Pilate's Wife: A Novel of the Roman Empire (13 page)

Two black-robed battalions provided an escort, their axes and rods carried reversed, their standards undecorated. Company commanders took turns bearing the ashes while poor Agrippina walked all the way, dry-eyed, white-faced, without a word to anyone. Oh, Claudia, if only you could have seen it. At each successive settlement mourners, some villagers from hundreds of miles away, joined the procession. Shoulder to shoulder with knights in purple striped tunics, they erected funeral altars and offered sacrifices for their dead hero's soul. I thought my heart would break.

A few days later a quick note arrived from Terracina, where Nero and Drusus, who had been serving with their units, joined their mother, along with Germanicus's brother, Claudius. The emperor and Livia were conspicuously absent. "What is going on here?" Mother asked. "Do they consider mourning beneath their dignity, or do they fear that the public gaze would detect insincerity in their faces? I am frightened for Agrippina, frightened for us all."

Anxious to discuss this new development with Pilate, I pulled myself from the couch. Turning, I saw a red blotch where I had been lying and was suddenly, sickly aware of a sticky dampness between my legs. I screamed for Rachel, who in turn dispatched another slave to flee in search of Petronius.

Lying on the couch with my feet elevated, the wait seemed an eternity. Where was that doctor? Why didn't he come? Petronius's manner, when he finally arrived was hearty, falsely so, I thought. "The bleeding has stopped. There is nothing to worry about," he insisted.

Petronius handed Rachel a pouch of crushed poppy seeds. "This will calm the
domina.
Mix it with milk and honey," he directed her. "Most important, the lady Claudia must remain in bed."

His smiling manner did nothing to allay my fears. I dispatched Rachel immediately to the Iseneum with a note begging the mystagogue for a potion. "Dear Isis, please do not desert me now," I prayed again and again and again.

D
URING THE FOLLOWING TWO WEEKS
I
NEVER LEFT MY BED
. S
OMETIMES
Pilate ate his meals with me but more often business took him elsewhere. The sense of loneliness and loss was scarcely bearable. Finally one rainy morning our chief house slave returned panting from the wharf. He had run all the way. Arms trembling with weakness, I pulled myself up, hands trembling as I unrolled a scroll bearing the royal seal. The handwriting brought a lump to my throat. "We are in Rome at last, surrounded by friends. Each has a story to tell, all so sad." I struggled to make out the rest. Tears had washed out portions of Agrippina's bold script. My own eyes stung as I pieced together the account of what followed the eventual confirmation of Germanicus's death: "Altars destroyed...newly born children unacknowledged...December upon us...Saturnalia...no heart to celebrate." At the end she wrote, "It is as though each family mourns a beloved patriarch."

A letter from Father described the final desolate dawn when Germanicus's ashes were taken to the Mausoleum of Augustus. Streets were full, Mars Field ablaze with torches. Despite the closely packed bodies, silence hung like a pall over the throng. "It was a mockery," he wrote. "Not only was the emperor absent, but he had made no state preparations. No family masks were carried, no effigy of Germanicus. No one spoke from the Oration Platform, no state funeral hymns were sung. People from all walks of life, soldiers in uniform, patricians, freedmen, officials, and slaves drew together in common sorrow and outrage.

"Nothing and no one can restore Germanicus to his friends and country,"
Tata
concluded. "Just last evening I overheard an old shopkeeper muttering as he fastened down his door, 'It is as though one heard that the sun would never shine again.'"

My eyes closed wearily as I lay back against the satin cushions of my couch. The scroll slipped from my grasp; I was too tired to retrieve it. The unknown merchant's sentiments were easy to understand. The agonizing cramping that had wracked my body was over, the bleeding that had nearly cost my life had ceased, but the son longed for with such hope and expectation was lost forever. I had miscarried.

N
o one, least of all Pilate, understood. "You were only five months along," he reminded me.

Even Rachel suggested, "You can have another child."

