by Rachel Ford
Trygve was struck by the fierceness in her eyes, and how animated she’d grown. The weariness, for now at least, was replaced with fury. And she was, he thought, the more beautiful in her righteous anger, like one of the warrior queens of his own history, preparing to ride out in battle. Aloud, though, he said only, “Yes, it is.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Faustus didn’t return that night, and Cassia didn’t wait to see if he would. She was tired. “It’s been a long day, Tryg,” she said. “Such a long day.”
He was a little worried by that. She’d already been prescribed something to keep up her energy. She was four months along, give or take a week or two. She had started to show, but only when the folds of her stola pressed against her form. He was by no means an expert on pregnancy – he’d been a child when his last sibling was born, and, as far as he knew, fathered no offspring of his own. But he worried that she was tiring so quickly already; what happened as the fetus grew, and as she got nearer the delivery date?
His apprehension only increased the next morning. She rose, but seemed gray, as if all the color had been washed out of her skin overnight. She asked for Faustus, but he still wasn’t back.
“Let me call a doctor,” Trygve said. “Please, Cassia. You don’t look well.”
“You overdid it yesterday, my lady,” Aemilia put in. “I told you, you must rest. You’re looking out for two, now.”
“I’ll be fine, Tryg. Really, I will. But I don’t think I’m going to be able to see Felix today, or Lucretius.”
“They’ll understand.”
“Will you talk to him? Your friend, I mean?”
“I’ll send a note, Cas,” he said. “I don’t feel right about leaving you.”
But she was adamant. “No. I need you to talk to him. Let him know that I really am not feeling well – I don’t want him to think I’m trying to get out of meeting again. I don’t want to give him the impression that I’ve changed my mind. I haven’t.” She had taken his arm and was looking all the frailer for her urgency. “Please.”
“Alright,” he said, “I’ll do it.”
“Thank you, Tryg.”
He guided her to her seat and sat her down. “Of course, Cassia. But please, for the love of Minerva, let me get the doctor before I go.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said. “But if it’ll make you feel better.”
“It will.”
“Alright,” she relented. “You can call him. But talk to Lucretius as soon as you can.”
“I will.” He went to dispatch a servant for Cassia’s private physician, a wizened elder called Tiberius, and then he returned. He brought Gunnar with him. “Tiberius should be on his way. I’ll leave Gunnar with you, to keep you safe while I’m gone.”
She smiled. “I’m sure he will.”
Aemilia rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “If an assassin gets past a palace full of guards, I’m sure the snow leopard will keep us all safe.”
Trygve didn’t bother to acknowledge the comment. His mind was full of more pressing concerns than her disdain. “I’ll be back as soon as I can be.”
“Make sure he understands, Tryg.”
He left her feeling somewhat annoyed. Even in illness, her thoughts were with the damned empire. He could see at a glance that she was not well; surely kingmaking could wait until she was better.
But, no; it was all she thought of. And, thinking of it, she sent him away, where he could not hear what the doctors said, he could not know if she was seriously ill or only needed rest. The more he thought of it, the more he found himself fidgeting in the carriage, and cursing now and again at delays.
That, of course, was the worst part of all: the not knowing. Damn it, Cass. If he loved her less, he might have been angrier with her. But now, his annoyance was tinged mostly with fear.
Time seemed to crawl, but at last he reached Felix’s domus. The senator walked out to greet him, with Lucretius in tow. But, seeing only the Northman emerge, he frowned. “Where is Cass?”
“Good morning, Senator. The empress is not well.”
“Not well?” Felix’s brow furrowed, and Trygve appreciated the concern in his expression. “What do you mean? Is she sick?”
He explained what he could, emphasizing that the doctor was on his way when he’d left.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Lucretius said. “I hope she will recover soon.”
“We will have to postpone our strategizing session,” Felix said. “I’m sorry, Lucretius.”
“Of course.”
