Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (25 page)

“Because of what he said. That I would bear a son who would bear a son.”

“And you have born three.”

“But what if it means only one will survive to be a man? I kept dwelling on it as I lay watching my boys suffering with fever.”

“You always worry too much, my lady. One may never marry, or sire only daughters. And one might be like Prince Tarchon, not interested in women at all.”

Caecilia blinked, aware yet again how she could take a kernel of concern and let it swell into calamity. She hugged the maid, taking Cytheris off guard. “What is that for, my lady?”

“For being a good friend.”

Nonplussed at the declaration, the servant eased herself from the embrace and then dipped the cloth into the bowl. “Lift your arms so I can wash you.”

Caecilia felt childlike as she stood and held on to the chair for balance. Cytheris wiped her clean from armpit to hand, and between each finger. Then, sweeping the princip’s loosely plaited hair to one side, she pressed the cloth along neck, shoulders, and spine before bathing breasts and belly. Caecilia closed her eyes as the handmaid smoothed the cloth along the swell of hips and buttocks, mound and inner thighs, before bending to wash the queen’s long legs.

What had happened to the prudish girl who wore her ugly woolen stola as a shield? The Roman virtue of modesty had been instilled in Caecilia from childhood. She’d shied from intimacy, reluctant to stand naked before either man or woman. Yet Cytheris had encouraged her to welcome Vel’s embrace. And he’d taught her there was no shame in sensuality or being greedy for sensation. To seek the touch and scents and tastes of passion. To forget Roman strictures and custom, and accept pleasure was not a sin.

She glanced down at her body. The rash was no longer livid but brown and fading in places. Cytheris fetched a fresh gown from the linen chest. The sheer fabric glided over Caecilia’s skin, fine and soft and lovely.

“Tell me, is the rest of the household well?”

The Greek woman bowed her head, voice cracking. “Arruns has recovered, as has Perca, but Cook . . .”

It was the queen’s turn to murmur solace, but at her touch Cytheris stiffened, composing herself, always mindful of keeping her emotions under control.

“I’ll help you back to bed and fetch the children.”

“No, wait.” Caecilia pointed to the cista on the side table. “Bring me my paste and spatula. I can’t greet them with a red-tipped nose and puffy face. The remnants of the rash will only frighten them.”

As the servant covered tearstains with albumen and pale lips with carmine, Caecilia realized there was one more person who might not have survived. She turned her head. “And what of Aricia?”

Cytheris stopped combing. “I heard she’s well, mistress.”

Seeing the happiness on the maid’s face, Caecilia knew the time had come to cast aside distrust. She guessed Cytheris’s loyalty had stopped her from reconciling with her daughter. “You must visit her. Make peace. The plague has shown me that we must ensure words of love are not hoarded. Aricia has shown she is contrite. I’ve been stubborn in not forgiving her. And selfish in expecting you to do the same.”

Cytheris beamed, her missing dogtooth revealed, not hiding her feelings this time. “Thank you, mistress. Thank you!”

She returned her smile, then bade her bring the children to her. Settling back onto the bed, Caecilia listened to her sons’ piping, eager voices drawing closer along the corridor, and murmured a prayer of thanks to Uni for saving them.

T
HIRTY
-F
OUR

Semni, Veii, Spring, 396 BC

Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, Semni tugged at Arruns’s hand, urging him to follow her to the stairs to the upper story. He refused to budge. “Why are you leading me to the loggia?”

“I’ve something to tell you, and I don’t want anyone to hear.”

He frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

She tugged at him again. “Come on. I won’t keep you long.”

He hesitated, then let her lead him up the narrow stone steps.

At the top, she let go of his hand, walking to one of the caryatid columns sculpted in the shape of a woman. Grasping the pillar with one hand, she swung in a half circle, breathing in the fresh spring air.

Arruns moved across to her, studying her with a quizzical expression. “What is it? Why are you so happy?”

She clasped his hand, placing it on her belly. Her smile was wide. “I’m with child.”