Pilate was eager to get on with that, but Petronius advised against it. "There is no reason you cannot have a fine family, but give Claudia some time. You would be wise to wait six months."

Unready to conceive another baby while my arms still ached for the lost one, I felt grateful. Pilate might say it was not yet a person, but to me the lost infant was the product of our early passion. No other child could be
that
child. Why had Isis forsaken me? Days and nights passed like black oxen. Locked within myself, I sat silent and alone. What was there to say? Who would I say it to? Even Hecate, my cat, deserted me. I roused myself to wander the house, calling her name. There was no answer.

Matters of state claimed Pilate with increasing frequency. I spent my evenings in the moon-watching pavilion, a marble
nymphaneum
that I had commissioned as a diversion shortly after my parents' departure. The small circular building with its partially open ceiling was supported by six fluted columns, a small, gently splashing fountain at the base of each. Chandeliers suspended from the colonnade ceiling illuminated the garden; and beyond, the delicate amber glow of small bronze lamps lit winding pathways that descended to the river. The previous autumn I had conferred closely with the best gardener in Antioch, taking into account both the color of the blossoms and the perfume combinations I wanted to achieve. Now, with the coming of spring, I saw those plans taking shape.

One balmy night as I lay musing on my cushioned couch, Hecate appeared beside me. In her mouth was a tiny striped kitten. She deposited the mewling ball of fur at my feet. Within minutes a family of three was presented for inspection. Rebirth, renewal...Wasn't spring the time for it? I gently stroked a fluffy yellow kitten that resembled its ebony mother not at all. "Is your new love a lion?" I asked Hecate. She glanced at me sideways, green eyes glinting proudly.

The following day I ordered immediate construction of an outdoor pool. At its center would be a marble statue by Pilate's favorite sculptor, Marius. It was he who had captured Marcella's essence so perfectly and had also, rather amazingly, combined my father-in-law's face with the body of Apollo. This time his subject was Venus rising from her oyster shell, a reminder to the world, and most particularly to Pilate, that my ancestral line was said to descend from the love goddess herself. I planned a special dinner for him, a surprise and celebration. I would ignore Petronius's warnings. More than three months had passed since the stillbirth; surely that was long enough.

I made certain that all Pilate's favorite dishes were served. A trio of lute players performed as we dined, then followed us out to the garden. The new pool and statue had been covered during construction. Now at last the unveiling. I looked up at Pilate expectantly as slaves pulled back the white sheets. The marble statue shone in the moonlight.

"Very beautiful, Claudia. You must plan a party here."

"I have planned one...for tonight." I nodded toward Psyche, who approached us with a silver tray, bearing two brimming wineglasses. The lute players, joined now by a flutist, broke into a new selection, soft but lilting.

"Sorry, Claudia, very sorry. I have an engagement with Sentius."

"Must you go?"

"I'm afraid so. Possible trouble brewing on the Parthian border. We have much to discuss. I am sorry." He kissed me lightly on the forehead. "We will celebrate another night."

My eyes stung with sudden tears. How foolish of me. "Of course," I agreed, looking away.

"P
ERHAPS IT'S TIME YOU ORDERED NEW GOWNS
," R
ACHEL SUGGESTED
on the fourth night that she and I played board games together in my sleeping room.

"Perhaps so..."

We set out by litter the following day. "What a city!" I exclaimed, pulling back the curtains to admire flowering trees dappled with sunlight. Antioch, with its wide streets and perfumed crowds, was extraordinarily well favored by both climate and location. Small wonder its citizens were said to be the most luxury loving in the world, living for little but self-indulgence. For the first time in months I felt lighthearted, aware suddenly of my good fortune to be who and where I was. Isis was with me again--I felt her.

