by Angela Hunt
Disappointment struck like a blow to my stomach. I caught my breath, reluctantly adjusting to this sudden shift in perspective. A moment ago I had been certain I would be on my way to Egypt within a few months, but my journey might yet be years away.
I swallowed hard as grief shredded my heart. “I had better get to work.”
“Good thinking.”
I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and again asked Amphion how to find the address where I was needed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Amphion, may I ask a question?”
The old man lifted his head and stared as if surprised I could speak. “Yes?”
“I am so pleased that I work steadily for you. It occurred to me I could support you better and handle more women if I had an assistant.”
“You need help?” Amphion released a sharp laugh. “You seemed perfectly capable when you delivered Octavia’s son.”
“Thank you. But if I could train another slave—Sabina, for instance—she could deliver a child at one woman’s home while I delivered at another. And if either of us had difficulty, we could call on the other for assistance.”
Amphion looked at me through half-closed eyelids, then stared at the wall, thought working in his eyes. “And you could both earn . . . mmm.” He faced me again. “When would you like to train her? How long would it take?”
“Not so long. Sabina does not read, so I would have to teach her everything I have learned, but after ten deliveries or so, she ought to have a good understanding—”
“Make it five deliveries,” Amphion said, smiling. “Teach her quickly so she can begin to earn sooner.”
I folded my hands in gratitude, then went in search of Sabina.
I found her in the bathhouse, tending the fire that heated the water. “It is settled,” I told her. “You will go with me on my next five deliveries. Then you will begin to work by yourself.”
“Chava! Thank you!” She squeezed my arms, then clapped her hands to her face. “You are so clever and so kind to do this for me. Not only will I be freed from this bathhouse, I will be able to buy my freedom and marry Duran. And I’ll have a skill, so I can earn a living to help support us.”
“In time,” I said, lifting a warning finger, “for there is much to learn. I will read my midwifery book to you whenever we can get away. I want you to be fully prepared in case something goes wrong.”
She grinned and threw her arms around me for a quick hug. “What could possibly go wrong? The gods are smiling on me!”
As I hurried from my master’s house to a waiting pregnant woman, I could almost forget I was a slave. Indeed, if I had worn something other than a simple slave’s tunic, a passerby might think I was a member of an outstanding family. I walked with a slave boy who carried my birthing chair. On hot days, Amphion sent an additional slave with a parasol to shade me from the sun, reasoning that it wouldn’t do for me to arrive hot and sweaty from exertion. And when I lifted a newborn in my hands and accepted praise and thanks from the happy mother and her attendants, I blushed with pleasure, realizing I was exercising a gift HaShem had graciously given me. A gift and a skill I could employ anywhere, at any time, no matter what my status.
On other occasions, however, when I remained in Dominus’s home, Amphion would call on me to serve guests, rub the master’s feet or scrub the stepping-stones that led from the curb to the front door. On those days I felt very much like property.
At least I was not alone. Sabina was often required to assist me with various duties, so when we were not dispensing wine, offering platters of fruit, or fanning guests, we would retreat into the shadows and talk about midwifery.
One night Amphion called for me, looked me over with a critical eye, and gave me a gown of sheer material. “Wear this when you serve tonight,” he said, his tone clipped. “Dominus is entertaining a group of friends.”
I had only to hold up the garment and peer through it to realize what sort of entertainment Dominus had requested. “Are these men expected to stay—?”
“Not your place to ask questions,” Amphion snapped. “Now go make yourself appealing. Dominus will not want his guests to be disappointed.”
I sighed heavily, then went downstairs to the slaves’ rooms to change into the diaphanous garment. Sabina had already changed, and when she stepped out from behind a stack of boxes, the blush on her cheeks spoke volumes.
“Have you had to do this sort of entertaining before?” I asked, pulling my regular tunic over my head.
She ran her fingers over her hair, smoothing it. “Our master is not much given to pleasures of the flesh, so he does not entertain like this often. His mother, while she lived, much preferred to be the center of attention, so she would never dress us this way. But this is Rome, where it is considered manly to pursue fleshly pleasures.” She pulled her long hair back, tied it with a leather strip, and turned to face me. “How do I look?”
I blew out a breath. I had seen such sheer garments in Egypt, where the ancients saw nothing wrong with displaying the female form.
I gave her a reluctant nod. “Dominus will be pleased.”
The gathering was not as large as I had expected. Octavian had invited his sister and her elderly husband, along with his two closest comrades, Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa and Gaius Cilnius Maecenas. Dinner had been served in the peristylium, and afterward the five of them lounged on couches around the atrium’s reflecting pool.
Maecenas, who was witty and talkative throughout the dinner, was clearly taken with Sabina, as he often called her to his side and held her close as she poured his wine.
Deducing that Dominus had asked for me and Sabina so he could impress the two single men, I let Sabina work Maecenas’s side of the room while I stood near Agrippa. That young man remained quiet and did not touch me, though I often felt the pressure of his gaze.
The quintet talked of many things—young Marcellus, Octavia’s growing toddler; Mark Antony’s decision to name Herod and his brother Phasael as tetrarchs in Judea; and Antony’s decision to winter at Alexandria with Cleopatra.
