In a quick flick, Botilda split the fabric of the tunic up to Delia’s breasts and deftly layered it there for warmth. The midwife touched the soldier’s arm and he relaxed his grip. Botilda sat back and took Delia’s hand.
“All right, dear. I need you to take short, quick breaths when the next contraction starts. Like this.” The Roman woman pursed her lips and began showing Delia the breathing technique.
Delia mimicked the motion and Seneca could see her squeezing the woman’s hands until they turned pale.
“Good, dear,” Botilda said, taking her hands away. She pulled the cork from the olive oil with her teeth and slathered her hands in it, handing it to Seneca when she was done.
Coating Delia’s belly with the oil, she expertly ran her hands over the quivering flesh, pushing here, lifting there, her eyes closed during the examination.
“We need to see where the baby is, dear.” She lifted her gaze to the soldier. “What is your name?”
“Rutilius, ma’am.”
“I am going to lift your legs, Lady, and Rutilius here is going to help hold them up for me. Are you ready?”
Delia nodded and closed her eyes.
“Get a good grip on them, son. Keep them spread, but only as far as I guide you.” She lifted Delia’s right leg and Rutilius’ large hand wrapped below the knee without effort.
When she lifted the second leg, a piercing scream escaped Delia’s lips. Botilda wasted no time getting the knees into Rutilius’ hands and then reaching around Delia’s belly to get it repositioned.
Seneca checked on the rags to cover his bout of helplessness. They were warm, almost hot. He gingerly bundled them together and brought them to the midwife.
“Place them on her belly for now,” she said, using her hands to clear away the blood between Delia’s spread legs.
Seneca placed them and the midwife sat back with a sigh.
“Something is wrong,” Delia said through clenched teeth.
“Nothing is wrong, child.” She brought a reassuring hand up to her arm and patted it. “It is just that the child is closer than I thought. I can see his head. You are not quite large enough to pass him without tearing. I will help you, but you must follow my instructions precisely.”
Botilda removed one of the rags from Delia’s belly and handed it to Seneca. At the same time, she took her left fingers and began massaging the opening.
Seneca stared in awe watching the tiny head crown the entrance.
“Give the rag to Rutilius. You can release her legs now.”
The stunned soldier let Delia’s legs go and reached over for the rag, apparently thinking he would use it to massage the top part of the belly. The old woman chuckled and glanced up at the big man.
“Not on her belly. Reach beneath her and press it firmly against her anus.”
Rutilius’ mouth hung open as he stared at her. “Not seriously.”
Botilda increased the massaging with her left hand and moved the right to push against the top of Delia’s belly. “Quite seriously, soldier. To keep the muscles inside her from popping out. Do it now.”
The color rose in the praetorian’s cheeks and he wrapped the rag around his hand. With amazing gentleness, he glided the hand underneath Delia’s buttocks and slid it over her anus.
“Forgive me, Lady,” he stammered.
Seneca was certain this was more frightening for the young man than any battle.
“All right now. You,” she said to Seneca, “push down on her belly, here and here. Gently, slowly. I will guide you.”
Seneca was amazed at how hot the oiled skin was under his trembling fingertips.
“Now listen to me, dear,” Botilda said to Delia, “you are going to want to push with the next contraction. You must not do that. Not yet. I will tell you when it is safe to push. Just do your breathing.” The older woman locked eyes with the younger and the two of them exchanged short, rapid breaths.
Seneca could feel the contraction vibrating through his hands as he massaged the oily skin. The tiny breaths came out faster and faster, until they became rasping gasps.
“I have to push,” Delia finally hissed through her teeth, tears pouring down her cheeks.
“You cannot push.” Botilda put an index finger in front of her eyes. “Focus here, on my eyes. Now breathe.”
The two women fell into rhythm with the quickened pants and Seneca found himself joining them. When he glanced up, Rutilius had his lips puckered out as well.
