil from her long tunic and adjusted the wide-brimmed hat. She hurried to the sun-drenched courtyard as fast as her bulky clothing would allow. She arrived in time to see her husband, Titus, his uniform covered in dust, rein up on his sweaty mount. The jingling sounds of the metal pendants on the horse's breast collar died away. White foam dripped from the bay gelding's lathered mouth. Grabbing the two front pommels of the leather saddle, the tall tribune swung off his horse, and dropped to the ground.

  Breathing deeply, he jerked off his helmet, pulling down the scarlet neckerchief that covered most of his face. He grabbed Macha roughly and kissed her before straightening and shaking the dust from his corselet tunic, and wiping his grimy hands on the side of his breeches.

  "Titus, what's wrong?" Macha asked brushing the dirt from his forehead and his nose.

  "I have to leave immediately. The Gauls north of here are in revolt—not more than fifty miles away."

  She gasped. The province of Transpadana Gaul, including Mediolanum, had been under Roman rule for more than two hundred years. "But they're Roman citizens, I don't understand."

  "It doesn't make any difference. We have to smash them. Now. Rome has seen enough civil war." It had been only two years since the last one had ended, nearly ruining the Empire.

  Macha stared at the formation of mounted troops stringing down the road. "Your men aren't the only ones going, are they?"

  "No, the rest of the legion is close behind," he answered, his voice terse. "Now, I must go."

  "Sir!" a voice bellowed from behind.

  Titus and Macha turned and watched as the rider approached at a canter. In the distance a large detachment of armed cavalrymen began moving north on the dusty road near the front of the house. "That's one of my squadron leaders," Titus said. He turned and gave Macha a brief embrace and turned to the cavalryman. "I'm coming, decurion!"

  "Be careful," Macha whispered, desperately attempting to hold back the tears. She touched his muscular forearm.

  "I'm always careful," he answered gruffly.

  "No, you're not; you're reckless, but I can't stop you."

  Titus winced and shook his head. This was an old argument they had time and again. Without another word, he turned and ran to his horse. Springing on the balls of his sandaled boots, he vaulted onto the gelding's back, and dropped into the saddle. He twisted about, covered his face, and waved to Macha.

  Young Titus, their eight-year old son, ran through the courtyard and stopped at Macha's side as his father rode away. He tugged at Macha's skirt. "Is Papa going to war again?"

  Macha sighed. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

  "Will he die?"

  "No! We will sacrifice to Mother Goddess Anu for his safe return." She took Young Titus' little hand in hers and returned to the house.

  * * * * *

  Macha sat in the garden at the rear of the small villa, strumming an old Brigantian love ballad on her Celtic harp. The soft mid-morning light filtered through the tall, overhanging cypress and poplar trees along the courtyard wall. Northern Italy and the city of Mediolanum, a short-ride from her villa, were experiencing an unusually mild spring; already roses and yellow poppies bloomed. Their sweet smell wafted on the cool alpine breeze flowing in from the north. What a contrast to the chilly, wet springs of her early childhood in Britannia, where, Macha recalled, she never felt warm. Although she preferred the mild spring weather of her adopted home, Italy, she still considered herself a Celt.

  She smiled and thought of her good fortune. Once more Macha silently thanked Mother Goddess. Titus had returned home last night unharmed after spending two weeks in the field. The so-called rebelli
on was nothing more than a pocket of Gallic bandits who Titus' troops crushed in a skirmish near Lake Verbanus to the northwest. Duty required him to report to the garrison of Legion First Italica, outside of Mediolanum, this morning, but he promised to take the next five days off and would be back before noon.

  Out of the corner of one eye Macha saw Metrobius, hurrying toward her. He glanced over his shoulder to the front entrance. Macha had given the household slaves strict orders not to disturb her during the music hour. She focused on the sundial, resting on a marble pedestal by a clump of violets; a half-hour still remained.

  “What is it, Metrobius?” Macha asked. She palmed the strings of the little wooden harp and silenced the last melodious chord.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mistress,” the slave said, “but the Tribune, Pomponius Appius, is waiting at the front door with an urgent message.”

