The Sign of the Eagle Read online

  “Your life may be in danger, Macha,” Bassus answered.

  She nodded. “I admit, I knew I might be. The question is, how much?”

  Holding his reins in one hand, he wiped the sweat running down the side of his weathered face. He twisted about on his saddle and studied Macha with a look as if to say, Can't you guess? “Two of your slaves have been killed and word will spread soon enough that you are riding with me to the coast. There may be an attempt on your life. That’s why I brought along extra troops.”

  Despite the afternoon heat, a chill raced through Macha’s body. Until now, she had refused to believe she was in any danger. Her son and young Demetrios had been her concern. Now, she realized her insistence and interference into the investigation and prosecution of her husband, had marked her for death. Bassus words must be taken seriously.

  “Why is Tribune Appius in charge of the squadron?” Macha asked. “He hates Titus and me.”

  “Despite what you think of Appius, he is a good commander and a fierce fighter. He’ll guard you with his life.”

  Macha found this difficult to believe. “Is that the only reason he is in command? I know from Titus that a decurion usually leads the turma.”

  “Under normal circumstances that’s correct, but Tribune Appius is coming along for reasons that at this time I can’t divulge.”

  She shook her head and brushed back the loose scarlet strands of hair from her face. Macha wasn’t satisfied with his answer but knew it was useless to question him further.

  The afternoon sun crested over Mediolanum and began its slow descent in the west. Macha and Bassus and the cavalry escort wouldn’t stop the first day until reaching Placentia, fifty miles distant. They didn’t expect to arrive until after midnight.

  Riding along the rut-filled lane, Macha noticed for the first time in many days, the blooming of spring. Her nose filled with the fragrance of the bright white cherry blossoms from the orchards they passed. On the opposite side of the road, pink and white blossoms draped the bare branches on a row of apricot trees. Bees buzzed and hovered among the limbs and petals. Golden orioles chirped and gray naped jackdaws crowed as they flitted and glided from one tree to the next, and she felt a stirring of hope for her own cause.

  The entourage turned onto the dirt horse trail bordering the basalt covered Via Amelia. They encountered a steady stream of traffic, mostly supply wagons, ox carts, and peasants on foot heading north for Mediolanum behind them.

  A large estate sprawled across both sides of the highway. Its huge vineyard stretched from the road and wound its way around a sheltered hillside in the distance. Macha spied the first tiny leaves and buds which had sprouted on the barren but skillfully-pruned branches. Propped up by wooden stakes and crosspieces tied together with willow shoots, the grapes wouldn’t be ready for harvest until autumn. A small army of slaves, stripped to the waist, labored in the fields. Their sweaty muscles glistened in the hot mid-morning sunlight. Noisily they cleared debris washed down by the spring rains from the trenches between the endless rows of vines with spades and iron mattocks. A stern overseer, dressed in a dusty blue tunic and gripping a long vine cane with one hand, shouted a continual string of orders.

  In the distance, on the Po River Plain, the first young shoots of wheat had burst through the loamy soil, painting the vast landscape a bright green.

  Macha glanced to Bassus’ perspiring face. The tall Roman peered straight ahead, oblivious to the dust kicked up by the horse’s hooves. He hadn’t always been a Senator. Years ago he had told her and Titus how he gained his title as Roman Senator. He wasn’t born to a wealthy family. He was raised the son of a prosperous blacksmith in Placentia. Built on the southern bank of the River Po, it was one of the wealthiest small cities in the province of Cispadana Gaul. At the age of eighteen, Bassus joined the army, and in less than five years was promoted to the rank of centurion.

  When Bassus campaigned in Britannia against her father, Caratacus, he caught the attention of Gaius Flavius Porcius. Famous for his knowledge on British affairs, the Roman Senator had lived in Britannia for many years. On several occasions Bassus accompanied the corpulent Roman when he negotiated with various British tribal chieftains.

  As the years passed, their friendship grew. Porcius considered Bassus the son he never sired. Unknown to Bassus, before the Emperor Nero forced Porcius to take his life, the old Senator secretly adopted him. Upon his death, Bassus learned he had been named Porcius heir. The old man had left him his entire fortune and his title of Senator.