I easily found the fabrics I wanted: violet linen for a gown, silken gauze the shade of smoke for a
palla,
rich satin the color of garnets for new couch cushions. I selected a scroll of exquisitely illustrated erotic poetry and savored the thought of unrolling it with Pilate. The cover was rich maroon, his favorite. I bought pretty new tunics for Rachel and a moonstone collar for Hecate. I found peacocks for the garden and exotic fish and lilies for the new pool. I could scarcely wait until evening when slaves would deliver them.

"How long has it been since you visited the baths?" Rachel asked.

"Far too long," I admitted. "It has been ages since I've seen anyone. I don't even know who they're talking about these days."

T
HOUGH ALL THE WOMEN
I
KNEW HAD BATHS IN THEIR HOMES, MOST
regarded the public ones, particularly the fashionable Daphaneum, as a kind of social club. Here they gathered to see and be seen while bathing and being massaged. If the latest gossip was not entertainment enough, singers, dancers, and poets enlivened the afternoons.

In the Daphaneum's frescoed anteroom, Rachel and I separated, she going off to join other slaves in a small pool of their own. An attendant led me to a private cubicle where another woman stood waiting to undress me. How many bodies had she seen? I wondered as the slave deftly removed my
chiton
and
palla
. Face impassive, she raised a silver ewer and poured water over my shoulders, then seated me beside a large marble basin. Another slave joined us and the two of them lathered me with fragrant soap, then briskly pumiced my body. The thought of being prepared for Pilate made a pleasant sensation even more so. The misunderstandings and sadness that had somehow divided us were being washed away. Pilate would find me pleasing to the touch.

My mind drifted languorously, recalling his smooth, hard body. I thought with longing of the early days of our marriage and assured myself it could be like that again. It
would
be like that again. The sound of laughter coming from the cubicle next to mine intruded on my reverie. I thought one voice familiar, but couldn't identify it.

"I
NEVER DID UNDERSTAND WHAT HE SAW IN HER," THE WOMAN WAS
saying. "It's not as though she is beautiful."

"Be fair, she has good bones and those big eyes," the other woman argued.

"Cheekbones aren't everything. As for her eyes, I don't find them at all attractive. She looks lost most of the time or off in another world."

"Some men like that. He must have once--enough to marry her."

"Did. He
did
like that," the first speaker emphasized. "I wonder if she knows yet?"

"Not likely. I am sure they are discreet. Can you imagine if anyone found out! Marcia's the new governor's wife."

The voices tantalized me. Who were they? And who was the unfortunate wife? I pitied anyone with the glamorous Marcia Sentius for a rival. I was tempted to get up and look out. Only a voluptuous lethargy stayed me. The voices faded as the women moved on to the
frigidarium
for a cool plunge.

A few minutes later, a slave wrapped me in a sheet of cool Egyptian linen. Stepping into the thick-soled sandals she had brought to protect my feet from the heated floor, I followed her to the
tepidarium
. Light streamed through the mist from perforations in the central dome supported by large Corinthian columns and green marble arches that shone like jade. Some twenty women splashed and played in the great green pool. More lounged about the sides, sipping wine while slaves dressed their hair or rubbed their bodies with perfumed oils. Across the pool, two women lay on their backs while slaves applied gold paint to their toenails. The effect was stunning, even if it did last only a day.

Now I realized why one voice had sounded familiar. The woman was Sabina Maximus. I had heard that simpering giggle often enough when I watched her with Pilate at the races. How long ago that seemed, yet scarcely a year had passed.

Just then Sabina and her confidante looked up, startled by the sight of me. I caught the amused smile that passed between them and wanted to die.

But of course I did not. Somehow I found myself smiling, waving in response to their effusive greetings. I signaled to a poetess waiting nearby to read to me, then sank down on a marble slab, eyes closed, pretending to listen. A masseuse's hands moved expertly over my body. "
Domima
is very tense," she murmured. "Relax...relax." Relax? My heart was pounding like a wild creature in a trap. "Is
domina
all right?" the masseuse asked "I am fine," I assured her, "just fine." I might make it through the next hour if only Sabina and her friend didn't come over to my side of the pool, if only I didn't have to talk to them.

