The Sign of the Eagle Read online

  Interrupting Macha’s thoughts, a slave hurried into the atrium to clean the floor of the cup’s fragments. Following closely behind, another slave poured a cup of water and left it on the small table by her chair. She and the courier remained silent until the slaves departed.

  “Somebody knew we survived the attack outside of Luna,” Macha said as if thinking out loud.

  The youthful tribune gazed at her quizzically. “Begging your pardon, Lady?”

  “No matter,” she said as calmly as she could. “How much effort has been spent on finding my son?”

  “Tribune Rufus is leading the investigation. Because you placed your son in his and Lady Helena’s care, he feels personally responsible.”

  “Has there been a demand for ransom?”

  “Not by the time I was dispatched to you, Lady.”

  Macha attempted to collect her thoughts. A demand for gold could have arrived after the courier departed.

  For a moment neither said anything.

  “I thank you, tribune. What is your name?”

  “Cornelius Tacitus, madam.”

  “Tacitus, you have a great gift for detail, but you must be hungry,” she said. “Go to the kitchen and have a decent meal—you deserve it.”

  “Thank you, Lady. We’ll do everything in our power to find your son.”

  “I pray he still lives.”

  “So do we all.”

  Tacitus saluted and followed a slave to the kitchen.

  Her hand shaking, Macha took a sip of water from the new cup. She thought about her son and Demetrios. It had been swift, violently executed murder, and abduction, well-planned and expensive. Whoever planned her son’s kidnapping and Demetrios murder had studied her family’s daily activities. No gang of thugs was going to risk their necks snatching a noble’s son without being handsomely rewarded. Or have reason to kill a child of nobility who could bring a rich reward, as long as the possibility of a ransom remained. She must believe that. But Demetrios deserved a better fate than death!

  The riders had scattered to the Aeolian winds, carrying her son, gods knew which direction. If they expected Macha to choose between the lives of her husband or son, or to react hysterically, they were grievously mistaken. She was determined to see both her husband and son remained alive, and would settle for no less than death to anyone who did harm to them, and she would seek vengeance for Demetrios.

  It made chilling sense. The conspirators expected her to sit and remain idle like a helpless matron. Macha couldn’t afford to jeopardize her son’s life, but she refused to be intimidated by thugs and watch her husband and her son die. Still she must move cautiously.

  She made no attempt to stop her hands shaking, as she placed the cup on the table, nor contain the tears welling in her eyes. She cupped her face in her hands and wept.

  * * * * *

  The following morning, Bassus’ gatekeeper found a sealed parchment addressed to Lady Carataca slipped beneath the iron grate at the house entrance. Vasili, the house steward, approached and gave Macha the scroll as she sat in the brisk air of the sunlit garden, strumming the lyre to soothe her nerves. She laid it aside and suspecting what the message contained, broke the wax seal and unrolled the letter with a sense of dread.

  Your son will be released after your husband has

  been executed. If you insist on sticking your nose

  where it does not belong, the boy will die.

  Her chest tightened. For a second she couldn’t breathe. Should she send the threatening letter to the Emperor? Quickly she discarded the notion, fearing he might suspect her contriving the letter for her own purposes. Forcing herself to inhale deeply and slowly, she slumped against the padded backrest of the bench.

  The marble fountain bubbled noisily. A fine mist filtering through the early morning sunbeams evaporated into a small rainbow. Macha could too easily imagine little Titus’ fear of not knowing what would happen next. “Please Mother Goddess Anu, keep my son safe,” she prayed out loud.

  Pangs of doubt, guilt and a sense of hopelessness assailed Macha. What should she do next? Had she been too proud in assuming more responsibilities than expected of a woman? Perhaps the investigation did belong in the hands of men after all. She tried to imagine what her husband would do in her place.

  Macha couldn’t tell him about the kidnapping yet. She could picture his rage upon hearing the news of his son being abducted by a pack of filthy bandits. He would swear vengeance to kill them all. Titus’ imprisonment would become unbearable, because he could not participate in the search for the abductors. But she must tell him and soon.

