Ness forced herself not to wrinkle her nose. Despite these people’s strange customs, perhaps she’d find a friend here. “Ness will do.”
Shocked breaths ran around the room as the women made little disapproving noises.
She ran her gaze across their faces. What had she done?
The piled-hair woman motioned her to a low couch that a stout woman already mostly filled.
Forcing herself down on one corner, Ness tried to pretend every woman in the room didn’t stare at her. The morning sun that trickled through a high window above hadn’t reached its zenith yet. At this moment, Fiona likely stood at the well making all the village girls laugh with her outrageous predictions.
The stout woman laid aside a carding board and wool and leaned toward her. “You do realize your husband is one of the wealthiest patricians in Rome?”
She squinted in the dimness. Aquilus was? His villa, though elegant, possessed none of the lavishness of this place.
The stout woman pushed a bit of graying hair back from her face and lowered her voice. “Last time a patrician’s wife of that status entered this house, she put on such airs it was unbearable, though Bernice deserved it.”
“Bernice?” Ness glanced around the room, taking in a multitude of silk, painted eyes, and jewelry.
With a hand that displayed four gold rings, the stout woman pointed at the woman with her hair piled on top her head. “She’s Bernice. A mere equestrian by rank, mind you, but Emperor Domitian elevated her father, and she sank her claws into a patrician husband.”
“Oh.” Ness shifted on the cushions. From her silver gilt chair, Bernice narrowed her eyes into slits, emphasizing her heavily darkened eyelashes. Ness nudged the stout woman. “Did I do something amiss to offend our host?” She knew none of the local customs.
“Naw.” The stout woman waved away her concern. The folds of her flesh puffed out around the broad bases of her rings. “Bernice would have hated you no matter what you did. Many years ago when her familia was trade partners with the Paterculis, her father tried to arrange a betrothal agreement between the two families. The tribune’s father raged that a mere equestrian would dare to raise his sights so high. The families have scarcely spoken since.”
Ness frowned. If only the woman whispered more quietly. “That’s uncomfortable.”
A laugh roared from the stout woman’s chest. “Prepare for all of Rome to embarrass you then. Every woman and every woman’s father in the city wanted a marriage alliance with your husband.”
Wiggling right, Ness braced her foot to keep herself on the small corner of cushion left. “Why?”
The woman guffawed and held up a rotund hand, finger by finger. “First, he’s incredibly wealthy. Second, the Paterculi name is legend. And third, his reputation, all those honorable virtues you don’t normally see in men. Also, he’s built like an Adonis, but you knew that.”
Heat crept to Ness’ cheeks. She dropped her gaze to the mosaic tile.
“So, Ness,” Bernice lingered on the familiar name like an insult, “I hear you are from Britannia.”
“I am.” Ness shifted and heard the sound of rending cloth. Her stola had caught on the couch back. She tugged at the foreign-made cloth. The stola slid free and she rubbed her slick hands over the fabric, trying to smooth out the wrinkles.
Looking up, her gaze landed on a bony, big-nosed woman who conducted a disparaging examination of her.
A small woman leaned forward. “You are a Celt then?” She looked but a girl, yet she too wore the marriage stola, a pretty, green one, and an iron marriage band.
The stout woman leaned over even more, further invading Ness’ space. “That’s Julia. She’s a Quaestor’s wife, rather unimportant Quaestor, but a Quaestor nonetheless.”
“A Celt, is that true?” Distaste washed over Bernice’s face. A necklace with a turquoise stone large enough to drown a small animal set off her flawless skin.
Ness met the woman’s gaze. “Yes.” Just one word, yet that word held all the pride of generations of free Britains.
A slave boy wafted a peacock fan over Bernice’s head, moving the thick air. Bernice yawned. “Did you hear about Senator Gaius’ wife?”
“You mean his new wife? He divorced his first one.” The stout woman took up her wool and carder again.
“Yes, an idiotic move. He had to sell two villas to collect the money to return the dowry.” Bernice motioned to the slave and he fanned faster.