He pulled away as though scalded. “Are you sure?”

His appalled look spoiled her delight. It wasn’t what she’d expected. “Yes, I’m sure. My flux has not come for two months.” She placed her hands against his chest, searching his face. “Aren’t you pleased? I’m going to give you another son.”

“I told you I want no child to be born into this war.” He turned and leaned against the balustrade, staring down at the ashes of a funeral pyre smoldering in the square. “The worst of the plague is over, but we’re still starving.” His hooded eyes were hard. “I told you that you should not have let me come inside you.”

Her temper flared; she didn’t want to acknowledge she’d been reckless. Instead of using vinegar and brine to wash away his seed, she’d prayed he had planted a child within her. “I didn’t think I could fall pregnant while I was breastfeeding . . . and what about the second time? And the third? You were careless, too.”

“You made me forget myself. We should never have broken our vow to the master.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “I’ve told you before, I have no more milk. We’re no longer bound by his rules.”

“That was not so when we defied him.”

She glowered at him. “So this is my fault?”

“No, it’s mine. I was weak.” He resumed his scrutiny of the forum.

Semni strode to the end of the loggia, unable to bear being near him. She’d thought his reluctance to father a child would be forgotten with the joy of the news. Instead his first thought, as always, was his duty to Lord Mastarna. She rested her forehead against a caryatid, stifling the urge to cry. In the grim world of disease and famine, the discovery she carried new life had thrilled her. For a brief moment there had been hope instead of despair; now Arruns had reminded her she was deluded. What he said was true. She would bear a child who may well have no future.

She’d been disbelieving at first, wondering how she could vomit when deprived of food. She worried she was suffering from a different symptom of the red scourge, but there was no fever or cough. Then morning after morning she woke to nausea, and remembered how she’d felt when carrying Nerie. Only this time, the queasiness stirred excitement instead of apprehension.

Absorbed in her misery, she was startled when Arruns touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Semni. It’s just that you surprised me.”

She shrugged him away, leaning back against the pillar. “So what do you want me to do? Take a hot bath and try to massage him away? Climb up and down those stairs a hundred times to try to dislodge him? And if that doesn’t work, use a rod to risk my life as well as his? Because there are no herbs left in this city to purge him from me.”

He crushed her to him. “Stop it. Don’t say such things.”

She encircled his waist. “I thought you would be pleased.”

He drew away. He was gaunt, his hook nose more prominent, dark circles beneath his eyes. His muscled body had shrunk with lack of food and exercise. He’d refused to let her nurse him at first, too proud to admit he needed help until the rigors felled him. The rash had marred his swarthy skin, even discoloring the blue tattooed snake.

“Don’t you see, Semni? Loving you and Nerie has complicated my life. It was easy before. I didn’t think about dying. I was invisible. Alone. No one to live for and no one to mourn my passing.
Now I fear losing you and Nerie”—he placed his hand on her
belly—“and the child of my flesh growing within you.”

She covered his hand with hers. “Don’t you think I feel the same? I thought you would die of the scourge.”

He grimaced. “We may yet all die of starvation if Lord Mastarna doesn’t arrive soon. You might not bear our son to term. Nerie may waste away.”

She wasn’t used to hearing bleakness in him. He was always so confident the king would return. But he was right. How could she nourish the baby within her if she could not feed herself? And her breasts were dry. Both Nerie and Thia had to make do with gruel. Her thoughts flickered to her son. The child who used to smile so readily was now solemn and lethargic. “Don’t say that. Tell me you still believe in the lucumo.”

Arruns turned once again to view the forum and the sanctuary of Uni beyond. “The gap in time where the king might relieve this city is closing. Falling ill to the red scourge has sown doubt in me.” He placed his hand on her stomach again. His touch was tentative. “Can I feel him stir within you?”

She smiled. “It’s too early. But he’s in there growing. And we must believe the king will return.”

“To see the proof of our disobedience as your belly swells.”