Three more contractions came and went in rapid succession, but the midwife would not let Delia push. Each time Delia’s demands grew more urgent.
Seneca looked down at her after the third and did not like her color; she was as pale as the moon and her eyes were drooping. He worried she would not be strong enough if the baby did not come soon.
Finally, on the next contraction, Botilda allowed Delia to push and the queen’s high-pitched screech left Seneca’s ear ringing. The midwife expertly manipulated the opening without tearing it until the baby’s head popped through and Seneca saw an ear and then another. With another push, the head came out completely, looking purple-blue, blood red, and milky white. The woman put her slender fingers inside the distended opening to dislodge the shoulders and told Delia to push one more time when the contraction started.
“Push hard. Harder. He is almost out. You can do it. Push now. Push!”
With a piercing shriek from Delia, the child suddenly burst out of the birth cannel in one final slippery whoosh, and Botilda’s gentle hands pulled it onto the covers. When she called for clean rags, Seneca dashed to the surgeon’s table and pulled most of them onto the floor.
The resounding cry of the baby filled the tent, followed by exhausted laughter from Botilda, Delia, and Rutilius. He turned around to see the baby, a boy, hollering at the top of his healthy lungs.
Botilda wrapped a cloth around the baby to keep him from slipping and placed him on Delia’s chest. The look of contentment in the queen’s eyes was something Seneca thought he would never forget.
* * * *
Seneca and Rutilius stood outside the tent, breathing in the crisp late night air, summarily dismissed by Botilda without thanks. Seneca smiled when he heard her raised voice and the sputtering of the medico. It was the surgeon who left the tent and joined them.
“How are they?” Rutilius asked, forgetting for the moment that he was a guard and the medico was his superior.
“The baby is fine, small, but healthy, and very strong. The queen is extremely weak.”
“Will she be all right?” Seneca asked.
The medico nodded. “She needs a great deal of rest, but she will recover. It will be several days before she can rise again on her own. The queen is a remarkable woman. She is asking for you,” he said to Seneca.
When Seneca entered the tent, Botilda was packing up the last of her equipment. Delia was clean with a new tunic, wrapped in warm blankets. The child was nestled on her chest, suckling lazily. Seneca crossed to the midwife and pressed a gold coin into her hand. The woman looked at him suspiciously.
“The surgeon already paid me, sir.” Her job done, Botilda went back to being just another Roman woman, deferential to her male superiors. However, that did not change the spark in her eyes.
“Something extra… with my thanks.”
Botilda tucked her bundle under her arm and headed for the tent entrance. “Do not stay long, Minister,” she called over her shoulder. “The queen needs rest.” She disappeared into the night without another word.
Seneca pulled a stool up next to the bed and searched Delia’s face. He had recognized it the moment he saw it, even before she gave him her name. Marius had written him so often about this woman, the sunset of her hair, the deep forest green of her eyes, the narrow nose, full lips, and the dark freckles dotting her cheeks.
A student of Seneca’s when he was small, Marius had developed a brilliance for descriptive prose. When he opted for the military as a young man, Seneca was deep
ly disappointed. He always hoped Marius would follow his example and become a great writer. It was not to be.
“Minister,” Delia whispered into his reflection.
He took her hand and patted it. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.” Her smile had a profound contentment behind it. Delia was one of the loveliest creatures he had ever seen, even exhausted. “I need to tell you about Marius, about Suetonius and Quintius, before I fall asleep. Will you listen?”
“Yes, my dear,” he replied. “Tell me everything.”
For the next forty-five minutes, Delia relayed everything to him, almost nodding off twice. When she finished, she fell back into the pillow and could barely keep her eyes open.
“Afranius,” she whispered. “Will he help us? Will you?”
“I will make certain Marius is freed, Lady. Afranius is a cautious man, but a wise and fair one. I am certain when I discuss this with him, he will do the right thing.”
Her eyes fluttered to stay open. “Suetonius… Quintius… my country…”
Seneca patted her hand again. “We will stop Suetonius. I will take care of Quintius myself. You rest now.”
