The Sign of the Eagle Read online

  A sense of desperation crept through Macha. She searched her mind for other ways to help Titus. Time was running out. In less than two weeks his trial would begin. She couldn’t wait for Bassus’ return to clear him. Chances of his acquittal appeared grim. So far her efforts had failed. Now that Crixus was dead, another chance for Titus’ release had vanished.

  Macha turned to Shafer. “Leave me, I need to be alone.”

  As soon as the slave left, Macha quietly wept.

  * * * * *

  The evening shadows deepened and Macha went to her sleeping cubicle after a long strenuous day. A small olive oil lamp on the table next to the bed barely illuminated the room. In the light’s flickering glow, she spotted a small gold casket placed on the silk pillow. During her absence someone had sneaked it into the room. Cautiously, she opened the box. Her heart leaped to her throat. She dropped it. The tiny thumb of a child rolled onto the cold tile. A guttural sound escaped Macha, her face growing hot. A roaring sound rushed through her head. She grasped the end of the table beside her bed until the spell passed. A note lay in the bottom of the felt lined box. Trembling, she picked up the little parchment and read:

  I warned you not to meddle. Next time it will be his head.

  Macha crumpled the message and threw it on the tiled floor. Someone must know she had nearly obtained the list of names. Was it the same woman who threatened to expose Antonia and Bassus? Thinking of little Titus, she began to shake and swallowed a scream.

  Gods, they cut off his thumb! What kind of monsters would do such a thing to my innocent little boy, Macha questioned herself. What was I thinking? This is all my fault. I should never have interfered. But I can't stand by and watch Titus suffer death as a traitor. Mother Goddess Anu, what am I to do? Everything I have done has turned to ashes. Macha's face tightened and tears spilled. She flopped on the goose down bed and wept, until at last she slept.

  Later, she woke suddenly, further sleep was impossible. Calmer now, she strengthened her resolve to fight on. If they had cut off little Titus’s thumb, then he was already dead. Or was he? The idea repelled her, but she had to examine the thumb. There was something different, but she had been too shaken to give it much thought. She puzzled over how the box was spirited into her bed chamber. Who could have brought it into the house? Had one of the household slaves been bribed by one of the plotters to be a spy?

  Reluctantly, she picked the cadaverous joint off the floor and took a closer look. The soft graying flesh felt cool in her hand. Apart from the jagged edges of the thumb, the skin’s surface was free of any marks. A huge sigh escaped her lips. Relieved, she slumped onto the bed.

  “Thank you, Mother Goddess,” she whispered aloud. “This isn’t Titus’ thumb.”

  Both of her son’s thumbs had been scarred from the attack by a feral cat in their villa’s stable the year before. The left one displayed four puncture wounds from its nasty bite, and the right had a long slashing scar which had required three stitches to close.

  She picked up the note and re-read it. Another glimmer of hope calmed her. The letter had warned, next time it will be his head. He still must live!

  Chapter 27

  A Journey for Assistance

  Macha sat on the bed cubicle’s only chair, wood sheathed in bronze, while Shafer combed her hair. For a moment, Macha closed her eyes and recalled the box with the severed finger. What kind of vicious creatures hacked off the fingers of innocent children? My heart goes out to the mother of the poor child that lost its thumb, she thought. I wouldn’t wish such a horror on any mother’s child. She shook her head and opened her eyes. I dare not speculate on what manner of cruelty might be planned for my son. The thought will drive me mad. Keep him safe, she prayed.

  “I have decided to see Pollia this afternoon," Macha said. "Now, that she's back in Rome, I will ask her and Pedius to use their influence to intercede with the Emperor to save Titus.” She shook her head. Prior to her decision to visit Pollia, Macha and Shafer had traveled that morning to the homes of four prominent Senators and their wives to appeal for help in freeing Titus. The matrons were mutual friends of Antonia and Macha. Unfortunately, Macha had been refused entrance at all four homes on the grounds her husband was an accused traitor. It had been Macha's intention to learn if any one of them might be the woman Antonia refused to identify as the one who threaten to expose her and Senator Bassus.

