The Raven and the Rose Page 2

  Marcus himself was a prime example of why the Roman army drove all before it and swallowed enemies like a tidal wave clearing a shore. Discipline was the keynote of his life. Like all Roman soldiers he could march sixteen miles a day on sparse rations and then build a camp at night before he went to sleep. He was a war machine, trained and expert in the art of battle, and everything else in his life was secondary. He had not seen his family for years, had no friends outside the army, and had never been in love. His attitude toward women had always been utilitarian: desire was expected, procreation necessary, but letting the emotions overmaster the soul seemed foolish, even shameful. He was handsome, not to mention a highly decorated soldier, and he had never lacked female companionship. But a special attachment was something he’d never had the time or the inclination to pursue.

  Marcus lifted his tunic away from his neck with a forefinger, then grimaced as he bent to remove a pebble from his sandal. Lately an unfamiliar loneliness had been stealing over him, making him somehow dissatisfied with the spartan army existence which had previously sustained him. Maybe he had just been at war too long, or perhaps it was time for a change in his life. He didn’t know, but this new feeling left him vaguely unsettled and searching for something more, something different.

  He didn’t like it.

  Marcus glanced around him, taking in the color and confusion which had always made him glad to return to Rome. Corsica was a rural backwater by comparison, and he looked forward each year to winter camp near the city, where a short walk would take him into the bustling throng that eddied around him now. A builder lumbered by, leading a string of mules laden with materials, and two dogs snapped at each other in his wake, snarling over a bone. A funeral passed on the other side of the street, its hired mourners rending their garments, as a poet read his latest work aloud before a book shop. In a covered portico to his left a painter did portraits, selling them off to the passersby, and a merchant offered pearls and bronzes from India as well as Tyrian purple dye to color the toga hems of the wealthy. Marcus took it all in, wondering why it didn’t cheer him as it always had in the past.

  “Good day, Centurion,” said the stable owner as he walked past Marcus, leading a horse into the street. “Are you in the market for some excellent horseflesh? I have a new Arabian that’s a beauty. Free stabling for the winter until the army goes on the march.”

  Marcus shook his head, smiling. “I’ve heard about you, Postumus. You’re always trying to pawn some nag off on an unsuspecting soldier. By the time the horse comes up lame the army is in the Alps and you’re in the Suburra spending your sesterces on the Aquitanian whores.”

  The stable owner made a sad face. “My reputation is undeserved. The competition spreads vicious rumors. I’m surprised an officer like yourself listens to such gossip.”

  “You stung my friend Septimus, old man,” Marcus replied, laughing. “You picked the wrong mark, he has an influential family and a big mouth.”

  “I sold Septimus Valerius a very fine mare. It’s not my fault if he ran the animal into the ground.”

  Marcus bit his lip. “The animal had rickets.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Septimus goes into the forum every morning since the army’s been in camp to tell everyone about it,” Marcus added, folding his arms, grinning.

  The stableman yanked the horse he was leading after him and stalked off, mumbling to himself.

  Marcus chuckled, then glanced up at the sun and noticed that it was almost overhead. The apparitor standing on the steps of the old curia would soon give the signal for the trumpets to be sounded, announcing the noon hour. The Senate session would then end. He went on his way again, briskly this time, his garnet cloak dangling down his back from its metal shoulder clasps, his hobnailed leather sandals clicking when they struck a stone.

  He did not want to keep Caesar waiting.

  * * *

  Julia Rosalba Casca entered the atrium of the shrine of Vesta and set down the copper vessels she’d been carrying, filled with water from the sacred spring of Egeria, near the Porta Capena. It would be used for the ceremonial sprinkling and sweeping of the altar to Vesta. Julia performed the water carrying twice a month, sharing the duty with the other Vestals, and she was always glad when it was over and she was back at the temple. The noise and the crowds of the city gave her a headache. Even though her litter was preceded by a lictor and she was guarded at all times, there was something unnerving about the press and clamor of all that humanity, reminding her of everything she was missing as she passed her life in the quiet and seclusion of the temple.