The stout woman cocked her head. “The allure of the younger woman?”
The bony, big-nosed woman coughed. “I heard it was because she publicly shamed him. As the proverb says, for life or until a misdeed.”
“The best part is,” Bernice paused dramatically, “last month, his new wife had an affair with the Germanian governor, Lucius Saturninus.”
Eyes bulged out of sockets. The stout woman flung her arms out and her wool landed halfway across the room on a gold-plated statue.
“The little harlot!” the bony, big-nosed woman said.
Plopping both thick arms on the couch, the stout woman leaned her chapped lips toward Ness’ ear. “The patrician men do it all the time, but when it’s the woman, then you hear the scandal.”
Ness braced her foot against the tile floor.
“Then did you hear about poor Flavia?” Another woman asked.
“What happened?” Julia raised her delicate chin and blinked like an owl baby.
“Her father offended the Emperor and lost some of his lands, then Flavia’s betrothed up and left.” The stout woman motioned for the slave boy to retrieve her knitting project.
Did the gossip she and Fiona and Bretta shared sound this cruel to outsiders? Ness fidgeted on the slick couch cushion. Perhaps she could have shown the Pict girl more hospitality when she first came to the village.
“You can hardly blame him.” Bernice adjusted her silk pillows. “One would need quite a dowry to sweeten that match.”
“Like the extravagant one that earned Bernice Praetor Ocelli,” the stout woman whispered.
“At least he only lost land.” The bony, big-nosed one folded her hands in her lap. “Emperor Domitian can be quite vindictive.”
“The senator last month,” Julia said in a hushed whisper, and then even softer, “executed.”
Ness opened her eyes wider. “So, the stories are true?” All those tales of beheadings, purgings, and religious persecutions had seemed no more real than the fairie folk when she lived in Britain.
“Flavia found a new man, some unimportant equestrian.” The stout woman looked sideways toward Bernice.
Bernice’s face reddened. She hit the slave who proceeded to fan at a reckless speed. Air and peacock down blew into Ness’ face as Bernice turned to her. “Tell us the news from Londinium.”
Londinium, the Roman city to the east? Ness blinked. “I’ve never visited.”
Tilting her chin, Bernice narrowed her eyes. “Your father is private then, keeps to his villas?”
Father in a villa? Laughter bubbled up inside Ness. “My father’s a Celtic chief. We live on the land.”
The stout woman’s face sagged.
“How did he afford the dowry?” Bernice asked, eyes wide.
A strand of Ness’ hair fell from its awkward binding as she shook her head. “Celts have no dowry tradition.” Good thing, too. Men should be grateful to find a wife, not demand payment from the family.
Bernice parted her red lips, her eyes half amazement, half scorn. “Tribune Paterculi married a pauper?”
“I’m not a pauper!” Ness jumped from the couch. She was the chief’s daughter, a fine farmer, and one couldn’t find a harder worker in all her village.
Jewel-bedecked women stared at her through painted eyes as the morning breeze swept over marble tile to rustle the silk of their clothing.
Abruptly, Ness sat down. Compared to these women, she did have nothing.
The bony-jawed woman spread her mouth as wide as her nose. “I can’t b
elieve Tribune Paterculi chose you.”
“What did you do, use a Celtic love potion?” Bernice narrowed shrewish eyes at her.
Ness clenched her fingers. Aquilus had needed no encouragement. Though, why had a man of his standing wanted her? Her heart pinched. If he’d married one of these patrician women, would he still have left that woman as much as he’d left her this past seven-month?
The stout woman laid her large arms on her knees. “Did you hear about the consul with the childless wife? He just adopted a son.”
Thank heaven for a change of topic. Ness flopped against the couch. Would Aquilus have arrived home from the forum yet? Perhaps tonight they could go down to the Tiber River.
“From whom?” Julia fluttered her eyelashes up.
“Oh, one of the patrician families.” The stout woman scratched under her chin. “They had three, so they spared him one.”
