Year 324
Remus learned since he had squired for Marcus Cornelius Uranus that the emulous man did not take too well others' triumphs.
"I spit on Augustus, I tell you!" crowed Marcus, sitting naked on a cushioned stone bed in the center of a candlelit chamber, his arms drooping around the shoulders of two buxom whores. "I'd crush his head open were I pitted against him!"
"Course you would, m'lord," coaxed the one on his left, putting a bronze chalice to his mouth, her voice a tad lackadaisical.
"Are you mocking me?" He looked daggers. "Are you trying to brush me off?"
Candlelights flustered in a breeze, followed by a brief silence that brought tremors to her hand. Wine spilled, dappling Marcus' hirsute chest. "No, m'lord, I wouldn't…" She panicked, fumbling for a cloth that never came to her grasp.
Marcus threw her on the floor and trampled her midriff. Making her wail, he snatched up the chalice and hurled it to the wall. The bronze clattered the floor where Remus stood waiting with a flagon hanging from the handle in the crook of his thumb.
Remus cocked an eye at the spilled wine, his mouth primmed. He strode up to Marcus. "Not a good time, Commander," he urged, his eyes earnest. "No one dies on Losgart Day by precepts."
"Blight you, Scipio!" Wrenching free from the hand trying to stay him, Marcus took the flagon from Remus and shoved him aside. "Blight you and your precepts!"
Remus lurched a step but didn't budge. "It isn't my precepts, Commander. And I beseech you to reconsider the corollary. What exactly do you intend to accomplish with this kill?" He threw an arm at the woman curling on the floor. "To demonstrate your discontent? To whom? The Consulship? Or General Augustus? And for what, winning the Huronic War? While you are as exceptional a commander as Augustus Gaius and deserve no less in every way to be commemorated, it was he who had won the decisive battle that ended the Huronic War. And his victory is also the Renanian victory, one you ought to feign celebrating! If you killed her here, people would talk, and words on the street always spread like a plague. Are you willing to risk over a peasant whore who means nothing?"
Caught in a fusillade of questions, Marcus snapped away his eyes, his hunched back rising and falling like a boar enraged. "Word on the street?" he barked, wheeling himself around to Remus. "Why would I give two hoots about the blabber of oafs and cretins?"
"Oafs and cretins they might be, yet if they all turn against you, they could still drown you in their spits," Remus expostulated. "And what if their words reached the Consuls? What if Augustus took the chance and turned it against you? Consul Glaber might turn a blind eye, not Claudius."
Marcus gnashed, his drab eyes strained, darkening from the iris. "Find me another who knows her place!"Booting the whore on her hip, he spat and raised the flagon to his lips.
Remus glanced at the stream of wine gushing from the spout and bowed before wheeling himself around to the woman on the floor. Helping her to her feet, he towed her out of the chamber and down the stairs into an oval hall, well-lit and well-heated, with burning sticks of tallow and two fireplace alcoves opposing each other. Between the walls milled drunk patrons, cavorting and debauching on account of Augustus' conquest as if they all took part in it, the rhapsody of swaying flames caught in their manic eyes. Remus removed his cloak and put it on the woman.
"I'm sorry, m'lord," she mumbled, her head hanging so low it hid her face.
"Why blame yourself for his insecurity?"
"Please don't tell the bawd I screwed up, please?" Wrapping herself in his cloak, she risked a glimpse at him; tears bulged in her brown eyes. She ducked her head again.
"Don't worry about him." Remus drew two gold pieces from a pouch hanging from his belt. "He won't be bothering you soon."
But she appeared to have not heard him, holding out her trembling hands like a bowl to catch the coins, her gaping eyes vacant of all the fear and nonplus only moments ago.
Two pieces – Remus lamented – suffice to erase the fears of the recent past and worries for the near future. Lowering his gaze, he felt a rush of disgust that rose and sprawled into crashing waves of despair. Is it possible the pitiful deserve to be in the predicament that aroused pities? Are we beyond redemption?
"Adjutant Remus!" A man's cry scythed across the thick air.
He raised his eyes, looking for the voice, and saw house guard Livius Cancus jostle through the crowd.
"Remus," Livius gasped, loping up to him, "Where is Commander Uranus?"
"What is it?"
"It's Lady Anatolia! S-she's i-in labor, a-and…"
"And what?" A quaver pitched his voice higher than usual he hoped would have gone unnoticed.
