by Barbara Wood
She drew in a sharp breath when she opened the box and saw what was inside: the most exquisite necklace she had ever laid eyes on.
Giddy with joy and sudden hope, she carefully brought the gold chain out of the box and held it up to the light. Set in expertly crafted gold was a stunning blue stone, egg-shaped and smooth, shot with hues from skies and rainbows and lakes. As she fastened it behind her neck, Cornelius said, “The legend is that it was found in the tomb of an Egyptian queen who deceived her husband and was put to death for it,” and Amelia’s hopes and joy collapsed.
She saw the truth of her life, all in an instant: a woman whose children no longer needed her, whose husband was cold and cruel, and whose few friends gossiped about her behind her back. An intolerable situation. Yet she could never leave for the law gave Cornelius absolute right of life and death over her. Besides, she had done wrong. She deserved to be punished.
Amelia woke with a start.
She listened to the night and heard, beyond her open window, the never-ending noise of the city. Wheeled traffic was not allowed in the streets of Rome during the day and so the night was always filled with the clip-clop of hooves and the creaks and groans of wagons. But it wasn’t the city that had wakened her. “Who’s there?” she whispered in the darkness.
When there was no response she continued to lie still, holding her breath. She was certain she felt a presence in the room. “Cornelius?” she said, knowing that would be impossible.
Her skin suddenly rose in bumps and she felt her scalp crawl. Filled with nameless dread, she sat up. Her bedchamber was flooded with radiant moonlight. She looked around the room but saw no one there. Yet she was certain someone was there.
Creeping from her bed, she stole across the room to look out the window. Rome slept. Rooftops, towers, hills, and valleys covered with buildings glowing in moon- and starlight. And the relentless traffic in the streets, strangely solemn and muted, as if ghosts drove the horses and mules.
She felt an icy breath on her back. Turning with a start, she surveyed the bedchamber once more. Her senses were heightened. The furniture seemed to stand in eerie relief in the supernatural light of the moon. Suddenly it didn’t look like her bedroom at all. It made her think of tombs and death.
Crossing the cold floor, she reached her dressing table and looked at the ebony box Cornelius had brought from Egypt. And suddenly she knew: There lay the nameless presence. The hateful blue crystal that had lain a thousand years upon the bosom of a dead woman. It terrified her. When Cornelius had first given it to her, Amelia had gazed long and hard into the blue depths of the stone, and what she had seen there had so filled her with dread and terror that she had put the necklace away, swearing never to bring it to light again.
For she had seen the ghost of the murdered queen.
As morning sunlight streamed through her window, Amelia sat at her dressing table as she always had, applying makeup, inspecting jewelry, getting her hair arranged: a necessary ritual. Amelia kept her sanity by keeping up appearances. By ordering the arrangement of her hair she had order over her emotions. By doing what was expected she didn’t have to think or make decisions. As a woman of a certain station, there were rules she must follow, and Amelia followed those rules almost obsessively. She was like a mime in the theater, all gestures and no substance. She had loved Cornelius once, long ago, but now she could not recall what it had felt like, loving Cornelius, or loving at all. She had not been in love with her lover, a man she had known for exactly one week and whose face she could barely conjure now. Looking back, she could not recall the emotions that had driven her to his embrace, and certainly no trace remained of their fleeting, physical passion.
Adultery was a strange thing. It all depended on who committed it, and with whom. Among the lower classes, spousal cheating was almost a national pastime and a great source of jokes for the theater. But the nobility was held to a different standard and a straying wife was looked upon as cheating not only on her husband but upon her social class as well. As Lucilla, the beautiful widow of a famous senator, had once snippishly told her, it wasn’t the adultery that was the sin, it was getting caught. Amelia had acted in the highest stupidity, and for that the lords and ladies of Rome could not forgive her.
“Beware the number four, my Lady,” the astrologer croaked in an ancient voice as he took readings from a star chart.