Give up one’s own children? Who in their right mind would do that? “That’s detestable.” As the words left Ness’ lips, she wished them unsaid. Sure enough, every woman in the room turned toward her.
Smoothing her green stola, Bernice sat very straight. “No, that’s custom, at least in civilized societies.”
Ness narrowed her eyes.
“Lucretia had her babe last week, a girl.” Julia’s shrill voice resembled a high-pitched pipe.
“That makes six, all girls.” The stout woman didn’t sound approving, but Julia smiled all the same.
Leaning forward, Ness smiled back. “Do you have younger sisters then?”
The girl swept her long eyelashes up across pale eyelids and nodded. “Two, one is eight, the other two.”
“What are their names?”
Julia tittered. “Why, Julia, of course.”
What? Ness tilted her head.
“That’s how girls are named. The father’s name in the feminine. My father is Julius, so I am Julia the first, my next sister Julia the second, and so on.”
Ness opened her mouth and closed it again.
With those big, pale eyes, Julia stared at her. “You did not know that?”
Exercising utmost restraint, Ness didn’t cross her arms. She would not embarrass the girl, but this was a disturbed society. If she ever had a daughter, she knew what she wouldn’t name her.
“No, this isn’t their sixth daughter.” Bernice raised her unpleasant voice. “Lucretia’s husband, the Aedile, refused to recognize the child.”
Shock ran down the weak muscles of Julia’s face. “Exposed her?”
“Without a word of regret,” Bernice said, no sympathy in those dark eyes. “Just refused to pick the infant up. Lucretia was wailing when he ordered it.”
“He’s not a shopkeeper.” The stout woman moved, making the couch heave. “He could have afforded another mouth and dowry.”
Bernice held her head imperiously. “Can you blame him? Lucretia gave him five girls already, and the babe wasn’t a bit healthy either.”
“What does she mean expose?” Ness whispered for the stout woman’s ears.
Bernice opened her mouth. “You’ve never heard of the Roman naming ceremony?”
With a grimace, Ness shook her head. More of her hair fell, cascading in tendrils down her shoulders. She shoved the locks up and fumbled for a hairpin. Hair slid through her slick fingers as Bernice directed a disapproving gaze at her. Ness squirmed and the tear in her stola ripped further.
The stout woman straightened. “After a babe is born, the midwife lays the child on the floor. No one can touch the babe until the father arrives. If he picks the child up, then he will name it and register it with full inheritance rights. But if the infant is sickly, or not male, or he doubts its legitimacy, any reason will do, then he may choose to let the child lie. In that case, the midwife will take the babe to the edge of the city to die.”
Ness’ jaw sagged. Killing children? Also, why should the father’s will to kill his daughter override the mother’s will to have her live? “That’s abominable.”
With a shrug, Bernice settled deeper into her stool. “Celts are perfect parents?”
“It’s different, though.” Ness struggled for the right phrases as she sought to put Latin words to her disgust. “Here it’s a whole system allowing, nay, encouraging fathers to murder their children. Ignore the wretched husband, Lucretia should have reared her child.”
The whole room went quiet. Ness could feel each woman’s gaze on her. Even on Bernice’s face, shock overshadowed disdain.
Unfortunately, Bernice quickly regained her voice. “It was Lucretia’s fault. If she had pleased the Aedile, he would have kept her child. My husband has recognized all three of our children.”
“Winning a man’s favor so he won’t harm your child? That’s absurd. A woman should have enough self-respect to thwart a man.”
“In truth? Have you told the tribune this?” Bernice laughed derisively.
Sticking her shoulders out, Ness sat up straighter. “Aquilus would never condone such villainy.”
“You think you know him so well?” Bernice made a scoffing noise. “It’s not as if you spent your childhood with him. When did you even first hear the Paterculi name? A year ago?”
More like nine months. Ness fidgeted on the all too plush cushions. A puff of wind blew the silk covering that hung over the marble-adorned window frame.
“Men.” The stout woman snorted. “Rule the world, but can’t even drape a toga without a woman’s help.”