"And the healer said it's either her or the ba–"
Remus dashed for the door before Livius could finish.
"Wait!" Livius called. "Aren't you going to get Commander?"
Shutting his eyes, Remus reared his head, his hands clenched as did his teeth. He swiveled back and bounded up the stairs with Livius in tow. Back in the chamber, they found Marcus snoring on the other whore he had kept.
"Help, m'lords!" she whimpered. "Help him off me! He's too heavy!"
Remus cursed under his breath. Waggling a hand, he gestured for Livius to give a hand. They pushed Marcus off her, turning him on his side, his flaccid manhood slipping out like a wet worm.
Livius plucked away his eyes, blinking desperately at the ceiling behind him. "What in gods' name did you do to Commander?" he groused at the whore, who had crawled to the head of the bed.
"I don't know!" Huddling herself under a thin duvet, she sniffled, her head shaking with force. "We were doing it and then he just passed out!"
"Just leave it," said Remus, refraining from a shudder, his face strained, his voice final. "And let him sleep. He seemed knackered."
"What about Lady Anatolia?"
"You guard outside and let the Commander know once he awakes."
"What about you?"
Remus patted Livius on his shoulder. Turning on his heel, he rammed a few men on his way to the stable where he took his horse. Sending the mare to a gallop, he zipped through the dark, making shortcuts into bending allies. The clatter of hooves ricocheted in the surrounding dark.
The wind shrieked, slapping his face, while a lightning bolt axed through thick yarns of clouds scudding northeast. A few drops from the sky splattered on his bare arms, cold and prickling as they rolled off the skin.
Hanging there! he thought, catching his breath, the name he couldn't dare voice scalding his lips. Another lightning split across the night, and the rain pelted down, sending up a mist. Remus squinted. Keeping his head low, his torso in parallel with his mount, he blinked away the rain stinging his eyes while peering through the torrential blur ahead without slowing.
As he turned out of the warren and back on the boulevard, he saw small tufts of flames swaying atop many a stone brazier that stood sentry before the Uranus' courtyard. A relieved sigh fled his throat. His legs gripped, hands dandling the reins. Swinging himself off before the horse stopped, he regarded the page coming out to meet him and loped at the wet marble stairs shimmering in the storm.
"What else did the healer say?" he asked the maid waiting under the tegula-tiled pediment. "Where is Tiberius?"
"It didn't look good, he said," the maid replied at a fast clip, the last syllable of every word entwining the next. "He and the midwife are with her now." Then, handing him a cloth to dry, she added, "Where is Commander?"
Remus took the cloth. "He sent me in his stead."
"What kind of man does that?" Her voice came in a demur, tailing him before the rain washed it away.
They crossed lengthwise the courtyard shrouded in a cobalt glow of the tempestuous night, their feet treading in puddles in which their own reflections pulverized. Through the portico of white marble, they entered a dim-lit gallery filled with the echoes of a woman's scream. Her voice sounded both familiar and strange it buckled Remus' knees.
The double doors entering Lady Anatolia's bedchamber were left ajar. He pushed in and gagged on the metallic air tinged with the smell of burning wax. In the back of the room, on a bed encircled with candles, a young woman lay with her head rearing on a pillow, her slick, auburn hair now tangled and damp, with locks clamping to her neck and forehead. Anemic as if the melting wax, she was taking a respite between throes. Her eyes were closed, her mouth agape, both hands clutching at the beddings soaked with her own bleed.
Remus skidded to her bedside. "My lady," he sobbed. Tempted to lock her hand in his, he halted, his shivering palm curling into a fist. I'm here, he screamed in his head. I'm sorry I'm late. But I'm here now!
She peeled open her eyes; a smile flickered in them and dimmed.
Scrambling to his feet, Remus whirled to Tiberius Vulcan and grabbed the man's shoulders. "Do something!" he bawled.
Tiberius only looked to the door, "A word?" he mouthed.
Remus gulped, his eyes shut, stifling the unbidden tears. He let go of Tiberius.
"Two options we have," said the healer as they were out in the gallery, his arms folding before the chest. "Both are on a dare with Kish."
"The mother comes first," said Remus, leaving no room for negotiation in his voice that was also too resolute than he should have let on.
