Beloved (33 page)

“Marcus, you cannot offend Aurelian!”

“Do not fear, Mother. I will go to Aurelian myself, and explain the situation. Zenobia is vital to the empire’s eastern defenses. I know the emperor will approve my match with the queen and find another husband for his niece.”

They walked from the room and back downstairs again into the atrium, where Marcus called for a chariot. Within moments the vehicle was at the front door of the house, and with a quick smile to his mother he was gone through the door. She stood listening as the chariot rumbled off down the quiet residential street. An arm went about her shoulders, and Aulus said. “You look as if you have been crying. What has my big brother done now, Mother?”

“He has done nothing, Aulus. Your father made a match between your older brother and the emperor’s niece, Carissa. Marcus, however, is in love with a woman in Palmyra. He has gone off to tell the emperor that the betrothal must be canceled.”

Aulus had paled at the mention of the emperor’s niece’s name. “Carissa, Mother? You are sure of the name?”

Dagian nodded, and then asked, “What is wrong, Aulus? You look as if you have seen an evil spirit.”

“Oh, Mother, Carissa is the most venal creature alive.”

“That sweet-faced child?”

“That is the paradox of Carissa. She looks like a vestal virgin, yet is more corrupt than any woman in the empire.”

Marcus drove through the bustling streets of the city to the Palatine Hill, where the emperor lived. He could not help but notice the filth in the streets, unusual, for the Rome he remembered had been clean and bright. Now, however, the great marble buildings were in need of repair, and there was obvious vandalism to public places. There were many shops closed and shuttered.

At the palace a slave ran to take his horses, and he strode into the ancient building to encounter an old friend.

“Marcus Alexander!” came the shout, and he turned.

“Gaius Cicero!”

The two men gripped arms in the traditional Roman greeting, and then stepped back to view each other.

Gaius Cicero was a man of forty, of medium height and stocky build with brown eyes and black hair. “I had heard you were coming home from the eastern frontier,” he said with a smile. “I am sorry so sad an event as your father’s dying brings you. What do you here?”

“I must see the emperor.”

“So cries half of Rome, Marcus Alexander, but Aurelian’s time is limited.”

“This is an urgent matter, Gaius Cicero. It could have far-reaching effects on the empire. Can you help me?”

“By chance, yes. He’s in the baths now, and if you don’t mind seeing him there, then I will take you.”

“I would see him in Hades if necessary.”

The Praetorian officer smiled wryly. “I am sure there are those who would wish Aurelian in the very place you mentioned. Follow me, Marcus Alexander.” He made several turns into exquisitely decorated corridors that were lit with multilamped candelabra. “Ah, here we are,” he announced as they moved quickly through large double doors that were opened by two Praetorian guards.

A slave hurried to aid them, and Gaius Cicero said, “Tell the emperor that Gaius Cicero has brought Marcus Alexander Britainus to see him on a matter of urgent business. We ask the emperor’s leave to come into the bath.”

“At once, Gaius Cicero,” the slave replied, and hurried off.

“If he will see you, Marcus, you will not need me. I do not wish to intrude.”

“I thank you again for your help, Gaius Cicero,” Marcus replied.

“Perhaps we can have dinner together while you are in Rome,” the Praetorian said.

“The emperor will see you, Marcus Alexander Britainus,” said the returning slave.

“Farewell, Marcus Alexander,” Gaius Cicero said. “I will send a message to your parents’ home.”

The slave quickly had Marcus divested of his clothes. “The emperor is already in the caldarium. He will speak with you when you reach the unctorium, Marcus Alexander Britainus.”

Marcus nodded, and walked from the dressing room into the tepidarium where he sat down and waited for the perspiration to flow. When his pores were open and he was dripping, a slave began to scrape him free of dirt and sweat as he stood silently.
He moved quickly into the caldarium for a hot bath. The emperor was already gone. There were, however, several young, beautiful nude slave girls who bathed him tenderly with scented soap before leading him to the bath, where he soaked a short time. He decided against a plunge in the frigidarium’s icy bath, preferring a quick swim in the open courtyard pool, which had been warmed by the sun. Now he might enter into the unctorium. The emperor was waiting.

“Marcus Alexander!” Aurelian rose and came toward him, smiling.

