Page 19 of Beloved
Dagian, the wife of Lucius Alexander Britainus, hurried into the atrium of her home, arms outstretched in joyous welcome. “Marcus!”
She flung her arms round her eldest son, and then kissed him on both cheeks.
“Praise the gods, you have arrived home safely!”
He stood back and studied her.
She was nearing sixty, and yet he could see little change in the fifteen years he had been away.
Her wonderful, once golden hair was gray, but the blue eyes he had inherited were as clear and sharp as ever.
There were few lines in her beautiful face.
“Did Aulus arrive safely?”
She nodded in the affirmative.
“And Father? He is still alive?”
“Yes, but only because he did not choose to depart for the Underworld until he had seen you, Marcus.
He is sleeping now, but I will take you to him when he awakens.”
“Marcus?”
A woman, very like his mother but with red-blond hair, had come into the atrium.
“Lucia?”
By the gods, she had been but a slip of a girl when he last saw her!
“I did not think it possible, Marcus, but you have grown even handsomer with age,”
Lucia said, coming up and kissing him as his mother had done.
“And you, my sister, have also grown lovelier,”
he answered.
“No, Marcus,”
she answered him wryly.
“I have simply grown,”
and she laughingly patted her matronly form.
“The result of five children, and too good a cook.
Wait until you see your nieces and nephews, Marcus.
They are young men and women.”
“Yes, Marcus,”
Dagian put in quietly.
“Lucia’s children are almost all grown, and you, the eldest of my children, are not even married.”
He might have put it off, but suddenly he realized it was better to speak the truth now, so they might get used to it, rather than wait until after his father had died and then suddenly spring it on them.
“I will not be making my home in Rome, Mother.
I will be returning to Palmyra.”
“Marcus! Why?”
“I am afraid, Mother, that my fifteen years in the East have made me prefer a dry and warm climate.”
“And what else? You cannot fool me, Marcus.
Warm weather is simply not a reason for deserting your home.”
He laughed.
He was not going to escape her curiosity.
He had never been able to, even as a child.
“There is a lady whom I wish to marry.
She has consented, and so I will return to Palmyra.”
“Who is she, Marcus?”
“I cannot tell you yet.”
“Is she married?”
“She is a widow.”
“Young enough to have children?”
“Yes, Mother.
She is young enough to have children.”
“Is she beautiful, Marcus?”
Lucia asked softly.
“Little sister, if the goddess Venus came to earth, she would take my beloved’s face and form.”
“You are in love!”
Dagian was amazed.
“I am in love, Mother,”
he admitted with a smile.
For a moment Dagian stared in surprise at her son.
He had always kept his feelings in complete check, never exhibiting undue emotion, even as a little boy.
He had grown into a big, elegant, intelligent man who always appeared a bit severe to her.
He was not like her younger son, Aulus, always laughing, light of heart, deeply involved in life, unafraid of being hurt.
He was not like his sisters, passionate and gentle women whose emotions were always quite visible.
No, Marcus had been the reserved one, and now suddenly to see his face alight with love was somewhat startling.
“Marcus!”
The cry was almost a shriek, and came from a short, plump young woman with her father’s dark hair and eyes who ran across the atrium and hurled herself into his arms.
He swung her high above him, and she giggled with glee as he put her down.
“Eusebia, my little bird, you have not learned to curb your passion for sweets, I see.”
“Calvinus says a skinny woman is no use on a cold night,”
came the prompt reply.
She eyed him frankly.
“Jupiter! You have grown positively gorgeous! Perhaps I should move to Palmyra.”
“It is love that has softened him, Eusebia,”
teased her older sister.
“Love? Marcus is in love?”
Eusebia’s dark brown eyes were round with curiosity.
“Tell me! Tell me!”
she begged her oldest brother.
“There is nothing to tell.
I will marry the lady when I return to Palmyra.”
“You aren’t going to stay in Rome?”
His oldest sister spoke.
“There is nothing here for me, Lucia.
You live in Ravenna, Eusebia in Naples; and Aulus in Britain.
Father is the first of the Alexanders to make Rome his permanent home.
He likes it.
I do not.
I will return to Palmyra which I have grown to love, Lucia.”
“Do you plan to sell the business?”
A man almost as tall as Marcus entered the room.
“Welcome home, brother.”
“Thank you, Aulus.”
Marcus was amused at his brother’s question.
“I think we shall wait until the matter need be settled to settle it.”
“That’s right,”
replied Aulus.
“After all it will all be yours as the elder son, won’t it, Marcus?”
Marcus laughed pleasantly.
“You haven’t changed, Auius.
You are still spoilt.”
Aulus shook his head wearily.
“The gods, Marcus! How long has it been since we have seen each other; and the second I lay eyes upon you I become the whiny little boy trying to compete.
Forgive me, brother.
I thought I had outgrown it.”
Marcus looked at his younger brother.
Aulus was not quite as tall as he, but they looked very much alike with their blue eyes and chestnut-brown hair.