  Macha’s hand slipped, sending a squealing sound across the catgut strings. She inhaled deeply and set the instrument on the little stool next to her leg. “Did he say what his message concerned?” Macha asked.

  The graying middle-age Greek shook his head. “No, my lady. He has orders to deliver it to no one but you.”

  “Very well. Bring him, but take your time.”

  Macha picked up the polished copper mirror on the table next to the harp. She did so out of pride rather than how she would appear to Appius. She noticed strands of her flaming hair had worked loose from the braid wrapped in a coil around the top of her head, in the Celtic fashion, and had fallen over her high cheekbones. An ebony pin kept the hair in place. She flicked it behind her ear. The silver antimony on the lids of her aqua-green eyes required no daubing. For a second she squeezed her pouting lips together and enlivened the fading elderberry juice applied earlier in the day. She returned the mirror to the table. Grabbing the blue woolen palla, laying on the bench by her, Macha wrapped the cloak about her shoulders. She shook out the hem of her bright green and orange stola, properly covering her ankles like any respectable Roman matron. Just to spite Appius, she wished she had been wearing a green tartan skirt like a barbarian Celtic woman.

  Pomponius Appius entered the garden, and strode the long mosaic sidewalk towards Macha. This had something to do with Titus. Otherwise, Appius wouldn’t be here without him. Where was he? It was almost noon.

  Her son, young Titus, dressed in a long woolen tunic, emerged from behind a poplar tree. He stopped near a rosebush and peered in Appius’ direction, and scratched his short, curly red hair. He frowned. “What’s that ugly man doing here, Mama? He looks mean.”

  “Hush, Titus, and mind your manners,” Macha said.

  “Yes, Mama.” Young Titus quietly backed behind the bush, but not before Macha caught him sticking out his tongue at Appius. She glared at her son, and sternly shook her head. He scampered out of sight.

  Pomponius Appius wore the dusty scarlet tunic and knee-length woolen breeches of a cavalry officer. Tied across the silver cuirass, two limp purple sashes—symbol of his rank—covered his barrel chest. An iron helmet bearing wide cheek guards and topped by a red horsehair comb concealed his graying hair. The tribune stood little taller than the willowy Macha, who measured three fingers short of six feet.

  The Roman halted in front of her, a few steps away, his sword slapping at his side.

  “Welcome, Tribune Appius,” Macha said, although she remained seated. His breath smelled of wine and garlic and his uniform of horse. As an accomplished rider, Macha usually enjoyed the musky odor, but on Appius it reeked.

  “What brings you to my home?” she asked.

  “I bring bad news, Lady Macha Carataca.”

  She flinched and caught her breath. “What is it? Has something happened to my husband?”

  “He’s been arrested for treason.”

  “Treason!”

  “The charge is true, Lady Carataca.” With a calloused hand, Appius grasped the hilt of his longsword, the Spatha, strapped at his side. A pale thin scar crawled up his forearm and disappeared behind his elbow.

  “There must be a mistake,” Macha said. Heat rushed to her face and her chest tightened. For a second she turned away from Appius, to calm herself. She said a quick prayer to Anu, Mother Goddess of hearth and home, to give her strength before facing him once more. What Appius said was impossible. Titus loved Rome. Only his love for her and their son was greater.

  "He would never betray the Emperor,” she said, her voice firm. "Titus has been loyal to Vespasian since he was proclaimed Emperor two years ago."

  “He misled all of us, including you,” Appius said.

  Macha shot up from her seat and glared at the tribune. His accusations were outrageous. “What does that mean?”

  “He conspired with others to overthrow the Emperor.”

  “Who are the conspirators?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say to the wife of a traitor. They’re still at large, but we’ll find them.”

  “He hasn’t been convicted yet. The others may be the real conspirators, not him. What is your proof?”

  “That’s not for me to divulge.”