  Julia was seventeen, and had been in the service of Vesta for seven years. She’d been taken from her family just before her tenth birthday and solemnly admitted to the Vestals by the chief priest. He cut off her hair and, addressing her as “beloved”, pronounced the solemn formula of initiation. Since then she had lived in the opulent hall, or Atrium, of Vesta which adjoined the temple and learned to perform her duties; the study comprised her first decade of service. During the second she would practice them fully and during the third instruct the new Vestals. At the age of forty she would be free to go, but in fact few Vestals ever left the service, since after so many years marriage and children were unlikely and it was difficult to give up the privileges and honors of a Vestal’s life. They lived in great luxury and were attended by many servants in return for their guarding the sacred fire of Vesta. This perpetual flame was thought to keep the city of Rome free from plague and foreign invaders. But to be worthy of this honor the Vestals must remain virgins; they faced death by public execution if they violated their vow of chastity.

  Julia barely remembered her initiation into Vestal service. It seemed so long ago. What she remembered was that she had not been consulted about the decision. Her grandfather, Gnaeus Casca, had pressed her father to dedicate the life of his younger daughter to Vestal service. This was considered a great honor and brought even more distinction to an already distinguished family. Julia’s older sister, Larthia, had been married to a provincial governor when she was fifteen so it fell to Julia to fulfill the Vestal role.

  She had been denied the future comforts of marriage and children when she barely had her second teeth.

  There were compensations, to be sure. The Vestals were national icons, treated with veneration when they appeared in public or to officiate at ceremonies. They were kept at State expense in high style. The Atrium Vestae, where they lived, was marble floored and hung with Persian silks. Its tiled bath house was fed by a hot spring and a staff of seamstresses, hairdressers and German masseuses lived there permanently. Each Vestal had her own suite of rooms with an antechamber for her personal maid. Vestals were given the best education in order to record wills and official documents for a population that was largely illiterate. Julia commanded several languages, Greek and Persian as well as Latin, and she could play stringed instruments, dance and sing and recite the ancient poetry of Homer and the modern poetry of Virgil.

  But whenever Julia went out in public, she would look longingly at the young wives buying fish for dinner, at the young mothers shepherding unruly children. Her gaze would linger as her lictor walked before her litter, clearing a path for the Vestal through the bowing crowd.

  At times, she would have to glance away, her vision clouded by tears.

  “Madame, you must come quickly!” Margo said, appearing around a corner, whispering urgently. “Imperator Caesar is coming to the Aedes to make an alteration to his will and Livia Versalia has requested you to attend and take notes.”

  Margo was Julia’s Helvetian maid, captured when her tribe was conquered in Switzerland. She’d been brought back to Rome and sold into service at the temple. Assigned to Julia shortly after Julia’s arrival, Margo was ten years older than Julia and had attended the young Vestal since Julia left home. The two women were close, their bond not exactly friendship, not really that of mistress and slave either, but the unique relationship that existed bet
ween a child of privilege and the servant who had raised her.

  “You must change clothes immediately,” Margo added, hurrying alongside Julia as she scurried through the passage which connected the temple to the home of the Vestals immediately next to it. “This is a great honor, to be asked to attend such a conference. You should look your best.”

  Julia had seen Caesar before, from a distance when he marched in triumphs after his military victories, and just once close up the previous autumn when he first came to the temple to file his will. He was always changing that document, however; he’d been married several times, had many dependents, and his personal fortune fluctuated wildly.

  “I wonder what this summons means,” Julia said, as they turned into the hall leading to the private chambers of the Vestals. Like many Roman structures, the building had no windows facing the street, so the passage was illuminated by flickering torches even during the day.

