Bastian (11 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Amber

BOOK: Bastian
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“
Rico
annoys him. And not as much as you think. He seemed fond of you.”
Silvia brushed off her comment. “Even if he did wish me to join you in his bed on a permanent basis once I'm female again—and that's a very large ‘if'—it would only bring Pontifex's wrath down upon his family.”
“
If
he found out.”
“He has spies everywhere. Spies that have already alerted him to the fact that you're a little too closely involved with the Satyr clan here in Rome.”
Michaela gasped.
“He seemed to accept it,” Silvia assured her. “He has other things on his mind. The stones. But we must tread carefully for now and avoid doing anything that might push him over the edge.”
“We promised only three decades of service to Vesta,” Michaela said grimly, walking faster as her irritation increased. “Pontifex made sure our service extended well beyond that time. He broke the initial agreement. It's only fair that we break our vows.”
“My vows are to Vesta, not to Pontifex,” said Silvia.
“Honestly, Via.” Michaela twirled her parasol, eyeing her in a calculating way. “Exactly how long do you plan to remain a virgin?”
“Exactly? Hmm.” She tossed the stick again for Sal, pretending to consider. “What do you want me to say, Michaela? Would you have me promise that the moment I locate the stones, I will beg the nearest male to divest me of my hymen?”
“We've been searching for the stones for hundreds of years. When will they be found? After another century has passed? Another century in which your life is barren of a man's love? When Bastian and I are dead and gone and it will be too late. Share my happiness now, while you can.” She took one of Silvia's hands in her own gloved ones.
Silvia squeezed her pristine, gloved fingers, seeing how she dirtied them with her own grubby ones. Although she bathed each morning in a fountain, a day in the Forum left her dusty again. Afraid she might acquiesce, and even more afraid that her agreement might soil Michaela's happiness in the same way her fingers had soiled her gloves, she pulled back.
“I'm determined, Silvia. I want a life with him. And with you. A real one, not our eternal damned nothingness. When you've finished your work, come back to me. I can never be truly happy knowing you're out there in the worlds alone. Promise me you'll consider it.”
“I'll consider it,” Silvia agreed, if only to end the matter. “Although at times I do wonder if your Satyr will ever get to the temple at all. A burrowing mole could move faster.” Silvia shook her head, smiling at a fond memory that illustrated her point. She began to tell the story to Michaela and walked on a short distance before realizing that Michaela hadn't kept pace.
When she glanced around, it was to see that Michaela had dropped her parasol and clutched both hands to her belly. Her face was parchment white, a feverish splotch of color concentrated high on each cheek.
Silvia hurried back to her side. “What's wrong?” But in her heart, she already knew.
“I think I'm . . . losing . . . Oh Gods—Via!” She made a wild grab at Silvia's arm before she collapsed.
“Michaela!” Silvia caught her, twisting under her weight in a tangle of legs and skirts as they fell to the ground. Michaela was hardly even showing, not more than a few months into her pregnancy. And already it was ending.
“Back away from her,
ragazzo!
” A gentleman in a tall beaver hat and morning coat rushed over to them, misconstruing the situation and beating Silvia off with his walking stick. “What have you done, cur?” She found herself summarily yanked away by another set of “helpful” male hands. She fought to reach Michaela's side. “I'm assisting her. She's my friend.” But her strength was puny against the two misguided gentlemen, and they pushed her aside in an effort to render assistance. Instinctively, she leaped up and ran for Bastian, her heart pounding in terror. She tore open the tent and found it empty, then saw him a distance beyond it with his brother. She rushed their way, shouting. “Bastian! Michaela's . . . her baby!”
Bastian's face tightened with concern. “Fetch a physician!” he ordered his brother, sending Sevin in the other direction. “One of our own. Send him to Esquiline!”
