Cleopatra’s Daughter: A Novel (32 page)

A
sparsor
rushed onto the tracks with a bucket of water and doused the chariot’s wheels while the driver made frantic motions for the man to hurry. Then the
sparsor
jumped back, and the driver continued racing.

“I don’t see how anything can be smoking on a day like this,” I said grimly, tightening my cloak around my shoulders.

Next to me, Marcellus waved his hand. “Oh, it’s not so bad. Wait until tomorrow.”

“What happens tomorrow?”

“From the looks of it, snow.” Julia shivered in her cloak. We had exchanged our silk tunics for cotton months ago, but now that it was nearing the middle of December, nothing seemed to ward off the cold.

“You mean there will be snow on the mountains?” Alexander asked.

“And everywhere else.” Marcellus held out his hand, and the mist
left a fine sheen on his palm. “It would be a shame if it snows during Saturnalia. My mother says once it snowed for three days.”

I exchanged looks with Alexander.

“What’s the matter?” Julia asked. “Haven’t you ever seen snow?”

“Only when it was cooling our mother’s wine,” I admitted.

Marcellus laughed. “That’s it? But you must have tasted
nix dulcis.”

I frowned.

“The sweet snow brought down from the mountains,” Julia prompted, “mixed with honey and fruit.”

Both Alexander and I shook our heads.

“Well, you haven’t lived if you’ve never tasted
nix dulcis,”
Marcellus said. “Perhaps there’ll be some in the markets before Saturnalia.”

“So what is Saturnalia?” Alexander asked.

Julia grinned. “On the seventeenth, we’ll go to the Temple of Saturn. And for an entire week there’s no work and no school. No one has to wear a toga, and even slaves can gamble.”

“Will the Circus be open?” Alexander asked.

I sighed impatiently, but Marcellus laughed. “It’s always open. And I’ve heard that if it isn’t snowing, the Pompeians will be sending up their teams to challenge Rome. We’ll have to come down to the stables in advance.”

“There’s also a feast every day for a week,” Julia added. “And people exchange gifts.”

“For what?” I asked.

“Just for fun! They’re only small things. Like pretty silks or statues. It’s really for the children.”

“And slaves change positions with their masters,” Marcellus added. “We sit in the atrium where the slaves usually dine, and they use the triclinium—”

“Not this year,” Julia warned. “My father forbade it. He also said the first feast will be hosted by Pollio.”

Marcellus groaned. “Why? He never stops talking, unless it’s to shove food in his mouth.”

“At least Horatia will be there,” Julia said glumly.

“And how can she move? She’s nearly due.”

“Pregnant women can still walk,” Julia retorted. “She might even have the child by then.”

It snowed on the seventeenth of December. Like a white linen sheath, the snow covered the roads and the rooftops; it froze the fountains and brought every kind of traffic to a halt. A bitter wind blew through the streets of Rome, carrying the scents of charcoal braziers. On the steps to the Temple of Saturn, I tightened Alexander’s hood around his face.

“Do I look like a gryphon in this thing?” he asked.

“No. You look like a prince of Egypt.” It was true. The heavy cloak was trimmed in ermine, and the soft white contrasted with his olive skin. Dark tendrils escaped from his hood, and they blew about in the wind, making him look like a statue of young Hermes. “It’s really cold here, isn’t it?” I said bleakly.

“It makes you wish we were back in Alexandria.”

“Many things make me wish that.”

As soon as Octavian’s ritual in the temple was finished, horse-drawn carriages took us to Pollio’s villa. The carriages were normally forbidden in Rome, but the streets were too slick to risk riding in litters. And because the skies were so dark, a dozen torchbearers lit the way. I huddled in my cloak, too cold to speak, and when I stole a glance at Julia, her red cheeks and bright nose announced her misery. I don’t remember ever feeling so happy to reach shelter as I did when we entered Pollio’s villa. A rush of warm air engulfed us, and the smell of roasted meat filled the vestibulum.

