The Peacekeeper Page 2

  “No doubt, Sergeant,” Sabinus said. “But since he has threatened Centurion Reburrus, I will send out spies to keep a close watch on him.”

  “And if he tries anything like his father did against you?” I asked.

  Sabinus halted, as did Crispus and I.

  A thin smile creased his smooth face. He eyed the two of us. “We shall be ready.”

  Chapter 2: October 45 AD

  More than a year had passed since the death of Gallus the Elder. Despite the confrontation with his son, two months ago, I had neither seen nor heard anything further about him. During that period, Emperor Claudius grew more distant and absentminded by the day. He spent greater time and money on gladiatorial games. However, Pallas and Narcissus, his Greek freedmen and secretaries, kept his peculiarities in check.

  Information supplied by Scrofa and his beggars proved steady and usually reliable. As a result, the Watch seldom bothered the beggars and apprehended several notorious felons. Scrofa’s money pouch swelled, but he stayed with the beggars—they were his people.

  On a rainy October afternoon, after meeting with Scrofa to plan another raid on Rome’s criminal element, Crispus and I took lunch at one of Rome’s cleaner cook shops. The place stood in the Trans-Tiber area along the Portensis Way, on the west bank, near the Great Naval Arena, the Augustan Naumachia. Despite the rainy weather, the street teemed with people. On days like this, we wore our cloaks, and beneath our tunics, knee-length cavalry breeches, boots, and heavy woolen socks. Hot sausages, vegetables, and spicy Calda warmed us. The coals from two braziers glowed a sunset red, and its heat was a blessing. We sat at a table on the edge of the crowded sidewalk, protected from the elements by an overhanging canopy. As we intermittently chatted with the baldheaded proprietor, the rain receded to an annoying, chilled mist.

  We discussed the validity of Scrofa’s information while lingering over cups of mulled wine.

  Someone screamed.

  Startled, I turned and saw a tall, red-headed Gaul snatch a covered basket from a young woman wearing a long tunic. She held on, refusing to let go. He wrenched the basket away, slammed her against a shop wall next to the adjacent sidewalk. Her head struck with a loud crack. She slumped to the sidewalk. Dead.

  Crispus and I were on our feet instantly. The thug dropped the basket and fled. We chased him as he dodged and shoved several cursing people out his way down the congested lane. A couple of times he stumbled on the wet, cobblestone street. We struggled to maintain our own balance as we splashed through ankle-deep puddles, seeping through our boots and socks. My sword, hidden beneath my tunic, scraped against my thigh with every step I took along the trash-strewn way.

  The bandit ducked into an alley to the right, one that I knew to be a dead end. I motioned to Crispus to slow down. He nodded. Cautiously, we entered the alley enshrouded in shades of gray from the high tenement walls on both sides. The place reeked of decayed food, rotten fish and vegetables, feces, and urine. A filthy, narrow stream ran down the center, rain runoff from the apartment roofs.

  In the gloom I saw the thief at the end of the passageway, his back towards us, his head looking up the side of the wall as if searching for a way out. Silently, Crispus and I moved towards him. He turned and faced us, pulled a hidden dagger from his waistband, and brandished it.

  Big mistake.

  My partner and I drew our swords, and before he could move, we were on him. Both of us ran him through the ribs. My weapon pushed against his spine and twisted until I heard a snap.

  Blood spurted from his mouth. He dropped his weapon. We pulled our swords from his torso. A loud sucking sound escaped from his lifeless body as it slumped face-first into the muddy stream. We wiped the blood from our weapons on his dirty tunic.

  “Leave him,” I said. “Let’s go back to the dead girl. Maybe we’ll find somebody who recognizes her.”

  We returned and shoved our way through the crowd that had gathered around a weeping middle-aged woman. Shrouded in dark clothing, she cradled the victim in her arms. At once I recognized her as Priscilla, the one we had rescued from a robbery the day we’d arrived in Rome. For the space of a half-dozen heartbeats, I stared at the dead girl. Goose bumps crawled down my arms and back. This was a younger image of the distraught woman.

