Broken Vessels (volume 2 of Jars of Clay)

by Lee Strauss

  “I do not want to risk arousing the wrath of the gods.” Tatiana relaxed, brushing the wrinkles from her tunic, and then with a controlled voice continued, “They are hard enough to sooth as it is.”

  Tatiana stood, motioning toward the slave. “Please escort Lady Helena to the door.”

  Turning toward Helena she said, “I’m feeling tired. You understand.”

  “Of course. Please greet your mother for me”

  “And yours, likewise.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  FELICITY

  In her dreams she could fly. No longer a slave, but free, soaring above Carthage, privy to the everyday activities of the average Carthaginian, not saddled with the burden of human need. She could fly, and swoop, and she felt her smile tear at the edges of her face, so great was her joy.

  Suddenly, she was above the house of Vibius. Her master Brutus dined with his wife in the courtyard. Though she could see them clearly, they took no notice of her. This, she thought, was familiar. How often had she been like a lizard on the wall, hearing and seeing, but seemingly invisible to her master’s family? Even her mistress Helena seemed oblivious to her.

  Where was her mistress? Anxiety filled her chest, and the ease at which she flew faltered. Where, oh where was Lady Helena? She flew through the household, the atrium, the gardens, and out towards the slave quarters. Perhaps her mistress lingered by the well. How improbable; she wouldn’t be there. Lady Helena had no need to tend to the well.

  Oh, oh, danger. She spotted the eldest son of Brutus. Somehow, intuitively she knew he was to be feared, and fear was like a clipper to her wings. She began to fall. Oh no! She pleaded with the gods, but they, too, ignored her. She fell; helpless, frightened, seeing the hungry look in her master’s eyes.

  Surely this time he would take her life.

  “Felicitas! Wake up!” It was the voice of her mother. She had not died, but indeed she had fallen. The memory of her disgrace washed over her anew, and she felt she would surely suffocate.

  “You were dreaming.” Annia said, stroking her daughter’s face. “I’ll get you some tea. Try not to fret so.”

  How impossible not to fret. Could she think of anything else but the dismal future that lay ahead of her now? She could take no comfort in her position as Lady Helena’s personal slave, for she believed she had not secured her mistress’s affections. Would she discard her soon? If so, what would that mean? Would she be sold on the slave market, separated from her parents forever?

  Never before had Felicity questioned her station in life. The gods had ordained it; she was the daughter of slaves, who were themselves the offspring of slaves.

  Yet, she had always imagined that at least in this life she would know the joys of married love, and motherhood, even as a slave. That was ruined now, forever. No man, slave or otherwise, would have her once word got out, and it would get out; that was as certain as the sunset and sunrise. Nor would she have a child.

  Unless, on no, that was unthinkable! Except according to the cycle of her body and the moon, it was indeed a possibility. If that happened, her life would surely end. Brutus would spare his son and himself the embarrassment by forcing her to have the child removed, or an even simpler solution would be to have her killed.

  Annia brought the tea and assisted her daughter’s shaky hands lifting it to her mouth. She said nothing, and Felicity guessed that her mother’s thoughts paralleled her own.

  How would her life be taken, she wondered, unable to exit the morbid trail on which her thoughts had set themselves. No, that approach would be too messy, and she knew Brutus didn’t have the heart for that kind of thing. Likely she would be given an abortion and then sold.

  Oh, how deep was her despair! Perhaps she should take her own life. She couldn’t think of one process to that end that appealed to her, but oh, once she had succeeded she would be free again. Free to roam the underworld, unencumbered by the duties and obligations yoked on her young shoulders. No longer a constant reminder to her mistress of the shame she had brought on the household of Brutus Vibius.

  Yes, perhaps it was the best solution. The question remaining was how, and when?

  She wished to remain covered by the darkness in her room, but she had no such luxury: this, her own mother and father had pronounced. She was a slave, and as such she must rise and serve her mistress.