“Thank the gods,” Octavian said. He seemed to be suffering the worst of all. Beneath his woolen cloak, he wore three separate tunics, and there was a brace on his right hand, which Marcellus said stiffened every year with the cold.

Pollio spread his arms. “Welcome!”

“Take us to the triclinium,” Livia commanded. “My husband is in pain.”

“Of course!” as Pollio rushed to do her bidding, his heavy fur cloak fanned out around him. “Of course!”

We passed through the atrium, where elaborate braziers did very little to offset the frigid air. But when we reached the triclinium, Octavian’s shoulders relaxed. The room was as warm as any bathhouse. Flowers bloomed from precious gold vases, and garlands twisted around the columns as if it were spring.

“How extravagant,” Livia said critically.

“Where is Horatia?” Julia asked.

There had been no sign of the hostess, and as guests crowded into the room, Pollio hesitated. “I’m afraid she cannot be with us tonight.”

“Why?” Julia looked around. “Is she sick?”

“In a fashion.”

“She’s not having the baby?” Octavia exclaimed.

Pollio nodded as if he were embarrassed. “I’m afraid it is bad timing—”

“So why are we here?” Octavia cried.

Pollio frowned. “Because I promised to host Caesar on the first night of Saturnalia.”

Julia’s look was mutinous. “I want to see her.”

“I’m sorry, but she is in her chamber.”

“And what does that mean? That she should be shut up like some birthing cow while everyone else feasts?” Julia cried.

“Control yourself,” Octavian said firmly, “and take your couch.”

“But I would rather see Horatia. Please, Father. Please.”

Octavian looked to Pollio. “Will the child come tonight?”

“If I am lucky. Imagine having to pay for a feast for Saturnalia and a birthing feast as well.”

“Then perhaps my daughter can visit her. It’s a comfort to women in labor to have others in their chamber.”

I could see that Pollio wanted to object, but he nodded instead. “Yes…. Yes, of course. Up the stairs, to the right,” he directed.

Julia looked at me.

“You’re going to go with her?” Alexander exclaimed.

“Why not?”

“Because there’ll be blood. And sickness.”

“It’s a birth, not the plague.”

“Women don’t mind it,” Marcellus assured my brother.

I followed Julia up the stairs, and the pitiful sound of a woman’s cries led us to a dimly lit chamber at the very back of the house. When we opened the door, the stench of sweat made my stomach clench, and I wondered if my brother had been right.

Horatia gasped when she saw us. “Julia!” She was already seated on the birthing chair. She was entirely naked except for a
palla
around her shoulders. Midwives were huddled at the base of the chair where the child would drop through the hole into their arms. Horatia was breathing very heavily, and as Julia rushed forward, I held back. I had never before witnessed a birth.

“Horatia,” Julia said tenderly, and she wiped her friend’s brow with her hand.

“It’s coming,” Horatia groaned. “I can feel it.”

“Keep pushing,” a midwife encouraged.

“What have they given you?” Julia asked.

“A little wine.”

“That’s it?” Julia cried. “No verbena?”

“Nothing!” Horatia groaned, gripping the leather arms of the chair. “Pollio won’t allow it.”

“Those are peasants’ superstitions!” Julia shouted. She looked at me, and although I felt faint, I helped wipe the sweat from Horatia’s brow with a linen square dipped in lavender water.

“I should have used
silphium,”
Horatia panted. “I may never even live to see the new year.”

“Nonsense,” Julia said firmly. “You’re healthy, and this is only your first child.”

Horatia gritted her teeth, and when she screamed, I was sure her cries could be heard above the harpists in the triclinium. For several hours we remained like this, encouraging and fanning the air into Horatia’s face. Then finally one of the midwives cried, “It’s coming, Domina! Keep pushing!”

Horatia looked up into Julia’s face. “Thank you.” She began to weep. “Thank you for coming.”

“Don’t thank me! Concentrate!”

Horatia gripped the arms of the chair, and her face was a mask of terrible pain. Again and again she strained, screaming, crying, then finally pushing a child into the world in a rush of blood and water. I held my breath, and Julia cried out, “A girl! It’s a girl!”