Tiberius held his chin skyward, his eyes a meaningful squint. Rain pattered relentlessly on the tegula overhead, interrupted by bouts of thunder. "If so," replied the healer at length. "We'll have to pry the babe out of her. The child may die as the pincer could crush the head. As for Lady Anatolia, the unimaginable pain and blood loss may also claim her life," he paused again, boring into Remus' eyes to measure the weight of his silence.
"What about the other option?"
"The child may have a better chance with a certain cost of the mother's life." Tiberius allowed a dry chuckle that parted his mustaches. "I'm glad we can rule that one out." Patting Remus on the side arm, he returned to the bedchamber.
Upon multiple requests, servants scuttled in and out with buckets of water and cloths, white in, red out. Remus groped his way to the loggia facing the courtyard and into the rain. Holding out his arms sideways, he closed his eyes, searching in the depth of his heart for a prayer to the gods so they'd give her whatever grace that was proportioned to him. But what exactly did he possess, and did he come into possession of them out of such grace?
Wrenching back his head, he groaned.
No, he thought, laughing hysterically. The gods had never been on his side, and the only goddess he knew, the only goddess who had graced him, was the dying Lady Anatolia Hilaria Liviana. Had it not been for her recognition of his flair with verses, he would still be a minstrel on the street, trying to finish his performance with a flourish for pity dennies. Had it not been for her ardent endorsement, Remus would never have dreamed of a chance to handle the letters and speeches for Commander Marcus Cornelius Uranus. Had it not been for her kindness, Romulus would have died of Typhoid fever before coming of age. Everything he had come to own, he owed it to Lady Anatolia. Yet with everything he had owned, it wasn't enough to love her; nor could his love ever risk light.
Lightning cracked down, and the sky rumbled.
Remus came to terms with the inferiority of his fatuous love on this tempestuous night. He swallowed the poison, which might as well be his medicine, that nothing was created equal, nor all love deserved praise by bards of his kind. His love meant nothing when he was no one, a burden at best, which was both worthless and suffocating to the intender.
His breath hitched in his throat. Dropping to his knees, he stayed motionless until the rain lessened. A hand on his shoulder jolted him around; his eyes popped open.
Tiberius gave him a nod. Clambering to his feet, Remus followed the healer back inside.
"The child didn't make it as I'd feared," Tiberius explained on the way, the sound of their footsteps caroming in the gallery. "And while the mother lived, she hasn't been out of the woods. The next few days will be crucial."
All the words came through Remus' ears as if water passing on oil. While he understood every word, he didn't know what to make out of them.
"You're her favorite bard," Tiberius continued. "Perhaps your words may cheer her." Stopping before the double door, he regarded Remus, his face sallow and exhausted in the chiaroscuro of the stone walls. "I'll go check on Lady Ariadne and bring her over. The crying of a babe has unfathomable healing properties on the mother, compelling her return." Shaking his head, the healer hissed with a long sigh. "Of all the misfortunes," he added, "it's fortunate that Lady Ariadne is too young to understand anything yet. Imagine if she had to see her own mother suffer like this."
Remus watched the man leave, grateful that he didn't interrogate him for Marcus' absence. He had spiked the wine he gave Marcus at the brothel so he, Remus, could return to check on the abandoned wife, another man's wife, his Commander's wife. He never intended to keep him from her in her moment of peril. But even if he didn't drug Marcus, would he come to her? And even if he did, between the mother and the child, which would he choose? A shiver rippled through him, making him gulp. His fingers stretched and coiled. He closed the door behind him.
Kneeling at her bedside, he held her hand between his and drew it to his lips. "You ask me," he crooned.
"How much I love you?
How long I've loved you?
Oh, darling,
My love is real
And my feelings true,
The moon is my witness.
You ask me
How much I love you,
How long I've loved you?
Oh, darling,
My love hasn't changed,
My feelings for you remain,
The moon is my witness.
My heart sings at hearing your voice,
My head spins at meeting your eyes.
And you ask me
How much I love you,
How long I've loved you?
Well, think about it, my love,
And take a look,
The moon is my witness."
The storm dispersed. Behind the thinning clouds peered the moon glancing off the wet tegula roofs outside.
***
Year 332
"The Hasdrubal are sending an envoy for the anniversary."