  Macha's plan called for Shafer to sneak into their libraries during her visit to see if she could uncover documents with handwriting matching the note left with the thumb or other incriminating records. The odds of discovering anything useful was remote, but the attempt had to be made. Shafer could read and write Latin. Because of the possibility of being discovered, Macha knew she was taking a terrible risk.

  It was only with great reluctance she decided to ask Pollia for assistance. Unlike the other women, Macha didn't know whether or not Pollia was acquainted with Antonia. But Pollia was the daughter of a Senator. Although her father was dead, she and Pedius could use the memory of him to persuade the Emperor into freeing Titus.

  “Is that wise, Lady Carataca?” Shafer said interrupting Macha's thoughts. She pulled the whalebone comb down through Macha’s sunset locks. “From what you have told me, she sounds evil. You could be as defenseless as a dormouse in a snake’s nest. Didn't you say she didn't like you because your husband refused to marry her?”

  "Honestly, Shafer, she's an insufferable snob, but I don't believe she's evil."

  Shafer twisted the hair into a single braid, tying it at the nape of the neck with a band of yellow ribbon. She placed an ivory hairpin bearing the image of Pudicitia, Goddess of modesty and chastity, behind the ribbon. “I still think you are being foolish.”

  “I have little choice. The other families refused to see me.”

  “I still don’t trust Lady Pollia. Rich people do evil things,” Shafer said. She laid the mirror on the table.

  Macha turned and stared at the Moorish woman. "Does that include my husband and me and Senator Bassus?"

  “No, Mistress," Shafer gestured as if it were obvious. "You and the Master are most exceptionally kind.”

  "Thank you, Shafer," Macha answered in a voice of relief.

  "But I know from my own experiences about what they can do," Shafer said. Her eyes narrowed. "I have been raped by my former owners and abused like a dog. Then Senator Bassus rescued me from that life. But some of his men still tried to get their way with me." She raised one foot slightly and dropped it to the floor. "That is until I kicked their private parts. Now, they leave me alone."

  Macha raised her hand and briefly touched Shafer's smooth ebony arm. "I'm so sorry you were subjected to such cruelty."

  "You are the only one I have ever told this to." Shafer bowed her head.

  "With the exception of Senator Bassus, do you still hate all men in his household?"

  Shafer raised her head and crinkled her dark eyebrows together pondering the question. "There may be one I don't," she answered slowly. "Still I'm not sure about him. He has been kind to me, but I don't know if he can be trusted."

  "That could be said about all men." Although curious about the man, Macha decided Shafer would tell her when she was ready.

  Macha finished touching up the makeup she had applied earlier that morning. She picked up the mirror from Shafer and gazed at her image again. Her appearance had improved, but she recalled how haggard she looked when she first awoke. Her red-rimmed eyes and drawn face had betrayed a restless night, the ragged thumb of the little child still on her mind. She certainly must have looked the part of a distraught woman, but it had not made any difference to those from who she had sought help. Perhaps Pollia would be more sympathetic.

  For the first time, she noticed tiny lines forming at the corner of her kohl-daubed green eyes. She sighed and examined her earrings a cluster of little gold shanks embedded with pearls, circling a stone of green plasma. At least they hadn't aged, she thought. Macha laid the mirror dow
n.

  Shafer tied a thin necklace, stamped from sheet gold formed into shapes of tiny sea shells, around Macha’s neck. The cold strands sent a shiver down Macha’s spine.

  An emerald silk stola trimmed in gold thread clothed Macha's willowy frame. Beneath her under-tunic was smooth Indian cotton underwear. Expensive, but worth the comfort compared to scratchy wool or linen underclothing. Nothing must distract her today.

  Macha and Shafer reviewed their plan again. Macha explained that once they arrived at Pollia’s, she would ask her and her husband to use their influence with the Emperor to obtain Titus’ release. “While we are there,” Macha whispered, “I want you to sneak into Pedius’ study. If the home is like most others, it should be adjacent to the atrium.”

  “But Mistress, I am still afraid I will be discovered before I reach it.”

