by Laura Dowers
Volumnia had never been on the sea before and she discovered she didn’t care for it. It was not only the constant rise and fall of the boat that she disliked; it was also the company she was forced to keep. She kept to the stern, crouched down beneath the shelter, trying to ignore the lascivious looks and vulgar comments they made regarding her. Some of the comments she didn’t understand, for the men were foreigners and didn’t speak Latin, but she understood their gestures well enough. She was heartily glad when, almost two days later, the boatman pointed to the cliff face and said, ‘Cumae.’
The boat moored at the jetty that projected out from the beach. There were a few hovels on the shore, their timbers turned grey by the salt breeze. Their occupants exhibited mild curiosity about the boat but did not leave their shelters. Volumnia supposed they received so many visitors wanting to see the Sybil that one more was not of great interest, though no doubt they would have their hands out when she passed. Well, they could forget that. She had already made too much of a dent in her allowance.
‘You have to climb,’ the boatman told her when he saw her frowning at the cliff-side. He pointed to an almost vertical ladder attached with ropes to the side of the cliff.
‘Up that?’ she cried.
The boatman grinned. ‘It’s the only way up there.’
‘Domina, are you certain you—?’ the slave began.
Volumnia shushed him, knowing he had no concern for her safety but for his own. If she had an accident in his care, he would do better to run away than return to Rome; Caecilius would have him killed for his negligence. The thought of climbing the ladder was not pleasant, but she had not come all this way to be cowardly now. She reminded the boatman he was to wait for her, ordered the slave to stay by the boat, and made her way to the bottom of the ladder.
She grabbed the rungs and tugged. The ladder seemed secure enough. Volumnia put her right foot on the bottom rung and began to climb. She made the mistake, about twenty feet up, of looking down and giddiness struck her, making her tighten her grip on the struts so that her knuckles whitened and press her body towards the cliff. She waited until the dizziness passed, then telling herself not to be such a coward, lifted her foot to the next rung. She managed to reach the top and clambered onto the clifftop, aware that if the boatman and slave were watching, they would probably be laughing at her undignified crawl.
Volumnia got to her feet carefully, thanking the gods she was on firm ground again. She felt the earth slide beneath her sandals and realised she stood on shale. Small shards and pebbles crept over her soles and bit into the soft undersides of her feet as she began her descent. She could see where she needed to go. There was an opening cut into the cliff halfway down, triangular, edged with cut stones. She made for it, slipping every now and then, having to clutch at plants and tufts of grass to stop herself sliding further.
She reached the entrance to the cave and gave a startled cry as a creature loomed out at her from the cave’s entrance. It was ragged thing, half naked, a pelt covering its lower region. The rest of its body — she could not truly describe it as a man — was covered in crusted mud, and the stench coming off it was foul. Volumnia covered her nose and mouth with her hand. The thing made a strangled noise. She shook her head, uncomprehending, provoking another sound and another.
‘I don’t understand,’ she shouted at it.
The thing opened its mouth and Volumnia saw its tongue was missing. She looked around, hoping someone would appear to help her, but there was no one. The thing grabbed her wrist and she tried to pull away. It held on tight and opened its other hand to show the palm. Relieved to finally understand, she delved into the purse on her belt and put an aes into its hand. Its fingers closed over the bronze bar and released her. She rubbed the place where its fingers had been, the skin tender, red and dirtied.
The entrance clear, she hesitated for a moment, nerves stilling her feet. Then she set her shoulders and stepped inside.
Her heart was banging in her chest; she could feel it thudding up through her throat, making the blood rush in her ears. It had been warm and bright on the cliff, but here the air was cool and damp; it felt almost thick and weighed her down. She had thought only the entrance had been managed by man, but as she walked, she saw the passage too had been worked by human hands. Like the entrance, the passage was triangular, carved with axes and chisels, and faced with stones to give a smooth finish.