  Although he had legally assumed his adopted father’s name, Gaius Flavius Porcius, Bassus insisted on being called by his birth name. He never forgot his earlier life in Placentia. He seldom traveled with the entourage of slaves, freedmen, and junior officers to which his rank entitled him. He found them annoying and having them following in his trail cumbersome. At heart he was still a foot soldier.

  * * * * *

  Jolting Macha from her thoughts, Artemis bolted ahead of the escort, and galloped down the path alongside the highway. Automatically, Macha sat her lithe body straight down in the saddle. Once and for all, she was determined to break the mare. Gripping the sides of the mount with her long legs, she kept the reins low, just above the saddle pommels. Pulling firmly back on them, she reined the horse to a sudden halt. Violently, the mare attempted to shake loose her tight grip, but Macha held firm. During the next ten minutes, Macha forced Artemis to turn in tight circles, first to the left and then to the right. When the mare resisted, Macha jerked the reins in the opposite directions, keeping a firm grip with the legs, but kicked the obnoxious nag’s sides when necessary.

  Artemis began to relax, her struggle against Macha flagging with each passing minute. Macha rode in wider circles to ensure the mare had calmed sufficiently enough before rejoining the troop.

  “If you ever try that foolishness again, mare,” Macha said a few minutes later, “I’ll see you harnessed to a grist mill grinding corn for the rest of your life.”

  Artemis snorted as if she understood the warning. The mare’s jolting trot smoothed to a fluid pace, pleasing Macha. No one would have guessed by her willowy, almost delicate appearance, she was a strong rider. Years of experience, exercising her mounts, had developed lightly muscled, yet deceptively strong shoulders, arms, and legs.

  A hot and sweaty Macha returned to the entourage, waiting near a shaded clump of poplars. They had halted when she began to discipline Artemis. She had been aware they were watching and probably hoped the animal would make a fool of her. Bassus waved her over to his side.

  “A most impressive drill, Macha,” He said. “You made believers out of the troops.”

  “I don’t need to impress anyone,” Macha answered. “Getting to Genua before Titus sails is all I want.”

  Appius and the troopers shook their heads. A couple of the men raised their hands in mock salute to her and grinned. “You ride like a trooper, your ladyship,” a squadron sergeant said.

  Macha nodded her appreciation. Now perhaps she would be accepted for her ability, despite being a woman.

  Bassus turned to Appius. “Are you convinced this woman knows how to ride, tribune?”

  “Yes, sir,” Appius replied. His scar-lined jaw tightened, and he hesitated for a moment pondering his next words. “I never said she couldn’t.”

  Macha shot a scathing glance to Appius. “If I have to train an ill-mannered horse along the way, then I will. I won’t be delayed.”

  Appius glowered at Macha but held his tongue.

  “Move out the troops,” Bassus commanded.

  Although certain Pomponius Appius deliberately set her up with a recalcitrant mare, Macha couldn’t accuse him without proof. That would mark her as a hysterical female who had no business riding a horse. Men! Why did women have to put up with them?

  “All right, move out!” Bassus barked. “No more halts until we reach Placentia.”

  Chapter 13

  A Missed Opportunity?


  After spending the night at the small villa Bassus maintained in Placentia, Macha, the Senator and Appius’ escort of troopers, left at dawn the next morning. For the first few miles they paralleled the murky swift running River Po, still running high from the melting spring snow in the Apennines. Unaccustomed to traveling on so little sleep, Macha rode in a stupor for the first hour as they journeyed along the Via Postumia.

  The road veered away from the river, cutting a straight line through the vast plain to the west. She was familiar with the road between Placentia and Genua having traveled the route into Mediolanum when Titus was transferred to Legion First Italica.

  Gradually, Macha came fully awake. Spring was her favorite time of the year and she admired the farms dotting the landscape. Most included market gardens newly planted in carrots and beans, lettuce and radishes. Beyond were fields of alfalfa and recently planted wheat. She wished she were at home working in her own garden. Unlike so many Roman matrons, she wasn’t afraid of soiling her hands.

