by Angela Hunt
I had never heard of a proscription, but I knew my father would not have approved. This was not like the cleansing of the land when the Israelites entered Canaan, for the Canaanites had committed abominable practices and the land needed to be cleansed of their sin. As far as I could tell, many of the men on the proscription list had committed no crimes; they were on the list only because they were wealthy or because they had voiced an opinion critical of Antony, Lepidus, or Octavian. Since the Romans had gods who behaved like people, these three men took it upon themselves to behave like gods, deciding who lived and who died.
Since Rome had no organized force to carry out proscribed killings, nor a prison to incarcerate those who were marked for death, the proscription would be an open invitation to murder one’s neighbor and be rewarded for it.
That night I prayed that HaShem would somehow speak to my master and show him that such killing was nothing less than premeditated murder.
But if HaShem spoke to Octavian, he did not listen.
Within hours of the list’s publication, Roman streets ran with blood. Friends turned upon friends, fathers turned on their sons. Within moments, cherished wives became impoverished widows.
Dominus did not speak of the horrifying murders conceived beneath his roof, yet he enthusiastically approved. More than once I saw his face light with inspiration, then he jotted a name on a scroll, sealed it, and had one of the slave boys deliver it to Mark Antony, keeper of the proscription list.
For the next several weeks, horror and dread hung over Rome like a miasma. Former wives, disgruntled children, and creditors were the first to attack, but any privateer in hope of quick money could search for patricians in hiding and earn a fortune. Noblemen murdered each other in every conceivable fashion, then decapitated their victims in order to present evidence for the reward.
The slaves around me buzzed with stories: wealthy Romans were fleeing the city, abandoning their expensive togas in favor of simple tunics and rough mantles. Entire families slogged through the filthy sewers, breathing through their mouths as they held hands and hurried toward the country where they hoped to live in anonymity. Others climbed into the soot-covered rafters of their homes, baking beneath the sun’s heat as looters ransacked the house in search of its occupants or their treasures.
As many as three hundred senators were murdered—among them Cicero, a leading Senate spokesman—and up to two thousand equites. In short, all those who had supported the concept of a self-governing Roman republic were eliminated.
One story in particular chilled me: One republican nobleman went into hiding when he discovered his name on the evolving proscription list. His wife, Turia, took all her gold and jewelry and sent it to her husband so he could afford to feed himself in hiding.
When the proscription ended several weeks later, Octavian pardoned Turia’s husband. But Lepidus, who was in charge of affairs in the city of Rome, refused to acknowledge Octavian’s decision. Turia went to Lepidus, prostrated herself before him, and asked him to recognize her husband’s pardon. He did not extend his hand in mercy and lift her up, but had her dragged away and flogged.
My master, Octavian, was not at all pleased when he heard the news. The other slaves seemed not to care about Dominus’s political fate, but I knew our destinies were tied up in his. Though the Triumvirate came through the proscription united, I spotted cracks in the façade.
And I told myself that no people on earth were more scheming and bloodthirsty than the Romans.
I kept thinking of something I had once read from Euripides: “Those whom God wishes to destroy, he first makes mad.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The hour I had dreaded finally arrived.
Two weeks after the conclusion of the Saturnalia festival, an insistent shaking of my shoulder woke me from a deep sleep. Sabina crouched next to me, her eyes huge and glistening in the lamplight. “Come!” she hissed, pinching my arm to bring me fully awake. “Octavia has begun her travail.”
I sat up, pulled my hair back and tied it with a leather strip, then slipped into a clean tunic and searched for the basket I had filled with materials. I nodded at Sabina and followed her to the bedroom Octavia had been using. Her elderly husband, Gaius Marcellus, sat on a chair beside the bed, his face pale in the dim light.
“Bring more lamps,” I told Sabina, “and a basin of clean water.”
I walked to the old statesman, who seemed bewildered to find himself amid so many women. “Would you rather wait in the garden, sir? There’s a lovely moon in the sky.”