Delia was already asleep.
* * * *
Several hours later, someone was shaking Seneca out of a deep sleep and it irritated him. “What?” he mumbled, throwing the pillow over his head. Whoever it was would not let up.
“Sir, the Praefectus has ordered you to camp immediately. The woman and child are gone.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. He pulled the pillow off his head. “What did you say?”
“The woman, sir, the one who had a baby last night, she and her child are missing.”
Seneca shot out of the bed, stepped into his sandals, and pulled his tunic from a chair. “How long?”
“We do not know, sir. The last check was four hours ago. Someone cut the tent from behind and took them. There are horse tracks leading out of town and into the forest going east. That is all I know.”
“Tribune Quintius… is he still in camp?”
“I am sorry, sir. The Tribune has disappeared, as well.”
Seneca did not even stop to tie his sash. He flew out of the room and down the corridor, the praetorian right on his heels.
The Edge of Honor
Chapter XX
Marius started awake to the jerk of the wagon lunging forward. They moved through the massive gates of Corinium. Three hours before dawn, the streets lay deserted except for the Roman soldiers guarding the entrance and one or two early slaves on errands for their masters.
Marius stood holding the bars, trying to make out the city through the darkness with only the moonlight illuminating the area. He had been here many times, but always on the back of a horse, leading a century of soldiers for a bit of rest and relaxation. Ironically, he had seen many gladiatorial battles here, and enjoyed them immensely. He had never entered the bowels of the arena; the smells were appalling enough from the outside.
The men stopped the wagon outside the rough-cut cement wall of the arena. It was dark except for a yellow glow that came from somewhere deep within its depths. The men moved the wagon carefully down a long sloping road through a towering arched opening.
As the maw of the entrance engulfed them, Marius could smell old blood, sweat, and the stink of misery. A muted resonance of voices bounced against the massive stone walls, sounding like ghosts in the black. A few torches gave off little light.
He crossed to the front of the cage and pressed his face through the bars. The Syrians leading the horses talked in quiet, deferential voices, obviously spooked by the oppressive silence, the blackened walls, and the smells of death. Marius knew very well why the designers of this arena had built it the way they had; it reminded a gladiator that he was a slave, that freedom was not even a dream here. It was abundantly effective.
When they rounded another twist in the tunnel, a large stone chamber soared up around them, dwarfing the three wagons and the men who led them. In the center of the chamber stood two heavily muscled, half-naked Romans. They wore no chains, but the younger one had an eye missing and held a long staff. The second man was ancient and grizzled, with a deep scar that puckered his left cheek. Based on their substantial physiques, Marius assumed they had once been gladiators. The younger of the two stepped forward and held out his hand.
“You are the owner?”
Abella made his way from the rear on a great black horse. He came so close Marius could have throttled the man as he passed. Because of the children, he held back his inclination and glowered instead. Now was not the time.
“I am Abella and your humble servant, Lanista.” The Syrian dismounted and handed the man a wax tablet. The trainer examined it carefully, holding it toward the light and handed it back to the slaver.
“I am Salonius. You are welcome to my house, as are your gladiators.”
“I assume you are prepared for us.”
“You have children,” the gladiatorial trainer said, motioning to the small wagon bringing up the rear. “Are the boys for my men’s use or for training?”
“Neither,” Abella replied, glancing at Marius arrogantly. “They are to be housed and cared for. At least, for now. I will give you additional instructions after the first combat.” He bowed to the man and motioned to Marius. “If you wish…”
Salonius sauntered over to the cage. “So, you are the famous Centurion Marius. It is indeed an honor to meet you. Your prowess with the blade is legendary. I look forward to seeing you fight.”
There was something in the man’s tone that made the hackles at the back of Marius’ neck stand on end. He stiffened, but did not reply.
