Patrick (52 page)

“Oriana!” I cried. “Agatha, quick! Help me! She has fainted.” The older woman was beside me in an instant. Handing her the baby, I said, “Bring some water. Hurry!”

Oriana awoke almost at once and made to get up. “Lie back. Rest a little,” I said. “Agatha has gone to fetch some water.”

“Let me up,” she said, pushing at my hands. “I can stand. I am all right.”

“You fainted,” I said. “Just lie here a little and wait until Agatha comes back.”

“I don't want to lie here,” she snapped. “Everyone can see me. Let me up.”

I reluctantly helped her to her feet. “Where is the baby?”

“Agatha has her.” I saw a low wall nearby. “Here,” I said, leading her aside, “sit down here for a moment and regain your strength.”

“Nothing is wrong with me,” Oriana insisted. “I am weak from the sun—nothing more.”

Even as she spoke, I felt a dread coldness creeping into my belly. I sat beside my wife and waited with her until Agatha returned with a bowl of water. “Drink this,” I said, placing the bowl in her hands. She sipped a little and then tried to put it aside. “No,” I insisted, “all of it.”

She made a sour face but did as I commanded. “There,” she said, swallowing the last of it. “Happy?”

“Yes. Now, then, how far is the villa?”

“A few miles,” she said. “Too far to walk in the dark.”

“Wait here,” I told her, “I will go and find a carriage.”

But the little island port was already closed for the night. There was only one small tavern serving the boatmen of the harbor, but the boatmen were gone and the owner of the tavern did not know anyone with a carriage to hire. “How about a horse?” I asked.

“Old Claudius has a donkey,” he volunteered.

“Where can I find old Claudius?”

“Oh, he lives on the other side of the island—near the Columella estate. Do you know it?”

“That is where I am trying to go,” I replied, then explained that I had two women and an infant with me and that we were in need of lodging for the night. “Do you have rooms?”

“I am sorry, my lord. I have but two—and they are both taken. There are no other rooms in all Ischia.” He spread his hands helplessly. “It is a very insignificant village, and a great many people have come here.”

“Do you have a stable?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Then I will have that.”

“Never!” he cried in horror. “I could not allow a nobleman and his family to lodge in my stable. What would people say?”

“And what will they say when they learn you let the daughter of Vicarius Columella sleep in the street outside your door?”

Seeing no way out of this dilemma, the tavern owner relented. “It is only a very small stable,” he warned. “Ischia is an insig—”

“Yes, yes, it is all very insignificant,” I agreed quickly. “Come, show me this insignificant stable of yours.”

He led me around behind the tavern to a building that was little more than three wattle walls and a slanted roof. “An excellent stable,” I declared. “Satisfactory in every way. Tie those goats to the fence, and I will bring my family.”

“Lodging in a stable,” said Oriana when she saw it. The rancid straw stank of goat and sour manure “What will my mother say when she hears about this?”

The words were out of her mouth before she knew what she had said. The realization struck her with the force of her pent-up grief, and she crumpled into my arms and wept. I held her and felt the sobs convulse her slender body. Agatha made a place for her in the corner of the stable, where she fell asleep with her face covered in her cloak, soaked in tears.

A
T LAST.”
O
RIANA
sighed wearily as the carriage turned and started down through the long double rank of tall cypress trees. Their deep green foliage wore a thick coat of powdery white dust from the trail leading to the house.

The carriage rolled to a stop at the rear entrance to the villa, and as I passed the last of my coins to the driver, two aged servants came tumbling out the door, shouting, “Lady Oriana! Lady Oriana! Oh, bless God, here you are!”

They hugged her and stroked her face and hands as if she had been a prodigal daughter whose return had been long awaited. Then they saw the baby. “Oh! Oh! May all the angels bear witness! What is this? A child—such a sweet, darling, tiny thing. It cannot be yours. Is it yours? It is! It must be! Oh!”

The elderly couple took turns holding Concessa, and it was some time before Oriana could break into their prattling and cooing to introduce me to them. “Dea,” she said, presenting the little old woman, “and Decimus”—she nudged the old man forward—“this is my husband, Succat.”

The two turned their eyes to me, nodding and muttering to one another. “I am glad to meet you,” I told them.

“And you, master,” said Dea, returning her gaze to the baby. “And you.” Then, handing Consessa back to her mother, she bundled us into the house.

Dark-skinned from lives lived in the sun, Dea and Decimus were small, spry, rustic folk of the kind who had in
habited the island for generations beyond reckoning. Like pagani everywhere, they were wary of strangers and fiercely protective of anyone they considered kin. They had served on the estate since before Lord Columella was born. The two of them rushed around preparing drinks and food for us, stealing glances at little Concessa all the while.

