Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  I suppose my stories were the only entertainment Berdine had, but somehow she learned to trust me. I would say we became good friends.

  “How far away,” I asked her one day, “is Rome?”

  She lifted a ragged gray brow. “By foot or horse?”

  “Foot.”

  She shrugged. “Seven or eight days. Domina usually takes ten days when she comes, but of course the family travels by litter with their slaves. They stay with friends on the journey and make a party of it, spending as much time at dinner and drink as traveling on the road.”

  “Are they coming any time soon?”

  “Domina will come when she is able,” Berdine said. “They always spend the festival days of Lemuria at their country estate, and sometimes stop here to examine the orchard and vineyard. So we—those of us who are left—must be at our best.”

  “They come here when Rome fills with festival goers?”

  “Domina doesn’t care for bloody sports, and the days of Lemuria are filled with gladiatorial contests. She told me that once she saw a herd of elephants killed in an event sponsored by Pompey. The animals seemed human to her, and she never got over it. She will not go to the arena again, if she can help it.”

  I shuddered at the thought of the gladiatorial arena. Egypt had not yet caught the blood fever that seemed to infect so many Romans. While horse racing and animal fighting were popular among the Egyptians, gladiatorial contests had not yet become commonplace in Alexandria.

  I hoped they never would.

  Once things settled down at the farm, I returned to my study of midwifery. Reading not only took my mind away from dark memories, it also renewed my hope. Every night, while my little oil lamp poured a stream of weak light over the scroll on the table, I read about pregnancy, childbirth, and pregnancy prevention.

  To discover if a woman was pregnant, the scroll advised, the midwife should keep emmer wheat and barley seeds moistened with the woman’s urine. If the seeds sprouted, she was pregnant.

  A woman who had trouble getting pregnant should go to bed with a clove of garlic between her thighs. If she woke with garlic on her breath, all the channels were open and she would be able to conceive.

  Pliny the Elder wrote that boys were delivered more easily than girls, and I noted the truth of his words, for Barabell’s baby had not involved a great deal of fuss or bother.

  For more difficult labors, Pliny said, fumigations with the fat from hyena loins would produce immediate delivery. Also, placing the right foot of a hyena on the woman would result in an easy delivery, but placing the left foot in the same spot would cause death.

  I made a note in the margin—tie a string around the hyena’s right foot to avoid mistakes. But where would I find a hyena in the city?

  A drink sprinkled with powdered sow’s dung would relieve labor pains, as would sow’s milk mixed with honey wine.

  Fortunately, we had plenty of sows, so obtaining the required dung or milk wouldn’t be a problem in the country. But would they be available in Rome? Finding honey wine might prove difficult in the country, but should be easily procurable in the city.

  Delivery could be eased by drinking goose semen mixed with water, or the liquids that flow from a weasel’s uterus through its genitals.

  Since I had no idea how to obtain either of those items, I read on.

  The root of vervain in water, Scordotis in hydromel, and dittany leaves were recommended for the lying-in woman. Amulets and other objects were also considered efficacious. To withdraw the infant, a midwife should obtain the afterbirth of a canine bitch, make sure it had not touched the ground, and place it on the woman’s thighs. Or tie a snake’s slough to the woman’s thigh, but be sure to remove it immediately after delivery of the child.

  A vulture’s feather might be placed under the woman’s feet to aid delivery. A sneeze would relieve difficult labor. And drinking hedge mustard in tepid wine on an empty stomach would also ease labor pains.

  Earthworms taken in raisin wine, Pliney insisted, would bring away the placenta.

  I looked at the list of recommended treatments and scratched through anything I knew nothing about. I also slashed through amulets, for they were far too much like graven images for my comfort. I wasn’t sure where to find a snake’s shed skin or a dog’s afterbirth, but if I did find them, I could always preserve them in a clay pot.