  Priscilla looked up for a moment and recognized me. “It’s you.” She turned her head in the direction in which we had chased the bandit. “That robber killed her! He murdered my daughter!”

  I kneeled on one leg. “He’s dead, madam,” I said quietly. “He’ll kill no one else. I’m very sorry about your daughter, truly I am.” I wanted to say more, but this was neither the place nor time.

  Crispus nodded.

  I scooped up the young woman into my arms and, along with Crispus, followed Priscilla to a nearby apartment. They lived on the second story above their tent shop. I laid the girl on a mat in a tiny bedroom. A small group of sympathizers, who had followed us, gathered as I left her side. Several women came to Priscilla and offered sympathy and began preparing the body for burial as Crispus and I departed.

  Returning to Sabinus’s home, we reported the incident to him. He shook his head saying, “What a tragedy that an innocent girl has lost her life,” and complimented us on catching and killing the murderer.

  *

  That evening Crispus and I paid a visit to the home of Aquila and Priscilla to offer our condolences. Although we were under no obligation to attend, something within urged me to go. Out of curiosity, Crispus decided to join me. It was the Jewish custom to bury the dead within twenty-four hours. Cautiously, we trudged up the poorly lighted, rickety stairway that led to their flat. I knocked, and the door slowly opened, like a yawning lion. A dim light came from within. I saw in the poor illumination a sallow-faced, middle-aged man peering at us suspiciously through glaring eyes.

  “You. Are you the ones who killed my daughter’s murderer?”

  We nodded.

  He emitted an audible sigh and mumbled something about “an eye for an eye.” I noticed his balding head as he peered back into the front room. “Please enter, gentlemen,” he said. “You must forgive a father who grieves the loss of his daughter.”

  “Words are always so useless at times like these,” I said. “We’re . . . if there is anything we can do to convince you that we share your sorrow.”

  “Your coming has proven that.”

  Aquila led us through a small but immaculate atrium to the bedroom. Lying in peaceful repose cloaked in a white, woolen robe was the body of their daughter. A candle flickered at each corner of the bed, giving her face a ghostly effect. A stalk of incense smoked its thin, gray-white plume, pooling like fog along the ceiling. The wisp of smoke swirled only when someone entered or left the room. Priscilla, dressed in black garments, sat at the bedside motionless, her eyes fixed in a hypnotic gaze on the young woman. Unlike the incense smoke, she never wavered. We left her to her thoughts.

  “We didn’t know your daughter,” I said to Aquila when we returned to the atrium. “We came out of respect for Priscilla. We regret that we could not have saved her—we were so close.” We explained how we found the girl.

  “My brother,” Aquila said, “I would not worry, for she has found peace in a better place.”

  Crispus glanced about and up towards the darkened ceiling. “Beyond the stars?”

  “A place far better. She is with our Lord in heaven, a place not of this Earth.”

  I balled my hand into a fist along the side of my thigh and opened it again. “Rubbish. Even the Elysian Fields are beneath Earth.”

  “Do you really believe it exists?” Aquila quietly asked.

  For the space of a couple of heartbeats, I studied the elderly man’s horse face and alert, dark eyes. Even in his time of grief, he appeared almost serene, as if accepting his poor daughter’s fate. “No. Then again, I doubt the existence of Melkart, my people’s god.”

  “Most Romans and Greeks that I have known long ago lost faith in their god
s,” Aquila said. “Our Lord Jesus, the Son of God, has told us that He lives.”

  “There are many among our religions who claim they are sons of gods,” Crispus quipped.

  Aquila pursed his lips and looked into my eyes as if peering into the depths of my soul. I shuddered. “There is only one real God and one true Son. He is the Son of God and Man. Yet He is rejected by his own people, the Jews. Even his disciples did not understand what he was trying to teach.”

  “Perhaps the Jews saw him for what he really was, a fraud,” I said.

  “On the contrary, it was the Gentiles, especially the Greeks, who seemed to understand what he was teaching, though few accepted him at first,” Aquila said.