“The fact is,” Trygve put in, “Cass wanted me to come to tell you in person, Luke. She didn’t want you to think she was – well, having second thoughts. She’s sorry she can’t be here today; and she wants to meet again as soon as she’s able.”
Tiberius came and went. His counsel did not differ from Aemilia’s. “The fetus,” he’d said, “is small yet; it’s probably just going through a growth spurt. It’s natural to be tired. You must listen to your body, my dear: you cannot do as much as you did before. Not until the little one is born.”
Cassia was glad, at least, that the diagnosis was not serious – nothing more than the discomforts attendant on pregnancy. That would put Tryg’s mind at ease, too. He’d seemed half ready to give himself an apoplexy this morning over her state.
She smiled at the memory. He was very sweet. She wasn’t sure why. It was, she supposed, just his brand of chivalry. But his concern for her was touching, even if it was misplaced.
“Hadriana’s going to be a lucky woman,” she murmured to the snow leopard, who had wrapped himself around her feet and gone to sleep.
Faustus returned before Trygve, though. He was in a good mood and paced energetically about the room. He talked for four or five minutes straight about Octavia’s beauty and wealth and Iulius good fortune. It was only when, having poured himself a glass of wine and settled onto the divan next to her, he frowned. “You look rather peaked, my love. Did you get enough sleep?”
“Apparently not,” she said. “The doctor says I need to rest more.”
“The doctor?” A shade of worry crossed his face. “You had to call the doctor?”
“It was a precaution,” she said. “Trygve insisted.”
He glanced around. “Where is the Northman? I’d forgotten about him.”
“I sent him to Felix’s, to make my excuses. I was meant to visit with him today.”
Faustus scowled now and fixed a reproachful gaze on her. “A letter would have done as well. I don’t pay him to play message runner. I pay him to keep you safe.”
“He left Gunnar with me,” she answered, taking his hand. She was too tired to argue; she hoped that would placate him.
It didn’t. Her husband’s expression darkened. “That’s another thing. He should know better than letting that mangey beast near a pregnant woman.”
“Oh Faustus,” she said, wrapping him in a hug and leaning into him. “I’m so tired. Let’s not argue.”
He didn’t respond, but he didn’t move to return the embrace either. He sat rather rigidly in place, her arms around him. He finished his glass of wine, one sip after another. Then, he straightened, shaking her arms off him in the process. “Well,” he said, “I suppose I’d better get on with my day.”
She felt a pang at that. “Please, Faustus. Don’t be mad.”
He threw her a dismissive glance. “Mad? Of course not, love. But you’re tired. I will let you rest. I have work to do.” And with that, he left.
Chapter Thirty
Cassia told him what the doctor had said, but then she slept. Trygve wasn’t sure he believed it, but, he supposed, the physician knew more about pregnancy than he did.
Still, he was on edge all through the afternoon. She’d told him to take the day off, but he stationed himself in her office anyway, where anyone entering would have to first pass him.
Gunnar seemed to sense his concern, because the snow leopard paced the room now and again before settling
back down to sleep.
When, sometime into the evening, she emerged, looking a little better, he allowed himself to relax a measure. “Tryg,” she scolded, “what are you doing here? You should be enjoying your time off. Minerva knows you don’t get much of it.”
“I was worried,” he said. “I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.”
She smiled, a wan smile. “Well, you could have spent time with your friend.”
“He left already.”
“That’s right.” He had told her that, when he reported – much to her relief – that Lucretius believed him. “He was still committed, though, when you talked to him?”
He sighed. “Yes.” He’d told her this, too – several times before she accepted it.
She nodded. “I’m glad. Once I’m stronger –”
“Don’t worry about that,” he implored. “Felix can manage.”
She snorted. “You sound as bad as that damned doctor. I’m not an invalid, Tryg.”
“Of course you’re not. But you need to go slowly, Cass. Until you’re on your feet again. Please.”