  “A suitable person for midwife,” the author concluded, “will be literate, able to keep her wits about her, possessed of a good memory, a hard worker, respectable and not unduly handicapped, sound of limb, robust, and endowed with long, slim fingers and short nails at her fingertips. She should be of sympathetic disposition and keep her hands soft so as not to cause discomfort to mother or child. She should also be free of superstition so as not to overlook some beneficial measure on account of a dream or omen.”

  After reading the summary, I felt certain I would be a good midwife. Surely a woman who used common sense and followed the principles of the Torah would be more effective than one who surrounded herself with pagan idols and amulets. I would be a simple midwife, relying on cleanliness and HaShem’s design of the body. After all, who would better know how to care for a mother and child than the God who designed procreation?

  All I needed now was practice . . . and several heavily pregnant women.

  Chapter Twenty

  The sound of an approaching drumbeat pulled me to the doorway of the women’s hut. Anticipating our mistress’s arrival, Berdine had given each of us a clean tunic, then she had plaited my hair and sewn the plaits so they draped in loops around my head. Her attempt at hairdressing was a far cry from the fashionable arrangements Nuru used to create for me, but I thanked Berdine for her trouble.

  “I am hoping Domina likes you,” Berdine said, her generous nature shining on her face. “I do not know which god sent you to us, but you do not need to be picking grapes when you could be delivering babies or teaching someone to read. I am going to introduce you to Domina at exactly the right moment.”

  I leaned against the doorframe and watched from the shadows as a pair of horsemen came into view, followed by two slaves beating drums. After the drummers, three gilded litters arrived, surrounded by a large company of slaves. The first litter held a tall, thin youth in a white toga, whom I assumed was Gaius Octavian Caesar. The second litter carried Atia, our domina and mother to our master. The last was occupied by a young woman, whom I assumed to be Octavia, sister to Gaius Octavian. As the family members stepped out of their litters and approached the villa, I shrank back into the women’s hut. Young Gaius had the appearance of one who noticed everything, and I did not want to be spotted before Berdine could make proper introductions.

  I tried to remain quiet and calm, but I was hoping that her plan worked. Why should I risk my life trying to escape when my mistress might transport me to Rome? Berdine’s plan was far better than mine, and I looked forward to meeting the woman who could change my future in a moment.

  After arranging for the family’s refreshment and rest, Berdine came to the hut and grabbed my hand. “Here,” she said, handing me a pole with wide feathers at the end. “Domina has just complained about the heat. You know what to do.”

  I turned the fan and smothered a smile. As a youngster, I had sat beneath dozens of similar fans, though I had never held one. Nevertheless, I followed Berdine into the villa and silently moved to a position behind Domina, who was reclining on a couch. Carefully, I moved the fan back and forth in a constant rhythm.

  “Oh, that’s much better.” The woman adjusted the front of her dress and smoothed her throat. “Thank you, Berdine, for seeing to my comfort.” She glanced upward, her dark eyes fixing on me. “I do not recognize this one.”

  “Domina.” Berdine bent forward at the waist. “Chava has been with us over a year.”

  “So long?” The woman looked up, her eyes vacant and distracted. “Where was she acquired?”

  “Triton arranged for the delivery of more slaves a
fter the Gaulish woman died. But this one, my lady, is not suited for the farm.”

  Domina’s features hardened in a stare of disapproval. “Is she rebellious? I could have her whipped—”

  “No, not rebellious. Indeed, she is quite agreeable. Furthermore, she has been educated. She reads and writes. She is studying to be a midwife.”

  The noblewoman shuddered. “I simply do not understand why anyone would want to perform such work. The girl must be Greek.”

  “She comes from Egypt, my lady. From Alexandria.”

  “Have her present herself.”

  I lifted a brow, amused that the woman would not simply look up at me. But I lowered my fan, walked around the couch, and stood before her.

  “Why has the air stopped moving? This room is stifling.”

  Quickly, another slave stepped forward to take the fan.

  When the mistress pinned me in a long, silent scrutiny, I lowered myself to the floor and bowed.

  “Lift your head, girl.”