  Gardening reminded Macha of her son. Often he would play nearby as she toiled and offer to help. She smiled at the thought. It’s been only one day since I left my son and Demetrios, she thought. I know Helena will take good care of them, but please Mother Goddess, watch over them. For a moment, she put a hand to her chest and bowed her head. Praying they will be all right eased the hurt in her heart.

  Raising her head, Macha looked about. On her left ran the distant Apennines, shadowing her and the band of troopers since leaving Placentia. Every hour they drew nearer to the craggy limestone mountains. By early afternoon, they approached the foothills. Macha watched herds of sheep grazing on lush spring grass in the sheltered meadows and tiny valleys between the fingered outcroppings reaching down to the river plain.

  A gusty wind spun down from the mountains. The further they traveled, the cooler and harder it blew, whistling in Macha’s ears. Holding her mantle snugly with one hand, and the reins with the other, she hunkered down in her saddle. Macha pulled the woolen cowl over her head, but the pelting dust and grit still stung her cheeks and forehead. She squinted, barely seeing the road ahead of her.

  “How much further to Dertona?” Macha shouted to Bassus.

  “Three miles from that mile post,” he answered. He motioned to the granite stone standing by the side of the road showing the distance to Genua—sixty-one miles.

  “Thank gods, it’s no further. This wind is freezing—it might even snow. I had forgotten how cold these mountains are in the spring.”

  * * * * *

  Amid a passing flurry of snow, they arrived in Dertona, where the wind abated, turning its onslaught westward over the mountains. Snuggled at the foot of the snow-capped Apennines, the ancient Roman colony was little more than a village bordering the southern edge of the Po Valley.

  Bassus used his authority as Legate to commandeer the Inn of Hercules, a state run guest house, for the entourage’s use. There was a state inn built every fifteen miles along the Empire’s vast highway system, contracted out to private business owners.

  From the innkeeper, Macha and Bassus discovered Titus and his escort had ridden through about three hours before, stopping briefly for dinner. They disregarded the proprietor’s warnings about the approaching night’s freezing chill, and hazards in the mountains after dark. The troops wouldn’t halt until they reached Libarna, a way station far up in the mountains.

  Macha, Bassus and the pot-belly innkeeper stood beneath the porticoed entrance of the hostel facing a wide courtyard. Bassus had given the order to the troopers to dismount and lead their horses to the stable behind the building.

  “We must go on,” Macha insisted. “We can’t stop now.”

  “No, we’re staying here tonight,” Bassus replied. “You’re exhausted, and so are the men.”

  “But Senator, we’ve nearly caught them.”

  “Didn’t you hear what the innkeeper said? The troops are heading right into a storm. No, I’ll hear no more.”

  Bassus turned to the innkeeper. “Show us our rooms. Afterwards, we go to supper.”

  Macha opened the splintered door to inspect her room. She was too annoyed with Bassus to pay attention to the cubicle. She didn’t understand why they stopped for the night when they were so close to overtaking her husband, but once Bassus gave an order he wouldn’t bend.

  Holding a smoky, olive oil lamp in one hand, Macha set her travel bag on the dirty stone floor. The place reeked of stale urine and other foul odors she couldn’t identify. She glanced about her lodging in the shadowy light. By the looks of the place, rules of cleanliness set by the state weren’t strictly enforced. She was used to seeing graffiti on tiny bedroom walls, but the writing in this one caught her attention. Crudely scrawled in charcoal were the caustic words of an earlier dissatisfied guest. Innkeeper, I deliberately pissed on your bed. Want to know why? There was no chamber pot!

  Searching the room, she immediately found a smelly earthenware chamber pot in a dark corner. To her relief, it was empty. She checked the straw-filled bed mat atop a wooden pallet. Although dusty, there was no smell of urine. Instead, she found the usual bedbugs crawling in and out of the cracks where the straw poked through the goat skin mat. She flicked them off and squashed them under her booted sandals. Many years ago she had gotten over her squeamishness of these filthy vermin.

  Bassus knocked and entered. He looked around and scowled. “This is an outrage! You deserve better than this, Macha. I’ll throw the innkeeper out of his room and give it to you.”