  Macha clenched her teeth to hold her tongue. She wanted to demand that Appius take her this instant to see Titus, but that would be disastrous. It was in his power to arrest her on the flimsiest of excuses. Although she had never given up her Celtic roots, she had been raised as Roman since the age of seven, one year younger than her son. Celtic women in Britannia had more rights than their Roman sisters, including the making of laws and fighting in war. However, the Vestal Virgins were the only women who could make demands on anyone, including the Emperor.

  “May I see my husband?” Macha asked in a voice as even as she could manage. “Where is he imprisoned—at the garrison?”

  Appius twisted his scarred mouth into a mocking sneer. “No one can see him.”

  Macha narrowed her sea-green eyes. “That’s outrageous! As the wife of a Roman officer, I have the right to visit my husband!”

  “You can’t and won’t,” he answered flatly. “You are a barbarian. I fought your kind in Britannia and Germania. You can’t be trusted. For a few coppers you’d kill your own mothers.”

  “How dare you mock me and my kindred! For almost twenty years I have lived as a Roman—a better and more trustworthy one than you.”

  She knew why Appius hated her. Macha remembered Titus telling her Appius had been badly wounded as a young legionarie during the British campaigns and nearly died.

  “Regardless of what you think of me, there is nothing you can do,” Appius said, jolting Macha from her thoughts. “The wife of a man who has betrayed the Emperor isn’t in a position to do anything except pray to the gods for mercy.”

  Macha walked away from Appius, her eyes following the line of poplar trees at the edge of the garden. She grasped the edge of her stola to rid her hands of perspiration. The Celtic torc, a golden collar encircling her neck, seemed suddenly tighter. The gold earrings, in the form of little swans, weighed as heavily as if they were anchors of a ship. She forced herself to turn and once more focus on Appius’ haughty face.

  “Why were you sent to break the news instead of Cnidius Rufus?” Macha asked. Her brother-in-law, Rufus, was a good man whom she respected. He was a tribune in the same legion with Appius and Titus and married to Titus’s sister, Helena.

  “General Valens wanted someone who wasn’t related to a Gallic family to inform you.”

  She stepped closer to Appius feeling the full brunt of his sour breath. “Oh, is that because they’re Celts like the Britons? Does he consider them barbarians, too?”

  “No, only rebels and traitors—as they were during the civil war. I don’t trust them either.”

  Macha huffed and shook her head. “You know my husband had nothing to do with that faction—he was born in Rome. His father was a Senator, appointed by the Emperor Claudius. Must I remind you Titus fought here in Italy against Vitellius, and was wounded twice at Cremona? No one was braver than he in that battle.
”

  “Roman born or not, he’s still a traitorous Gaul.”

  A shiver ran through her body. Macha could not believe what Appius was saying. If Titus were executed, what would she do? She and little Titus would have no place to go. She would lose everything. Titus’s lands and fortune would be seized by the State.

  Despite her marriage to a Roman citizen, Macha was still considered a barbarian, as Appius had been clear to point out. Titus’s parents were dead. She had no news of her father since his disappearance from Italy eleven years earlier. She might return to Britannia, but all her known relatives were dead, and she couldn’t be assured of what kind of welcome she would receive. For a few seconds, she listened to the peaceful gurgling of the water in the fountain and the droning of bees in the garden, and allowed the tranquil sounds to soothe her nerves as she considered how to deal with this perilous situation. What was Pomponius Appius’ part in this travesty of justice?

  She raised a hand palm upward in his direction. “What do you gain if my husband is found guilty and executed?” Macha asked.

  “Nothing, I’m simply carrying out my duty.”

  “Do you think me naïve?” She dropped her hand. “If I recall, my husband obtained equal rank with you in less than ten years. Isn’t it true you’ve been in the army twenty-five years?” Titus was a Tribune Laticlavius, senior tribune in the legion, and only twenty-nine years old.

  “Aye, what of it?”

  “Titus was due for promotion to second in command of the First Italian Legion. Didn’t you covet the same position? Gods forbid you would conspire to have him accused of treason, simply for the sake of a promotion. Or is it because of your contempt for Gallo-Romans like Titus?”

  “Watch your tongue, lady,” Appius warned, his hand reached for the hilt of his spatha. “You, too, are placing yourself in danger.”