  I did as I was told.

  The mistress squinted at me. “You speak Greek?”

  “Yes, Domina. And Aramaic, Hebrew, and Latin.”

  “You read and write these tongues?”

  I nodded.

  “Speak, girl. Do not be impertinent.”

  “Yes, Domina.”

  “Read this.” She pulled a small scroll from her sleeve and handed it to me. I bowed as I accepted it, then lifted the seal and read the words: “My dear Atia: May the gods continue to favor you! We have missed you at our dinners, and would appreciate it if you would grace us with your presence again. Could you—”

  “Enough.” The woman held out her hand, and I returned the scroll.

  “Have you ever taught children?”

  “I have not, but I believe I could. Yet I would rather practice midwifery.”

  I had spoken honestly, openly—as I would have responded in Alexandria if someone had asked the question of me. But I had not answered as a slave.

  The woman stiffened as if I had struck her. “Do you think I care what you would rather do?”

  “Please, Domina.” Berdine stepped forward, her head low. “She has been studying hard; I am sure she spoke out of enthusiasm. She will serve you well in whatever capacity you choose. She is a clever girl, obedient and honest.”

  The woman shot me a penetrating look, then nodded at Berdine. “One thing is certain—we will not waste such a lovely thing out here in the wilds. When we pass this way on our return from the country, we will pick her up and take her to Rome. Now, girl—take the fan and keep the air moving before I expire.”

  As I resumed my place, the mistress smiled at Berdine. “I will see that extra sestertii is added to your wages this year. You have served us well.”

  I worried that Atia would forget her promise to return for me, so my nerves were strung as tight as a bowstring when the family caravan appeared on the road. After looking out of her litter to make sure I found a place in line, Atia uttered words that made my heart tremble: “Good. You will deliver my daughter’s baby.”

  Octavia was pregnant?

  Now I walked, shivering, toward the first real test of all I had learned in my study of midwifery. My mind vibrated with a thousand possibilities—I could make a mistake and kill the mother. I could kill the child, or I could kill them both. And this would not be just any mother and child, but relatives of Gaius Octavian Caesar, one of the men whose name carried great authority in Rome.

  The Octavii family did not travel lightly. I was one of many in a parade of slaves whose titles ranged from butler to kitchen slaves. The anteambulones went before the procession to clear the way for the family’s litters, and half a dozen maids followed Atia’s conveyance, carrying incidentals she might want on the journey: wraps, feathered fans, and fabric sunshades. Next came a pair of horses hitched to a cart that carried the family’s trunks and supplies, and finally, oiled and armored gladiators, matched pairs that walked at the beginning and end of the procession to provide a show of strength.

  We traveled for days, and though I would have gladly asked questions of the slaves who traveled with me, few of them seemed kindly disposed toward a newcomer. Those who did speak above a whisper were shushed by others, so we trudged silently northward, forcing other travelers from the road as our procession made its way to the city of seven hills.

  From what I had heard of Rome’s greatness, I expected to see another Alexandria rise from the hills in gleaming splendor. But the city that opened before me was nothing like my home. Rome had no seacoast, only the Tiber—a winding, muddy river that marked the city’s northern border. The streets were scarcely wide enough for a wagon, and serpentine, turning and twisting without warning.

  As we made our way to Palatine Hill where the Octavii family resided, we passed by tall buildings. The lower apartments were storefronts selling various goods, but evidence of renters—laundry, flower boxes, and balconies—appeared on higher stories. Wooden shutters framed the windows, and in several of those openings I spied men and women who looked down and pointed to our procession as we passed. These poorly constructed insulate housed dozens of families. I shuddered as we walked by, realizing that a single wayward spark could enflame one of these structures and consume every occupant within minutes.

  Palatine Hill, I later learned, had been built on ancient ruins that reportedly stretched back to the time of Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome. According to the story, the two infants, sons of Mars, had been abandoned on the flooded Tiber and washed up at the foot of the Palatine. There they were discovered by a she-wolf who nursed them until they were able to fend for themselves.