He took my none-too-subtle hint and pulled himself out of the chair. “You will call me when my son arrives?”
“Or your daughter.” I stepped aside to let him pass.
I lingered a moment in the doorway. “HaShem, author of life and children,” I whispered, closing my eyes, “guide my hands tonight.” In a flash that was barely comprehendible, a name came to me: YHVH Tzva’ot, YHVH of angel armies. Armies that inspired confidence.
When I opened my eyes, Octavian stood before me, clad only in a light robe. “Chava,” he said, his eyes gleaming black and dangerous in the lamplight, “my mother took you off the farm because you assured her you could deliver a baby. But know this—if you have lied, or if any harm comes to my sister or her child, I will have you beaten to death.”
He spoke in a clear and calm voice, meaning every word. My stomach tightened further as Octavian stepped back and nodded. “Now do your work.”
YHVH Tzva’ot, may your angel armies assist me tonight.
I turned to Sabina and took the basin she held. “Now,” I told her, my voice trembling, “I need you to wake Amphion and ask about the stool I had the carpenter build. When you have found it, bring it here.”
“A stool?”
“Amphion will know. I need it.”
While Sabina hurried away, I nodded at Octavian, then turned to my patient. Octavia was a healthy young woman, neither malnourished nor obese, and should have a normal delivery. She was dozing, one hand on her bare belly and the other tucked beneath her pillow. She did not seem to suffer from any of the emotional excesses that might cause a difficult delivery. Grief, joy, fear, anger, or extreme indulgence, I had read, could make things difficult for mother and midwife alike.
I took my supplies from my bag and arranged them next to the water basin: a small container of clean olive oil, soft sea sponges, squares of wool, swaddling cloths, a pillow, a sharp blade, and a bit of woolen string. One pregnant mother. One midwife. One birthing stool on the way.
I blew out a breath and sat to observe my patient. Dominus paced outside the doorway, though I tried to ignore him as I took deep breaths to calm my pounding heart. I was beginning to think we had responded to a false report when Octavia opened her eyes, bit her lip, and screamed through clenched teeth.
“Shhh,” I said, rising to help her. “Breathe deeply. When the pain comes, purse your lips and pant like a dog. You will be fine.”
She obeyed, but her gaze kept flicking at my face as she panted. When the pain had passed, she relaxed and looked directly at me. “Who are you?”
“Chava. Your mother brought me from the farm, remember? ”
“Vaguely.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you certain you know what you are doing?”
I forced a smile. “With help from my God, I know I can do this.”
A wry grimace crossed her face. “I am not so sure of my god—even though I sacrificed a goat to her yesterday.”
Octavia rose onto her elbows to brace for another pain as Sabina appeared in the doorway. “Amphion says your stool did not arrive.”
I felt my stomach drop. “What?”
Everything I had learned—everything I knew—depended on having a proper birthing stool. I had ordered a stool exactly like the one pictured in the scroll. It would have armrests for the mother to grasp during delivery. It would have a sturdy back against which the mother would press her hips in order to push. The front of the seat would feature a
crescent-shaped cutout through which the baby would be delivered. I would have assistants stand at the back and sides of the stool in order to keep the chair from moving.
How could I properly deliver a baby without a stool? I had caught Barabell’s baby, but Barabell was a slave, and she had positioned herself like a cow. Octavia, on the other hand, was a highborn lady and not about to get on the floor. I had been brought to Rome to provide her with the best possible birthing experience. . . .
I closed my eyes. What would Urbi do? She would smile and pretend she had always meant for the situation to unfold this way. Then she would work her magic and charm everyone in the room.
“Sabina.” I pasted on a reassuring smile. “I would like you to find a clean cloth and soak it in the warm olive oil. Then go find another slave, someone Octavia knows and trusts, and bring her back with you.”
Sabina hurried away while I stood in the doorway and watched her go. I felt as though I stood at a crossroad, one path leading to midwifery and home, the other leading to a lifetime of slavery. Both paths held risks and dangers.