After refreshing herself, Oriana went to lie down. Leaving Agatha, the baby, and the two caretakers all to become better acquainted, I went out to examine the grounds of the estate.

Called Dulcis Patria, it was a most pleasant home: a low, spacious villa of the old style, with deep eaves to shade a courtyard lined with sturdy columns supporting a roof of thick red tiles. The stone was old and pale and pitted where yellow lichen had begun eating into the soft rock. Surrounded by olive groves, fields of vegetables, and a pond, the house perched on a low rise overlooking the sea, which shone like molten glass in the hot midday sun.

Quiet, drowsy with the heat, I walked through a small pear orchard and stood at the end of the green expanse which ran from the open, horseshoe-shaped courtyard all the way down to the sea. Fishing boats rocked in the gentle swell, and the sound of waves lapping the pebbled shore made me sleepy. I closed my eyes and felt the sun on my face. The wind blew hot off the water, raising a stink of fish and rotting seaweed.

As I stood there, I felt the tight coil of tension I had carried inside me since Rome unwind and relax. A dry, enervating fatigue stole upon me. Eyes closed, face to the sun, I swayed on my feet. My head hurt, and a mild burning sensation tingled in my throat. I told myself that it was the sun and heat and exhaustion of the journey—our passage had been a long, tedious slog after all.

Suddenly tired beyond words, I turned and started back to the house. As I approached the steps at the bottom of the courtyard, I heard a scream from deep inside the house.

“Oriana!” I flew up the steps and raced through the court
yard and into the house. In the bedroom Dea and Agatha were bending over a frantic Oriana, who was thrashing on the bed.

“No!” screamed Oriana, thrusting a hand at me. “Stay back! Stay away!”

Ignoring her protests, I moved to the bedside. Agatha turned and put her hands on me to push me away. “Go!” she said. “Leave us!”

I brushed her aside. “Oriana, calm yourself. I am—”

“Get him away from me!” she cried.

“Please,” I said, sick dread spreading through me, “let me help you.” I reached out to her, but she rolled away screaming.

“No! No! No!” As she raised her hands to prevent me, the loose sleeve of her mantle slid high up her arm.

I saw the red bulge beneath her armpit, and my stomach turned. My hands fell away. I stared at the wicked thing—the undeniable sign of plague. I gazed upon my poor, doomed wife and my strength evaporated like water poured onto a hot stone.

Oriana curled herself into a ball on the bed and lay there wailing and sobbing. Dea hunkered down beside her, speaking softly and low. Agatha took my unresisting arm and led me from the room. I reached the door and looked back. “Oriana…”

Shaking off my torpor, I pulled away and went back to the bed. Agatha followed, begging me to leave. “Bring some water,” I told her. “And bring a basin and some rags.”

I sat down on the bed and gathered Oriana to me. “I am afraid, Succat,” she sobbed. “So afraid.”

“It is all right,” I told her, stroking her hair. “We will take care of you.”

I raised the palm of my hand to her forehead; the skin was damp but cool to the touch. There was no fever, which I took to be a good sign. When Agatha returned, I took the cup and made Oriana drink it down. She grew quiet then, and I sat for a long time holding her, reassuring her with soothing
words and promises of health restored. At last she drifted off to sleep, and only then did I leave her side.

“We must do all we can for her,” I told the women.

“The fever,” choked Agatha. “God is punishing us.”

“God has nothing to do with this!” I snapped angrily.

“I know a potion,” offered Dea. “It could help.”

“Go and make it up,” I said. “I will stay here with her. Agatha, you take care of Concessa. And keep the baby away from here. No matter what Oriana says, I do not want the baby anywhere near this room, understand?”

The woman nodded grimly.

I sat with Oriana through the night, sleeping in fits and snatches. By morning she was no better but no worse. I examined the red bulge in her armpit, and though the egg-size lump was hot to the touch, the swelling was not so bad, I thought. When she rose, I made her drink some of Dea's remedy, then bathed her head and neck with cool water from the basin and tried to get her to eat some porridge Dea had made.

“Enough,” Oriana said, pushing away the spoon. “I must get up.”

“Here.” I set aside the bowl. “Let me help you.”

I lifted her to her feet and supported her as she walked to the corridor. Concessa was crying in another room. “Must she wail like that all the time?” Oriana said, pressing a hand to her head. “Go see to her.”

“Are you sure?”

“I can walk,” she said. “Go on.”

Leaving her in the corridor, I went to see to the baby. Agatha had swaddled Concessa in a cloth and was walking her back and forth across the floor. At my appearance the woman turned toward me, and I saw that her cheeks were wet with tears.