  She bathed, put on a clean tunic, brushed out her hair and braided it. It was not yet dawn, and if she hurried, she would be in the chamber of her mistress before she arose.

  When she saw the light of the oil lamp in her mistress’s room, she grew afraid. Perhaps she should just climb up to the roof now, and jump. Would the gods release her with the gift of death, or would she make matters worse by severely injuring herself?

  She climbed the steps softly, ignoring the pain that seared through her body and indeed her soul.

  She slipped in, not wanting to disturb Lady Helena who was sitting at her desk, writing.

  The sunlight cast dust rays over her mistress, caressing her rounded abdomen. Lady Helena’s child would live while hers, if indeed there was one, would not. She turned softly proceeding up the next flight of stairs.

  “Felicity?”

  Felicity had never denied her mistress before, but now she must. She quickened her pace to the rooftop in sight.

  “Felicity!”

  Her mistress had followed her. She must hurry.

  The brightness of the morning sun blinded her momentarily. She cupped her eyes, squinting. Only a few more steps…

  “Felicity, stop! I beg you.” Her mistress drew closer.

  Felicity stood near the rim of the rooftop and peered down. Only three floors. Would that be enough to kill her? She slipped out of her sandals and curled her toes over the edge. She would take her chances with the gods.

  “Felicity, what Gordian did to you was wrong!”

  Felicity teetered but swayed back.

  Her mistress continued. “I apologize on his behalf.”

  Surely, she had heard her wrong. A mistress apologizing to her slave? With a hoarse voice Felicity replied, “I bring shame to the family. It is better off if I am dead.”

  “No, it’s not. Felicity, I am truly sorry that this happened to you, and I promise I will do everything in my power to keep it from happening again.”

  Was her mistress honest? Or was this a trap?

  Helena must have read the doubt on her face. “I would not jest, Felicity.”

  “There may be a child.”

  “If you are with child, then we will share the experience together. Now please, come away from the edge.”

  Felicity stepped back. Her mistress either spoke the truth, or she would now be severely punished. She bit her lip, holding back the tears.

  “It’s okay to cry when you are hurt,” Helena said gently.

  Felicity collapsed onto the floor and though she made every effort to hold back the sobs that threatened, she was overcome. Helena knelt down and did something she had never done in all the years Felicity had known her. She held her.

  “Oh,” Felicity cried, “You are all goodness!”

  When the weeping subsided, she managed to say, “I don’t understand. Why are you being so kind to me?”

  “Someone was kind to me today.”

  “Who?”

  “Jesus.”

  “Jesus?”

  “Yes. He knows every sparrow that falls.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  HELENA’S JOURNAL

  The pains started in the deep darkness before dawn. It felt like I wore a wide leather belt that some invisible hand tugged on sharply, squeezing me in intervals. The midwife had draped me in a loose tunic and sat me in the birthing chair. Annia brought buckets of hot water and clean rags. Mother paced, and repeatedly asked the midwife how much longer. I wanted to tell her to go back to her room, but I couldn’t risk insulting her. Felicity held my hand and wiped my face with a cool cloth.

  The pressure on my abdomen
pushed in from the outside and down on the inside. Giant fingers constricting around my belly like it was a ripe lemon being juiced. I couldn’t help but scream out in pain. Felicity’s eyes widened unnaturally, and she held my hand too tightly. I frightened her. She was fortunate that Gordian’s seed did not take, and she would be spared from this agony.

  “Midwife!” demanded my mother. “How much longer?”

  “Only the gods know that,” she snapped.

  I prayed silently to my Lord, as did Felicity with me and found some comfort in knowing that my faith family was at Saturus’s home praying for a safe delivery.

  The sun just crested the hilltops when, with one last push and throaty cry, the babe arrived.

  A boy.

  My mother rushed to view him. “Is he normal?”

  The midwife nodded. Annia ushered the babe away, to the office of my father to be laid at his feet. I was cleaned up, face and hair washed, new tunic pulled over my wet head, and helped down the stairs to see my father. There would be no rejoicing until my father picked up the child, legally claiming it as his own, as I had no rights to the child myself.