  I expected to see expansive homes of gleaming white limestone like those in Alexandria, but the houses of Rome were plain in comparison. The buildings seemed pathetically similar, brick structures finished in stucco and offering no windows except on the upper stories. I saw no gardens, no statuary, no fountains, and no sparkling colors to entice the eye. If grandeur resided in Rome, it must live on the inside of the buildings.

  We stopped outside a home that appeared larger than most. A mosaic path led from the street to the front door, yet other than a few potted palms, the open courtyard was unfurnished. The family members climbed from their litters. Amid a chorus of complaints about the length of the journey, they approached the carved front door. A slave opened it, bowed, and waited outside until they had all entered.

  Once the family was inside, the slaves seemed to slump in relief. Relaxed chatter filled the air like birdsong as the gladiators dismounted and walked their horses around the house, presumably to a stable. Several female slaves sat on the raised walkway along the side of the street and examined their blistered feet while others pulled baskets and trunks from the wagon.

  I stood alone and wondered if any of the other slaves would speak to me. A couple of them had hissed when I stepped out of formation on the journey, but none of them had proven as friendly as the slaves on the farm.

  Finally, a dignified man in a white tunic approached. “You.” He pointed to me. “Speak Latin?”

  He had addressed me in Aramaic, so I understood him easily. “Yes, but I am more fluent in Greek.”

  “I am Helios. Come with me.”

  We walked up to the house, where he opened the door. “Vestibule,” he said, pointing to the space between the door and the street. “And this is the ostium.” He pointed to the doorway.

  I nodded. Mosaic tiles covered the wide threshold, where someone had arranged light-colored tiles in the word Salve. Welcome. Above the doorway, embedded in the transom, tiles spelled Nihil intret malī. No evil may enter. I hoped the saying would prove true.

  Glancing around, I saw an older man sitting on a stool against the wall. “Doorman,” Helios said. Above the doorman’s head, the wall had been decorated with a mosaic featuring a chained dog. Across the bottom, Latin letters spelled Cave Canem! Beware of the dog!

  “Is there a dog?” I asked.

&n
bsp; He smiled for the first time. “Not anymore.”

  He peered into the next room, then held up his hand, warning me to wait. Looking over his shoulder, I saw Atia and Octavia conversing in an open doorway. When they went their separate ways, Helios motioned me forward. “We never walk through a room when a member of the family occupies it,” he said. “Walk around the house if you must, but never appear before the mistress unless you are summoned. Domina believes that slaves should do their work without being seen.”

  “A fine trick,” I muttered.

  Helios shot me a stern look. “You will learn how we do things here,” he said, “but it will take time. I am trying to make things easier for you.”

  “Sorry.” I offered a small smile. “Forgive me.”

  He led the way into the atrium, a room that reminded me of home. The large rectangular chamber featured a reflecting pool in the center. Above the pool, the ceiling opened to the sky, allowing light and air into the space. To the right and left I saw doorways leading into smaller rooms. I turned to my right, almost expecting to see my father at work on a manuscript.

  “The atrium,” Helios said, spreading his hands. “These smaller rooms are for dining, reading, or sleeping. Beyond the atrium”—he pointed to a wider doorway at the rear of the house—“is the peristylium, which features the garden and kitchen. You’ll spend most of your time there, unless someone in the family calls for you.”

  I nodded. “My home in Alexandria was similar. We preferred light colors, though, and not so much . . . red.”

  Helios grunted. “As much as I would love to discuss color palettes with you, I have no time for such foolishness. Let me introduce you to the man who really runs this house.”

  Already I had realized that urban slaves operated in an entirely different pecking order than those on the farm. At the top, Helios explained, was our mistress’s assistant, the amanuensis who wrote her letters and attended to her schedule. He was an educated Greek called Amphion.

  We found the man in the garden, where he was choosing linens from a basket. When he had finished, he looked at me. “And this is?”