Chapter Text
Marcus had spent the last couple of years waiting for the promise that had been made him.
The promise was made by an old woman one night, in Jerusalem, as Marcus was toasted and celebrated by officers of the Tenth Fretensis, after his promotion to Centurion was announced.
The old woman, dressed in rags, had walked into the tavern and made her way around the room asking the patrons if any wished to know what their future held? Some of the men had pushed her away as she neared them, others had heard her predictions and then pushed her away.
But one of the officers at Marcus’ table had called her over. “Let us see what the Fates have in store for you, my friend.”
“Do not tell me you believe in the lies this old thief has to tell Caius?” Lucius Valerius Remus, Primus Pilus of the Second Cohort, chided his friend and superior.
“Yes, I most certainly do, Lucius. This old woman predicted, not only my rise to Tribunus laticlavius, after the revolt, but she predicted my daughter Caia’s first child would be a son, and her second would die at birth.” Caius Marcellus Otho replied.
The old woman approached and smiled at Caius Marcellus, recognizing him immediately. “How may I serve you, sir?” She offered humbly.
“Majdalin, tell my young friend, Marcus, here, his future.” The old woman drew close to Marcus and extended her hand in an invitation for him to place his own hand, palm side up, in hers.
Marcus laughed and shook his head. “Save your money, sir… I am not a believer in these self-professed soothsayers.”
“Do not judge her until you have heard what she has to say, my young friend.”
The old woman took Marcus’ hand, turned it palm side up, and began to read past the lines and callouses. She hmmm’ed took his left hand and searched it in the same way; then she went back to his right hand and began to speak.
“You carry a great sadness… a great sadness.” Marcus looked up from his hand and smirked at Caius Marcellus. “There is something lost to you, sir... You are alone in the world, yes?” An annoyed Marcus nodded once as though the woman’s words held little importance to him.
“A great triumph awaits you… something that will mark you above all other men… honor and glory shall be yours and your name shall bear great weight.” Suddenly the old woman’s words caught Marcus’ attention and he asked what she meant by this “great triumph.”
“The gods do not show me that, sir. The deed is beyond the mist… it is hidden from my sight….I cannot see everything, but I do see a golden emblem… an eagle, yes… a golden eagle is perched above your head and that signifies glory and wealth.”
Lucius Valerius began to laugh, “Glory and wealth, eh? Then I best keep myself in your good graces, Marcus.”
“But… I also see great suffering… pain…another loss, but an even greater loss than the one I see now.” At this Marcus’ brow furroughed and his body tensed. Noting his reaction, the old woman tapped the top part of his hand and reassured him with a smile.
“This suffering will last only a short while for great happiness will take its place.” This time the old woman offered Marcus a wide smile and Marcus returned with a cordial one of his own.
“And love… I see love…. a great love.”
“Aha!”
“Be quiet, Lucius.” The Tribunus laticlavius ordered. “…I am certain Marcus wishes to hear this more than anything else that has been said to him.”
“The stars aligned at the moment of your birth and hers. Your gods, knowing the suffering you both would have to endure in your lives, granted you the mercy of reuniting your souls… your other half, if you will.”
“And how will he know her from all the others?” Lucius Valerius blurted out.
“He will know. His soul will cry out to its other half, over joyed that they are finally one, his heart will understand…. look for the woman with fair hair, pale skin, and eyes the color of water…when your heart begins to lose its timely rhythm, you will know you are in the presence of your other half.”
“Perhaps that is the reason your petition to be stationed in Britannia was so overwhelmingly approved; divine intervention, if you will.” Asserted Caius Marcellus.
Marcus shook his head vehemently, “I would as soon want a Briton to be my other half, as I would a German, or an Egyptian.”
“Besides, Caius…” Lucius interrupted. “… you seem to forget women of fair hair and pale skin are also to be found in Rome; descendants of the Gauls of course, but still, Romans now.”
Caius Marcellus Otho thanked the old woman and placed a few coins in her hand.
The woman turned to leave, but stopped suddenly and turned back to Marcus. “You and I will see each other again one day, after these things have come to pass, and you will remember this night and you will tell me my words were prophetic… until then, sir, may your gods protect you.” And off she went into the night.
Marcus replayed the old woman’s words over and over again in his mind that night. Inwardly he hoped the old woman was right; that all the honor and glory she’d spoken of, would someday be his.
And… yes… that that great love she’d promised would be his, would be his.
But… despite knowing what to look for, if the old woman’s words were indeed prophetic, where would he find that other half his soul longed so desperately for? Perhaps he was only meant to know it was on its way, not where it would happen, or how.
A little more than one year later, lying on his bed, while convalescing at his uncle’s villa in Calleva, after having suffered the injury that put an end to his military career, Marcus remembered the old woman’s words and began to laugh; bitterly with unrestrained anger.
“A great triumph! Honor and glory… my ass! I should have listened to Lucius!” Marcus was surprised neither his uncle, nor Stephanos, had already come to the room to inquire about the yelling Marcus was doing. “Why would the gods grant me honor and glory? The son of a coward! Mithras permit I do see you again, you evil old thief, so that I may spit in your face!”
Now, it wasn’t that Uncle Aquila or Stephanos hadn’t heard the anger spewing from Marcus’ room; both were certain even the stable boys outside the house had heard, but neither thought it their business to interfere with Marcus’ outburst.
“Let him be, Stephanos.” Uncle Aquila had ordered his old body slave when the Greek had made a move toward Marcus’ room. “Let him unburden his grief. It will be better that he does rather than keeping it to himself.”
A few evenings later, as Marcus and Uncle Aquila sat in the veranda, playing a game of latrunculi, Marcus finally shared the old woman’s predictions with the older man.
“My boy,” Uncle Aquila chuckled, “if I had a sesterce for every soothsayer who has tried to pull the wool over my eyes while at a tavern, I would be a very wealthy man indeed.”
Marcus gave his uncle a side smile in return, “I suppose I was influenced by the Tribunus laticlavius’ words that the old woman had predicted a son for his daughter followed by the death of her next child.”
Old Aquila nodded. “I understand that, my boy, but it may have been just a very fortunate guess on the part of the old woman … I doubt her prediction would have been so precise a third time around, as was proven in your case. Either way, I would not pay it too much mind. Every one of us wants to believe the words of seers and soothsayers, Marcus, and we forget they are mortals, no different than you and me, not gods. Only the gods can know for certain what the Fates hold in store for us, my boy.”
Later that same evening, the former magistrate invited his nephew to the Saturnalia games that were to be held the following morning at the arena in Calleva.
“We will have to leave shortly after sunrise, my boy. It is a long way to town from here and if we wish to assure ourselves excellent seats, the earlier we get there, the better.”
A melancholy Marcus nodded and made his way to his bed chamber.
The former centurion spent the night having feverish dreams about his father and the lost eagle, until shortly before sunrise when another dream took a different turn; a dream like no dream Marcus had ever dreamed before.
Marcus was hidden from sight of the warriors chasing his fleeing father further into the woods, and he was about to run behind them, when one of the warriors, a small lithe figure, stopped and turned to face Marcus. Marcus couldn’t see the face for the figure was back-lit causing a shadow to hide the features. Marcus could see the fairness of the hair, made more golden by the light of the sun, but that was all; everything else was in shadow, but there was something about the figure that made Marcus’ heart skip a beat.
Marcus awakened and found himself trying to force himself back to sleep if only to see the figure once more, but the sleep he so desperately wished for eluded him, and soon Uncle Aquila was at his door.
“Marcus! Marcus, my boy... we will be leaving soon.”