  “No, you won’t.” Macha went on to explain that during her visit with Pollia, Shafer would feign illness and ask to use the privy. Once away, she would head for Pedius’ library.

  “Am I to search the same way as you had planned for the other homes?” Shafer asked, frowning.

  “Nothing has changed. I want you to look for business records, starting with the wax tablets, and see if you can find any documents with handwriting similar to that on the note I received from the kidnappers.”

  “What if I don’t find any writing like that?” Shafer asked.

  “Then, unfortunately, we will have to look elsewhere.”

  “I still doubt Lady Pollia will admit us. The other families would not.”

  “I got the distinct impression, when she attended the dinner party in Mediolanum, that she didn't believe my husband was a traitor. I think she will see me,” Macha replied. “But I hate degrading myself before her. I'm sure she’ll love gloating over my helplessness.”

  “Then why do you?”

  Macha exhaled attempting to contain her impatience with Shafer's persistent questions. “I have already said I don't have much of a choice, and I need you to get into Pedius’ office. Perhaps you won't find a thing, but we have to start somewhere.”

  A wave of acid welled up from Macha's stomach as she realized she was placing Shafer and herself in grave danger. She sipped a cup of water sitting on the dressing table to clear the bile from her throat. If discovered in Pedius’ office, Pollia would order her retainers to seize both of them. She could summon the Praetorian Guard and have Macha arrested for treason, since she was the wife of an accused traitor. Shafer would be tortured until she confessed to gods knows what. But what else could she do?

  Outside her bed cubicle, the daily activities of Bassus’ household were in full stride. Macha heard the house steward chastise a slave’s sloppy work dusting the master’s bust and ordered another to clean the green scum clinging to the sides of the garden fountain.

  “I’m ready, Shafer,” Macha said a moment later.

  Six slaves from Mauritania and Numidia stood beside a sedan chair in the sun- drenched courtyard waiting for Macha. Inlaid with polished agates from the east and coral from the coast of Dalmatia, its woodwork gleamed in the mid-morning sun. She entered the sedan, and the bearers lifted it effortlessly from the ground. They departed from Bassus’ home and pushed into the dusty crowded street without losing stride, followed by ten slave retainers and their burly Spanish leader, Viriatus.

  Shafer walked beside the litter. “I know these men,” she said. “They are trustworthy and loyal to the Master. If we are attacked, they won’t run away.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that,” Macha said. “You’ve never said anything about them before, but I assumed they would. Why do you bring this up now?”

  “As I’ve said, Mistress, I don’t trust Lady Pollia. You are nothing to her. She might try something—what I don’t know.”

  “I pray you are wrong.”

  “So do I.”

  “You say these men won’t run away, but are they good fighters?”

  “They are, especially, Viriatus. He’s an ex-soldier from the Third Legion in Africa and a brave man.”

  Macha raised her head and studied the broad shouldered, auburn-haired Spaniard at the head of the litter bearers. He continually turned his swarthy square-jawed face about, and she knew his deep-set blue eyes were scanning the street and the jostling crowd around the entourage.

  “What part of Spain is he from?” Macha asked.

  “The Central Highlands,” Shafer answered. “He says he is a Celt-Iberian. Do you know what that means, Mistress?”

  “Yes, I know of them—it explains his large size. He belongs to a tribe that intermarried with a group of Celts that migrated to Spain hundreds of years ago from Gaul and Britannia. But why is he a slave?”

  “He was escorting a prisoner to the slave market, but he escaped. Viriatus was forced to take his place as a slave.”

  Macha slapped a hand on her thigh. “That’s horrible!”

  “Yes, Mistress. The Master learned of his fate and purchased him. He promised to free the Spaniard after seven years if he served him well.”

  “How long has he been the Senator’s slave?”

  “Six years.”

  “We may need his strength after my discovery of the thumb last night. I know it was meant to intimidate me. More than likely, spies are watching my every move.”

  “Then perhaps they will be waiting for us at Pollia's doorstep.”