Remus reported, his head low, eyes up at Marcus slumping behind a desk whittled out of redwood. Daylight shimmered through a portiere of beads hanging behind him, leading to the bedchamber in a chiaroscuro that kept screened all the lust and filth.
"Like they have done every year," Marcus harrumphed. "Why is it important this time?" Taking from a silver tray a cluster of the finest Senecan grapes large and green, he plucked one off its vein and tossed it at his mouth. Juice squirted, dribbling down his double chin.
Remus regarded the man he had served for nigh on ten years since he turned seventeen. "Ugarit Hasdrubal is the envoy."
"Ugrait? Melqart's second son?"
"And he won't be coming alone this year."
Marcus narrowed his gaze, a nod gesturing for Remus to go on.
"He's bringing his daughter, Princess Seleen of Hasdrubal."
"That malformed little bitch? What business does a child have here?" Marcus guffawed, disdain rolling in his breath.
"A proposal."
Gripping the armrests, Marcus scooched forward in his seat, his bushy brows drawing close.
Remus saw it had piqued the commander's interest. "She is the blood of the Hasdrubal, after all, a true Senecan princess," he went forth, "King Melqart saw it fit to propose a marriage between the child and one of the Consuls' sons."
Another fit of laughter shook the tablinum. Marcus tossed the grapes back to the salver.
"I wager Claudius' son gets the ugly wife!"
"It isn't who gets her as a wife that worries me, my lord," Remus remarked, "but the implication."
Marcus leaned aside, his jaw moving laterally. He knew that of all Hasdrubal's children, Ugarit Hasdrubal was Melqart's least favorite, and his daughter, Princess Seleen, was born with what many considered a curse, a defect, a large birthmark that split across her face. If the Senecans had good intentions, and if their intentions were genuine, it would have been Princess Elissa, daughter of the crown prince Eshmun. Twelve of age, she had already grown into a legendary beauty, whose wavy, chestnut hair was said to enchant any man in his dream.
Remus read the message betrayed in Marcus' face, a corner of his mouth quirking. "Eight years since the end of the Huronic War, the Senecans can only trade with others in Renanian gold, and to receive our gold, they must supply us with as much wheat as we request. Reasonable it seems that they want to redress."
"So what?" Marcus snorted. "It's been eight years those wusses still carry a grudge?"
"How do you feel about General Augustus compared to eight years ago?"
The big man jolted straight up in his seat. "Know your place, Scipio!"
"Forgive me, my lord." Remus made a deep obeisance. "Just thought you could make hay of the crisis."
"What crisis?" Marcus glared down as he slowly sagged back in his seat. "What else'd you know?"
"Last night, I received a letter from our eyes in the north. They spotted a Senecan fleet of twenty galleys near Turis disguised as smaller galleys for freight."
A disdainful harrumph came hissing through Marcus' throat. He threw a punch at the elm desk. The salver wobbled, and the grapes trembled on their vines. "Do you hear yourself, Scipio? Smaller! After eight years, they managed to build smaller ships! Enlighten me, how will it cause us a crisis?"
Smaller, not inferior. Remus cocked his head. "Of course, it won't," he replied. "But perchance you may help the Senecans turn it into one."
Marcus hunched forward, his fingers steepling, elbows spreading upon the redwood desk.
Remus continued, "The third clause in the Treaty of Losgart stipulates that no Senecan war fleet should cross their territorial waters. While the Senecans have disguised their galleys for civilian use, they know they aren't fooling anyone. That's why they're proposing the marriage to apologize. Should our Consulship accept, we'll appear weak." He paused, glancing up to meet the other man's eyes as he gauged how much his words had registered.
"And should it refuse," he continued. "We will have to punish the Senecans for breaching the Treaty. But what punishment? Isn't the Treaty of Loasgart harsh enough already? Any more demands would be impossible to discharge, hence lending the Senecans a reason to fight us again. And this, my lord, is where you will come in. You must write to the Consulship and urge them to accept the apology with magnanimity, but not the proposal. While General Augustus won't shy from a fight, you tackle with diplomacy. Even if there must be another war, we won't be the initiator, and we will be prepared, using the time you will have earned us. Who will Consul Glaber think of promoting for the Tribune Admiral next year? I have the letter ready for you."
As his voice fell, Marcus nodded, beckoning him to come forth.
Remus did as bid. Next to the salver of dripping grapes, he left a scroll of papyrus.