Without a word she turned the child in her arms and, cradling the infant against her bosom, unwrapped the cloth to bare little Concessa's tiny chest. I looked where she was pointing and saw a faint rosy blotch on the pale white skin.
On closer inspection I saw that the blotch was a slightly raised, ringlike rash.

I touched the rash gently with a finger, and Concessa wailed all the more.

“It is the mark of death,” Agatha whispered darkly.

Angry at her for speaking so, I glared but held my temper. “Say nothing to Oriana about this,” I warned her sternly. “I do not want to worry her.”

All at once there came a shout from the corridor. “Stay here,” I ordered Agatha, and I dashed from the room to find Oriana on her knees, leaning against the wall. Dea stood over her, clutching her by the shoulders. A dark stain of muddy red splashed down the front of Oriana's mantle. Even as I hurried to her, she doubled over and vomited again. The vile stuff spewed onto the floor—blood and bile mixed together.

I ran to Orian's side. Dea and I lifted her to her feet and between us brought her back to the bed. Her chin and lips were stained with black, foul-smelling, clotted blood, and I washed it off with a rag and gave her a drink to rinse the vomitus from her mouth.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her voice trembling with the tremors that shook her. “I thought I was better.”

“And so you are,” I replied. “Dea's remedy has upset your stomach, that's all. I should not have given you so much.”

She closed her eyes and lay back. “I'm cold, Succat.”

In a chest beside the door, I found a linen palla and covered her with it. She lay in bed shivering for a time, and I sat with her. She did not wake again, but slept through the day. As evening approached, I left her side and went to the kitchen to get something to eat. Decimus jumped up from the small table beside the hearth as I came in and offered me his chair. He poured me some wine and gave it to me, then stood by with the jar as I drank, filling the cup again when it was empty.

Dea brought me some soup she had made, and I sat for a time holding it in my hands, staring into the steaming liquid
as at my own beclouded future, and I felt myself sinking beneath a weight I could no longer carry.
Why, oh why,
I thought,
did I stay in Rome so long?
I knew the answer: pride, arrogance, ambition—as always.
We should have fled the city the moment I heard the word “plague.”
But I had thought more of my position than of my family, and now they would pay the price for my overweening ambition. I cursed myself for the insufferable fool I was.

At Dea's insistence I drank some of the soup, and then returned to Oriana's side. She was still shivering, but her skin was hot and she had sweated through her bedclothes. She roused herself when I dipped a clean rag in water and placed it on her feverish forehead. “Succat…,” she moaned, her voice raw as a wound. “I'm…so cold.”

“I will warm you,” I said, and, stretching myself beside her, I gathered my dear dying wife in my arms and held her close. With this action I knew I most likely joined her in her fate, but I no longer cared. Wretch that I was, I deserved to die with those I had failed to protect.

We remained like this through all the next day and night. The crisis came a little before sunrise of the third day.

Oriana began trembling and coughing and shaking, her jaw so tightly clenched I feared her teeth would shatter. Her eyelids fluttered, but her eyes were vacant, and she seized one ragged, wheezing breath after another, her long body rigid in the bed. I tightened my arms around her as if by strength alone I might keep her from slipping beneath that dark and silent gate.

She gave a last rattling moan, which ended in a gasping sigh. Her fingers straightened as if reaching for the fleeting touch of life, and the fight went out of her. She trembled one final time and lay still. I waited for a moment, and when it became clear that the battle was over, I kissed her lips and forehead and folded her hands upon her breast.

I lay holding her still-warm body until it was light, and then I went to rouse Agatha and Dea to tell them that Oriana was dead. I stumbled through the quiet house, my head
pounding with a fierce and fiery ache. At Agatha's door I paused, drew a deep breath, and went in. She was asleep in a chair beside Concessa's bed but woke the moment I stepped into the room.

Her dark eyes met mine, and tears started down her cheeks. “Just a short while ago,” I told her. Looking at the sleeping baby, I said, “How is the she?”

Without a word Agatha leaned forward and pulled back the light covering over the small body. I saw the ugly red-black bulge beneath the infant's jaw, and my throat tightened so that I could not speak. I lowered a shaking hand onto the tiny head and stroked the downy-soft hair as the tears fell from my eyes.

Little Concessa died later that same day. Her struggle was mercifully short; the sickness took her in her sleep, and she never woke again. Oriana and her daughter were buried together in the grave I dug with my own hands.

I might have dug another beside that first one, for later that night the sickness came upon me, too. Down and down into the burning fevered depths I sank, until I neither knew nor cared whether I lived or died.