“Hail, Caesar!” Marcus replied, his right arm extended in salute.

“Put your arm down, Marcus,” Aurelian said, gesturing impatiently, “The gods, I shall never get used to being greeted ‘Hail Caesar!’ ” The emperor was a tall man, over six feet, but Marcus still topped him by a good two inches. “Come and have a rub-down, and we’ll talk,” he invited.

The two men lay upon the massage benches, and Marcus studied the emperor from beneath apparently closed eyes. He had known him briefly years ago, and he remembered Aurelian as fair but determined. He wondered if the years had altered him any; certainly not physically. He was older than Marcus, and yet Marcus noted the emperor’s body was yet that of a younger man—firm and hard. His blond hair was just faintly touched with silver, as was his barbered beard; but his light blue eyes were as clear and sharp as ever. He had a nicely shaped head, his eyes were well spaced, his nose was long and surprisingly aquiline for a man with peasant roots, his lips narrow, almost scornful.

“How is your wife, Ulpia?” he asked.

“Your cousin Ulpia is well, Marcus, but that is not what you came to see me about. What is it you want?”

“Release me from the betrothal my father made with you between myself and your niece, Carissa.”

“No.”

“I will not marry your niece, Caesar. I came home for two reasons; because my father was dying, and to tell my parents that I was to marry at long last. I am already betrothed. When I return to Palmyra I shall marry its queen, Zenobia. Her son will shortly rule in his own right, and I shall then wed his mother. Is it not of more importance that I wed such a valuable ally to Rome?”

“Do you love the Queen of Palmyra?”

“I have loved her for many years, Caesar.”

“And she loves you?”

“Yes.”

“It is unfortunate then that you must wed with my niece. Take her back with you to Palmyra if you desire to live there, Marcus. The queen will remain your mistress if she loves you.”

Marcus felt the anger welling up within him. Who was this peasant, chosen emperor, that he might control the life of a member of one of the empire’s oldest patrician families? “I will not marry this girl you have chosen for me, Caesar,” Marcus said quietly, attempting to mask his fury.

“But you will, my friend, because if you don’t I will destroy your family. They are all here in Rome now, aren’t they? How would you like to see Aulus executed on the charge that his loyalty to Britain is greater than his loyalty to Rome? It is, you know. I would then send word that his foreign wife and half-breed children be expediently dispatched, and that his wealth, as well as that of your father, be confiscated by the government. Your parents would be forced to beg for their very existence. I wonder how long your beautiful mother would survive, Marcus. As for your luscious sisters, my friend, a short stay in the whorehouse of the Praetorian Guard would make them welcome death. As for you, defy me in this, and you will never see your beautiful mistress again.”

Marcus felt frustrated and helpless. Aulus might run; the husbands of his sisters use their wealth and influence to protect them; but who could protect his parents? His father must be allowed to die in peace in his own home. His mother must be comfortable in her old age. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I am Caesar, and I command it.”

“You can force me to wed with your niece, Caesar, but you will do her as great a disservice as you are doing me. I will never touch her, and she will be condemned to a life of total loneliness. Is this what you want for her?”

Aurelian smiled. “You have not seen Carissa yet, my friend. She is exquisite.”

“There is nothing your niece can offer that I want. I will marry her because you have given me no choice, but I will not honor her or love her.” Marcus arose from the massage bench, and strode toward the door to the dressing room.

“The wedding will be in two days,” the emperor called to him. “Would you not like to meet Carissa before then?”

“Why?”
was the acid reply, and Marcus disappeared from Aurelian’s view.

“I do not like him, Uncle,” said the beautiful nude girl who had been massaging the emperor.

“You do not have to like him,” Aurelian replied, laughing, “I have most kindly supplied you with the son and heir of one of the most patrician families in the empire for a husband. He is handsome, he is wealthy. What more can you want, Carissa?”

“He will not be manageable, Uncle.”

“Nevertheless he is a Roman of the old school, and as his wife you will lack for nothing.”

“You speak of his returning to the East. I do not want to go to the East.”

“Then don’t, my pet. Many a Roman wife has remained behind while her husband served a term in Syria or Palestine. You are most fortunate, Carissa, that Lucius Alexander chose this time to die. Else I had not gotten you such a prize.”

