The Golden Dice - A Tale of Ancient Rome (40 page)

And she’d been with women before. Twice that she could remember, at the Winter Feast. Yet even in the divine madness this had only happened amid shadows and bracken far from the bonfires’ glow. There was no exaltation of Fufluns’ promise of regeneration when woman lay with woman, just a quenching of passion that was unnatural and forbidden. Such coupling could be overlooked amid drunkenness, but to always seek it was shocking. Yet Aricia was an innocent. Semni wondered if the maid really comprehended what being a lover meant. “Do you understand what you are saying?”

The nursemaid blushed and bowed her head. “I love you.”

Semni studied the earnest girl who was opening her heart to her. So different to the brooding Phoenician who rammed his emotions down within him. Leaning over, she coiled one black ringlet of Aricia’s hair around her finger. It was sinuous and shiny. “Have you ever lain with a girl?”

Her friend shook her head. “Neither man nor woman.”

“
Then how can you be so sure it is what you want?”

Aricia took Semni’s hand, entwining her fingers through hers. “I just know that when I’m with you I feel safe and cherished.”

It was Semni’s turn to shake her head. She did not want to hurt her. “You are a true friend, Aricia, and I love you for being so.” She stroked the girl’s cheek then brushed her lips against hers.

Aricia drew back, her expression one of disappointment, then her eyes widened as she looked over Semni’s shoulder.

Arruns was standing in the doorway.

Semni did not know what was worse, the hurt in his eyes or the anger and disgust that followed.

She grabbed her crumpled chiton and clutched it in front of her as she stepped from the cot. “Please, Arruns. Let me explain! It’s not what you think!”

The guard rattled out orders. “The mistress’ baby is coming. She has called for you to help her.” He cocked his head towards Aricia. “And
she
is to take the young masters to Lady Ramutha’s.”

Semni tried to take his hand but instead he grasped her wrist, his fingers iron. “Why? Why would you do this?”

Panicked, a sharp pain rose in her chest. “Please believe me, I did nothing.”

“
Nothing?” His eyes raked over her as she stood barely covered by the chiton scrunched against her. “You’re naked! In her bedroom in the middle of the day just like you used to be with those grooms.”

“
My clothes were dirty. I was changing into some of hers!”

He tightened his grip. “You were kissing her.”

She gasped at his strength. “It was of friendship only. Please listen to me.”

“
Let go!” Aricia rushed towards the Phoenician trying to yank his hand from Semni’s wrist. “Why do you care? You don’t want her anyway.”

A look of confusion passed across Arruns’ tattooed face before it settled back into harsh lines. He released Semni, thrusting the girls from him, eyes narrowing. “You both sicken me.”

Semni slid to the floor, leaning her back against the doorjamb and searching for his hand as he stood over her. “Please! She means nothing to me, Arruns,” she sobbed. “I love you.”

He moved out of her reach. “You’re a liar. Now get ready, the mistress needs you.”

He strode away. Semni slowly dragged herself to her feet and dressed. Absorbed in her own misery it took her a moment to realize she was not the only one who was weeping. Aricia lay huddled on her bed, shoulders heaving, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Stricken with guilt, Semni crossed to her, crouching beside her. “I did not mean what I said, Aricia. I was upset.”

The nursemaid glared at her with the same vehemence as Arruns. “Liar,” she hissed, and rolled over to face the wall.

Glossary

Cast

Three menservants were sweeping the threshold and striking it with axe and pestle when Caecilia arrived home from the palace, birth pangs worsening. She murmured a prayer that such precautions would ward off the evil presence of the forest god while she was in labor. It was Juno that she needed near this day. The great mother goddess had not failed to protect her in childbed before.

The midwife had prepared the room for the confinement, the scent of willow bark tea heavy in the air. The sight of sea sponges and olive oil reminded Caecilia of what lay ahead.

Seeing the oak birthing chair with its crescent hole and the embroidered pillow beside it made her nervous. For over a hundred years Mastarna wives had gripped the padded armrests, their backs and buttocks jammed against the swells and hollows of its surface. And for over a hundred years, heirs had been placed upon the bull’s crest cushion after their mothers had borne them.

Caecilia breathed through another contraction. She had been one of those women. She had survived three births. And yet this labor was not like the others. The welling and ebbing of pain seemed endless. Face upwards and stuck in the birth passage, her baby struggled to the light.

Afternoon slipped into sunset, sunset to evening.

Through surges of anguish, Caecilia’s confidence drained. A great fist gripped and released inside her, the periods of respite growing less. Engulfed with pain, the willow bark tea was a feeble shield against her suffering.

Evening merged into darkness, darkness to daybreak.

Cytheris had called the young maid Semni to help with the lying-in. Ramutha was there also. The three women had all borne children. A sisterhood of mothers. They spoke in low voices, encouraging and gentle. They sponged beads of perspiration from Caecilia’s brow and lips, and lodged a goat’s bladder of hot water against the small of her back. Such ministrations brought little comfort. Caecilia shoved her companions’ hands away, wanting to escape her body.

Daybreak edged into midday. Midday to afternoon.

The midwife, a freedwoman with soft fingers and calloused character, bade the three helpers heave Caecilia onto the birthing chair, telling her that she must push or die.