Her way forward was slow, each step deliberate, considered. Her nose wrinkled the further she went, for her nostrils were filled with a sickly sweet odour. It was dark too, for oil lamps burned only at irregular intervals. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dark, and she spied the end of the passage, a widening out into darkness. The smell of smoke entered her nostrils, and it was almost as if she was being pulled forward. Her pace quickened, and she had a sudden uneasy feeling that her will was no longer her own.
She emerged into a large chamber. Its walls had been left as nature carved them, no hand of man had worked its talent here. Oil lamps, stuck up on high stone ledges, threw dark shadows. The smell of decay was strong and, looking around, she saw that the cave was filthy with debris. Upon the floor were dried leaves and twigs, scraps of cloth, and, she saw with alarm, bones. She looked harder, her mind trying to work out whether they were animal or human, but she had no knowledge or ability to distinguish between the two and forced her gaze away. She moved in further, taking care where she stepped. A large stone chair was set against the furthest side of the cave. Lichen, moss and tree roots grew on and around it so that it had almost become part of the cave itself.
And someone was sitting in it!
Volumnia cried out in surprise and sank to her knees, head bowed, feeling the floor litter dig into her flesh.
There came no response or answer, and Volumnia raised her head. The figure hadn’t moved. It remained shrouded in darkness, only one weak oil lamp burning above it illuminated it at all. Confused, Volumnia scrambled to her feet and edged closer. She peered up and jumped backwards. It was a desiccated body that sat in the chair, skin so shrunken over the skull that it had torn in places to show the white bone beneath. And now she remembered what she had heard of the Sibyl, how the current prophetess always shared her cave with the carcass of her dead predecessor, the corpse being left to dry and shrivel. Only a dead body, she told herself. No doubt other visitors would be scared away by such a frightful sight, but not she.
Her breathing slowed. She stepped away from the chair and looked around again. There was another doorway to the side of the chair, and she headed for it. Here was a much smaller chamber, and the stench was even greater. It was not only the stench of decay, but that of a warm and unclean body. Volumnia instinctively knew she was not alone. A small fire burned in the centre, creating a ceiling of swirling smoke.
There was a rustle and cracking of twigs, and a figure lurched out of the darkness. She, for it was a she, stared at Volumnia, then moved to crouch beside the fire. Was this the Sibyl, Volumnia wondered, this woman with her matted hair, her face and body smeared with mud and who knew what else? The woman began muttering to herself in a language Volumnia could not understand.
‘Are you the Sibyl?’ Volumnia asked, and she heard the tremble in her voice.
The woman stopped her muttering and looked up, a long hard stare that chilled Volumnia to the bone. Then the woman laughed. It was light and high, almost musical. It seemed odd coming from such a foul creature. The Sibyl, for so she must be, spoke.
‘So, she comes with fear in her heart,
But will she stay to learn of her part?
The prophecy made, will it grieve or please?
The future known, yet the way unseen.’
‘I would know,’ Volumnia began, but the woman’s body jerked violently at the interruption and she fell silent.
‘Volumnia, Aemilia’s fair daughter,
Your future is set, surrounded by slaughter.
But not your hands that cause others to bleed,
Though your heart harbours that lust that all soldiers need.’
‘Do you mean Caecilius?’ Volumnia asked excitedly. ‘Will I make my husband kill?’
‘A wife cannot such a man make,
For he has been fashioned for his ancestors’ sake.
Yet a mother has power to create what she will,
And mould a son, her ambition to fulfil.’
Volumnia’s hands clasped her belly. ‘Yes, yes, I am pregnant. A son, you say?’
‘But glory may not last, and misery may ensue.
A price worth paying, will she think that too?
Act to change her fate, or walk the path so spoken?
Her blood lust unchanging, though hearts be broken?’
‘Will he be glorious?’ Volumnia breathed rapturously, her eyes closing as she conjured up an image of her son being applauded by all Rome.
‘The she-wolf barks, but she must also bite.
Room in her heart for one, put others out of sight.
Babes will come and babes will go,
None to rob son of adoration and foe.’
