As the depth of the Crypt had increased, incidences of flooding or collapse had been dealt with by brute force, with the application of plenty of Roman concrete and brick. Problems with ventilation and heating had been more insidious. Air shafts had been dug out, to be concealed aboveground as artfully as possible. Great fires were lit at the base of some of these shafts, so that the rising air would draw fresh breezes through the tunnels — a practice adopted from deep mines, many of whose engineers Regina had hired to supervise the extension of the Crypt.
But the air shafts alone weren’t enough. There had been a near disaster when a group of five students had been found unconscious, the air in their room foul, a stagnant puddle at the end of a corridor. It had been fortunate for all concerned, Regina thought, that only one student had died — and that her parents, a stoical equestrian family, had been happy to accept the death of their elder daughter as a price to be paid for the safety of their two younger children, both also with the Order. After that incident an elaborate air- monitoring system had been evolved. In every passageway and room there were candles burning, bits of reed dangled from the walls to show the air currents, and caged birds sang in most of the main chambers and corridors.
And it had been found that the simplest way to adjust the environment was by moving people.
A person blocked the flow of air, consumed its vital goodness, and pumped a lot of heat into it besides. So you could improve the flow of air into a problematic region by simply evacuating the passageways around it and moving the people somewhere else. You could likewise cool an area by taking out its people — or warm it up, by crowding more people in. It was impossible to solve every problem by “huddling.” The kitchens, and the nursery and crиche where the Order’s babies were cared for en masse, were a constant difficulty. But on the whole, with careful monitoring and analysis, the system worked well, and was becoming increasingly effective as they learned.
Of course there were many grumbles at this regime of constant shifting, but people had adapted. Space had been at a premium from the beginning, so you weren’t allowed to bring a great deal of personal baggage into the Crypt in the first place. And furniture in each dormitory room was becoming uniform, so it made no real difference where you were.
As far as Regina was concerned, this constant uprooting was an unexpected side benefit. Regina wanted every sister to think of the whole Crypt as her home, not just her own little corner of it.
Meanwhile Order members began to spend an increasing amount of time underground.
In the Crypt there was no summer or winter, and no threats from barbarians or bandits, and no disease, as all the food and water was clean. And it was safe in here, safe and orderly in a world that was becoming increasingly threatening. To the children who had been born here, in fact, it was the aboveground world that seemed strange — a disorderly place where the wind blew without control and water just fell from the sky …
One day, Regina mused, somebody would be born in the Crypt, would live out her whole life underground, and then die here, her body being fed to the great ventilation furnaces, a last contribution to the Order. Regina would not live to see it happen, but she was sure that grand dream would soon be fulfilled.
* * *
Regina met Ambrosius Aurelianus seven days later. He stood in the Forum, listening to an orator who declaimed the ruin of the world to a cheerful crowd. He wore the leather armor of a Celtae warrior, even here in the heart of Rome. Ambrosius had aged, but he was much as Regina remembered — the stocky frame, the sturdy, determined face. His startling blond hair was receding, and a deep scar disfigured one side of his face. But his blue eyes held the same warm zeal she remembered from Artorius’s war councils, all those years ago in Londinium.
He greeted her with clumsy gallantry, insisting she hadn’t changed.
She snorted at that. “You are a fool, Ambrosius Aurelianus, and from what I remember you always were. But you are a brave fool to try such endearments on a vicious old hag like me.”
He laughed. “I have the diplomatic skills of most soldiers, madam. But I am glad to see you.” It was strange to hear the British language spoken so fluently; even Brica rarely spoke more than the odd phrase nowadays.
They walked to a tavern she knew, a respectable popina, not far from the Forum; it was built in a cellar, and its dark, sweet-smelling interior, reminding her of the Crypt, made her feel at home. Ambrosius bought a pitcher of wine, which she drank with water and flavored with herbs and resin. He seemed hungry, and ordered olives, bread, and roasted meat cut into cubes; he said he relished the richly flavored Roman cuisine.
He described his visit. He was staying with a rich sponsor who entertained him with lavish Roman hospitality. “They say that everybody should see Rome before they die, and I am glad I have done as much.” Regina was sure he was sincere. Despite times of trouble and uncertainty, the crowds in the markets were as busy and affable as ever, there were still wrestling matches and the slaughter of beasts in the amphitheater, and chariots still raced around the Circus Maximus. “But there are so many empty spaces. It seems to me that Rome’s statues must outnumber the living.”
“Perhaps. But it is not statues you have come to visit, Ambrosius Aurelianus, for statues have no purses.”
He grinned ruefully. “And you never were a fool … No wonder Artorius always relied on you. And he needs you again, Regina.”
He gave her a brief account of Artorius’s career since her departure. His kingdom, based on the dunon, still thrived. But the Saxons continued their relentless advance. One leader called Aelle was proving particularly troublesome; he was said to have ambitions of founding yet another new Saxon kingdom on the south coast. Only Artorius, it seemed, offered any resistance to the Saxons’ expanse, and their terrible cleansing; Regina listened somewhat impatiently to tales of his glorious exploits.