Lady Amelia looked away from her mirror. She had been applying rice powder to the dark circles under her eyes because once she had gotten back to sleep, nightmares had plagued her with terrifying scenarios of tombs and sarcophagi and vengeful dead queens. “The number four?” she said.
“It is your bad-luck number today,” said the old man who read Amelia’s horoscope every morning. “It is to be avoided at all costs.”
She stared at her reflection. How was she to avoid a number that was so prevalent? The universe was made up of fours: the four elements, the four winds, the four phases of the moon. And people: four limbs, four chambers of the heart, four passions.
Her slave girls were dressing her hair for the day and they were doing a beautiful job for they liked their mistress. Amelia was gentler than many ladies of her station and didn’t stab her slave girls with hairpins if they didn’t do things exactly right. The two young women labored with care as it was necessary for a lady to vary her hairstyle; having the same style day after day simply wasn’t done. This morning Amelia’s long curls, dyed with henna to cover the gray, were layered like a tiara on her head. As the wife of a Vitellius it was important that she always looked her best. Amelia wore dresses made of Chinese silk, necklaces made of pearls from the Indian Ocean, and jewelry made of Spanish silver and Dalmatian gold. A stranger might even envy her.
“Is there anything in your charts about a man greeting me with open arms?” she asked.
The elderly seer arched his bushy white eyebrows. “Open arms, Lady?”
“As if to embrace or welcome me.”
He shook his head and gathered up his instruments. “Nothing, Lady,” he said and left.
She bit her lip. The Bird Reader at their country villa was never wrong. His prophecies came true with uncanny frequency. Unfortunately the reader of auspices had not accompanied the household back to the city.
Amelia shivered—not from cold but from fear. The necklace. It frightened her, even sitting concealed in its box. The blue crystal, hard and cold, made her think of death. It was the color of cruelty and intransigence. There was no mercy in the stone, just as there was none in the giver. Pleasing to the eye but hard and cold with an unreadable core, like Cornelius himself.
She thought of his power, of the power of men in general. What power did women have? Amelia’s virginity and therefore her sexuality had been guarded by her father and her brothers. When she married she had been handed over by her father to her husband. At no point in her life had she owned her own person. When her brothers came to visit, they greeted her, as all Roman male relatives greeted their kinswomen, by kissing her on both cheeks. This was not a gesture of affection but rather a covert way to detect wine on a woman’s breath, for drinking alcohol was considered unseemly. I have not even any say in what goes into my stomach!
She shivered again, almost afraid to look into her mirror for fear of what she would see—the specter of the dead queen hovering behind her. That horrible necklace. It was as if Cornelius had brought a ghost into their home. If only she could pray. There was a time when prayer had been a comfort. But now there was only a spiritual desert inside her where faith had once flourished.
How she envied her friend Rachel, so devout, so active in her religious community, and so certain of her place in the world. Rachel knew of Amelia’s loss of faith and had tried, in her gently persuasive way, to bring her friend into Judaism. But Rachel’s religion only baffled and confused Amelia. If a hundred Roman gods could not inspire faith, then how could just one?
Her thoughts now upon Rachel, Amelia recalled again her surprise of the ni
ght before when she had received an invitation to come to Rachel’s house today, a day Amelia would not normally have seen her friend for it was Rachel’s holy day, called the Sabbath. Even more astonishing was that the invitation was to come to a meal. Because rabbinical law prohibited Jews from eating with gentiles, in all the years of their friendship, not once had they broken bread together. And so Amelia was excited and looking forward to the day. But she must be careful not to show her joy to Cornelius, or he might order her to stay home.
Amelia knew why Cornelius allowed her to continue her friendship with Rachel, when he had stripped her of every other privilege and freedom: it was to have one thing to hold over her, one precious thing he could take away and therefore keep her afraid of him. If Cornelius were to deny her all pleasures and make her truly a prisoner, he would have nothing left with which to threaten her, to control her. The outings to Rachel’s house were his constant reminder of his power over her. And he kept her in suspense. Amelia never knew until the last minute if he was going to give her permission to leave the house. So, while she was happy to be seeing Rachel again, there was still that cloud: was this to be the last time?