The Sibyl sank back on her haunches and stared at Volumnia.
‘What does all that mean?’ Volumnia pleaded, desperately trying to remember everything the Sibyl had said.
The Sibyl moved onto all fours, arched her back and hissed. Volumnia stumbled backwards, her body pressing against the damp cave wall as the woman shuffled around the fire, her back towards Volumnia. The audience was over.
Volumnia ran out of the chamber, through the next and down the long passageway, eager to breathe fresh air again. The sunlight dazzled her, and she fell as she burst out of the cave’s entrance. Her heart was pounding again and her breath was coming fast. She hurried back up the cliff, eager to be away, to get on the boat and sail back to Rome. Her descent down the ladder was hasty and several times she slipped, but still she did not stop, not until her feet touched down onto the shore. Remembering she was now observed, she willed herself to calm down, and made as dignified a walk back to the jetty as she was able.
‘Find out what you wanted?’ the boatman asked as he wound a length of rope around his hand and elbow.
Volumnia could tell from his expression that he was expecting her to voice her fear, to admit she had made a mistake, that she was only a woman, not brave enough for such an encounter. But she was not going to let him have his enjoyment. She stepped over the gunwale and said, ‘I did. Cast off at once. I want to get home.’
Denied his amusement, the boatman sulkily obeyed. Her slave offered Volumnia a cup of wine. She snatched it from his hand and drank eagerly, holding the cup out for a refill. As the wine streamed down her throat and warmed her chest, she began to relax. Her hand strayed over her belly. Inside her was a son, she told herself, a son who would be great if she made him so and make her proud. The journey to this dreadful place and the encounter with the Sibyl, terrifying though it had been, had certainly been worth it.
Seven months later
Volumnia clutched her pendant of the goddess Lucina and screamed. Ye gods, but she had not expected pain like this and she had been cursing ever since her labour pains had begun, cursing Caecilius for doing this to her, cursing the midwife who kept poking around her privates and muttering imprecations and instructions to do this and that, to push and to breathe, as if she was not already doing all she could to expel the babe from her body.
Remember what this child will mean for you, she kept telling herself every time a stab of pain ran through her. This babe would be the son the Sibyl had told her of, the son that would bring glory to the Marcius name.
‘Breathe,’ Aemilia called as she came into the room with a bowl of water.
‘I am breathing,’ Volumnia snarled, gripping the pommels of the birthing chair so hard her knuckles turned white.
‘Will it be soon?’ Aemilia asked the midwife.
The midwife nodded. ‘Not long now, domina.’
‘There, you hear that, Volumnia, it won’t be long.’
Volumnia screamed. ‘Please, make it stop.’
Aemilia grimaced at her daughter’s pain, almost feeling it herself. She wiped Volumnia’s dripping forehead with a cloth, drawing her hand back quickly as Volumnia wrenched her face away. Realising there was no comforting her daughter, she moved to the table where she had set down the bowl of water and busied herself with making all neat.
The midwife had spoken true: the baby came within the half hour, a half hour during which Volumnia screamed and howled and hit out at her attendants for their part in the tortuous affair. When the baby slithered into the world, the midwife tutted and Volumnia, seeing and hearing the tut, demanded to know why.
‘He’s small,’ the midwife said.
Volumnia shook her head. How could her child be small when he had caused her so much pain? ‘He can’t be. Bring him to me.’
The midwife thrust the baby under Volumnia’s nose, annoyed at being called a liar. Volumnia looked him over. The midwife had not lied. Her baby was a scrawny thing. But how could he be? How could this small creature be great? Looking at him, she wondered whether he would even survive the day.
‘He hasn’t cried,’ Aemilia said to the midwife.
The midwife turned the baby upside down and slapped its buttocks. The child coughed and spluttered and then gave out a hearty wail.
Volumnia, to her surprise and to her mother’s, burst into tears. ‘He cries loudly,’ she declared through her tears. ‘He will grow, won’t he, Mother?’