Small prickles of unease nipped the back of my neck at the mention of Cleopatra’s name. Though I would never forget her, the hard work of midwifery, coupled with the task of training Sabina, had freed me from obsessing over Urbi. But no matter where I went, I could not escape my childhood friend. She was with me in that warm atrium, her charms evident even though she was far away. . . .
Octavia’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she lifted her cup. “They say Antony is quite smitten with her.”
“The people of Tarsus are still talking about the banquet she threw for him,” Octavian said.
“Banquet?” Maecenas looked from Octavian to his wife. “What banquet?”
Octavia smiled. “Twelve banquet rooms,” she said. “Thirty-six couches, glimmering with embroidered tapestries. Tableware set with semiprecious stones, rose petals knee-deep. And above their heads, a lace of lights strung through the tree branches.”
Agrippa frowned. “How did she manage—?”
Octavia continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “And the woman herself—draped in jewels, dangling earrings, and a plea to excuse her appearance; she had dressed in a hurry and would do better next time.” Octavia snorted softly. “The woman simply knocked him off his feet.”
Octavian lifted his cup for me to refill. “No doubt she has a flair for the dramatic.”
I barely suppressed a smile. If he only knew the extent of Urbi’s talents.
“I heard,” Maecenas said, “she allowed Antony and his guests to take all the furnishings after the meal. Every man present carried away couches, tapestries, litters, horses, and Ethiopian slaves.”
I pressed my lips together, imagining how the slaves would have been dressed. They were probably wearing less than I.
“Antony tried to reciprocate by giving a feast for Cleopatra,” Octavia went on, smiling at her husband. “But he was completely unable to compete. So he poked fun at himse
lf, describing his banquet as ‘meager and rustic.’ Instead of being offended, Cleopatra laughed at him as he had laughed at himself. When he was coarse, so was she; when he belched, so did she.”
“Really!” Maecenas gaped.
“Then she introduced Antony to her son, her co-ruler. Ptolemy XV. The so-called son of Caesar.”
I tilted my head, confused by what I had heard. Ptolemy XIV was her co-ruler as far as I knew; she had married young Sefu after Omari died in the Alexandrine War. So Caesarion could not be her co-regent . . .
“At least this one has a good chance of surviving,” Marcellus said. “The first died during the war, and they say she poisoned the second a few months after Caesar’s death. All to make way for her son, of course.”
My arm began to tremble so violently that I turned and rested the heavy pitcher on a pedestal. Cleopatra poisoned Sefu? She who used to tell me that she feared being murdered by her siblings? I did not want to believe it, but I felt the truth like the solid stone beneath my feet. In order to advance her agenda, Cleopatra would not hesitate to kill her brother, and poison was a quiet way to commit the deed.
I should have realized what she would do. She could have but one co-regent. Once she decided that Caesarion should share her throne, sweet Sefu was doomed.
In the curve of my back, a single drop of perspiration navigated the course of my spine. Cleopatra could be warm, charming, bright, and lovely—until her purposes were thwarted. Then, as coolly as any of her royal ancestors, she could destroy even a friend.
A shiver spread over my shoulders as I remembered something Urbi once told me. “A ruler labors under a peculiar disadvantage,” she had said. “Though he can protect himself from his enemies by arranging his friends about him, he has no one to protect him from his friends.”
Urbi had gotten it wrong. Her friends needed someone to protect them from her.
“Cleopatra has a—” I snapped my mouth shut, unable to believe I had actually begun to speak my thoughts. A slave did not speak while serving her master, and she did not join in conversations with guests.
Maecenas’s brows rose. “Did that one say something?”
I backed away, hiding my face in shadow.
“Did she?” Dominus stood and grabbed my arm. “Slave, did you speak?”
“I am sorry, Dominus.” I lowered my gaze. “The words . . . slipped out.”
“You spoke as if you knew something about Cleopatra.” Octavia leaned toward me, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Finish your thought. If you’ve heard a rumor, I am sure we would all like to hear it.” She smiled a bright smile, yet I couldn’t tell if she was being friendly or merely toying with me.
I glanced at Dominus, Octavia, and Agrippa, in whose eyes I saw nothing but kind concern. “I grew up in Alexandria,” I said, my gaze flitting over the circle of faces to measure their reactions to my words. “I knew Cleopatra.”
“Well, of course you did.” Maecenas shook his head as if I were an idiot. “The entire country knew their future queen, surely.”
“She was not a queen in those days,” I continued as something like pride slipped into my voice. “She was my friend. And she has always had a changeable nature . . . and a gift for measuring people, no matter what language they speak or what status they hold. She is a chameleon.”
I glanced around the circle again, wondering if I’d said too much, but Octavian and his guests were looking at each other, their eyes sending silent signals I could not discern. Were they inwardly laughing? Would I be punished later?
“Thank you,” Dominus finally said, dismissing me with a quick bend of two upraised fingers. “We will send for you when we have an urgent need for insight into the minds of other royal leaders.”
Flushing, I backed out of the room, then walked quickly to the kitchen, where I lowered my pitcher and pressed my lips together. Thanatos stood near the back wall, stealing leftovers from the dinner trays, and his brows rose when he saw me. “Serving Dominus’s guests tonight?”