  Macha shook her head. “You’ll do no such thing, Senator. I’ve slept in worse places than this, including Tullianum Prison. So long as I have a chamber pot and my traveling bag, I’ll be fine.”

  She sighed. “And since you’ve forbidden me to ride after my husband now, we might as well go to supper.”

  The Senator and Macha entered the taverna next to the inn. She scanned the place to see if it were as dirty as her room. It was not. At the front was a long masonry counter with an oven. Large earthenware jars embedded into the bar contained hot food, including an aromatic goat stew spiced with leaves of rosemary and thyme. A spacious room filled with small round tables and backless stools passed for a dining area. Tolerable frescos covered the walls, scenes depicting eating and drinking. Strings of hams, sausages, dried garlic, and other edibles dangled from the ceiling. A smoky brazier sat on an iron tripod, and ten olive oil lamps provided light. The noisy room was packed with her escort of troopers and Praetorians drinking wine and playing knuckle bones and little outlaws. Pomponius Appius sat in one corner table surrounded by the squadron’s decurion and sergeants, eating and chatting.

  Macha learned from the tavern keeper the wine and food were good and prices reasonable. He boasted his place was frequented by only honest tradesmen and travelers. He didn’t allow brawls, and Macha believed him. He was a burly fellow with hands almost as big as one of his hams.

  She sat quietly eating the tangy goat stew and drinking the acidic local wine. At least the tavern keeper hadn’t lied about the food. Occasionally she made small talk with Bassus. She couldn’t get the thought out of her mind that Titus was so close. She wanted to reach her husband, even if it meant riding into the teeth of a storm. Macha frowned and shook her head. The thought of having to stay in the filthy inn infuriated her.

  “I don’t see why we have to spend the night here,” Macha said. “Despite your order we must go on.” She set her wine cup on the dining room table and got up.

  “No, Macha, we’re staying,” Bassus said.

  “But I must. You can stay if you wish, but I’m going on.” She rose from the table.

  “Don’t be a fool. These mountains are full of bandits and worse,” Bassus bluntly advised. “Under no circumstances will I permit you to leave tonight.”

  “You wouldn’t dare stop me,” she said folding her arms.

  A hush fell over the room. Pomponius Appius and the soldiers eyed Macha and Bassus.

  “I certainly wil
l,” Bassus answered in a hardened voice. He nodded to Appius. “Even if it means tying you up and placing a guard outside the room.”

  Macha sat back down at the splintery bench in a sullen silence. She realized she had made a fool of herself. Bassus was right, but she had been afraid to admit it--she wanted to be with her husband so much it had clouded her judgment. To pursue Titus and his escort on a narrow and dangerous mountain road, in the middle of a storm, would be suicidal. Yet, she wondered if Bassus had been holding back his troops. Was he involved in the conspiracy after all? At this point she was too tired to follow through with her thoughts.

  Briefly the Senator touched her shoulder. “This has been a long and exhausting day for all of us,” he added in a consoling manner. “Our chances of catching them tomorrow are excellent. We’ve gained most of the lost ground.”

  “It’s not enough,” she answered, staring at the door.

  The Senator drank the last of his wine from an earthen cup and set it down on the scarred wood table. “True, but even when Titus arrives in Genua, he’ll have to wait for the incoming tide before sailing. The weather is another factor. It’s too unpredictable this early in the spring. A storm could blow through at anytime delaying the voyage.”

  “Or catch them at sea, and sink the ship!” Macha retorted. “Why are they going by ship anyway?”

  “You know full well the reason. Despite the unpredictable weather, it’s swifter than by road. We all need rest, Macha. We’ll leave before dawn tomorrow.”

  * * * * *

  Near dusk, the next day, the entourage arrived at the outskirts of Genua hemmed in on three sides by the Apennines. As they descended the road from the foothills to the city, Macha scanned the Gulf of Liguria just beyond the ancient Etruscan seaport. Large swells rose and dipped along its wine-dark surface. Cool air swirled about her face as she recalled the last time she had visited Genua during a balmy July.