Aemilia looked down at the child being cleaned with honey and salt. ‘I am sure of it, daughter,’ she said with a conviction she did not feel. She moved to the table and joined the midwife in staring at the afterbirth that had been slipped into a bowl. ‘Will he live?’ she asked quietly.
The midwife took a moment to consider, her thin finger poking at the slippery mass. ‘He’ll live,’ she said with a nod. ‘In fact, he’ll grow big with the right upbringing, I reckon.’
‘Lucina be praised,’ Aemilia breathed, turning to look over her shoulder at Volumnia who had been helped to the bed by the slave and had collapsed against the pillow. Her eyes were closed. She will be asleep in a moment, Aemilia thought, turning back to see the midwife putting the baby into a straw basket.
The door opened and Caecilius appeared. He looked towards the bed, then at Aemilia. ‘Is it over?’
‘You have a son, Caecilius.’
Caecilius strode to the basket and looked in. ‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing at the baby.
Aemilia looked into the basket too, worried by her son-in-law’s sharp question. Caecilius was pointing at the baby’s left thigh. There was a deep red mark on the skin. ‘It’s a birthmark,’ she said with a relieved laugh, pulling the blanket over the baby. ‘That’s all it is.’
‘A birthmark?’ Caecilius frowned. ‘Not a deformity?’
Aemilia knew what he was referring to and snapped, ‘Of course not. It is no more a deformity than a mole or a freckle.’
Caecilius appeared unconvinced. ‘He seems small.’
‘Oh Caecilius, you are determined to find fault with your son. He is perfect. Now, please, leave. Let your wife sleep in peace.’
Caecilius looked across the room to Volumnia, who had indeed fallen asleep. ‘When will she be able to conceive again?’
‘You must let her recover, Caecilius,’ Aemilia said testily. Was that all he could say? He hadn’t even asked how Volumnia was.
‘How long?’ he persisted.
Aemilia plucked a figure from the air. ‘Six months.’
‘That’s too long. If this child is not strong, he may die. I need another.’
‘I have told you, the child is perfectly healthy. Volumnia needs time to recover. Babies that follow too soon after one another often die in the womb.’ But she could tell Caecilius wasn’t listening to her. His square chin was thrust out, his brow furrowed.
‘She is not to suckle the child,’ he said. ‘To do so
would prevent her conceiving, I know that. Can I entrust you with finding a suitable wet nurse for the child?’
‘Volumnia wanted to feed him herself,’ Aemilia said. ‘She told me so.’
‘Will you find a wet nurse?’
Caecilius’s expression was fierce and Aemilia was not equal to it. ‘I will,’ she said with a feeble shrug and looked away to her daughter. What would Volumnia say when she told her?
Caecilius nodded, turned on his heel and left the room. The door banged after him.
Volumnia started awake. ‘What was that?’
Aemilia hurried to the bedside. ‘That was your husband.’
‘Caecilius was here? Did he see him?’ Her neck was craning to look into the basket, but it was too far away and she sank back into the pillow.
‘He looked for a moment.’
‘Was he pleased? What did he say?’
‘Nothing,’ Aemilia forced a smile. ‘Just that he was a little on the small side. And that he had a mark on his thigh.’
Volumnia started. ‘I didn’t notice a mark.’
‘No, nor did I at first. But it is there.’
‘Bring him to me, Mother. I want to see.’
Aemilia considered telling Volumnia that she should let her son sleep, but she had never before won an argument with her daughter and suspected she would not now. She moved to the basket and lifted the small bundle into her arms. The baby screwed up his red face and wriggled but did not wake. Aemilia passed him to Volumnia and watched as an expression Aemilia had never seen on her daughter’s face appeared, one of tenderness, of love. Volumnia was smiling as she settled back against the pillow and cradled her son.
Volumnia parted the cloth over the baby’s legs. The birthmark was plain to see, a streak of dark red, a cross-like blotch at one end. ‘It looks like a sword,’ Volumnia said, her breath catching. ‘See, Mother?’