Semni was frustrated with his gloom. “I’ll speak to the queen. I know she thinks her husband’s edict unfair. And I’ve seen how she can cajole Lord Mastarna from ill temper. I don’t think he will be displeased for long.”

He clasped her hand, leading her back to the stairs. “Perhaps, but we must wait to see what he says before we marry.”

She pulled up short, twisting from him. “But you said you would wed me once Princess Thia was weaned!”

He sighed. “It’s not so simple. You know that.”

“Yes, it is. Lord Mastarna might never come. If so, I want to spend my last days as your wife. I want to live with you and Nerie as a family. I want the child inside me to feel the warmth of both his parents as they embrace in bed.”

He closed his eyes. She could sense the struggle within him. To keep her distant would maintain his belief in Lord Mastarna.

She traced the serpent’s forked tongue and fangs on his cheek. He opened his eyes again.

“Let’s ask the queen for her permission, then.” He kissed her. “Let’s tell her about the baby and that I want to take you as my wife.”

T
HIRTY
-F
IVE

The strains of the lyre were poignant. Semni hesitated to interrupt
the queen while she was playing. She knew she welcomed her sol
itude after attending to her daily duties and bidding her children good night.

Lady Caecilia sat in a wicker chair on the terrace in the fading light of the spring evening. She paused in her melody, resting the instrument on the claw-foot table beside her. She picked up the mirror with an ivory handle instead, examining its ornate back rather than gazing at her reflection.

Semni was nervous as she hovered at the door. Talk of a confession had slipped easily from her tongue when speaking to Arruns, but now she faltered. She’d broken faith once again with her mistress. She wished to speak to her alone first to ask forgiveness.

The princip sensed the nursemaid’s presence. She turned from her scrutiny of the mirror. “Semni, is something wrong? Is Thia ill?”

Semni waved her hands, palms outward in reassurance. “No, my lady. Don’t worry. The princess is sleeping.”

The queen sighed. “I wish it were not hunger that feeds her exhaustion.”

Semni felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry I have no more milk to give her.”

It was the noblewoman’s turn to gesture away concern. “You mustn’t apologize. Your milk saved her from the scourge. It’s not your fault you can no longer nourish her or your own son.” She pointed to an empty chair nearby. “Come and sit down, and tell me why you’re here.”

Semni perched on the edge of the chair, her hands clasped. “I have come to beg forgiveness yet again, mistress.”

Lady Caecilia’s body tensed, her voice rising in alarm. “Is this about Tas?”

“No. It’s about Arruns.”

“But he has recovered from the pestilence, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, my lady. He’s well.”

“I don’t understand, then. Why are you speaking of compassion?”

Semni bowed her head. “We have broken our promise to Lord Mastarna.”

The queen frowned in puzzlement, laying the mirror in her lap.

“He forbade us to lie as man and wife,” prompted Semni.

The princip’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure there will be more important issues to concern the king when he returns.” She gave a small smile. “Besides, what my husband doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“I fear he’ll know soon enough, mistress.”

Lady Caecilia reached forward and covered the girl’s hands with her own. “Oh, Semni. You’re with child? Aren’t you delighted?”

She nodded, beaming. “Yes, yes. I’m very happy. But Arruns is upset we disobeyed Lord Mastarna.”

The queen cocked her head to one side. “Then tell him not to fret. I know my husband. He once told me the Rasenna knew better than others how death stalks us. That in time Aita will deny us wine to drink, food to eat, and lips to kiss in this world. We are already deprived of the first two. As for the third—the king would not begrudge a man and woman snatching pleasure before they may be robbed of life.”

“So you would have no objection to Arruns marrying me now that I can no longer act as a wet nurse? Do you think Lord Tarchon will give us permission in the lucumo’s stead?”

Lady Caecilia squeezed her fingers. “Of course. And a wedding will cheer everyone’s spirits.”