Caecilia smelled the aniseed upon Cytheris’ breath as the maid stood behind her to prevent her from slumping. Ramutha and Semni stood on each side, pressing on her abdomen, urging for her to bear down. Caecilia wondered if her fingers could fasten any tighter on the padded armrests.

“
Remember, push from here.” The midwife gripped the princip’s thighs. “Not from your neck or else blood might burst in your eyes.” Then, with weight on her left knee, the freedwoman knelt and rubbed oil to stretch the skin of the canal around the crown before wrapping her hands with softened papyrus to ensure the blood-slickened heir did not slip from her grasp when the babe finally was coaxed from the womb.

The infant clung fast.

She was shifted back to the bed again.

Afternoon slowed into sunset, sunset to evening.

Caecilia prided herself on her fortitude in labor, how she had always displayed forbearance; no hysterics, moaning only. This time she could not stop screaming. Pleading for it to be over. Her voice grew hoarse from begging Juno not to forsake her. Then, thinking she needed the goddess to see her as a Veientane, she also called the deity Uni, her Rasennan name.

Shivering, she vomited the useless tea until bile was all that remained.

Evening dragged into the late hours. There was only energy to whimper.

She heard voices. Anxious and fretful. None male. None Mastarna’s.

The susurration of worry continued. Caecilia turned onto her side and fixed her eyes upon the leopard painted on the wall. The great cat peered at her from his laurel bower. Vel believed it was Fufluns’ guide to the Beyond. She pulled Cytheris close. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

The maid brushed sodden, matted hair from her mistress’ forehead. “No, my lady, you are too stubborn.”

Caecilia trembled. Death was coming without her seeing her husband. She would never hold her sons again.

At midnight, Cytheris and Semni helped Caecilia onto her hands and knees. Then, slinging a shawl beneath her belly, they bore her weight between them. And the midwife, thrusting her left hand into Caecilia’s womb as she would some farm animal, finally delivered the trapped child.

Caecilia welcomed the familiar burn and release. Rolling over, she saw the midwife, apron bloodied, slap the infant.

There was a cry, piercing and indignant. Battle-stained, Mastarna’s daughter had finished her fight to break free.

Glossary

Cast

A messenger, face red, brushed past Pinna, scurrying away like a camp mongrel that had been kicked.

She lifted the flap to the command tent. The sun had set but the temperature was oppressive inside. Camillus, a sheen of sweat upon his face and arms, was leaning over his table, one hand pressed to his brow, the other stabbing a knife into the wood. Dozens of marks scored the surface.

She knew to keep her voice calm in such moments. “My lord, you called for me?”

His eyes were soft with pain. “Yes. Vulcan is using the inside of my head as a forge, and my neck is stiff again. Come and rub it.”

Pinna put down her basket and stood behind him. His muscles were tight, the joints fused. It would take much effort to loosen them.

Camillus continued to stab at the table. Reaching over, she placed her hand over his to stop him. “This is not helping.”

He hesitated, then laid the weapon down. “You are right.”

Curious as to why he’d scared the envoy, she ventured to question him. “My lord, perhaps it would help if you told me what is troubling you. It is better than brooding.”

When he did not respond she realized she had overstepped the boundary. She concentrated on massaging him, spreading a little more balsam oil over his shoulders. She always liked to use it. For a short time it softened hands that were chore-roughened.

Camillus finally broke his silence. “The drought continues and now a plague has broken out in Rome.”

“
Is that why the messenger was here? Did he bring word of Marcus Aemilius? Is the sickness why he has not returned?”

Camillus swung around. “Do not fret, Pinna. It was Marcus who sent the herald. He and Drusus have retreated to the country to escape the plague. The wealthy are staying in their villas. Politicians and senators are breathing in fresh, not fetid, air.”

Pinna knew what horrors the pestilence brought. She had survived one outbreak when she was a night moth. The sight of dead paupers heaped on wagons as they were carted to the burial pits outside the Esquiline remained with her. The air had been thick with ash from the funeral pyres of the rich and the stink of decaying corpses waiting to be fed into the flames. With the fear of contagion no customers sought satisfaction amid the graves either. And, although desperate for money, she and Fusca dared not seek work as hired mourners. Even the families of the deceased did not visit the tombs. They were either too sick themselves or fearful of anointing bodies covered with pus-filled sores. Yet Fortuna had spared Pinna and her mother. As always the blindfolded goddess had played a game: those she touched succumbing; those who could sidestep her surviving. Pinna had prayed to Mater Matuta for protection every day, adding a bell to both fascinum and shell to ward off evil.

Yet why had the news of plague made Camillus irate instead of sorrowing? She eased her fingers through his hair, massaging the scalp. He sighed at such comfort.

“
Something else is worrying you, isn’t it, my lord?”

He turned around. “Ah, little citizen, as always you sense more than others. The envoy brought only tales of concern or woes. There has been a prodigy. Lake Albanus has risen to the tops of the peaks around it despite the drought and its crater only being fed by springs. All who see it say it is a prodigy—but one that favors the Latin nation yet bodes ill for Rome.”

Pinna shivered and fingered her amulets. It was indeed a powerful omen. Her ancestors had once lived beside the lake’s shores. She imagined how the Latin people must be marveling at the abundance of water while Romans must witness rivers trickling in hollow channels. “Do you really think it is because the gods are displeased with our people?”