Silvia's feet scarcely touched earth as she and Bastian ran to Michaela's side. He quickly took charge as she—a poor boy—hadn't been allowed to. He knelt beside Michaela, loosening her corset and bodice with hands that were experienced at such things. When he lifted her in his arms, Silvia blanched. The back of her skirt was damp with blood. His expression grim, Bastian headed across the Forum, Silvia trotting at his side.
An hour later found them all at Bastian's home on Esquiline Hill. Michaela lay in his bed, still as death, her face creased with pain. A graying pixie, who was no taller than Rico, was the physician who'd been summoned, and he was currently examining her. An ElseWorld creature himself, he would be skilled in treating creatures of their world, Silvia reminded herself as she and Sal paced the corridor.
They wouldn't allow Rico or Sal inside, but when she peeked in to see the men's backs were turned, she managed to slip in unnoticed. She touched Michaela's cheek. Held a hand to her mouth, felt her breath. She lived.
“Out of here, you filthy boy!” the doctor shooed upon seeing her. He reminded her of a busy insect, darting about the room and fussing with his instruments in quick twitches. He tried to eject her, but she jerked away, her back bumping into something warm and solid. And broad-shouldered.
An arm came around her. Bastian. She tried to fling him off, but he curled her face into his shirtfront and put a hand on her back, rubbing in a fatherly fashion. “She miscarried. It was bound to happen—she had the Sickness,” he murmured. “You understand?”
She nodded against the starched linen of his shirt and hiccupped.
“Your quick thinking in coming to me likely saved her life,” he told her. “She's lucky you were with us today.”
“What do you know about the circumstances of conception in this case?” They glanced over to the doctor, who was tucking his instruments away, looking perplexed.
“It was rape,” Bastian supplied succinctly.
Silvia looked up at him, shocked. Michaela had glossed over the manner of conception when they'd spoken of it, leaving Silvia to assume it had happened in the normal course of her occupation. Now, to learn she'd been forced!
The physician sighed, then spoke again, drawing her attention. “It's just as well she lost the child.”
“What does that mean?” Silvia demanded.
The little man looked at her over his spectacles. “It was irretrievably deformed. A grotesque. It would not have survived under any circumstances.”
An awful silence greeted his statements.
“Was it of ElseWorld blood?” Bastian asked after a moment elapsed. “She wouldn't name her attacker.”
“Attackers,” the doctor corrected. “I cannot say how many, but the child was a mix of at least two discrete creatures.”
A sob of hysteria escaped Silvia. And for the first time in a life of centuries, she fainted.
S
cena
A
ntica
IV
380
A.D.
Vestal House, Rome, Italy
Early one morning during Michaela's twelfth year, she shook Silvia out of a sound sleep. Their shared bed was tucked in a private sleeping alcove—one of a half dozen within the Atrium House where the girls slept.
“Our sheets are damp,” Michaela whispered. “I'm bleeding.”
Alarmed, Silvia came up on one elbow, blinking awake. “Why? What happened?”
“It's my woman's blood,” Michaela informed her, with a significant glance.
Silvia's eyes rounded. “Oh.”
When it was learned that Michaela was the first of the Vestals to be thus transformed from child to woman, a great fuss was made over her. Pontifex himself came to examine their bedsheet. It was then displayed in the public Forum, where it flapped in the breeze like a banner of victory outside the temple as the girls breakfasted in the house.
“What good does it do us to become women?” Occia groused. “The blood is for bearing children, something we'll never do.”
“When we leave Vesta's service, we can marry and bear as many children as we wish,” Silvia countered.
Michaela shook her head. “Occia's right. Since we're to serve here for three decades, we'll be thirty-six by then. Lucky if we're still alive.”
Aemilia nodded. “My own mother bore me, her last child, at twenty. My father was angry with her when she no longer swelled with another babe every year. He took slaves into his bed thereafter. That's what husbands do.”
Silvia thought back to six years ago when she'd last lived at home, and recalled her father disappearing on occasion with one of the younger female servants. Her stern mother had subsequently found reason to remove those servants he favored from the household.