  She wondered how Bassus or her father would have dealt with the situation. Then again, she never understood how men thought. Gods knew they weren’t practical or sensible as women. But so far she had accomplished little in freeing Titus. Everything she touched turned to disaster. Macha placed the letter inside her girdled sash.

  * * * * *

  The night before, Macha had told Bassus about the kidnapping of her son and early the next morning informed him after receiving the threatening message. Later that afternoon, she was about to leave for the Praetorian Barracks when she received a message to meet him in his library. The Senator assured her he would order the new acting legionary commander, who replaced General Valens, to assign extra troops in the search for the kidnappers and have his spies scour Mediolanum for any news regarding the threatening letter.

  Dressed in a light green stola, girdled at the waist with a yellow and blue-trimmed sash, Macha arrived minutes ahead of Bassus. The afternoon sun streamed through the side window facing the garden and reflected off the leather canisters of scrolls and books lining the shelves from floor to ceiling. A new bronze bust of the Emperor Vespasian rested on a marble pedestal in one corner. Another corner contained the bejowled statue of Bassus’ adopted father, the late Gaius Flavius Porcius.

  She heard Bassus’ heavy footsteps echoing along the tiled corridor outside. He greeted her in a pure-white woolen senatorial toga with purple stripes. Bassus took a seat opposite Macha and said his informants had discovered Crixus’ hiding place. “He’s right here in the Aventine District.”

  Unconsciously, Macha gripped the side of her chair with her fingers. “Do you mean he’s been hiding under our noses the whole time?”

  “A grain of sand hides best on the beach. Rome is ideal for the likes of him,” Bassus responded. His deep-set eyes peered at Macha across a cedar table inlaid with ivory. “Apparently, he didn’t know about the botched attack on the coast or the one here in the city.”

  Macha caught her breath and shook her head. “That’s difficult to believe. Whomever Crixus is working for must know."

  "Whatever the reason, he’s buried himself in the Aventine slums.”

  “Maybe he was involved in my son’s kidnapping or knows who is.”

  “That’s another reason for his arrest. I want to find your son before he’s harmed.”

  “When are you arresting Crixus?”

  The sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the hallway. Bassus shot a fore-finger to his lips as they turned and watched a slave pass by. “This evening,” Bassus said after the slave had departed. “The Aventine is like a clogged sewer. From time to time we unplug it. I’m leading a detachment of troops from the Watch—it’s all been arranged. Surprise is our best weapon.”

  “Are they from the barracks on Vicus Piscinae Road?”

  “Yes, the Fourth Cohort.”

  She recalled Titus mentioning they were assigned to the precinct station next to the Porta Rudusculana Gate, and patrolled Rome’s Twelfth and Thirteenth Districts, including Aventine Hill. Six other cohorts of the Vigiles, the Watch, protected the rest of the city.

  “Strange,” Macha mused, “Crixus must know you live here.”

  “Rich and poor live together in the Aventine, cheek by jowl,” Bassus said. “To his kind, it makes no difference.”

  Macha and Bassus knew hundreds of places existed in the
Aventine where Crixus could disappear, including the labyrinth of caves beneath the Circus Maximus. The great race track and stadium sprawled beyond the foot of the Aventine’s north side.

  “Fortunately,” Bassus continued, “my spies greased the right palms with enough denarii to buy the needed information. Thirty pieces of silver opens nearly any mouth.”

  Macha looked past Bassus to the library door and noticed the shadows creeping down the hallway. It was nearly evening. An idea crossed her mind. “When you go to arrest Crixus, I want to be along.”

  “Why?” Bassus jerked back in shock.

  “My husband may be executed for a crime he didn’t commit. I have the right to be with you when Crixus is arrested.”

  “No, Macha,” Bassus said. His steely eyes glared at her from a weathered middle-aged face. “You’re staying home. I won’t have time to keep an eye on you.”

  His answer surprised Macha. She didn’t expect a direct refusal. “Must I remind you about the attack near Luna and here in Rome?” Macha said as she locked eyes with him. “If you recall, I defended myself well enough on the coast and escaped death here. I insist on going—I must!”