  “It means the Chief Vestal knows that you will take the best notes for the transcribers. Augusta Gellia made such a mess of the last will she did that Livia knew she would have to give someone else a chance. I’m just surprised that she would use you, since your second term doesn’t begin for three years. You must have impressed her. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Don’t draw conclusions yet, Margo. If Livia isn’t happy with my performance today it’s the last time I’ll be assigned this particular function.” Julia removed her palla, the outer garment which wrapped around the body in many folds, and handed it to Margo as they entered her suite. Several lesser servants, already summoned by Margo, hurried in behind them to help Julia change her clothes and dress her hair in the elaborate, formal style the occasion demanded.

  A short time later Julia was ready. She was wearing an ivory sleeveless tunic, or stola, girdled below her breasts by a zona , a belt woven of gold thread. A sky blue, gold trimmed diploidion, a wide scarf draped over one shoulder, was fastened at her waist by a circular gold pin imprinted with the image of Vesta. Julia’s long red gold hair, uncut for the seven years since her initiation, was pinned up and intricately dressed, the crown of her head encircled by vittae, braided strips of cloth of gold which fell in loops over each shoulder.

  Margo nodded approval and then handed Julia a stylus and a pile of wax tablets. Julia would take notes on the tablets and then the tablets would be given to an official transcriber, a Greek slave who transferred documents to parchment.

  “Go,” Margo said, urging Julia toward the door. “Livia Versalia will want to speak to you first.”

  Margo was right. The Chief Vestal was already seated in the recording room of the Aedes, surrounded by labeled scrolls inserted into niches reaching from the floor to the ceiling. She was composed and alert, her eyes sweeping over Julia in measured fashion as the younger woman entered.

  “Do you feel equal to this task, Julia Rosalba?” Livia Versalia asked, her expression inquiring. “You know from your training that I take the place of the goddess and bear witness under oath, therefore I may not record what takes place here. That task is left to you. Drucilla Pontifica, my first choice to replace Augusta, is ill today and the Imperator did not give us advance word of his desire to change his will again. You are young and inexperienced, but your tutors tell me that you are the quickest with languages of any of the novices and that you write a clear Latin hand which is easily read. Is that so?”

  “I hope that I may acquit myself admirably, madame,” Julia said quietly.

  “You did not answer my question,” Livia said dryly.

  “I write well and take excellent notes,” Julia said flatly, meeting the older woman’s gaze.

  Livia nodded. “I know you have received instruction in this procedure, but let me review for a moment. You are an umbra, a shadow, in this proceeding. You will record what is said but you will not speak unless spoken to and you will pass the tablets immediately into my hands as soon as Caesar is finished talking. Is that perfectly clear?”

  Julia nodded.

  Livia permitted herself a small smile. “Sit down, child. I’m sure you will do well.”

  Julia sat, glancing covertly at the Chief Vestal as both women waited for Caesar’s arrival. Livia Versalia was thirty-eight, two years away from her retirement as a Vestal. She was a tall and handsome woman, her dark hair lightly threaded with gray, her face unmarked by the cares of the outside world during her decades of service to Vesta. When she left the Vestals in two years she would have, among many other privileges, lifelong accommodations in the Atrium Vestae, the right to travel through the city by carriage and to be buried at state expense (both royal prerogatives), freedom from taxes and from the stricture of most Roman laws, the best seats reserved at theaters and athletic contests, and the power to pardon any criminal she met in the street on the way to execution. She had risen to her current position through dedication and attention to the most minute of details, and she was not about to jeopardize her standing when she was near to concluding her duties in a blaze of glory.

  Julia knew that she would be observed during this meeting by a very watchful eye.

  Livia noticed Julia stirring and said, “It won’t be long now. The Imperator is always prompt.”

  Julia nodded and arranged her long skirt carefully over her knees.

  Busy men usually were.

  * * *

  Caesar swept into the Aedes Vestae with Marcus at his side, both men intent on accomplishing this mission and then moving on to other things. In the absence of Caesar’s usual bodyguard, Marcus was exceptionally alert, but there was no one in the torchlit entrance hall of the temple except Junia Distania, the second oldest of the Vestals and their official greeter. She bowed her head when she saw Caesar and then gestured for the men to follow her to the recording chamber, the first door on the right past the marble statue of Flavia Publica, a retired Chief Vestal.