“Arturo, take the children to my house,” Salonius said to the older man. “Tell my wife to see to them. The other gladiators can be placed as needed with mine. Bind this slave and bring him to me.”
Arturo bowed and sent a piercing whistle echoing down the corridor. The tramp of sandaled feet sounded in response and several gladiators marched double time into the chamber. At a simple finger signal from the aging gladiator, the men took charge of the wagons, the other Syrians, and the children. The chamber cleared almost immediately.
Salonius nodded to Abella and motioned to a small doorway off to one side of the room. Abella glanced at Marius and smiled.
Marius turned when he heard the cage door open and three stout gladiators approached him with caution and long thick staffs. He gave them no resistance when they reattached his wrists to his groin and chained his ankles close to one another, then pulled him roughly from the wagon.
One of the gladiators pushed hard on his back toward the smaller chamber. Once in, they saluted their master with an arm across the chest and left swiftly.
Marius searched the large circular room, noting the whips and other discipline devices covering the walls, the rack of wooden weapons to one side, and an assortment of shields, spears, and nets stacked in one corner. He stood in the center as the two men circled him, examining him as if he were a trussed boar.
“He is an excellent specimen.” Marius could feel Salonius’ breath against his back and flinched when he squeezed his buttocks to test the muscles. “Strong, considering how old he is.”
A sudden sting ripped across Marius’ back when the Lanista yanked the wrapping from the wounds, pulling patches of scabs off with it. He could feel tendrils of blood against his spine, but clamped his lips tight.
“The wounds are festering,” Salonius said quietly.
“No,” said the Syrian stepping to join in the trainer’s examination. “The soldiers assured me he was well treated before his release to me.”
“Perhaps, but these wounds will need tending. He is malnourished, as well. Arturo!” He ran his hands over the rest of Marius’ body, searching for anything else that needed attending.
The aging man came through the door and saluted his senior. “Sir?”
“Take this man to the bath, remove the chains, and make certai
n he is scrubbed thoroughly. Use the bath slaves if you have to. Wake the surgeon and have him meet you there. I want this man treated expediently. He will need to be ready to fight by the day after tomorrow.”
“Day after tomorrow?” Abella said, following Salonius around Marius to complete his examination. “You will start his training in the Ludi so soon?”
The rugged Lanista raised his eyebrows to Abella. “Training? This man fights in the arena.”
“What?” Abella’s mouth fell open and he grabbed the trainer’s arm to stop him. “Fight? This man is in no condition for combat.”
Salonius ran his hands up Marius’ thighs, and pressed them into his groin. Marius’ nostrils flared at the intrusion, but he made no other movement.
“Those are my orders.” He snorted when he cupped Marius’ genitals. “Good. His rod is huge. That should please the ladies.”
“The gladiatorial code requires six months in the Ludi before the first bout,” Abella persisted. “I am being cheated. The Roman soldiers said nothing about a fight.”
The trainer shrugged. “Would you have purchased him if they had? I think not.”
“This is against trade regulations, Salonius. You must call off the fight.”
“It is much worse than you think, Syrian. He fights the day after tomorrow because that is as quickly as they can get Thane here.”
Abella stopped cold and his lips parted. “Thane? The Centurion will not have a chance against the prince, not in his condition. I will protest to the governor.”
“You can protest all you want.” Salonius rose from the floor with a grunt and wiped his hands on a rag at his waist. “But I doubt the governor will listen.”
“Why not?”
Salonius put a hand on the slaver’s neck and smiled into his face. “Because he is the one who ordered it.” He nodded to Arturo, who grabbed Marius’ arm and propelled him toward the door. “Beside. We doubled the cost of the tickets this evening. When news got around that it was Marius and Thane fighting, they sold out within a quarter of an hour. If we cancel, the genteel citizens of this fine town will tear it apart. I have seen it before. With Suetonius marching against the Corieltauvi with all of his soldiers, there will be no force here to quell riots. The mob will kill anyone who stops the match.”
The Edge of Honor Page 16