  Bassus scowled. “You must?" He shook his head. "You’re staying here. Remember, Pomponius Appius saved you from another cutthroat. And had not the Praetorians arrived, we would have all been murdered. You were plain lucky here in Rome.”

  “But on the coast I defended myself like a man,” she persisted.

  “That’s not enough. I’ve never doubted your courage—you fought bravely. But you were very fortunate. You’re not a skilled fighter. We don’t know if Crixus is alone or hiding with other ruthless characters.”

  “I assume you’re taking reinforcements—I wouldn’t be alone.”

  “Naturally. They’ll arrest Crixus and anyone found with him. What good can you do there?”

  For a moment Macha hesitated. She peered into Bassus’ eyes and sensed he was determined to refuse her request. She turned away and scanned the room attempting to think of an answer that would change his mind. Macha couldn’t tell Bassus the true reason, yet. Although she had shown the parchment to Bassus and the scrap with the eagle, she still carried the fragments in a leather bag in a fold of her stola. Perhaps Crixus would know the meaning of the names and initials, VE and that of the eagle. He might confirm if VE was associated with the Vestal Virgins or if the eagle was from Legion First Italica.

  “I want to question him about my son’s kidnapping,” Macha said a moment later. That much was the truth.

  “The interrogator will extract everything. And what he’ll do to Crixus no lady should witness.”

  “There you go again about women,” Macha chided. “I’ve seen my share of bloodshed. I killed a man, and my horse trampled another. I watched Pomponius Appius cut off Sergius Faunus’s finger, feed it to dogs, and then execute him and the other prisoners. Then I was nearly murdered here in Rome. I wouldn’t call any of that an outing at the theater of Pompey.”

  “Yes, you’ve been involved in all those things. But that’s not a valid reason for going, Macha.”

  “I need to see if this is the same Crixus. If it hadn’t been for me, you would never have known his true identity.”

  “There is only one Horse Arse,” Bassus advised. “We would have learned soon enough.”

  Macha was about to protest, but Bassus raised his hand. “There will be no further argument, you’re staying here and that’s final.”

  Macha turned and stormed from the room. She must find a means of being present when Bassus’ men seized Crixus.

  Chapter 20

  Encounters on a Roman Evening

  Macha was well aware Rome was a dangerous place when enshrouded in darkness. Lamplight escaping from stalls of all-night cookshops and taverns, and torches posted in wall niches lining alleys leading to the city’s better brothels did little more than allow a victim to see which shadow picked his pockets. Besides hardened teamsters driving produce and goods wagons, by law allowed to make deliveries only after dark, few people ventured forth without an escort or the company of friends. Robbers, footpads, and gangs of toughs roamed the streets searching for hapless victims to rob, rape, beat, and test the sharpness of their iron blades. Gods help the lone woman, including prostitutes, working the streets.

  From earlier conversations with Bassus, Macha understood the Vigiles, Rome’s police force, were spread too thin to patrol every street and alley. Besides peacekeeping duties, they doubled as firefighters. Along with swords and wooden batons, they carried rope ladders and buckets lined with pitch tar, and javelin-prods for pushing down burning timbers. The populace nicknamed them bucketmen.

  Macha would depend on her own resources if she were to follow Bassus and the detail of watchmen secretively. How dare he forbid her just because she was a woman? She must take an escort, Shafer, the only one she could trust. Although most of Bassus’ slaves had belonged to his household for years, usually one discontented slave could be bribed to report the house activities to an outsider. Immediately, Macha’s horse groom, Jason, came to mind. Macha wondered if he had not been a spy in her home after all. Then again, what about poor Nicanor and the list he stole? She would give it more thought later.