The knot of apprehension in Semni’s stomach dissolved. She slipped to her knees, kissing the queen’s fingers. “Thank you, my lady. Thank you!”

Smiling, the princip withdrew her hand, knocking the mirror from her lap. Semni picked it up and stood, glancing at the engraving on its back. She recognized Areatha and Fufluns at once. Absorbed in each other, husband and wife were embracing, their lips a fraction from a kiss. The lovers’ youthful features were beautiful as they stood surrounded by intertwined ivy and vines leaves. She handed the looking glass back to the queen. “May I go now, mistress?”

To her surprise, Lady Caecilia gestured the maidservant to resume her seat. “You worship Fufluns, don’t you?”

Nonplussed, Semni sank into the chair. “Why, yes, mistress. I believe in the wine god.”

“So you have been initiated in the Mysteries?”

“Yes, I’m a follower. I wish I could attend a Spring Festival, though. But none have been conducted since the war began. The people haven’t been able to escape the city to revel under the stars.”

The queen looked startled. “Then I was at the last one held.”

“You were? I envy you, mistress.”

Lady Caecilia frowned, then leaned forward. “But you have celebrated the Winter Feast, haven’t you?”

The nursemaid nodded. “Before the Romans campaigned all year round, we could celebrate when the enemy returned home in winter. We would bid farewell to Fufluns, knowing he would sojourn in the Beyond until spring. In times past, the festival marked the laying down of the vintage.”

“I remember it well. The people set light to the abandoned siege engines. Our foe’s war machines became fuel for bonfires. And then the merrymaking would begin.”

Semni was wistful. “I wish I could merge my spirit again. There has been no Winter Feast for two years.”

The queen glanced at the mirror and then back to the girl.

“Tell me, what is it like to take communion with Fufluns?”

“Rapture, my lady, bliss.”

Her answer did not appear to please the princip. She rubbed her temple as though soothing away pain. “But you were married then, weren’t you? To the pottery workshop foreman. What did he think about you lying with other men?”

Semni was taken aback, unnerved at what had become an interrogation. “He was not a believer. He didn’t approve but he didn’t stop me.”

“Didn’t it worry you that you were being unfaithful?”

She reddened, thinking that she was ready to cuckold her old husband without the need for religion. “For believers, coupling with others in worship of Fufluns is a sacred union. You feel the god within you as your heart responds to the beat of the drum. The wine courses through you, strong and unwatered. You’re dizzy as you dance. Filled with elation.”

“You’re intoxicated.”

“You’re possessed by the god’s spirit through the wine’s magic. It’s like being in a trance.”

Again Lady Caecilia paused, digesting each morsel of information. She glanced around her as though checking for eavesdroppers. “So you weren’t whipped?”

Stunned by the question, Semni shook her head. Her father used to thrash her often enough. And it helped her sixty-year-old husband to harden if he birched her. But she’d never suffered pain at a Winter Feast. “No, my lady.”

“And the possibility you might fall with child. Was that not a concern?”

Again the girl was surprised. Surely Lady Caecilia knew Nerie’s blond father was a fellow worshiper? “It was a risk I took. The resin and alum plug failed when I lay with the man with the ram’s head mask.” She smiled. “But I don’t regret bearing a son conceived on the night of the Winter Feast.”

The princip’s eyes widened. “I didn’t realize . . . I always thought Nerie was a result of one of your many . . .”

“You mean from sleeping with any man who wanted me.”

This time it was Lady Caecilia’s turn to blush.

“Don’t be embarrassed, mistress. I know I was a slattern before I met Arruns.”

“And if you ever get the chance to reach ecstasy again, won’t he be jealous?”

Her words gave Semni pause. She’d not thought about this. Yet Arruns had never complained that she followed the Pacha Cult.

“Fufluns is not his god, but I believe he sees the feast as part of a holy rite.”

“And what about you? Would you be happy for him to seek epiphany with another woman?”