“Men are all the same. For certain, some may wish to keep all their children, still, though, it’s their wishes they act on, never yours.” Bernice pushed the fan-waving slave away and swiveled her gaze toward Ness. “Your so perfect husband too.”
Ness clenched the couch cushion. “No, he’s not.”
“So, he’d agree with you that Celts are far superior to Romans?”
“In how Celts treat women anyway, yes.” Ness held her chin high.
Bernice rolled her eyes and smoothed her perfect stola that hung straight with no rips. “How long since you married?”
Ness searched Bernice’s face. Why the sudden interest? Only the sound of a woman who was heavy with child chewing on figs broke the silence. “Eight months.”
“And no child yet? No wonder you criticize the birthing bed as you are unable to produce an heir.”
Ness’ eyes widened to the breaking point. Should she laugh hysterically or strangle Bernice?
“Perhaps you should spend less time worrying about an infant’s exposure and more on being divorced for barrenness. No one would participate in a remarriage then.” The gold bracelets on Bernice’s arms slid as she spoke.
“You know she’s right,” the stout woman said. “I had a cousin, Augusta, barren four years, then divorced, and not a man would go near a betrothal with her even though she was but seventeen.”
Ness’ cheeks heated and she wanted to slap people and throw overripe Britain apples and push Bernice down in a horse stable. Instead, she stood and forced her hands not to clench. “Thank you for the invitation. I must be going now. Salve.”
She plunged through the curtain. Aquilus had said Roman streets weren’t safe for a woman alone, but just now, she didn’t care.
Several wrong turns and one pass down a closed alley later, she arrived home – or the closest thing she had to a home in this city – when the sun had hit its zenith.
The porter glared at her when she came to the door, but he did unlock it. She’d thought to find a friend at that gathering. Instead, like adder snakes, they’d injected their poison into everything. She slid out of the foreign sandals that still chafed her feet after months of wear.
When would Aquilus’ assignment here end so they could return home? She’d sent a score letters home and not received one missive back.
The tile, overheated by the Italian sun, scorched her feet. Spring was the best time of year in Britain and she’d already missed it.
She passed into the atrium and collided with Aquilus.
>
Official looking parchments filled his hands. “You’re crying.”
No, these stains on her cheeks and the swollen feeling in her eyes weren’t caused by tears. She’d not grown so weak as to succumb to small-minded women. A hacking sob belied her words.
Laying aside the perpetual Germania papers, he wrapped one arm around her. He wiped at her tears with the backside of his thumb, the rough part of his skin catching underneath her eyelashes.
Gaze on the ground, she swallowed hard.
“What’s amiss?” He cupped his hand around her chin. He traced his fingertip around the curve of her ear.
“They—” she broke off in a choked sound. She was too angry to cry. She clenched her fists, but that didn’t stop the tears from escaping her eyes.
The muscles of his sword arm tensed. He brought his eyebrows down, his eyes darkening. “Tell me.”
“The women at that house—”
He relaxed. “Is that all?”
“You call that all? You should have heard them talk.”
Aquilus laughed. “What did they say? Bernice’s characteristic ostentatious airs?”
Ness drew back from him. “Easy to make light of prejudice when you’re not the recipient of it.”
“It’s just words. I thought from the look on your face some cutpurse had tried to stab a knife through you.” He took his parchments and glanced to the tablinum.
“You don’t understand. The women said abominable things.” Her head pounded from the tears she’d shed and her nose felt stuffy.
He sighed and turned back to her. “What did they say?”
“They said—” She touched her tongue to her teeth. How did she even sum it up so he would understand? They had ridiculed her people. They had called her unworthy of marriage to him.
The women had insinuated that she should be with child by now. Someday she would have Aquilus’ child, a girl with her gold hair and his dark eyes. If they hadn’t returned to Britain by that point, she’d walk to the banks of the Tiber with him the day she found out and tell him there as the clear water rushed by and olive leaves chattered in the breeze.
He tapped his sandal against the tile.
“I don’t know. They’re too Roman.”
For Life or Until (Love and Warfare Series Book 1) Page 6