But his grander dreams remained. Each time the Saxons were driven back, Artorius would take his troops away to Gaul, where he continued to campaign season after season against the troops of the new kingdoms that were coalescing there, and even against the remnant Roman forces — all part of his long- standing ambition to march on Rome itself and claim the purple.
And, of course, Ambrosius was here to request money to support Artorius’s campaigning, money from the Order’s already fabled coffers.
“How ironic,” Regina said, “that you have come to Rome to seek funds, so you can return with soldiers!”
Ambrosius spread his hands. “One must do one’s duty, no matter how ironic.”
Artorius must have been desperate even to have considered such an approach, she thought; and that made her decision not to waste any of the Order’s funds even easier to make. “Here we celebrate life, not death,” she said. “Here each life is to be cherished, not spent like a token in some military adventure. That is our fundamental philosophy — it has always been my philosophy. I have said as much to Artorius, not that I imagine he listened.”
Ambrosius was a man of sense, who didn’t believe in wasting time. He didn’t try to change her mind. “I suspect Artorius already knows your answer,” he said wryly.
“Yes, I suspect he does. Wish him my blessing …”
She urged Ambrosius to stay for another day, for tomorrow there would be the coming-of-age ceremony, which she invited him to attend. “I would like you to leave with positive memories,” she said.
He agreed to stay.
He told her something of the fate of Durnovaria, the town closest to Artorius’s dunon. Its decline had never been reversed, and now it had been abandoned for perhaps forty years. “In places you can see where the buildings used to be, from courses of stone, rectangles and lines across the ground. But otherwise it is like a patch of young forest, where oak trees are spreading and foxes lurk, with only a few hummocks to show that once a whole town existed …”
It was only after their conversation was over that Regina remembered the ceremony she had invited him to would be
the awkward affair of Agrippina, her granddaughter.
* * *
Fifteen years after the first of these ceremonies, for Venus daughter of Messalina, the coming-of-age celebrations had evolved their own rituals, as had so many of the practices of the Order. But this time, Regina felt instinctively, a new precedent must be set.
At first Regina let events follow the time-honored pattern. Agrippina’s sisters, aunts, cousins, and mother formed a circle around her on the stage of the Crypt’s tiny theater. They were in a pool of light cast by an array of lanterns and candles, and they were surrounded by as many of the Order as could squeeze in.
The only male, apart from some small boys with their mothers and sisters, was Ambrosius. Standing tall in his dark brown armor, amid women and girls in their costumes of white and purple, he was like a pillar of male strangeness, utterly out of place.
As the final preparations were made, Regina approached him, amused. “You don’t look terribly comfortable.”
“I can’t deny that,” he said, and he mopped his neck. “It is the low ceilings. The dense air. The smell.” He eyed her uneasily. “I don’t wish to give offense — perhaps you have become used to it. It is a smell of people — or of animals, perhaps — almost like the amphitheater, during the hunting shows.”
“And this makes you uncomfortable. You, a veteran of a hundred battlefields!”
“Then there’s the sameness. Everywhere I look I see the same corridors, the chambers, the decorations — even the same faces, it seems. Though beautiful faces — those haunting eyes, like slate — I feel buried in this pit of yours — turned around, dizzy. It isn’t for me!”
“It isn’t meant for you,” she said sharply.
The little ceremony began at last, Agrippina blushed prettily, and her gravid mother held her hand. Agrippina dedicated her childish clothes to the matres by feeding them into a brazier, and was given her first adult stola, simple white with a fine purple line woven in.
But when it came to the point where Agrippina was to burn a scrap of linen stained with a little of her first bleeding, Regina stepped forward.
“No,” she said loudly, into a shocked silence. She had had time to think through her first instinctive refusal of this event, and she thought she understood what must be done. She took the scrap of linen from Brica, and held it up. “This is to be destroyed, but not celebrated.” She fed it into the brazier, and as the little flames licked she heard the shocked gasps of those who watched. She took Agrippina’s hand and placed it over Brica’s swollen belly. “ This is what is important. This, your unborn sister.
“Agrippina, your bleeding is no shame. But you are to hide it from others, and you will not remark on it. Your life belongs, not to your daughters, but to your sisters — the one here in Brica’s belly, and those born thereafter. When Brica’s blood dries — well, perhaps then your turn will come to serve. But until then, if you choose to bear a child, then you will bear it beyond these walls.”
Agrippina looked terrified. “You would exile me for becoming pregnant?”
“It is your choice,” said Regina. Though her tone was gentle, she knew the menace in her words was unmistakable. She turned and faced the watching group. “Do not question this. It must always be so — not because I say it, but because it is best for the Order. Sisters matter more than daughters. ”
For a moment Brica faced her, and Regina thought she saw a spark of defiance in her daughter’s eyes. But Brica was heavily pregnant, worn out by fifteen years of pregnancies — and besides, she had been defeated by Regina long ago. Her shoulders slumped, she led a weeping Agrippina away.