The day is most favorable for you to argue your case in court, Excellency.” Cornelius’s personal astrologer nodded with satisfaction over his calculations. “Most favorable indeed. I should say the case will be settled by noon.”
As three slaves took pains to arrange their master’s toga just right, draping it this way and that, measuring the folds precisely, Cornelius glanced toward the open doorway. He knew she lurked just beyond, Amelia, hovering like a sparrow.
She had not always been timid. There was a time when Amelia had been a strong woman with a personality befitting her high station in Roman society. The sad ruination had been her own doing. And divorce with banishment was proper punishment. But only Cornelius knew his secret reason for staying married to her. Romans didn’t like bachelors, especially wealthy ones. Emperor Augustus had even gone so far as to almost make bachelorhood a crime. If Cornelius were to divorce Amelia, every mother of an unmarried daughter, every widow and divorcee, every marriageable female in the Empire would be after him. This way, Amelia was his shield. He was in fact pleased with the way he had worked his life out so well. Amelia was no longer a meddling wife and hindrance, no longer on his agenda of duties—he could in fact ignore her completely—yet she was a convenient barrier against marriage-minded women. Very tidy indeed.
And that necklace! A stroke of genius, if he did say so himself. The moment the Egyptian dealer had shown him the necklace stolen from a tomb, Cornelius had known it was perfect for Amelia—the garish bauble of an adulterous queen. And the timing could not have been better. His wife’s indiscretion was six years old and people were starting to forget. The blue crystal with its scandalous legend was the perfect way to refresh people’s memories. It was also an excellent way of subtly advertising his own growing power in Rome, for the crystal said, If I can do this to my wife, imagine what I can do to you.
There was a small crowd waiting for him in the atrium. Cornelius had been back in Rome only two days and already word had spread that the wealthy patron was back.
They always arrived at dawn, hungry young men looking for favors, referrals, introductions. They hurried from their mean lodgings in the tenement blocks to come and pay respects to their patron upon whom they depended for their subsistence living. In return for gifts and meals, these eager clients were expected to accompany him on his rounds in the city. It was Roman tradition: the larger the following, the more important the patron. And Cornelius Gaius Vitellius had one of the largest followings in Rome.
Cornelius was a lawyer, successful and influential, with many highly placed contacts. Whenever it was announced that he was going to be arguing in the law courts, crowds came to listen. His generosity was also well known. Cornelius sponsored free days at the baths, with his name prominently displayed on a banner over the entrance. At the arena, one of the awnings for blessed relief from the sun had Cornelius’s name on it, informing the populace that this shade had been provided by him free of charge. He sent slaves into the streets blowing pipes and proclaiming his greatness, followed by more slaves dispensing loaves of bread. Cornelius aspired to being consul someday, least in power only to the emperor, and giving him the right to have a year named after himself so that he would be remembered for eternity. Loaves and awnings were a small price to pay.
He thought of Amelia, standing just outside his door, waiting.
A man had only one true possession: his good name. Strip away his lands and his fortune and his accomplishments and he still hadn’t been touched as long as he still had his good name. It was the one thing a man had a right to defend at any cost. And there was no worse humiliation in Rome than to be a laughingstock. To be the butt of jokes was for other men, not for Cornelius Gaius Vitellius, whose patrician blood ran purer than that of the emperor himself (although Cornelius would be the last to remind Nero of this fact). Banishing his adulterous wife to exile would have been too easy, the coward’s way out. Cornelius showed Rome what stern stuff he was made of by keeping her and making her a continual example to other wives.
