The Eyes of Aurora

by Albert A. Bell, Jr.

  That wasn’t what Crispina had told us, but eyewitnesses almost always disagree about what they’ve seen. Thucydides noticed that, five hundred years ago.

  “My lord,” Jacob finally said. “I do need to return to Regulus’ house.”

  “Of course.” I escorted him to the door and thanked him for all the information he had given me. “Since Aurora is injured, I will have to find someone else to exchange information between my house and Regulus’ in that matter we spoke of earlier. I’d like to use Phineas. I consider him most trustworthy.”

  “I think you’ll find that Phineas, while entirely trustworthy, would rather not communicate with me.”

  “Why not?”

  “He and his mother consider me—and all Jews who become Christians—traitors to their faith and to their nation.”

  “Their nation no longer exists.”

  “Perhaps not in a physical sense.”

  “If not Phineas, then whom should I send?”

  “If I give you a name, my lord, you’ll suspect that person is a Christian.”

  “I’m already aware that some of my servants are Christians. I’ve not punished anyone.”

  “You sent some of them to your estate at Misenum.”

  How much did this man know about the inner workings of my house? “Being sent to live on the Bay of Naples hardly qualifies as punishment.”

  “True, my lord. And it has allowed them to spread the seed of the Word in another field.”

  There seemed to be some allusion to the plowman—the SATOR of the puzzle—in that statement, but I wanted to get back to Aurora. “If you name someone you trust, I will not make any inquiries about his or her beliefs, nor will I take any action against them. You have my promise.”

  “Very well, my lord. Dorias, one of your kitchen maids, should be your choice.”

  “Dorias? I thought she was one of Regulus’ spies. She’s been seen making frequent trips to his house.”

  Jacob laughed. “You need have no fear of her, my lord. She’s one of my flock. She comes to see me whenever she’s troubled. One thing I urge upon her is loyalty to her master.”

  “Very well then. Dorias it shall be.”

  As I returned to Aurora, I tried to digest what Jacob had told me, but some of it sat on my stomach like a disagreeable meal. Should I be worried that these Christians were cropping up in the most unexpected places? At least one of them was preparing the food I ate, but I had suffered no ill effects. Should the government take any action against them? I knew they were persecuted by Nero in the aftermath of the great fire. That was twenty years ago and Nero’s tortures were so brutal that people began to sympathize with the victims. Since then they had been ignored.

  We have persecuted other religions, if they threatened public order. Tiberius drove the cult of Isis out of Rome perhaps fifty years ago. According to Livy, a couple of thousand people were killed when the cult of Dionysus first appeared in Rome, over two hundred years ago. We Romans ask of a new religion not what do they believe but what do they do? Do they pose any threat to the community? Christians don’t seem to do much of anything, certainly nothing that endangers the rest of us. They have a distorted point of view that turns the world upside down, but does that threaten anyone else?

  *

  When I returned to my room Naomi was waiting outside the door, pulling a wrap over her shoulders against the chill of evening.

  “My lord, your mother wants to speak with you. Now.”

  I was taken aback by the stress she put on the word but too anxious about Aurora to object to it. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “Now, my lord. That was her very word and her emphasis.”

  Naomi walked in front of me, as befit the servant leading the master. In spite of her age and all she had endured in her life, she walked with a confident step. She was a sturdy woman, though not large, and her dark hair was showing a few streaks of gray. As we crossed the garden she seemed in no hurry, contrary to her stress on the word “now.” She paused as we came to the piscina.

  “My lord, may I say something about your mother?”

  “By all means. I’ve been concerned about her lately. She seems so confused.”

  “I know, my lord. I’ve urged her to talk with you about the problem, but she refuses.”

  “ ‘Problem’? What is the problem?”

  “A few months ago, my lord, while she was bathing, your mother found a lump in one of her breasts. The Greeks call it a karkinos. Any woman knows it is a death sentence.”

  My heart sank and my shoulders sagged. Tacitus had once told me that his mother found a lump in her breast. She died two years later. “What is it?”

  “We don’t know, my lord. But, whatever it is, the lump will grow and spread to other parts of her body.”

  I had trouble drawing a breath. “Are you telling me that my mother is dying?”

  “Yes, my lord. No one knows how long it will take. It could be a few months or it could be several years. But she is dying. She’s afraid, terribly afraid. She knows she was unkind to Aurora’s mother and she worries that now some god has afflicted her with the same disease that killed Monica.”

  “She thinks this is some kind of divine vengeance?”

  “Yes, my lord. She frets about it constantly. The worry is consuming her as much as the disease. It has left her unable to focus on other things. That’s why she forgets names and mixes things up. It’s also why she wants to see you married as soon as possible. She feels it’s her biggest duty to you, since your father and uncle are both dead.”

  “But one lump? Why does that mean she’s going to die?”

  Naomi held her hands up, as though surrendering to fate. “Women know this, my lord. We’ve seen it happen to our mothers and our sisters—even our daughters. Every time we bathe, we have a moment of dread. Is that a lump? No one knows what it is, but there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

  “I don’t believe that. We need to get a doctor in here—”

  “My lord, no doctor has ever found a cure.”