  Both women in the room rose when Caesar and his companion appeared in the doorway; Junia Distania vanished promptly, her task at an end.

  Julia looked at Caesar, who commanded first attention in any setting. The dictator was fifty-eight, his face heavily seamed from the sun of a hundred campaigns, his hawk nose dominating it. He had been balding since youth and was vain about it; his graying dark hair was combed forward onto his forehead to disguise a receded hairline. He was dressed in his heavily decorated general’s uniform, the coins on a gold chain about his neck signifying the wealth of the territories he had conquered. His deep set brown eyes scanned the two Vestals, missing nothing.

  “Greetings, beloved daughters of Vesta,” he said, giving them the traditional salutation.

  Both women bowed their heads.

  “I have brought along my most trusted centurion, Marcus Corvus Demeter of the first cohort, to witness my words today, as our law requires at least two witnesses and Livia Versalia will of course serve as one.”

  Livia bowed again, and Julia looked at Caesar’s companion. When her eyes met his she froze.

  The man was taller than Caesar by a head, and much younger, not more than thirty. His cropped hair was thick and black, his clean shaven face tanned, his figure slim and erect, the limbs exposed by his soldier’s tunic muscular and strong. His eyes were a curious color, a light golden brown, almost amber, and Julia felt herself flush deeply as they studied her.

  Livia coughed, and Julia realized that she was standing rooted with her arms folded inside her diploidion, staring at the centurion. She turned away immediately and gazed at the floor, trying to disguise her confusion.

  “Shall we begin?” Caesar said briskly, and Livia gestured toward the marble footed table where he would give his deposition. Caesar and the soldier with him sat, and Julia took her place at the smaller recording table to their left.

  Julia listened to Livia taking her oath and then administering a similar oath to Caesar’s companion. Julia stole glances at the younger man periodically, her stylus at the ready in her hand, and twice she caught him looking back at her intently and she quickl
y glanced away. Her heart was beating fast in her chest and her fingers around the inscribing tool were damp. She ducked it into her lap and wiped her hand on her gown, then brought the stylus up again.

  By that time Caesar was ready to talk, and Julia kept her head down, scribbling in an effort to keep up with his direct, well modulated speech. He spoke from his own notes and had obviously given much thought to the changes he wanted to make; everything was laid out very carefully and it took him only a short time to convey the alterations to his previous will. When he was done he looked at Julia expectantly and Livia said, “Please read the deposition back to the Imperator, Julia Rosalba.”

  Julia obeyed, and Caesar nodded in agreement when she was finished.

  “Fine,” he said, and rose, leaning forward to place the signet of his general’s ring against the soft wax on Julia’s tablet. The centurion did the same with his legionary’s ring, giving Julia an excellent view of the top of his dark head. Livia said in conclusion, “The transcriptions will be ready for your review and formal signature in two days’ time, Imperator.”

  “Excellent,” Caesar replied. He smiled at Livia, and then at Julia.

  “What is your name, young lady?” he asked.

  “Julia Rosalba Casca,” Julia replied quietly, with downcast eyes.

  “Casca! Not the daughter of my longtime rival,” Caesar exclaimed in surprise.

  “Granddaughter,” Livia supplied.

  “Ah, I see. Well, you may look up at me, little Casca,” Caesar said.

  Julia obeyed, noting that the centurion was also watching her fixedly.

  “White rose. Your name suits you. Pale skin and eyes the color of an Alpine spring,” Caesar said. “Well, you can tell Casca from me that his politics are anathema but his son has made a beautiful woman.” Caesar swept from the room and the centurion followed him, glancing once over his shoulder at Julia before he left.

  Livia patted Julia on the shoulder. “You did very well,” she said, accepting the tablets Julia handed her.