I could call for Octavian, tell him I’d been wrong to mislead him, and urge him to send for an experienced midwife. He’d be angry and he might have me beaten, but he wouldn’t kill me.
Or I could turn and go to Octavia, comfort her, and trust in the God of angel armies.
I drew a deep breath and turned toward my mistress’s bed.
Six hours later, Octavia was no closer to delivering her child. She was no longer drowsy or relaxed, but suffering in the grip of regular pains and terrified that something had gone wrong. Furthermore, for the last several minutes I had been able to see the child—but not his head. Instead I saw pale-blue flesh, a smooth section of what looked like a baby’s bottom.
“Something’s wrong,” I mouthed to Sabina while Marcellus held his wife’s hand and chanted prayers to Juno Lucina. “The head is supposed to be the first thing to appear. Instead, I see hind parts.”
“Then pull it out,” Sabina said, staring past me at the weeping woman. “Our mistress suffers.”
I grabbed a linen square and wiped perspiration from my forehead. The baby had to come out, that much was certain. But how? I had wanted to use a birthing stool; barring that, the ideal position was to have the woman lean against another person. Marcellus might possibly support his wife, and if not, Sabina would oblige. But this baby was not behaving like the other I had handled. This infant was upside down and appeared to be stuck at the mouth of the womb.
I lifted the lid off the crock of olive oil and poured a generous amount into my palm. “Mistress,” I said, offering Octavia an unsteady smile, “I am going to pull your baby out. Master, would you sit behind your wife and hold her as she labors?”
Marcellus gave me the wide-eyed look of a man who has just been asked to stand on his head. “I will not.”
“Sabina?”
Nodding reluctantly, Sabina climbed onto the hard mattress and positioned herself between Octavia and the wall.
“Mistress Octavia, please take Sabina’s hands and squeeze as often and as hard as you like. I am going to begin now.”
I moved the lamp closer to the bed, then slid two oiled fingers between the baby’s leg and the flesh that held him captive. I could see the child’s buttocks and part of its thighs, but all movement had stopped. As Octavia screamed, I placed my left hand beneath the little body and turned him so that his back faced the ceiling. Then I slid one of my oiled fingers under his little leg, pushed upward slightly, and freed it from the womb.
The leg dangled freely, and the resulting movement elicited a shift in the baby’s body, bringing down the other leg, as well. Elated by this progress, I patted the little body and considered how I should proceed. The arms would have to be freed, but how? I bit my lip, then turned the body until the child’s back—completely covered by skin, thanks be to HaShem—faced the wall. I slid an oiled finger beneath the flesh of the womb and felt the little arm. As Octavia groaned, I hooked it with my finger, then gently but firmly pulled it toward me. An arm appeared, with a hand and five tiny digits. Smiling, I turned the slippery body again and repeated the procedure. A second arm soon dangled in the empty space.
Now . . . the shoulders and head. If I did not get this right, the child might die. Might already have died as I dithered in indecision.
I again turned the baby so that his back faced the ceiling. With my right hand supporting his belly and the other on his back, I slid the fingers of my oiled right hand into the birth canal and stopped when I felt the tip of a nose. I spread my fingers, taking care not to touch the child’s eyes, then used both hands to pull, changing the angle when I felt resistance. In one smooth movement, the mother’s body yielded and the infant slipped out. I lifted a perfectly formed baby boy and held him up for his parents to see.
I placed the child on a pillow, then used a rough towel to swipe a layer of mucus from his face. Almost immediately the baby began to cry, and Octavia’s cries of distress became sobs of joy.
I used a sea sponge to clean the newborn with warm water, then swaddled him tightly and gave him to his mother. And then, weak with relief and humbly grateful, I looked at Marcellus . . . and saw nothing but approval and pleasure in his dark eyes.
Somehow I had successfully handled a difficult birth and needed neither hyena nor amulet to do it.
Only Adonai.
