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“Gaius, find your brother’s corpse. Avenge his death.” The words of Maximus Secundus sucked hope from his son like a medici’s leech. “Bring his remains home. Don’t trust anyone in Judea. And be careful where you put your foot.”
His father’s admonitions had not surprised him. But on this important day, Gaius Claudius Secundus had expected well wishes for himself, a family blessing or congratulations on his scholastic achievements at Militarium Romanus—the Roman Empire’s military institute. But there was none of that.
And now, after a quick handshake before sunup, his father departed for an important meeting with Tiberius Caesar. It had always been that way. His father’s thirst for money or conferences with his patrician friends in the Forum, secret meetings with the leaders of the Senate among colonnades, or reunions with aging centurions of his old cohort in the baths, had always occupied his father’s interests more than family. Then, there were the games, especially the gladiatorial contests that often drew the Man of Trade, as he was known, from his family. It was not that Father Maximus was uniquely derelict. All patrician men were similarly immersed, spending scant time with their wives and children. But on this day Gaius had expected man-to-man dialogue, old soldier to young officer. Not a brief admonishing monologue.
Disappointed, he watched his father, adorned in a toga of spotless white trimmed in purple, his arms cradling parchments, rush off amidst elaborate preparations already underway for the Ceremony of Prognostication. The temple augurs waited for dawn’s first light. But Father Maximus passed them on his way to his sedan litter. The Man of Trade could not be bothered by such religious nonsense. He was one of the dependable breed of patricians in Tiberius Caesar’s favor. Staunch allies of the emperor’s father had been purged. Maximus Secundus, and wealthy patricians like him, were now the beneficiaries of Tiberius’ enlightened Pax Romana.
When dawn finally broke pink over the eastern hills of Rome, the Senior Augur began his study of gauzy clouds and the twittering of birds. He searched for mysteries, patterns, anything that would forecast success or failure for Gaius Secundus’ grim mission. Several hours later, following the lengthy, ancient ritual of color and extravagant formalism, the augur predicted the mission would end in disaster.
Then Gaius endured the next venerable phase—the Rites of Dedication, the calling upon Jupiter and the Fates to attend his undertaking, and if, in the mysterious cosmic order, his life might be spared. Gaius chanted, knelt, and clapped his hands at all the customary times in the odd liturgy, his nostrils filled with the fragrance of smoldering incense, but he found little comfort in ritual. Finally, and not soon enough for him, the augur and his attendants departed, their robes swirling about them, chanting, carrying the golden cups of Jupiter and ebony staves crowned with glimmering, bejeweled deities.
To Gaius, the dire prediction could not plunge his spirits any lower on this bright spring morning. Apprehensive, he paced across the expansive marble portico of his father’s estate high on Palatine Hill. Surveying the religious procession moving down the brick-lined roadway, pain ached inside him. He moved back and forth, restless, resigned to duty. His fingers ran nervously over his day old signet ring. Wearing it testified to his recent commencement, with honors, from Militarium Romanus.
He whispered his brother’s name. “Marcellus.”
His eyes ranged over the palatial gardens and phalanxes of cypress lining the broad private roadway to the estate. Memories flooded his mind. Joyful times he and his older brother, Marcellus, had spent on the grounds pretending to repel barbarians, saving the Roman Empire like their father had done with distinction. He studied the roadway teeming with bare-chested slaves laying new bricks bearing the Secundus imprint, as if patricians and plebeians needed confirmation that the great road led to the Secundus mansion. He paused, his hand pressed to a marble column, when an official litter with eight bearers carting his father and the Proconsul of Judea came into view. A centurion followed on horseback leading a riderless black Arabian. Gaius sighed at the sight of his brother’s horse. He swiped his hand across his breastplate of leather scales.
“Gaius, I’ll miss you terribly,” his fifteen-year old sister called out as she ran to him. He draped his muscular arm over her bare white shoulders. “I believe I’ll be desolate without you. Will I ever see you again?”
He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll return, my Pella,” he said, doubting that the Fates of Fortune would ever look upon him again.
“Appolinia was here when you were with the augurs. She wept for you. You should’ve married her. She gave you this.” Pella removed a small cloth from the folds of her white linen toga. “Appolinia embroidered it for you.”
Gaius took the cloth and read threaded words of endearment sewn with great care in gold and royal blue. He slipped it inside his breastplate and pointed toward the roadway. “There they are. It’ll not be long, Pella.”
She thrust her cheek against his chest and hugged him. Two servants emerged from the house and swept the marble steps in preparation for the august visitor. Mother Daria Secundus stepped into a warm patch of sunlight on the portico, appearing regal in her purple toga, her gleaming black and silver hair piled high and decorated with ivory combs. Gaius and Pella walked slowly to their mother. Her olive eyes were puffy.
“Mother Daria,” Gaius said, his voice suddenly hoarse with emotion. “Take heart. I’ll not rest until I uncover the truth. I will, by Jupiter, or I’ll succumb in the attempt.”
The thought of losing him was like a dagger thrust. “Succumb? Put such a thought out of your head at once, Gaius. You must carry on the Secundus name. Appolinia was—”
“I’ll persevere.” His arm drew her to him. “The gods shall be with me. I’ll not be abandoned. The Fates will not permit it, will they?” He watched his mother press her toga to her eyes, and he wondered about the gods. Doubt and anger had begun its corrosion three days ago when the news of his brother broke in upon his life of military privilege.
Are the gods alive or dead? If alive, then why did they abandon Marcellus? How could the Fates lose sight of him in Judea? Were they not omnipresent? Did their watch-care not extend to the Southeastern Provinces? If I allow one grain of doubt, then it could impair my mission.