“I was,” I answered, realizing that not only had I paraded myself before Romans, now I was providing a show for a fellow slave. “But I am done. I am going to change—”
“I wouldn’t,” Thanatos said, idly popping a fig into his mouth. “Until the master’s guests have departed.”
I turned as Amphion entered. His brows lifted when he saw me. “You left the master?”
“He sent me away.”
“Do not go far. He has two male guests, and he had me prepare two rooms. I have a feeling you will be summoned again.”
I was waiting in the shadowed hallway when I heard Dominus bid his guests good-night. Octavia and Marcellus departed for their new home, but Maecenas and Agrippa were invited to stay in guest chambers. “I hope you rest well,” Octavian called as they went into their rooms.
I turned, about to head back to the kitchen when I heard footsteps behind me. “Slave.”
I froze. “Dominus?”
“Agrippa has asked for you. He is in the second chamber.”
I drew a deep breath. “Shall I . . . would he like to hear music?”
A smile slid into Dominus’s voice. “You’ll have to ask him.”
With my heart in my throat, I left my master and walked slowly toward the room where Agrippa waited.
I argued with myself as I walked to Agrippa’s room. By some miracle of HaShem’s grace, I had never been forced to lie with a man. Yet I knew what my master considered me—a profitable slave, an attractive creature to be used for men’s pleasure and service. Perhaps I was naïve to think I could avoid the situation looming in that guest room.
To further complicate the situation, Agrippa was not the sort of man who repulsed me. He had been coming to the master’s house long enough for me to know he was not from a noble family. He and Octavian had become friends when they met at school, and their friendship seemed to be based on knowledge, trust, and mutual acceptance. I did not think Agrippa a bad person, and if he insisted on taking me to his bed, I would not think of him as evil for behaving like thousands of other Roman men.
But what would I think of myself? And if Yosef knew what I was doing, what would he think of me?
Perhaps I was foolish to think of Yosef. He had probably found a wife in Jerusalem and settled down to raise a family. I was only a distant memory, so he wasn’t thinking of me at all.
I reminded myself that Agrippa was not a Jew. He was as Roman as Caesar, and as a Roman he worshiped a host of gods and goddesses, he offered sacrifices to graven images, and he considered marriage little more than convenient arrangement. The Romans considered sex one of many sensual pleasures; they did not look at it as the cleaving of two souls that had become one in marriage. I could still hear my father’s voice in my ear: “The physical union of a man and woman is HaShem’s illustration of unity, and its blessing is new life. Always treat it with reverence, and always revere the husband Adonai brings you.”
HaShem had not brought me a husband, nor had He given me a man who could understand what I had been taught about love and marriage. So what was I to do?
I could ignore my master’s order and go to my own bed, but on the morrow I would be flogged within an inch of my life. Even worse, I would lose my master’s trust. He could send me back to the farm, forbid me from practicing midwifery, or sell me to someone far more brutal.
And I would never see my family again.
I released a sigh as I knocked on the door of the guest room. When I heard “Enter,” I placed my hand on the latch and went in.
Agrippa was sitting on the edge of the couch, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I was about to untie my sandals,” he said, indicating his intricately laced shoes. “I suppose you’ll want to do that?”
Was that all he needed? I sank to the floor and reached for the laces, desperately hoping he only wanted someone to help him prepare for bed.
“I have noticed you before,” he said, his voice warm in the room. “Octavian tells me you a
re a midwife.”
I kept my eyes lowered as I undid the leather laces. “That’s right.”
“You were by far the loveliest girl in the room tonight. Perhaps the loveliest girl I have seen in all of Rome.”
When I pulled the last shoe from his foot, he stood and held out his arms. For an instant I thought he meant to embrace me, then I realized he was waiting for assistance with his toga. I hurried forward and lifted the toga from his tunic, preserving the intricate folds as I draped it over the back of a chair.
Agrippa came toward me again, his gaze dropping from my eyes to my shoulders.
I closed my eyes, knowing what was expected of me. A good slave, an obedient slave, would offer herself to her master’s guest, allowing him to do whatever he wanted, for she was only a thing, a commodity, a possession offered by a generous master. Any other slave in the house, male or female, would have freely done so, knowing that to refuse meant a whipping or even worse.
But I—
“I am not like the other slaves.” The words spilled out of my mouth before I could stop them.
“Really? How so?” Agrippa’s hand was on my shoulder, his fingers tugging at the brooch that supported my gown.
“I am . . . precious to my father.” I did not know where the words came from; I had never spoken or thought them before that moment. But when I looked up into Agrippa’s face, I saw traces of mild confusion, accompanied by a suggestion of humor at his mouth. “You have a father?”
“Everyone has a father, but mine taught me about the acts of love and marriage, and this is not what they are meant to be.”
He withdrew his hand, then stretched out on the couch, bending his elbow and propping his head on his hand as he smiled. “This should be entertaining. Will you show me what they are meant to be?”
“I will tell you, if you like.”
“A slow start, but we are making progress. May I have your name?”
“Chava.”