“You must understand, mistress, it’s different under the mask. You are liberated from fear and care, jealousy and duty. There’s just heat and madness. I’m no longer Semni. And he would no longer be Arruns. If he wished to follow Fufluns, I wouldn’t deny him the chance to ward off death through seeking ecstasy.”

She pointed to the decoration of entwined leaves on the edges of the mirror. “See the ivy? It’s sacred to the wine god. It blooms in autumn and fruits in spring. It grows green in winter when the grape vine is dry and lifeless.” She traced the grape leaves. “Vines give us the fruit of life. They are sunlight and warmth. Ivy is shadow and night. So too is Fufluns. You must accept light and dark when you worship him. And then you can forget mortal bonds for that brief moment in time.”

“You speak with such passion, Semni. You make me understand a little more.”

“May I ask why you ask all these questions, my lady?”

“Because I wish to follow the Pacha Cult as the king has asked. I want Fufluns’s protection for me and my family in the Afterworld. But I revere Uni. I fear she wouldn’t approve of me worshiping Fufluns.”

“Veientane women have long worshiped both deities without being punished. We honor the divine queen as the guardian of our city, but all the Rasenna revere Fufluns. We turn to Uni to protect us in childbirth and give succor to our children, but it is the god of fertility who promises us resurrection.” She pointed to the couple on mirror again. “Do you remember the day you came to the pottery and saw the last vase I ever painted? It depicted Fufluns and Areatha as well.”

“Yes, I do. You were a skilled artisan.”

“Thank you, mistress. I remember how you and Lord Mastarna held each other when he came to say good-bye before the battle.” She ran her finger over the immortal pair etched into the silver. “Just like them, you had eyes for no other.”

The queen bowed her head, examining the mirror again. “Yes, I love Vel very much.”

Her mention of Lord Mastarna’s first name surprised Semni. The queen never directly referred to him as such to any servant other than Cytheris. “Fufluns and Areatha were the most devoted of couples. The god fell in love with her when he found her asleep after the slayer of the Minotaur deserted her. But after such betrayal came a happy marriage. And Areatha bore many sons.”

“You know the myth well.”

“I know all the legends, my lady. They were the inspiration for my vases. I enjoyed learning of divine love and passion, bickering and heartbreak.”

“So what, then, is the rest of Areatha’s story?”

“I won’t lie. Her life was one of melancholy as well as joy. For there is the pain in loving Fufluns. He’s a suffering god, and those who love him can suffer, too. Some say Areatha was killed by one who hated the freedom Fufluns granted to women. Others speak of her hanging herself because she had angered the goddess of the hunt. But Fufluns descended into Acheron and saved her from Aita. Thereafter she became immortal.” Semni pointed to Areatha’s wedding tiara. “See her diadem? Fufluns tossed it into the sky to create the Northern Crown in her honor. At night you can view the starry corona and remember her.”

“Lord Mastarna calls me ‘Bellatrix’ after a tiny star in the constellation of Orion.” The queen placed the mirror on the table and took up the tortoiseshell lyre again. “But I don’t want to be likened to this sad goddess, Semni. Or my husband to Fufluns. I just want him to return so I can embrace him again.”

The queen averted her head, and Semni realized she was holding back tears. The girl hesitated, not sure what to do. Yet she sensed offering words of comfort would only cause the noblewoman to weep.

She thought of Arruns. How she would hate it if they were parted. Lady Caecilia had spent years as the wife of a warrior, never knowing if a farewell kiss might be the last ever shared. She stood and curtsied. “Thank you, mistress, for allowing us to wed.”

Lady Caecilia brushed her fingers across her eyes. “I’ll pray for your baby. And that your life with Arruns will be blessed.”

The nursemaid headed to the doorway, but before she reached it, the queen called, “And I’ll also pray you’ll have the opportunity to render other myths in terra-cotta one day. Then I’ll be able to fill this palace with red figured vases with your initials etched into their bases.”

Semni curtsied again, tears pricking her own eyes. In this beleaguered city, such a world seemed a lifetime ago and a lifetime away.