Their marriage had been an arranged one, the unification of two powerful families through the betrothal of Cornelius and Amelia when they were eleven and eight years old respectively. Eight years later they were married and within five years they were parents. After the first son, named for his father, there came a succession of pregnancies resulting in miscarriages, stillbirths, and healthy infants—a normal mix. Over the years Cornelius established his reputation for oratory and for winning cases in the law courts, and Amelia was an exemplary wife. A man could not ask for more.
And then she had become the friend of Agrippina, mother of Nero and the most powerful woman in the Roman empire—a woman who had once attended the games wearing robes woven entirely of golden thread so that she had blinded the spectators! Agrippina was dead now, thank the gods, but Cornelius would never forget that humiliating moment six years ago at the circus, when he and Amelia, pregnant at the time, had entered the imperial box as guests and the crowd had jumped to its feet with a roar of approval. Cornelius had lifted his arms in acknowledgment of the adulation, and Agrippina had said out of the corner of her mouth, “They are cheering for your wife, you idiot, not you.”
How was he to have known that Amelia had personally persuaded Rome’s most favorite charioteer to come out of retirement for one last race? A wife’s activities were of no concern to a husband, as long as his children were raised properly and his house run well and she kept her husband’s name and reputation sterling. Whatever else wives engaged in—charities, parties, shopping—were not a husband’s concern. So how was Cornelius to have known that Amelia had headed a delegation of patrician ladies to flatter and cajole and plead with the arrogant charioteer to come back for one more race? Since Amelia had been successful where others had failed, and because Rome adored the chariot driver to the point of nearly deifying the man, the mob had lifted Amelia herself to heroine status.
And her husband had not had a clue.
Cornelius had been the butt of jokes for months afterward. People recited rhymes and jingles, and scrawled ditties on public walls, making “Cornelius Vitellius” a euphemism for witless husband. And there was nothing he could do about it without making himself look even more foolish. The humiliation and resentment had eaten at him like a cancer until an idea for revenge had come to him. He might not be able to knock Amelia from her public pedestal, but he could certainly topple her from her own personal one. Even if the baby had been a perfect boy he would have declared it unfit and sent it to the waste heap. Fortunately it had been a girl, and no one had looked closely enough or had had the nerve to challenge the existence of a deformed foot. Out went the child, despite Amelia’s hysterical pleadings, to be exposed on a rubbish pile to be consumed by birds and rats and the elements, and Cornelius’s dominance was established once again.
> And then the silly woman had gone and slept with another man—a poet of all people! And then had been stupid enough not to be discreet about it so that her indiscretion was found out. Once again, Cornelius had had to act. But not to banish her from Rome. Since she was such a darling of the mob, let the mob be constantly reminded of the whore that she was.
The slaves finally done with his toga, Cornelius stepped away from them and went to examine himself in a full-length mirror of polished copper. “I suppose you want to visit the Jewess?” he said to no one in particular. Cornelius never referred to Rachel by name. He disliked Jews and was opposed to the imperial policy of tolerance toward them and their secretive sect. He had also conveniently forgotten that it was the Jewess’s husband, a physician named Solomon, who had saved the life of one of their children.
Amelia finally stepped into the open doorway. “If I may.”
He fussed with his toga, turned this way and that in front of his reflection, snapped an order at the slaves, inspected his perfectly manicured fingernails, then said, “Is this something you really wish to do?”
She bit her lower lip. “Yes, Cornelius.” She desperately wanted to be allowed out of the house. After visiting Rachel, she hoped to stop at the bookshops near the Forum and see if a new collection of poetry was in. But it would have to be a quick stop, and she would have to be sure to hide the book from Cornelius.
He finally looked at her. “You aren’t wearing my gift.”
Her heart jumped. The necklace! “I thought—it seems too expensive for—”
“The Jewess is your best friend. I would have thought you would wish to show it to her.”
She swallowed with a dry mouth. “Yes, Cornelius. I will wear it, as you wish.”
“In that case, you may visit her.”
She tried not to show her intense relief.
“You will be home before sunset,” he added. “We are having guests tonight.”