Regina felt a twinge of guilt. Why did it have to be like this? Why did she have to inflict so much pain on her children? … “Because it is for the best,” she muttered. “Even if they cannot see it.”
The group broke up, avoiding Regina. Only Ambrosius was left watching her, his eyes wide.
* * *
Later, in her office, they drank watered wine. Ambrosius was cautious, watchful.
She smiled, tired. “You think I am a mad old woman.”
“I understand nothing of what I have seen here,” he said honestly. “Would you really turn her out if she got pregnant?”
“Agrippina has spent almost all her life in the Crypt. What lies outside, the disorder, the chaos — even the weather — rightly terrifies her. But it would be for the best.”
“She is your granddaughter,” he said hotly. “How can you say such an exile would be the best for her?”
“Not for her,” Regina said. “The best for those who follow. The best for the Order … It is hard for me to understand, too,” she said bluntly. “I follow my instincts — make my decisions — and then try to understand why I do what I do, where is the rightness.
“But consider this.” She poured a glass of wine. “We are safe in here, and we are bound by family ties. In fact we are so crammed in that it is only family ties that keep us from murdering each other. But with time family ties weaken. How can I keep that from happening?
“Imagine this wine is the blood of my daughter — blood that is mine, mixed with that of a buffoon called Amator — he does not matter. Brica gives birth.” She poured some of the wine into a second glass, and mixed it with water. “Here is Agrippina — half the blood of Brica, half of her father — and so only a quarter mine. But if Agrippina were to have a child—” She poured the mixture into another glass, diluting it further. “Agrippina’s blood is mixed with the father’s, and so is only an eighth mine.” She sat back and sighed. “My granddaughter’s blood is closer to mine than is my great-granddaughter’s. And so I want more granddaughters. Do you see?”
“Yes, but I don’t—”
“We can’t leave this Crypt,” she snapped. “We have no arms, no warriors to protect us. And though we are expanding our space, our numbers expand faster. We can’t support too many babies at once — we don’t have the room. Now—” She pushed forward the glasses. “Suppose I have to choose between a baby of Agrippina’s, or another baby of Brica’s. Brica’s baby would be closer to my blood, which would bind us more tightly together — and, if Agrippina were to support her mother, might actually have a better chance of living to adulthood. Which should I choose?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, I see your logic — sisters matter more than daughters — it is better for Agrippina to support more sisters than to have her own children. But it is an insane logic, Regina.”
“Insane?”
“It is better for you, perhaps, if you accept this hot logic of the blood, even better for your Order — but not for Agrippina. ”
She shrugged. “If Agrippina doesn’t accept it, she can leave.”
He said gently, “You are like no woman I ever encountered. Like no mother, certainly. And yet you endure; I can’t deny that.” He strode and began pacing around the room, fingering the hilt of the dagger at his belt. “But I must get out of here,” he said. “The airlessness — the closeness — forgive me, madam.”
She smiled, and rose to show him out.
Chapter 31
The changes in her body seemed to come terribly quickly. She passed water almost hourly. Her breasts swelled and became sensitive. She tried to maintain her normal life — her classes, her after-hours work in the scrinium — but if she had stuck out from the crowd before, now it was by a mile.
She sat with Pina in a refectory. “Before they ignored me. Now they stare the whole time.”
Pina grinned. “They’re just responding to you. A very basic human reaction. You glow, Lucia. You can’t help it.”
“Do you think they envy me?” She looked at her friend. “Do you?”
Pina’s expression became complex. “I don’t know. I will never have what you have. I can’t imagine how it feels.”
“A part of you wants it, though,” Lucia said bluntly. “A part of you wants to be a mother, as all women were mothers, in primitive times.”
“But what we have here is
better. Sisters matter more than daughters. ”
“Of course,” Lucia said mechanically. “But I’ll tell you what, if anybody does envy me, they can watch me throwing up in the mornings.”
Pina laughed. “Well, you can’t go on working in the scrinium.”
“No. I distract everybody.”
“Shall I speak to Rosa? You ought to continue your schooling. But perhaps they will find you an apartment down with the matres.”
“Wonderful. Order my false teeth and smelly cardigan now …”
* * *
The day after that, her morning nausea was worse than ever. Soon she felt so exhausted that she had to give up her classes as well as her work.
By the sixth week, as Pina had suggested, she was moved to a small room on the third story, in the deep downbelow.
It was dark, the walls coated with rich flocked wallpaper and the floor thickly carpeted, and it was cluttered with ancient-looking furniture. It was an old lady’s room, she thought miserably. But she had it to herself, and though she often missed the presence of others, the susurrus of hundreds of girls breathing all around her in the night, it was a haven of peace.
Her body’s changes proceeded at their own frightening pace, and the weight in her belly grew daily. From the eighth week a doctor attended her twice a day. She was called Patrizia; she might have been forty, but she was slim, composed, ageless.
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