He had been almost six when Aulus was born, and he had, he recalled, been totally unimpressed with the baby.
Aulus, from the moment of his birth, had competed with his elder sibling, imitated him, followed him; but alas, the gap had been too great between the boys.
Aulus had never been able to keep up, and although totally charming with everyone else, he eventually became embittered toward his brother, finding himself only when his maternal grandfather left him his estates in Britain and he could be his own man away from Marcus.
“We will make the decisions necessary together, when the time comes, Aulus,”
Marcus said quietly, and Dagian was silently proud of her eldest child.
“You have had a long journey, my son,”
she said.
“I will show you to your room, and then perhaps you will want to bathe the dust of the road away.”
Knowing that his mother wanted to be alone with him for a few moments, he followed her from the atrium, leaving his sisters and his brother behind to gossip.
They ascended to the second floor of the house, and she led him into the simple bedchamber of his youth.
Gone, however, were all the small things that had made the room his.
Dagian seated herself in the room’s one chair and looked piercingly at her son.
“Now, Marcus,”
she said.
“I wish to know of this woman you propose to make my daughter-in-law.”
“Her name is Zenobia.
She is the Queen of Palmyra.”
“The gods, my son! You aim high! How can you marry this woman if she is the Queen of Palmyra?”
“Her late husband Odenathus left her regent for their son, the young king.
Once the king is married, her obligation is over, and Zenobia will be free to marry me.”
“But if her child is old enough to be king in his own right, then this woman is far too old to bear your children,”
Dagian protested.
“We have a child, Mother.
A daughter.
Her name is Mavia, and she is the Princess of Palmyra.”
“What?!”
Dagian gripped the arms of the chair and leaned forward, her lovely face very white.
“Hear me, Mother, before you speak again.
I had barely arrived in Palmyra when I saw Zenobia and fell in love with her.
Regrettably, she was about to marry Odenathus, who was then Prince of Palmyra.”
“She returned your feelings, though?”
“She didn’t even know, Mother.
She was young, and very innocent, for after her mother’s death her father and her brothers all overprotected her.
You would like her, Mother.
She is very much like you in certain ways.”
Dagian looked like she might cry, but she fought back the emotion that threatened to spill over and asked in a voice that was less than steady, “How is she like me, Marcus?”
“She is stubborn, yet compassionate, intelligent, and kind.
She was a good wife to her husband, and is a good mother to her children.”
“Yet she has borne you a child, Marcus.
A child that you tell me is known as the Princess of Palmyra.
I do not understand.”
“The night that Odenathus was killed, Zenobia collapsed with the shock, and we made love, Mother.
In the morning I was gone and she remembered nothing.
She believed the child to be her husband’s until she saw it, and then she remembered.
We both thought it best that Mavia believe she is Odenathus’s child.
To do otherwise could have compromised the rule of young King Vaballathus, for although the boy is his father’s image, there are those who might say he was not Odenathus’s son.”
Dagian nodded, understanding Zenobia’s protective maternal instincts toward her children.
Marcus spoke again.
“Now I wish to see my father, receive his final blessing, make his passage from this life to the next a happy one, and then return to my beloved in Palmyra.
Zenobia is my very reason for living, Mother, and I ache with the separation from her.”
Dagian was now unable to control herself, and a flood of tears rushed down her face.
“Oh, Marcus, you are my eldest child, and although I would never admit it before even to myself, you are my favorite child.
I want you to be happy, but you cannot marry your Zenobia.
Your father has arranged a match for you.
He so wanted to see you married before he died.
You must not be angry with him!”
Marcus was astounded.
“He arranged a match for me? Has his illness rendered him mad, Mother? I am no boy for him to arrange a wife for me.
I am past forty! Could he not have waited until I got home, and consulted with me on this matter?”
“Marcus, try to understand! He is dying and he wants everything in his life in order before he must make that crossing from here to the Underworld.
His eldest son, a man these many years, remains unmarried.
If you were a lover of boys he would have long since given you up, but you are a real man, and his only immortality.”
“Aulus is married, Mother, and he is also father’s son.
Aulus is the father of several sons.”
“You are Lucius Alexander’s eldest son, Marcus, and he wanted you settled.
He wanted you happy, as he and I have been all these years.
He did not seek to harm you.
Besides, why did you not write to us of your love for Zenobia.
As always, you have been secretive.”
“I could not write to you under the circumstances, Mother.
Surely you must see that Zenobia’s situation is far too politically sensitive, and if such a message had fallen into the wrong hands it might have brought down her government and endangered the empire’s eastern boundaries that she and her late husband protected so well for Rome.
No, it is unfortunate, but this betrothal will have to be broken.”
“It cannot be,”
Dagian almost whispered.
“Cannot?”
His brow darkened with anger.
“What do you mean, ‘cannot,’ Mother?”
“Your father secured a great match for you, Marcus.
You are to be married to the emperor’s niece, Carissa.”
“The match will have to be broken, emperor’s niece or no, Mother.”
“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.