It was not to be. In minutes the two had sauntered around the large pool and settled themselves at my side. Sabina, full of kisses and compliments, hugged me profusely, then introduced me to her eager friend. "I have heard so much about you!" the woman enthused.
I knew she had.

The poetess stood silently waiting for instructions. I tossed her a gold coin. "Thank you. Perhaps later." I smiled apologetically. In an instant she was gone. How I longed to follow. The next two hours seemed interminable. A virtual prisoner under the masseuse's practiced fingers, I tried to remain calm. When Sabina and her friend asked pointed questions about Pilate, I chatted brightly, describing his generosity and devotion. I was determined to give them no further cause to pity me, yet even as I laughed and sparkled, another part of my mind, at first numbed by shock, slowly came alive.

Pilate was the core of my existence. How could I mean so little to him? I forced myself to consider: Absorbed in my own pain, had I carelessly opened the door to a rival? Marcia Sentius would be the sort to take advantage of such a situation. A chill settled over me as I thought of the worldly, sophisticated Marcia, a woman as beautiful as she was rapacious. How could I possibly compete with her? I couldn't.
I must
.

"S
O, YOU HAVE RETURNED TO THE
I
SENEUM AT LAST
." T
HE MYSTAGOGUE'S
olive eyes, luminous and almond-shaped, regarded me reflectively. Shafts of late afternoon sun sparkled on the anteroom's brilliant frescoes and exquisitely wrought mosaic floors. Everywhere I looked I saw the trials of Isis recreated by the finest artisans in the land. Their masterworks displayed the adventures of a divine being who had experienced every tragedy a wife might imagine, yet Isis had not only survived but triumphed. Surely I had come to the right place.

"I've been ill," I explained to the holy man. "Actually, this is my first day out of the house."

"And to think you came directly to us! Your devotion to the goddess is touching."

I felt myself flushing. "Not only that."

"Then tell me what you are seeking."

I looked directly into the mystagogue's eyes. "My baby died, despite your potions, despite my prayers to Isis."

"I was saddened to hear of it, but one should never question the goddess's wisdom..."

"Must I lose Pilate as well? I won him with your spell. Now give me something stronger. He must be mine forever."

The mystagogue shook his head silently.

"I don't believe you!" I exclaimed. "The spell you gave me before worked perfectly. The match was against all odds, my own mother said as much. Pilate might have had the wealthiest woman in Antioch, but chose me. For a time he loved me. I
know
he loved me. Now I need something stronger than words. Rachel says that you have other things--charms..."

"Such things are not for you," the holy man told me. "They bind the one who uses them far more than the recipient."

"What difference does that make? I am already bound. I love my husband, but being his wife means nothing if his interests are with someone else."

"His interests now, perhaps. But he will return, I assure you. He will always return."

"That's not enough! I want him to love me as I love him."

The mystagogue raised a silky eyebrow. "'Love' him? Is that what you call it?"

"Of course that's what I call it. I adore him and want his love in return. Is that too much to ask?"

The mystagogue inclined his small, well-chiseled head, regarding me speculatively. "Love means many things. Your definition and that of your husband may be quite different. Tell me, instead, of your meditation. Once you were faithful. Do you no longer seek to attune yourself to the goddess?"

"For a time I did, but after I lost my child, the sadness was so intense--Why should I? Isis has forsaken me!"

He said nothing, merely watched me with his strange dark eyes.

With an effort, I lowered my voice. "Lately I've taken to going to a shrine I built in my garden. I hoped to regain what I once had. I will try, I
want
to try," I assured him, "but for now--please--surely you can help me." I looked up, pleading.

The mystagogue shook his head wearily. "What you ask is not only foolish but dangerous. You must learn that for yourself."

I relaxed, realizing that I had won the first battle.

"It will cost you," he warned me.