“No,” Horatia whispered. The midwives swaddled the crying infant in wool, and Horatia sat up on the birthing chair. “It can’t be!”

“It’s a girl, Domina. A healthy child.”

“But he wanted a son.”

“So next time—”

“You don’t understand!” She looked from the midwife to Julia in desperation. “He will never accept it!”

“Of course he will!” Julia took the baby girl into her arms while the midwives packed Horatia’s womb with wool. “Look.” Julia stroked
the little nose with her fingertip, then placed the infant gently in her friend’s arms. I had never seen her so tender with anyone.

Tears welled in Horatia’s eyes. She took the crying baby to her breast, but the infant refused to suck. “She’s not hungry.”

The eldest midwife smiled. “Leave it to the
nutrice
. That is her job.”

“What will you name her?” Julia asked.

Horatia was silent, stroking her daughter’s brow with two fingers. Then she said, “Gaia. Like the Greeks’ Mother Goddess.” She held Gaia for a little while, as the music and feasting went on below us.

“You must wash, Domina. It isn’t healthy to stay here with all this blood.”

Horatia passed her daughter to Julia, and then the midwives helped her into the bathing room.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Julia said.

Gaia had the thick hair of her mother, and her dark eyes were already open.

“Do you think that Pollio will be terribly angry?” I asked.

“Probably,” Julia admitted. “But she’ll have a son next time. Do you want children?”

In fourteen days I would be old enough to marry, and when my monthly blood came, to have children of my own. “Yes, but not for many years.”

“I would like them now,” she confided.

“At twelve?”

“Horatia is only thirteen. And now she has a little girl of her own who will always love her. Who will never abandon her.”

I was reminded of what Gallia had said about judging Julia too harshly, and suddenly I felt sorry for her. She had a father who valued her only for what marriage she could make, and a mother she could visit only in secret. Although my parents were gone, I had always
known I was loved. And my parents had only ever left me in death.

When Horatia emerged from the bathing room, she walked gingerly. The midwives were careful in their movements, slowly helping her into an embroidered tunic and heavy new
palla
trimmed with fur. Only married women wore the
palla
, and I could see the admiration in Julia’s eyes as the midwife draped her friend in the beautiful mantle. Horatia held out her arms for her new daughter, and I thought that Julia handed the infant back with regret.

“May Juno bless her first day,” the gray-haired midwife intoned, “and may Cunina watch over the cradle.”

“Will you go to him now?” Julia asked.

“Absolutely not!” The midwife clicked her tongue. “Dominus must come to her in their chamber. He must accept his daughter first.”

We followed Horatia down the hall to the chamber where she and Pollio slept. A slave was sent to fetch Pollio from the festivities, and we waited outside while Horatia sat on a chair with her infant daughter in her arms.

“Is he coming to name the child?” I asked.

“No. That happens in eight days with the
lustratio
. This is the
tollere liberos.”

There was no time to ask Julia what that meant. I could hear Pollio’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, and when he reached the landing, he looked expectantly at Julia. “Is it a son?”

The midwife inclined her head. “Your wife is in there, Domine.”

Pollio entered his chamber, and before the door swung shut behind him I could hear him demanding, “Is it a son?”

Julia’s dark eyes flashed at me. “He doesn’t even care if she’s well.”

“What a terrible marriage.”

“They’re all terrible,” she said bitterly.

“But yours won’t be.”

She gave me a long, calculated look. “If my father doesn’t change his mind.”

There was a shriek on the other side of the wall, then the door was flung open, and Pollio emerged. “Take it away!” he ordered the midwives. I looked inside the chamber, where Horatia’s daughter lay alone on the floor.

“Pollio, please!” Horatia ran after him.

“I said a son.” He turned on her. “Not a daughter. A
son!”

“But I will give you a son. Pollio,
please
, she’s ours!”

“She belongs to the gods.” He made his way down the stairs, and Julia rushed to Horatia so that she wouldn’t faint. “Take her to the dump,” Pollio called over his shoulder.