“But I don’t want him, Uncle. Find me someone else!” the girl pouted.

Aurelian smiled a slow and lazy smile as he turned over on the marble bench. His staff was straight and hard. “You do not have a choice,” he said softly, pulling her atop him, and burying himself inside her. “You simply do not have the choice,” he repeated, thrusting deeply, sinking his teeth into her smooth shoulder.

“Then make him stay in Rome, Uncle,” she murmured, imitating his pelvic movements.

“I will try, my pet,” he said. “I will try,” and he crushed her in his embrace.

“Try hard, Uncle,” she said, and then her mouth took his in a flaming kiss.

Marcus had dressed and left the palace. He was in a high fury, for he could not think of a way to extricate himself from this situation that would not involve his entire family. He did not doubt for one moment that Aurelian would carry out his threats. What was he to tell Zenobia? How could he possibly explain to her in a letter all that had transpired? In two days he must marry the girl.
Two days!
He had not yet seen his father, but when he had obtained his blessing, and the wedding was over, Marcus intended to return to Palmyra alone. There, he would explain to Zenobia what had happened. Then, as soon as his father died, his sisters had left Rome and were safe with their husbands, and his brother had taken their mother to safety in Britain—for whatever Aurelian might think, there were places in Britain that Roman “justice” could not
touch—then would he act to divorce this woman he was being forced to take to wife. He would divorce her and marry his beloved.

If he left the day after the wedding he could reach Palmyra before any letter could; before any gossip could. Furiously he whipped his horses and, as he raced through the streets, took savage pleasure seeing the pedestrians scatter and scramble out of the way, hurling curses at him that flowed off his shoulders like rainwater. If they hated, he hated right back.

His father was awake when he arrived home, and he went quickly in to see him. “Do not upset him,” Dagian begged her son, and Marcus nodded. He was shocked by his father’s withered and shrunken appearance. Marcus had long ago topped his father by several inches, but the tiny, frail man who lay in his bed was almost a stranger until he spoke.

“You are growing older, my son,” he said. “Your mother has told me that she informed you of the fine match I have made for you. I would that she had given me that pleasure, but then,” and here he gazed affectionately at Dagian, “your mother was never one to keep a happy secret. We must have the wedding soon, Marcus. Charon already waits to ferry me across into the Underworld.”

“I have already seen the emperor, Father. He tells me that the wedding will be in two days.”

“Good, good!” the old man enthused. “I ask nothing more of the gods but to see you safely married.” He fell back upon his pillows and was soon snoring lightly.

“Oh, Marcus,” Dagian whispered, “when I think of the strong and virile man he was. And now—now he is so weak.” Dagian took her son by the hand, and led him from the room. “Tell me what transpired between you and the emperor.”

“Aurelian is adamant that I marry his niece. He has threatened violence and destruction against this family if I do not. However, I shall leave the day after the wedding for Palmyra. I can stay no longer, and Father will die whether I am here or not. This is hardly something that I can tell Zenobia in a letter. Once Father has passed on; once my sisters are safe with their husbands; once you and Aulus are safely returned to Britain; then I shall divorce this Carissa and marry Zenobia.”

Dagian nodded slowly. His plan was sound, and although she could see that he was angry it was a contained anger. She could not understand Aurelian’s immovable intent. Why did he so fervently desire Marcus for his niece? Surely there were other young
men in Rome who could be brought into line, or even bought.
Why Marcus?

She wondered again two days later after her eldest son had been married to Carissa. Because of her husband’s illness the ceremony had been performed in her husband’s bedchamber, and for a brief time Lucius Alexander exuded the power and the charm that had once been his. It was as if he had gathered all his strength for a final performance. He greeted the emperor heartily, and complimented the bride.

The Bride.
Dagian gazed upon Aurelian’s niece and marveled that any woman could be that perfect. Carissa was a girl of medium height with an oval face and two adorable dimples on either side of her rosebud mouth. Her skin was milk white, her cheeks were touched with rose. Her features were quite delicate for a girl of peasant background. Her small nose was straight, her black eyes round and fringed with thick, long gold eyelashes. Her forehead was not quite as high as one might have wished, but her small, square chin was also blessed with a dimple. The lovely head was crowned with thistledown hair, of the natural gold color that the women of Rome so desperately sought in their wigs.