  I sat down on a bench beside the piscina, looking up at Naomi as though she might yet offer me some hope. What I really wanted was for her to hold me and let me cry. “There must be something I can do. I can’t just let her die.”

  Naomi sat down beside me and put a hand on my leg. I did not object. “All you can do, my lord, is go on caring for her as you always have and make her comfortable when the time comes.”

  Tacitus said his mother suffered greatly at the end. He wished she had killed herself, as some women have done, but she was afraid to leave Tacitus’ disabled brother with no one to care for him. If my mother was in pain, that might be a time for Democrites’ opiates.

  “Why didn’t she tell me herself?”

  “She doesn’t want you to know, my lord. You must not say anything to her about this.”

  “Why? Did you promise you wouldn’t say anything to me?”

  Naomi looked offended. “No, my lord. If I had promised that, I wouldn’t have said anything to you. Now, she’s waiting to talk with you.”

  I wasn’t aware of walking the rest of the way across the garden. My mother is dying, I kept thinking. Not long ago I had reminded myself that there were three people in the world I could not bear to lose. Now Tacitus had abandoned me, my mother was dying, and Aurora was blind and had rejected me.

  Naomi opened the door to my mother’s room and stood aside to let me enter. She did not follow me. My mother, reclining on her couch, gestured for me to take the chair across from her. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before I sat down.

  “Good evening, Gaius,” she began.

  “Good evening, Mother. You’re looking well.”

  She looked at me in a way that told me I should not have said that.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I asked before she could hatch any suspicions about what I had said.

  “It’s not an easy subject to broach, but we must.” She shifted on
her couch. “Livilla has told her mother that she does not want to marry you. I assume she has told you.”

  “Yes. She talked to me two days ago. Did she tell her mother why she decided this?” I was curious to hear what she said, if she didn’t tell the truth.

  “She said she realized that you live too dangerous a life. You’ve been injured several times recently and only barely escaped death in Naples last month. She doesn’t want to be a widow by the time she’s twenty.”

  “I see,” I said, trying to suppress my relief. “I’m surprised you’re only just now finding out about this. News of that sort usually travels much faster.”

  “Well, just as some travelers can claim priority on our roads, some news is more important than others. The news which Pompeia received from Spain yesterday took precedence.”

  “From Spain? Isn’t that where her older daughter—”

  “Yes. Her older daughter’s husband is dead.”

  “By the gods! What happened?” We weren’t at war with anyone in Spain. Government service there was essentially a matter of collecting taxes, building roads, and settling court cases. It shouldn’t be any more dangerous than walking across the Forum.

  “Liburnius slipped in their bath, hit his head, and fell into the water and drowned.”

  “It must have been a serious injury, if he didn’t revive when he hit the water.”

  “I’m told the wound was quite severe. There was a good deal of blood.”

  “Wasn’t there anyone with him in the bath?”

  “From what I understand, the servant who usually attends him had gone to the latrina for a moment.”

  “That’s tragic.” And very odd, I thought, that a man would receive such a hard blow merely from a fall in a bath, but I was probably overdramatizing the event. I couldn’t imagine what, in a bath, would cut him so badly. Then I chided myself. I’ve seen too many murders. By the time a report gets from Spain to Rome, a pinprick can become an open vein. “I guess it’s just as well we’re not planning a wedding now. We would have to postpone it to allow Pompeia’s family a proper period of mourning.”

  “They already have mourning wreaths up on their door. Poor Livia is due home with her husband’s ashes in a few days. The messenger who brought the news said she was not far behind him.”

  “Please give my condolences to Livilla and Pompeia. I’m sure they don’t want to see me right now.”

  “No, they don’t, and that is something we’ll have to talk about at another time. I’m too tired for such a difficult discussion right now.”

  Was that a clue to the effects of her disease? How could she not tell me about something so devastating? “I’ll let you rest then.” I stood up. “Please tell Pompeia that I’ll do anything I can to settle Liburnius’ estate, or whatever else needs to be done.”

  “Sit down. What you’re going to do is get married.” She said it without rancor but with absolute determination. “Before the end of the year.”

  “But, Mother—”

  “What? Do you have some objection to getting married?”

  My mother is dying, I heard myself thinking. How can I deny her anything?

  “No, Mother. But whom do you expect me to marry on such short notice?”

  “Naomi and I are working on a list. We’ll let you know when we’ve settled on someone.” She shifted her weight again, as though she couldn’t get comfortable. “Now, dear, I’m very tired. Please ask Naomi to come in.”

  * * *

  Poets are allowed to lie. Who said that? Virgil must have been lying. Like Gaius said, he had no idea what happened between Aeneas and Dido. They probably weren’t even real people. As Gaius said, the whole story might have been invented to explain why Rome and Carthage hate one another. What Dido said about her crime was probably put in just to make the meter come out right. The whole story has nothing real in it.

  What is real is the touch of Gaius’ hand on my breasts, between my legs—it feels so much better than when I do it—and that wonderful feeling when he’s poised over me and I can see the desire in his eyes, feel it in his husky breathing. Why should I be denied that just because my father sold me into slavery? Why should Gaius have to spend his life married to a woman he doesn’t love?

