Domina Victrix

Chapter 9: 21 AD, Mauretania and Syria

Juba stood on a dock in the busy port of Caesarensis, Mauretania, looking around at absolute chaos as troop transports and supply ships were loaded for the trip to Syria. He knew that similar scenes were taking place at Massalia in Gaul, New Carthage in Spain, Carthage itself and even Alexandria, where Egyptian charioteers had been recruited.

"Nobody fights with chariots now," Juba said.

"The Parthians will and thank the gods Egypt still has them," Ptolemy said.

A courier handed Juba two letters and he recognized on one seal an imprint depicting Nike, the Greek goddess of Victory. The other showed Bacchus. He and Ptolemy left the docks and returned to the palace. Juba went to Selene's reading room, knowing he would only have a few more days to see it before leaving, possibly forever. He opened Victoria's letter, noticing it was written all in Numidian, and no mistakes.

...Uncle Lucius and Principal Cornelius tied the archery competition this year, so I was second and Bolt was third. We had the banquet and it was extra special. Mother and Father have been marrried for twenty years. We go out to the country soon. Five foals will be born. Charon is father to three of them. I get to keep at least one filly. I cannot wait for you to see the new wing at the museum. We dedicated it to Great-Grandfather and Germanicus...

Juba drew in a breath, wondering what Tiberius would think of a museum facility celebrating both Mark Antony and Germanicus. He opened his aunt Antonia's letter.

...Claudius wants to go forward with publishing his History and has sent a copy to the August One, with another request for permission. I, for one, have told him he needs to edit my father's part in it. But he is yet another bullheaded Antony and refuses to change anything. The boys are doing well. They remind me not only of Germanicus, but of you and Ptolemy. May the Gods prosper you in Syria where I know your bride awaits. I am so pleased she is getting you. My son would only have used her or broken her heart...

Juba reread the last sentence, remembering his childhood with Drusus and Germanicus. They had both been taught that they were descended of the gods, heirs to imperial destiny, and could do no wrong. It was a heady mix of hubris and entitlement and he had no doubt that, over time, Germanicus would have tried his way with Victoria. He read over her letter again, realizing she had no idea how close she had come to ruin. He found a tablet and stylus.

...My Little Victory, I am coming soon and cannot wait to make you mine. I pray you stay always as innocent as you are. Please be careful and alert to what goes on around you. We have so many things to talk about in person...

....

Old Marcus drew rein at the gate to the Antony estate on the Orontes River. He and Bolt had ridden out from Antioch to open the house ahead of the rest of the family. It was sundown but he could see that the gate was wide open and several horses had ridden through the area recently. He could hear the dogs barking in the kennels. He and Bolt rode up the gravel path to the house. The front door was open and there were no lights on inside. They dismounted in the yard and looked through the door into the house.

"Kronos! Arrus!" the Old Man called out.

Neither the estate steward nor the senior houseman replied. No one came to the door. The Old Man and Bolt stepped into the vestibule. A marble table with an assortment of Greek vases should have been there. The vases were gone, shattered on the floor at their feet. In the dim glow from the skylight, they could see that the furniture had been disarranged and the cushions torn and thrown about.

"Where are the lights?" Old Marcus snapped.

"They're all out," Bolt said as he looked into the dining area. Someone had used the wood from the table to build a fire on the marble floor. It had gone out without catching the ripped draperies that trailed from the ceiling. Old Marcus felt his way along the colonade of the courtyard to the kitchen, calling out the names of servants. No one answered. He came into the kitchen and lit a lamp from the coals of a fire. He handed that lamp to Bolt and found another, shining it around the room.

"Where in Hades is everyone?"

The light caught a rack on the kitchen wall. Several knives were missing. He reached for a poker to stir up the fire but that, too, was gone. He retraced his steps to his room with Bolt following, stopping to light a lamp in the corrider. Bolt gasped and pointed in the shadows. Kronos, the estate steward, lay crumpled against the wall, his throat slit.

"What's happening?" Bolt whispered.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think it's an uprising," the Old Man said.

He went back outside to his saddlebag and found his balteus or service belt with his pugio or dagger in its scabbard, and told Bolt to get his own dagger. As the Old Man tried to collect his wits he heard a shuddering scream coming from the paddock by the stables.

"That's Charon," Bolt said.

They hurried along the outside colonnade and through a busted garden gate as Charon screamed again, echoed by two other stallions. Both the Old Man and Bolt ran toward the stables, seeing Charon standing by the outer fence, the hay barn alight behind him. The big, dusty-black desert stallion was Lucius' prized parade mount and the leader of the Antony stud. He was always the first to sense danger. Both horses and humans looked to him as a bellwether for the mood of the stables. He should have been in his stall but somehow he had found his way out, jumped over the gate and into the paddock, crying for help. He galloped toward them as Old Marcus opened the gate to the paddock. Charon skidded to a stop a few paces away, plunged into the air and called out again, his scream turning to a moan.

"We know, boy," Old Marcus said.

He and Bolt raced down the rows of stalls, throwing open the gates. Two of Victoria's mares and one of Fortuna's, their big bellies swinging, lumbered into the paddock, followed by several other mares and yearlings. Most of the mature geldings were nowhere to be found. Old Marcus saw that the gate to Charon's stall had been opened, which is how he had gotten out. The Old Man ran to release the other stallions while Bolt threw open the gates from the main paddock to the south pasture. The horses streamed to safety, clustering together as flames engulfed the stables. Stallions, yearlings and pregnant mares did not often mix, but there was no other way to keep them all safe than to get them into the open.

Bolt pointed out another body, that of one of the stablehands. He and his grandfather then raced to the kennels and let General Marcus' Molossa wardogs into the larger run. They could not put the fires out without help, but at least most of the animals were accounted for, including several barn cats who clustered near a table in the yard, yowling in fright.

"We have to get back to Antioch," Old Marcus said.

As they galloped out of the front yard and down the trail from the house, Old Marcus looked across the river, seeing a building on the Gallinus family's land also alight. His father had been ten years old when Spartacus and several other gladiators started the last servile insurrection on the Italian Peninsula. Mark Antony had shared those memories with his son many times. It had taken two years, eight legions, untold numbers of auxillia and militia, thousands of lives, and hundreds of thousands of sestercii of property damage before the uprising was quelled.

"May the gods have mercy!" Old Marcus shouted into the wind.

...

Juba stood on the deck of his flagship as it weighed anchor to begin a circuit of the Mediterranean. The first stop would be Carthage, then Alexandria before heading to Seleucia, Antioch's harbor. It would be weeks before they arrived at their final destination.

Juba strained his eyes as the ship moved away from the docks, wanting to take in his final sights of home for as long as possible. The last time he had been on a ship leaving Mauretania, he was eight and Ptolemy was ten. They were heading to Rome to be educated while living with their aunt, Antonia, before transferring to Tiberius' household. Now Juba was thirty and wondering when he would see home again. Syria and Parthia were a long ways away.