“Alright,” she said with a smile, “I’ll behave. If you’ll stop worrying.”
“I make no promises. But I’ll try,” he grinned.
The next morning, though, did nothing to allay his worry. She seemed to have lost any progress she’d made the day before. Her skin was paler, her complexion duller, than the day before.
Faustus noticed it too when he came by at breakfast time, demanding that the doctor be summoned again. Tiberius came, and frowned and hemmed and hawed. Finally, he prescribed a set of teas and tinctures. “These will help, Your Majesty. You’ll feel stronger. And until you do, try to sleep as much as possible. Eat bland foods, drink plenty of fluids, and rest – rest, rest, rest!”
Cassia didn’t argue. She slept through most of the day, and the next, rising only a few times. “I’m going to miss my shift at the soup kitchen,” she confided with a sigh to Trygve on the second day.
“They’ll be fine without you,” he said. “Building your strength is much more important.”
She didn’t argue with that, either. But on the third day, she rose with more energy. She insisted on taking some air in the gardens. “I think I just overdid it, you know,” she said. “I didn’t realize what a toll the pregnancy would take on me. Well, I know better now.”
She continued to improve. On the fourth day, she again went outside. She saw Felix, who was almost as beside himself with anxiety as Trygve had been. And on the fifth day, she ordered the carriage. “I wrote to Quintina, to tell her I would make up my shift today.” Quintina was the manager of the charitable kitchens.
“All-Father. You’re not thinking of working the soup kitchens today?” Trygve demanded. He didn’t even care that his tone was incredulous, or his words impertinent. “Cassia, you can’t be serious. You’re barely on your feet.”
She protested, but he reminded her of the doctor’s orders. “Give it another day at least. Wait until you’re sure.”
“I’ve been cooped up too long, Tryg. I can’t stand being so inactive – so useless.”
In the end, though, reason prevailed, and the carriage was returned to the stables.
When the morrow came, though, she was not to be dissuaded. “I feel healthy as a horse,” she declared. And when he protested, she reminded him, “You said tomorrow. Well, today is yesterday’s tomorrow. Come on.”
He did, though grudgingly. He wished, almost, that Faustus had popped in. As little as he cared for the other man, he at least might make her see reason. But Faustus was off on business again, and Cassia was not open to persuasion.
So the carriage was ordered, and they set out. She was contemplative for a time. When she spoke, her tone was still thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking, Trygve…it might be good for Faustus and me if we got away from the city for a while. Would you mind that?”
“Me?” He wasn’t sure what say he had in it. Certainly, it was not what he wanted to hear. His heart twisted in his chest at the words. But what right had he to object?
“I know you’re only getting settled here. And – well, you might not want to leave on account of Hadriana.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” he said, clenching his jaw after he finished speaking.
“It wouldn’t be for long. Maybe a week or two. But we’ve got a residence, on the coast; it was my mother’s, before she married Augustus.” A faraway look had come into her eyes. “It’s a beautiful place. The air will do me good, and maybe – once we’re away from the city and politics…” She trailed off, and then sighed.
If she’d put a knife between his ribs, it couldn’t have hurt worse. Still, she couldn’t know how confiding her plans with and affection for Faustus would affect him. So he tried to keep the pain out of his tone as he said, “The emperor is a fortunate man, my lady.”
She looked up at him now with questioning eyes. “I don’t know about that, Trygve.” Her brow creased. “It wasn’t his idea, you know, or mine. To be married, I mean. Flavius – his father – and Augustus…they arranged it.”
“Why?” He shouldn’t have asked. He knew that. But for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why any father would marry a daughter like Cassia to a toad of a man like Faustus.
She laughed, and there was a note of bitterness to the tone. “The oldest reasons in the world, Trygve: money and power. Flavius had the one, my father the other. In marrying his son to me, Flavius bought what money alone couldn’t; and Augustus cleared the empire’s debts. And all it cost either of them was us.”