  That’s what is so unusual about Gaius. Funny that I couldn’t “see” it until I couldn’t see. He is capable of actually loving a woman. Ovid wrote all about “the art of love,” but what he meant was “the art of seduction.” For him it’s all a game that the man wins when he beds the woman. Gaius cares about me, but he knows he has a duty to marry, if not Livilla then some other high-born girl.

  I was foolish to say what I did in that cave. I was frightened. I hope Gaius can forgive me. If he won’t, that would be reason to kill myself.

  * * *

  I spent a long night moving from my bed to the garden. When I looked in on Aurora once, she seemed to be sleeping, which I could not do. The next morning I left the business of dealing with my clients at the salutatio to Demetrius so I could sit with Aurora. I told him that I would not see anyone, no matter how dire their story. “Just give them some money and tell them to come back tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere today, so I won’t need them.”

  “But, my lord, you promised Lucius Bibulus you would help him in his suit.”

  “I will, but not today.”

  Entering the room where Aurora had spent the night, I dismissed the two women who had stayed with her. We had positioned her in one corner of the room, with cushions around her so that she had to remain sitting up. She opened her eyes when she heard my voice.

  “Good morning…Gaius.”

  A wave of joy swept over me, made all the keener by the buffeting I had endured the previous day. But what if this was just another aberration caused by the blow to her head? I knelt before her. “I was afraid I would never hear you call me that again. Are you feeling better?”

  “Somewhat. I want to apologize for my outburst yesterday. I was frightened and didn’t know what I was saying. Can you forgive me?”

  “It’s forgotten. Don’t give it another thought.”

  “And I’m sorry I threw away the Tyche ring. It meant so much to both of us.”

  I slipped the leather strap with the ring on it over my head and placed it on her. She clasped the ring and her face lit up. “You found it!”

  “I wouldn’t have left there without it.” I placed my hand over hers and sat beside her.

  “Is it day now?” she asked.

  “Yes, almost the second hour.”

  We sat without talking for a while. The bruise on her forehead was still purple and ugly. When I touched it, she winced.

  Finally the noise from the atrium subsided. “My clients are gone. Let’s go for a walk. The doctor said you should be up and moving around.”

  Staying under the shade of the colonnade that surrounded the garden, I slipped her arm through mine and started toward the back of the house.

  “Gaius,” she whispered, trying to pull away, “everyone will see us.”

  “Let them.” I clamped my arm close to my side so she couldn’t slip away from me. During a restless night I had decided that I didn’t care who in my household saw me showing affection to her. I obviously couldn’t conceal how I felt as well as I thought I could.

  “You’re going to hear from your mother,” Aurora cautioned me.

  “I will deal with her when I have to. You don’t need to worry about that.”

  “At least you don’t have to worry about Livilla.”

  “Let’s not talk about all that.” How would I ever tell her that I would soon be engaged again and that I felt a stronger obligation than ever to go through with the marriage? “All you have to do is concentrate on getting well.”

  “Or learning how to live with being blind.”

  “Don’t talk like that. The doctor says you could wake up tomorrow with your sight restored.”

  “Or I could never see your sweet face again. I’ll accept it, if
I must. What good does it do to grieve over something that can’t be changed?”

  “We don’t know that it can’t be. The doctor didn’t say any such thing.” Not like with a karkinos.

  She leaned closer to me. “I’ll be all right, Gaius, whatever happens, as long as I know you’re with me.”

  “That’s one thing that will not change. I promise you that.”

  Aurora sighed deeply. “It is odd, not being able to see. It makes me more aware of sounds and smells. I can sense things going on around me that I didn’t notice before.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to become another Teiresias.” When he was struck blind by Juno, Teiresias was given prophetic powers—a ­different kind of sight—as compensation by Jupiter, since one god cannot undo what another god has done.

  “Would you believe me if I told you that I can tell when you’re looking at me and when you’re not?”

  “You should be able to figure that out from listening to where my voice is coming from.”

  “I can tell, even when you’re not speaking.”

  “Because you know I’m always looking at you.”

  She blushed. “Gaius, please, don’t. I’m serious. Try me.”

  Three times she was able to tell whether I was looking at her or not. It did seem like more than lucky guessing. She would cock her head, like an animal sniffing the wind or straining to hear some sound that came only to her ear.

  “That’s uncanny,” I said. “Perhaps you can use this newfound ability to explain why Crispina bolted, or where we should be hunting for Popilius.”

  “There is something odd about this whole business. Since you mentioned hunting, I feel like we’ve been given a false scent. Sitting in the dark, I can’t do much except think and listen. I’ve been thinking about the things Crispina said. Some of it doesn’t ring true.”

  We had reached the far end of the garden, beside the exhedra. Before I could ask her to explain just what she meant, Demetrius came into the garden and rushed up to us. “My lord, there are some people here—”

  “I told you I will not see anyone this morning,” I snapped. “Tell them to come back tomorrow, and I probably won’t see them then.”