  That evening, disguised as licensed prostitutes in saffron gowns and dark woolen mantels, the prescribed clothing of the trade, Macha and Shafer followed Bassus, Pomponius Appius, and the bucketmen. Because Titus was born in Rome, he and Macha often visited the city when he was on furlough from the army. She knew her way around most of the city, especially, the Aventine District, where Bassus resided. Staying at a safe distance, the women began their trek along Vicus Piscinae Road as the troops left the precinct station near the old Servian Wall. The women had bundled themselves against the evening chill. Macha carried a thin dagger hidden in a cleft, sewn inside her dress. Slaves were forbidden to carry weapons, but Shafer was no fool. Macha believed it wiser not to ask her questions. A full moon slowly climbed into a clear eastern sky filled with an infinite number of stars.

  As they followed the troops, through the dark, dingy, trash-filled lanes of the Aventine, Macha recognized the area. “Clodia and Lepidus live nearby,” she whispered.

  “But this place is terrible at night, Mistress Carataca,” Shafer said. “Thugs roam here—we must be careful. They raped one of the master’s stable boys last month. He most nearly died.”

  “We’ll keep to the shadows,” Macha assured her. “We can’t afford to be spotted by Bassus.”

  The women trailed the detachment as it turned onto Ursus Street, one of the Aventine’s wider lanes. Between the glow from the bucketmen’s lanterns and the moonlight, Macha and Shafer managed to watch them from a discreet distance. An occasional freight wagon rumbled by and momentarily blocked their passage.

  A distant voice cried, “Robbers! Help!” Typical night sounds in Rome.

  She and Shafer had to carefully tread the city streets. The women had walked about a half block when they heard the shatter of an amphora bottle followed by a cat’s yowl nearby. A chill ran up Macha’s back. She gave Shafer a knowing glance, and they ran. Too late. Five young toughs sprang from a black side alley. Quickly they surrounded and grabbed Macha and Shafer by their arms, forcing them to halt. The grip by Macha’s assailant dug painfully into her flesh, but she didn’t dare scream because she and Shafer could be murdered before the watchmen rushed to their rescue.

  “Look at what we’ve got here,” one of the older thugs said. Big in chest and arms, he appeared to be the leader. The smell of his rotting gums and the sour wine on his breath struck Macha’s face like a blow. She turned her head away.

  “We got us barbarian whores, Balbus,” the one holding Macha said to the leader. “At least they’re pretty, not the usual snakes we catch.”

  “Gods, they’re tall,” a broken nose youth of about fourteen remarked.

  “But I’ve got a mentula to satisfy them,” a pimply faced character roared. He pointed to the bulge
between the legs of his dirty tunic.

  “Looking for business?” Balbus asked, his thin ragged beard and face matching his tunic. “We’ll give you a little.”

  “For free!” the tall thug of about fifteen who held Shafer sneered.

  Because these boys, pretending to be men, had mistaken them for street walkers, Macha realized that might work to their advantage. She sent a warning glance to Shafer in the moonlight.

  “Easy,” Macha said calmly to Balbus. She could barely speak, the word catching in her throat. It was all she could do to keep control, fight the urge to panic, to flee. She had her knife, but in these close quarters she couldn’t pull it out before it would be grabbed and used against her.

  To buy time, she said, “Why should handsome lads like you,” nearly choking on the words, “use force when we’ll give it willingly? We’re professionals—you’ll enjoy it more.”

  “I’ll enjoy it anyway,” Balbus said, “whether you’re alive or dead.”

  “Don’t be in such a rush. Fannia and I will give you the best time of your lives,” Macha advised in an enticing voice. “But we can only please you one at a time.”

  That brought a roar from the group. “They’ll pay us by the time we’re through,” Balbus said to the gang. “What’s your name?” he asked Macha.

  “Rectina,” she answered demurely. “Maybe you’ve heard of my pleasures?”

  “I bet I know where you like it most,” Balbus said.

  Macha smiled. “If you release us, we promise you pleasure you won’t forget. But we can’t be at our best when you’re hurting our arms.”

  Balbus considered it. “Let loose, they’re not going nowhere. Besides, it’s been too long since a woman willingly polished my knob—the tall one looks like she could suck both balls right through my rod.”

  Even in the dark, Macha could see Shafer flush with anger.