  I was about to reply when Aquila waived his hand about the small room crowded with about thirty men and women dressed in shabby but clean clothing. They ranged from mid-twenties to early fifties. All the men wore beards, the women’s heads covered with shawls. Many of them stared at us, scowling, because we were outsiders who didn’t belong here.

  “These men came to pay their respects,” Aquila said. “It was they who tried to save our daughter’s life. They killed her murderer.”

  Members of the gathering murmured among themselves and nodded in approval.

  “But enough for now,” Aquila said. “It is time, everyone is here.”

  He stood before the gathering of mourners and bowed his head. The others followed in unison. “Let us pray.” Aquila proceeded to eulogize the dead girl describing her love for family and friends and her compassion in helping those in great need. He told about how she accepted the Jew, Christus, as her savior, the Son of a loving God. The last bit startled me. How can any living mortal be a son of a god? Did any god truly love the people? Not the ones I knew. I was skeptical of the existence of any god. I wondered if this was the one the Druid priestess warned me about. I shuddered. Was she warning me of some unseen evil, or something else? Was this the reason that drew me to this home tonight? Perhaps I was imagining too much. My old commander, Sextus Rufius, more than once said I did too much thinking. Maybe he was right.

  I can neither remember all the events of his long tale about a Messiah who was the Son of God, nor will I try, only the gist of it clings to my memory. Even to this day, I doubt much of what he said. Aquila said this Christus had been accused of blasphemy by the Jews, sent to the procurator, Pontius Pilatus, to be tried and condemned to death. Even though Pilatus knew Christus to be innocent, he still sentenced him to be crucified, a Roman death, at the instigation of the mob. It puzzled me why he was tried by Romans when this was obviously a violation of Jewish law.

  After a few more words, Aquila concluded his eulogy with a prayer. Many gathered around him and asked his blessing, which he gave.

  Crispus shook his head and whispered, “This Aquila may believe what he says, but to me it sounds like another charlatan god from the East. I’ll stick to Melkart.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  We were about to depart when Aquila motioned us to wait. After the rest of the mourners were gone, he approached us.

  “I’m sorry, Aquila,” I said politely, “but it will take a lot more than what you said tonight to convince me that your god is different from the rest.”

  He nodded. “I regret I have failed to show you the way. I sense that you want to believe but you refuse to accept it. Perhaps, one day you will believe He is the true God.”

  “When do you bury your daughter?” I blurted, convinced he would not convert me.

  “Tomorrow morning, we will take her body to the necropolis along the Via Triumphalis north of the city walls.”

  “Aye, I’ve heard of the place.” I knew it to be a large burial ground with a mixed clientele ranging from slaves to middle class and foreigners.

  “We cannot afford an expensive tomb out on the Appian Way,” Aquila said, “but this cemetery is within our means and allows us to bury Rachel with dignity.”

  In other words, she wouldn’t be thrown into a garbage pit with those too poor to afford a decent funeral.

  “You have an enormous task ahead if you believe you can convert the people of Rome to your faith,” I said.

  “We know, but our daughter’s death will give us new strength to carry on.”

  “Will it?” I asked skeptically.

  “Yes, our faith is very strong.”

  “If it helps you overcome your grief, then your god is far better than many of the other gods,” I said.

  “Someday.” He paused for effect. “It may be the only faith in Rome.”

  Chapter 3: Late October, 45 AD

  My grief in losing Kyar had gradually faded to a sweet memory over the months since I arrived in Rome. She was a beautiful German princess, who was sold into slavery and prostitution by her father, the King of the Chatti tribe. I had purchased her while I was with the army in Britannia. But Rix, the treacherous Gallic pimp from whom I bought Kyar, murdered her while I was away on campaign. Before I could take revenge, my Uncle Budar, Crispus, and other members of my cavalry squadron, killed him. Later, I learned Gallus instigated the killing of Kyar. Foolishly, I had borrowed the money from him to purchase her. Even though she was dead, I repaid the loan at the exorbitant one hundred percent interest rate, which he demanded, much to his chagrin. I am from a wealthy family that owns a large latifundia, cattle and horse ranch, in Baetica, Southwestern Hispania. I could never prove Gallus was behind the murder, but someday I planned to take my revenge.