  The babe lay swaddled in a wicker basket, cleaned and shiny pink. He whimpered hungrily.

  Father lifted him up toward the statue of Jupiter and promptly dedicated the baby to him.

  Nine days later, during the dedication ceremony, Father declared the name: Antonius Marcellus, after the great emperor Marcus Aurelius—who had called himself Antonius—and after his own deceased son.

  Father gave him back to me to hold. I considered my son’s face, dismayed by my thoughts. The child resembled Vincentius. I found myself wishing he looked like Lucius, but then banished those silly thoughts from my mind immediately.

  Chapter Eighteen

  LUCIUS

  The gates were made of tall cedar posts fastened together and chiseled to sharp points at the top. They were opened by the guards which set the donkeys off in joyous braying, knowing they were home and soon would be in the barn to eat and rest. The carriage jerked to a stop, knocking Lucius into the strong, dark man beside him. The man nudged him upright like he was shaking off a tick.

  Once the gates were closed and locked, the guards who had traveled with them began to uncut the rope that tied the legs of the men to each other and unfastened their ankle restraints.

  Blood surged back into Lucius’s feet and he fought back the urge to cry out in pain. He must not be perceived as weak.

  The men were prodded off the carriage, their arms remaining cinched together behind their backs. Lucius’s feet felt fat and numb as sausages, the prickles biting like red ants.

  He couldn’t navigate the steps out of the carriage and felt himself falling. Without his hands to brace his fall, he landed with a thud in the dirt on his chest, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped for breath, sucking in dust, which set him off in a fit of coughing.

  Laughter. The men were mocking him. As he opened his eyes to determine how precarious his position was, he noticed the stern faces of the prisoners who had arrived with him. The laughter came from those who’d come to greet them. Men in grey tunics and leather belts tightened around narrow waists. Their legs were bound by metal cuffs chained together but with enough slack to walk. Their bulging arms were free. They were tattooed with words he couldn’t make out from his vantage point.

  “I bet he doesn’t last a day,” someone in the crowd of witnesses muttered.

  “Cedric’s going to lose denarii on this one,” another said, snickering.

  “Get up!” A boot poked him in the ribs. The owner of the boot was attired in a white tunic draped with a colorful woven cloak. “Enough with your amusing entrance,” he said, his voice raspy as if he’d spent several years shouting. “If you don’t get yourself together, you’ll find your time in this world will be short.”

  Lucius managed to work his way off the ground without the help of his hands, aware of the many watchful eyes and humiliated by his lack of grace.

  The new arrivals stood in a row, Lucius beside the ginger haired man, Felix.

  “Welcome to your destiny, men,” the man in the white tunic said with authority. “You are here because you broke the laws of Rome, but, you have been granted life, at least for a time.

  “My name is Cedric. This is my facility were you will be trained to live and to die. But, if you listen and learn, you may not die today or tomorrow. If it is the will of the gods, your life could be extended. And if you are very, very good, you may one day be granted freedom. I stand here as proof of that.

  “You will work hard. This is not a place for the lazy and incompetent or for bumbling idiots,” Cedric said, staring pointedly at Lucius. “They will surely die, and dishonorably at that.”

  Lucius felt his face flush and cursed himself a fool for being singled out so quickly. He was frightened now, because he knew he’d have to work harder than ever to prove himself worthy of life.

  “Indeed, death will come for most of you,” Cedric continued, “but, men, let your death be an honorable moment, celebrated bravely, by glorifying our great emperor in the games.”

  The prisoners were tended to by the men in grey tunics. First they were placed in metal shackles, after which the ropes binding their wrists were slashed. Lucius wasn’t the only one rubbing life back into his hands and fingers.

  Then the men were given similar grey tunics. When Lucius slipped it over his head he shuddered. It marked him. He was now something he never dreamed he’d ever be. He was a slave.