“All the more reason to excel at our studies so we are useful as something other than wives and mothers when we eventually depart the temple,” Silvia said decisively.
Michaela smiled fondly at her; then she rose to depart since she and Occia were scheduled to tend fire that morning. “That's my Silvia, always thinking.” She leaned to offer her a kiss in parting.
“Oh!” Silvia scrubbed at her cheek with her fingers, gazing at her in consternation. The touch of her lips had sent a strange and pleasant sensation humming over her skin.
Surprised by her reaction, Michaela then pressed her lips to her own forearm, jumping when she felt the slight buzz herself. She pressed her fingertips to her mouth and her body twitched again in reaction. “My lips,” she said in awe. “They have the same effect as my palms now. Try it yourselves,” she urged the others. “Kiss your own arms and see if it happens to you as well.”
Silvia did, then made a moue of disappointment. “Nothing happened.” It was the same with the others. When none felt anything unusual, Michaela kissed each of their cheeks in turn so they could feel the strange tingling. Aemilia giggled and begged her to do it again. Although she was the darling of the other Vestals for her sweet nature, Aemilia was the despair of their teachers, for unlike the rest of them, who excelled at their studies, she had not yet been able to grasp the fundamentals of reading and writing.
“Michaela?” Vestalis swept into the dining hall. “Pontifex Maximus commands your presence in the Regia. Follow me, please. Aemilia, you will tend fire with Occia in her stead.”
Occia complained loudly over this change, for it meant that, in fact, she would do all the work. Aemilia was too easily distracted and could not be counted upon to keep the temple fire going.
Silvia raised her brows at Michaela, who only shrugged in answer, having no idea why she was being sent for. She followed Vestalis from the room and wasn't seen again for the remainder of the day.
Silvia was almost asleep when Michaela finally climbed into their bed. “Where have you been?”
“With Pontifex, and then Vestalis Maxima,” Michaela replied.
“Because of what happened with your—?” She gestured to Michaela's mouth.
Michaela nodded, tearing off her clothing piece by piece before snuggling under the light blanket in her shift. “They say it will happen to some of us when our blood comes.”
“Some?”
“Only to the Companions. And because of it, from now on, my last hour of afternoon instruction will be separate from everyone else.”
“What are they going to teach you?” Silvia asked, hearing the envy in her own voice. She soaked up their lessons like a sponge and was generally considered the brightest student among them. If there was something new to be learned, she wanted to join Michaela in her studies.
Michaela's eyes turned secretive. “Do you really want to know?”
Silvia nodded.
“I'm to be taught to observe men. To learn their interests. To anticipate their wants. Much like a wife.”
“But why, if we are to remain chaste?”
Michaela yawned. “I don't know. Turn over.” When Silvia obliged, she fitted herself along her back and curled an arm around her waist, as she liked to sleep.
Long after Michaela dozed, Silvia lay awake, pondering this new development and what it might mean. Pontifex was not to be trusted, and she was concerned for Michaela. With such training as she described, a woman might be able to elicit political secrets from unsuspecting Ministry officials. Or steal virtually anything from any man if it might benefit Pontifex's schemes. Her mind raced, considering the worrisome possibilities that might be in store for her friend.
As the moon rose to leach the night of color, she rose and slipped out into the Atrium courtyard. There, she knelt before the statue of her goddess, Vesta—she whom Silvia had come to love and trust above all else. The Goddess stood as always, an expression of benevolence in her eyes, her arms at her sides slightly outthrust from her body, and both palms facing forward in welcome.
In her left hand she held the sacred crest of Chastity; in her right, that of Fire.
The two symbols that defined Silvia, and every initiate in the House.
Placing her hands in those of Vesta, Silvia felt the reassuring warmth emanate from the Goddess's palms. And with all her might, she prayed that all would be well. Only when she heard the others begin to stir did she return to her bed, secure in the knowledge that Vesta would watch over them.

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