  The duties required in being Sabinus’s retainer kept me busy, and I had little time to dwell upon my loss. My relationships with women since arriving in Rome had been limited to an occasional slave girl who slipped into my cubicle after the household went to bed. Although satisfied sexually, an empty longing lingered in my soul. I became restless. Lonely.

  As time went on, my feelings for Eleyne grew. Daughter of Verica, king of the British tribe, the Regni, she had been taken as a royal hostage to insure her father’s loyalty to Rome. She was placed in the custody of Sabinus and his wife, Aurelia Severa, who treated her like a daughter. During the journey from Britannia to Rome, we had developed a friendship. However, I followed Sabinus’s advice and kept my distance. Yet, it had grown stronger after the death of her servant woman and friend, Karmune, who was murdered on the first night after we had arrived in Rome. Often, Eleyne and I passed one another in the hallways and stopped to converse in the presence of her ominous Indian bodyguard, Candra. He had been assigned to protect her after Karmune’s death.

  Being on call twenty-four hours a day as Sabinus’s retainer, I lived at his home and dined with him and his family, which included Eleyne. But after the night the assassins attacked Sabinus’s home, the previous November, I knew what I felt for her was real, she all but expressed the same for me. Had not Sabinus entered her room when he did, I would have told her of what, dare I say it, love.

  Trained by Aurelia Severa, Eleyne had learned to sing and play the lyre. To the delight of the family, she caught on quickly and had a sweet, lyrical voice. Eleyne had many opportunities to display her new talents for the family when they celebrated Rome’s numerous holidays. Her soprano voice stirred my soul as she sang in melodious tones of loves lost and found, and of heroic deeds by Rome’s mythical characters, and those of her people’s warriors. Her songs reflected simple stories and feelings—the way she liked it, and that’s what attracted me. Honest and straightforward, just like her people.

  The color of Eleyne’s pretty, angular face reminded me of white marble, a contrast to her jet hair. But she grew more attractive as Aurelia Severa’s training in Roman dress and mannerisms became more apparent. Sabinus’s wife introduced Eleyne to the shops of the wealthy along the Sacred Way and bought her a number of elegant gowns and intricately woven tunics becoming her shapely figure. Still, Eleyne preferred making her own clothing and occasionally wore tartan tunics from Britannia.

  The Indian bodyguard escorted the women wherever they traveled. Although Aurelia enjoyed th
e outings, Eleyne appeared oblivious to it all. She admitted later to being lost in thoughts about Karmune’s death and yearned to return to her homeland.

  *

  I found Eleyne one day in the atrium as she played her lyre, the melodic sounds echoing through the corridor. I complimented her on her skill, and she thanked me. Turning, Eleyne motioned to Candra, who stood behind and a few steps to the left of her chair, to move out of hearing distance while we conversed. From his scowling face, it was obvious he was not happy about the situation. She gestured me to a wicker chair next to her. The essence of lavender radiated from her being. I glanced to Candra and back to Eleyne and commented on how protective he was of her.

  Eleyne related the story about her slave guard. Though mute, by sign language and crude Latin writing, which Eleyne had taught him, she learned about his fascinating past.

  “He’s from a warrior caste in India called the Rajput,” she said. “They’re the house troops of the Indian kings. The red mark he wears on his forehead is a religious sign meaning life.”

  She further related how Candra, short for Candragupta, had been the personal guard to a warlord ruling the Land of Sind, along the eastern bank of the Indus River. After watching him kill the assassins with only his bare hands, during the November attack on Sabinus’s home, I understood why he had been chosen to protect Eleyne.

  “When the king’s army was defeated by the Parthians,” Eleyne continued, “Candra was captured and sold to a slave caravan traveling to Antioch. He attempted to escape but was caught, and the slave dealer cut out his tongue as punishment! Isn’t that barbaric?”

  “It’s terrible. No one deserves to suffer that fate.”

  “I’m puzzled why he wasn’t sold to a school for gladiators. He doesn’t need to speak to fight.”

  “I don’t know the answer, but I pray that he never will. He would surely die.”

  *