After I proved myself to Dominus, he told Amphion that I could be hired out as a midwife. Rome was so densely populated that I could have kept busy no matter who my master was, but because I belonged to Gaius Octavian Caesar, nine or ten wealthy pregnant women attempted to hire me every week. Amphion decided which babies I would deliver and demanded a high price for my services.
When I explained Shabbat to him, he was considerate enough to reserve one day in seven when I would be free from working as a midwife, though I would still be expected to serve in the household. “I cannot have the other slaves considering you an exception,” he said, jotting notes to himself. “But one day of rest will be good for you. We would not want you to be so overtaxed that you make a fatal mistake.”
Like thousands of other slaves, I surrendered the idea of escaping. Running away might have been possible in the country where one could hide in ditches and caves, but it would be nearly impossible in Rome, for clothing marked the man and woman on the city streets. A man’s toga, or lack of it, left no question as to his status, and a respectable matron could easily be identified by her stola, a garment that covered her inner tunic and fell to the floor. When a woman went out in public, her stola commanded respect: men made way for her in the streets, and she was always given a place at the theater or at public games. Prostitutes, women condemned for adultery, and slaves were forbidden to wear the stola. A slave caught masquerading in a stolen stola would surely be put to death.
Roman Sumptuary Laws decreed that only male citizens be allowed to wear togas, so those without a toga over their tunic were either slaves or freedmen. Prepubescent boys wore a white toga with a purple border, but once they reached seventeen they donned the all-white toga virilis. Men in mourning or disgrace wore dark-colored togas, while the highest-ranking officers of the Senate wore the purple-and-gold-embroidered toga picta. Senators and sons of senators were allowed the privilege of the lotus clavus, a broad purple stripe on the tunic, while equestrians—tax collectors, bankers, builders, and other wealthy businessmen—wore tunics with a slightly narrower stripe.
The laws had been purposefully engineered so that anyone could read anyone else’s social status with one glance, and anyone who dressed above his or her station was severely punished. Watchful eyes constantly probed the crowds, noting and judging, and for every man who was too self-absorbed to care about the milling throng, there were ten others who would sell their children if it meant collecting a bounty for reporting a lawbreaker.
I was amazed when Amphion explained the Sumptuary Laws that governed banquets, festivals, and private spendin
g. Banquets were limited to a certain number of guests, and expenses had to be kept below a certain amount, depending on the festival. Coming from Alexandria, where every party was lavish and every banquet an overflowing feast, I thought the Romans tightfisted in comparison. But it was all done, Amphion explained, to keep the classes in their proper place. “You cannot have an equestrian outspending a senator,” he said, “even though he may have the money. Everyone else would overspend to keep up with the equestrian’s example, and then we’d have impoverished senators.” He shook his head. “Chaos would result. Utter chaos.”
So I committed myself to the task of working for my freedom. Each morning I reported to Amphion, who gave me my assignment. If a summons came at any other time, he found me and reported that a woman had gone into labor.
One morning, about six months after the successful delivery of Octavia’s son, Amphion smiled as he gave me directions to the home of a wealthy patrician family. “They are paying twenty-five denarii for your services,” he said, his mouth curving in a one-sided smile. “Congratulations. Not even a scribe earns as much for a single day’s work.”
“Twenty-five denarii . . .” I closed my eyes and translated denarii into drachmas. “That is quite a lot.”
Amphion nodded. “If you were free, you could live well on that wage.”
A surge of happiness flowed through me. “Good. I will earn my freedom quickly.”
Amphion held up a warning finger. “Do not be hasty. Were you bought at a great price?”
Happiness surged again. “I was bought for practically nothing. I was sick and purchased in a lot from a slave ship. They could not have paid much for me.”
“But your purchase price is only part of the equation. You must consider your present worth as well. You are a slave who brings in twenty-five denarii each time you go out the door. You are literate, you are lovely, and your patients shower you with favor. You also belong to Octavian Caesar, so your status has a certain weight. To purchase your freedom, you will need a great deal more than you realize.”