“But they are dead now, aren’t they? Flavius and Augustus? Why should their choice still hold, if neither of you are happy?”
She blinked, and then bristled. “I didn’t say that we were unhappy, Trygve.”
“Forgive me, Empress,” he apologized. He’d been overstepping this entire conversation, but apparently, he’d found the limits of her toleration. “I didn’t mean to be impertinent.”
Her expression softened. “I’m sorry, Trygve. You weren’t. It’s just…I don’t know, anymore, if we’re happy. It seems…” She shook her head. “Every time I think we are, or we can be…” Then, she grimaced. At first, he supposed it was another facet of her troubled thoughts. But he saw her all at once clench her hands, so tightly that the knuckles went white.
Anxiety swept him, and the feeling that they never should have left the palace came crashing back onto his mind. “Cass? What’s wrong?”
In a moment, she loosed a long breath. “I’m not sure. A kind of spasm.” She held her abdomen, frowning down at it.
“The fetus?”
“It’s moving, perhaps.” She glanced up at him, and then laughed. “I am rather a sad example of expectant motherhood, I suppose. For I have no idea what to expect.”
The tension in his own shoulders eased, and he laughed too. “All-Father. You scared me. I thought – well, I’m glad it was nothing.”
“Me too.”
Chapter Thirty-One
She spoke little for the remainder of their trip. Her thoughts seemed to be far away; and so were his. He wondered at what she’d told him. He wondered what hope, if any, he could find in those words. That her and Faustus’ marriage was troubled he had always known, or at least guessed.
But he had always thought her unquestioningly committed to it. Now, he wasn’t sure. Was it just the weight of these last few days speaking? Or…?
He couldn’t indulge his imagination too much on that score. She was still trying to restore her marriage with Faustus. Even if she was not, she was still carrying his child; that alone would be cause for some women to stay in unhappy marriages.
No, he couldn’t speculate on what might happen, because the truth was almost certainly: nothing. She would be sad; she would forgive Faustus; and matters would continue as they had since he’d arrived, in cycles of happiness and sorrow.
Finally, they reached the kitchens. He stepped out first to offer her his hand, and
she took it.
Trygve frowned at the sight of her emerging into the full sunlight. He didn’t like her look. Her skin was too pale again, her face too drawn. “It will wait until tomorrow, Empress,” he urged.
“I promised I would go,” she reminded him.
His frown deepened. He knew better than to push further. She’d made up her mind to be out of the palace. But his mind roiled with objections. He didn’t fault her conscientiousness, nor could he even begrudge her urge to be active. But she was not well. And she was empress. Her wellbeing certainly should come before such a trifling thing.
“Anyway,” she said, “tomorrow Faustus returns. I wouldn’t have time.” As she spoke, though, she paused to draw breath, a flicker of a grimace crossing her face.
Trygve felt the familiar, disquieting sense return. He tried again. “Empress, please. Return to the carriage. I can make your apologies. They will understand.”
She smiled at him. “You’re very kind, Trygve. But Tiberius says they’re just normal pregnancy pains. I can’t –” She drew up suddenly, clutching at her side and gasping.
“Empress!”
“Trygve,” she managed. “Trygve, I –” He’d reached her side, and she grabbed his arm, squeezing it until her fingers went white. “Trygve, what’s happening? The pain –”
She was choking out her words now between cries. Her face had gone gray, and her eyes dilated – with fear or agony, he could not tell.
“I’m taking you back,” he decided. He didn’t wait for protests, and this time she didn’t offer any. As carefully as he could, he scooped her up. She was shuddering in his arms and felt all the smaller and frailer for it. He practically raced for the carriage.
“I don’t understand,” she was saying. “They said everything was alright.”
With a word to the driver, he set her inside the carriage, and got in after her. He felt the horses jolt into action. Then he turned his attention back on her. “Cassia,” he implored, “tell me what’s happening.”