  Once outfitted, they were led to the kitchen, guided to one long wooden table. Only one man who hadn’t arrived with them joined them.

  “My name is Tullio. I’m here to direct you.” Tullio was a sturdy Italian, built as tall and wide as a door. His dark hair was slicked back off his ruddy face. When he smiled, Lucius could tell it wasn’t because he was happy.

  The food arrived and Lucius forgot about everything else. Stewed boar with whole tomatoes and a large basket of thickly sliced bread were given to them. The men ate like hogs at the trough. Felix and his nephew Titus sat opposite Lucius, and like all the men, they were ravenous.

  Only Tullio ate like he believed there would be more food tomorrow.

  After their meal, they were ushered out doors to the training arena, an uncovered area crudely fenced and with guards posted on every side. In fact, Lucius noted, there were several arenas—one for beginners, one for immediate fighters, and one for the experienced and trained men about to be presented to the games. On the north side wooden benches were built into the hillside for the benefit of spectators who enjoyed watching the men train and fight. Even now the seats were half full.

  There was a match in progress in the intermediate ring. Two men in rawhide tunics and bare feet were sparring with blunt wooden swords. Cedric stepped over to them and began shouting.

  “You feeble-kneed cowards! You fight like women! Put your soul into it. Remember, the loser of the fight loses his life!”

  Lucius’s group was not taken to the first arena, but ushered to the chicken coop. Lucius wondered if they required six grown men to gather the eggs. No, it would be more degrading than that. They were to chase and catch the hens. The last one to present a chicken was to be flogged.

  Tullio unlocked their shackles, then shouted, “Go!”

  This was Lucius’s chance at redemption. On the Vibius farm he’d wrangled sheep and butchered chickens. As humbling as this exercise was, he was young and limber. He felt a strange sort of victory in being the first to catch his bird; he held it over his head and roared.

  A small crowd had gathered to watch the new “students.” Who would rise to become the next gladiator celebrity, Lucius wondered.

  One man after the next caught a chicken until it was down to Felix and a man half his age.

  Titus was screaming for his uncle to hurry. Lucius followed Felix’s stilted movements. He labored to breathe. The other man was stiff as well, but Felix was an old man. Anger rose in Luc
ius’s chest. He didn’t care to see any man flogged, but surely not this one who reminded him of his father.

  Lucius caught himself holding his breath, hoping for a miracle.

  But there was none. The other man succeeded in his catch. Felix was the last man standing.

  Titus’s face had lost its color. He shouted as the guards tied his uncle to a pole. Tullio held him back. “You are no longer your own!” he spit. “You belong to the emperor now.”

  Lucius closed his eyes when the first strap whipped the old man’s bare back. His cries made Lucius’s knees weak. A lump formed in his throat. He wanted to kill the guard who flogged Felix.

  Chapter Nineteen

  HELENA

  Young Antonius was three weeks old when the news arrived at the house of Vibius. Along with her mother, father and brother, Helena nibbled on the remains of their breakfast, relaxing in the warmth of the morning sun.

  “An official statement was declared at the senate. The emperor is coming to Carthage!” Brutus said, beaming. “I don’t believe he’s been back since he was the general. Cassius, this news is great for business!”

  Cassius nodded, but Helena could tell by the shadow that crossed his face, he was worried. The return of Septimius Severus could be trouble for their little Christian community.

  “Do you think Augusta will join him?” Virina said.

  “Yes, the emperor is bringing his wife and one of his sons. They are celebrating the boy’s birthday. Here in Carthage! The games provided in his honor will bring customers from miles away.” Brutus rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

  The baby cried before Helena could think of a response. She was about to lift herself off her lounging couch when Cassius jumped up.

  “I’ll get him,” he said. He picked the baby up and immediately the child began to coo. Helena smiled at her brother. He was a natural with children and would be a great pater familia one day.

  Brutus rose from his couch with some effort. He’d acquired a cane recently, a twisted hand crafted Cyprus tree branch sold at the Forum.