  Second thoughts about confronting Pollia crept into Macha’s mind. Was she placing herself in a dangerous position after all? But she had already been to four other homes. Why was she having second thoughts now? Who else could she turn to? Her façade of the distraught and helpless wife was all too real. Macha considered returning to Bassus’ house and rethinking her situation. But that would waste precious time. Perhaps I am being naïve, she thought to herself, but I can't believe Pollia would refuse to aid me. Pollia lost two children at birth, and I have heard she still grieves over their deaths. Surely her maternal instincts would be appalled by the killing of any child.

  Deciding to continue as planned, Macha would stay alert for the slightest hint of trouble. May the gods forgive me if little Titus suffers because of my actions, she prayed silently. I can never forgive myself.

  Several blocks down the Vicus Sobrius Avenue, skirting the Subura, Macha and Shafer crossed a little plaza graced with a public fountain. A stream of fresh water gushed from the sculptured head of Medusa into the broad rust-colored stone basin. Surplus water overflowed from the lower end, trickling away in a streamlet down the middle of the street and mixed with rubbish dumped by shopkeepers along the way. Older matrons and neighborhood women, younger ones with whining little children clinging to their skirts, laughed as they stopped to gossip and fetch drinking water in drab pottery jugs.

  At one end of the square, a wizened old woman, supporting herself on a battered cane, hobbled to a little shrine of the crossroads set in a niche against the wall of the pottery shop. She pulled a crust of bread from her ragged stola and set it upon the altar before youthful male and female deities.

  Despite the clattering noise of the street, Macha heard the old woman say in a loud voice, “Here you are, my good and trusty friends. I haven’t forgotten you.” She turned and for a few seconds glared at the women around the fountain. She snorted, “Can’t say the same for the unbelievers. Nobody respects the gods anymore.” She limped away, disappearing down a narrow side street.

  On one side of the plaza a bakery radiated heat. Little more than a tiny ground-floor room, it faced the street and contained two ovens constructed of bricks. Charcoal fires burned on the floor beneath it. Even from the litter Macha felt the warmth and caught the smell of freshly baked bread drifting from the shop. She had eaten little at breakfast and her stomach churned and growled.

  Three slaves, their gaunt faces covered with white flour, deftly inserted freshly-kneaded dough into the furnace, and as quickly removed baked loaves from the hot coals on long handled flat shovels. Their young master, who li
ke his workers, was prematurely stooped, quietly gave orders and assisted in the chores. Macha pitied the baker and slaves alike. They plied a back-breaking unhealthy trade and would die at an early age.

  On the other side of the court Macha and Shafer passed a dilapidated tavern. Painted on the wall next to the curtain opening read a message, Please Fight Outside. Indoor, near the open bar, Macha observed eight or nine seedy characters congregated on crowded benches, swilling wine. One appeared familiar, but she couldn’t place him. A head taller than the rest, a thick jaw dominated his heavily-scarred face. The bridge of his crooked nose was divided by deeply recessed eyes.

  “I don’t like the looks of that place,” Shafer said.

  “Neither do I,” Macha answered, “and for good reason. See that sign?” She pointed to the faded painted images on the stucco tavern wall. “That’s the Spade and Pickaxe, the place where Crixus was murdered. Hurry on!” she ordered the litter bearers.

  For the next three or four blocks, Macha and Shafer looked over their shoulders. Macha watched the Spaniard as he dropped back behind the entourage and kept a wary eye on the jostling crowd. No one followed and soon he returned to the head of the retinue. Macha sighed and leaned against the back of her cushioned sedan chair. Shafer stepped forward from a watchful position behind the litter and strolled beside Macha.

  Macha stiffened, her hands clenched against her heart.

  “What’s wrong, Lady Carataca?”

  From the direction of Esquiline Hill, a tribune rode a bay gelding. “Over there!” Macha motioned. “It’s Falco, coming from Pollia’s house.”

  “Turn left, down this way, hurry!” she commanded the litter bearers. They hid in the dark recesses of an alley, smelling of dung and urine and waited until Falco passed by. Why was Falco at Pollia's house? Was this part of the ongoing romantic tryst that Nicanor had observed the night of the dinner party in Mediolanum? Perhaps their intentions for one another are more serious than I first believed. Or was there something else?