Artos raked together live coals in a fire pit and set down two camp stoves and hooks for pots. He began making a dough for cakes. An orderly carved up chunks of deer meat for stew. As the meat boiled and cakes baked, Junior and the orderly chopped carrots, parsnips, turnips, radishes, celery, and onions. With the investiture just a day away, Appius treated his family and guests to a small hunting trip. Artos was willing to hunt for food, but it was not his idea of fun, especially now that he had a month-old son that he would rather be home getting to know. While the others scoured the woods, he remained in camp to oversee the cooking. Beaky, too, returned early. Lepida had given birth to their fourth child, a little girl, a few days ago, and he would rather be back in Lugdunum.
"Old times," he said.
"We're missing a few," Artos said. "I can't cook like Victory."
"Nobody can," Beaky said.
"Bolt wrote to me," Artos said. "Drusus had to go home."
Beaky pursed his lips. This was news to him.
"So I guess that isn't a good thing," Artos said.
"It damn sure isn't," Beaky said.
...
Eight-year-old Marcellus whooped at the waves lapping the sand by the Sea of Galilee. He had been to the beaches near Seleucia in Syria and around Caesarea, but the small boat mooring and waterfront near the Messalas' vacation home in Tiberias was the most fun. He led the troop of boys chasing the water through the sand as Bolt watched.
"Abba, I want to swim," Marcellus said.
"As soon as Centurion Cornelius gets here, you will," Bolt said.
He would have loved to challenge this inland sea but waterlogged, muddy bandages under leather braces was not workable. Cornelius came and Marcellus challenged him. Marcellus held a soft spot in Cornelius' heart, as much as Bolt did. Watching the young boy growing up was like seeing his friend's childhood. They made their way into the water and Marcellus launched himself. He took on the waves with bold strokes. Cornelius joined him, treading water as the boy swam. Choppy seas bothered him not at all. He kept stroking.
"Not too far," Cornelius said.
They made laps until Bolt called them ashore. As they walked back to the house, Eleni met them.
"Micah collapsed about an hour ago," she said.
"With what?" Bolt said.
"A stroke or a seizure of some kind," she said. "He was sweeping your room, collapsed, and cracked his head on the tile. We can't revive him. Marcus, I think he's dying."
Bolt gasped.
"Oh, no he's not!"
He hurried to Micah's room off his own bedchamber. Micah was Leah's son, born on the Antony estate. He was Lucius' nephew, and by extension, cousin to Bolt and Victoria. Now he lay barely breathing, already looking like a corpse on a bier. Bolt wracked his brain for ideas on what to do.
"I've sent a message to Victoria," Eleni said.
"Is there a local doctor?" Bolt asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine."
"They say that Yeshua has raised people from the dead," Bolt said.
"We're Romans," she said. "And that man sounds like a quack to me."
"Micah is Jewish. And I'm willing to try anything."
He knew that Yeshua had recently been seen in or around Capernaum, twenty miles up the coast. The leaders of the local synagogue would know how to track him down. Bolt wrote a letter and sent it by civillian courier. Then he went back to Micah's bedside.
YOU ARE READING
Domina Victrix
Historical FictionDescendants of Triumvir Mark Antony through his little-known first wife, young cousins, Victoria and Marcus, have always known they were heirs to a mixed-blessing heritage. Roman men were expected to brutally dominate their families and the world a...
