The Raven and the Rose (22 page)

“Yes.”
 

“Septimus will be back shortly and then I’ll take you down to your litter.”

She nodded.

He stroked her hair. “It will all be different in the future,” he said soothingly. “We’ll go some place where we can be together and won’t have to hide it.”

She clutched him desperately, silently, as if she wanted to believe him but couldn’t quite manage the feat.

Septimus returned, a pair of leather sandals dangling from his hand.

“My mother was sleeping, she has so many shoes I don’t think she’ll miss these. Terentia’s would probably fit better but she’s staying in Herculaneum and I’m afraid she took all of her clothes with her.”

Julia accepted the shoes and put them on, tying the laces around her ankles.

“They’re very like the ones I had. No one should notice the difference,” she said. She stood and shook out her stola, rearranging her palla and then the diploidion over it. “Do I look acceptable?” she asked.

“You look beautiful,” Marcus replied. He held out his hand and she took it. They went to the window and he lifted her over the sill. “I’ll leave by the door and come around and get you,” he said. “Just wait here.”

Julia flattened herself against the wall of the portico, glancing up at the clouds scudding across the barely visible moon, then back at the man inside the house.

“Hurry,” she said.

“Do you think I can leave without saying goodbye to your father?” Marcus asked Septimus as they went into the hall. “I don’t want to leave her there long.”

“I’ll make your excuses. He’s too far gone in wine to care much about anything,” Septimus replied, as they walked into the atrium and stopped by the front door.

Marcus put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Thank you, Septimus. I don’t know what else to say.”

Septimus shook his head. “Be careful. You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Marcus took a step, and Septimus added, “She’s lovely, Marcus. As I’ve said before, in a way I envy you.”

Marcus glanced back at him gratefully, and then went out the door.

Septimus turned to the servant who had just appeared and said, “Castor, another cup of wine. I’ll be rejoining the Senator in the tablinum.”

Septimus sent his mental good wishes to the fugitive pair as he went back inside to see his father.

* * *
 

“He’ll be all right,” Paris said to Larthia. “He’s young and healthy, he’ll be up and around in two days. There will be some scarring on his back, though.”

 
“But no permanent damage?” Larthia said anxiously.

“Except to his beauty,” Paris replied dryly. “I’ve given him some extract of foxglove for the pain, and I’ll leave you more to be administered twice a day.”

“You’re very free with that potion, doctor, you gave some to my sister too. Isn’t it poison?” Larthia asked, looking at the vial suspiciously.

“Only in higher doses, then it can stop the heart. Just make sure he doesn’t drink all of it at once.” Paris capped the large bottle of the liquid and slipped it back into his pouch, taking out a small clay pot and setting it on the bed.

“And what is that?” Larthia asked.

“Crushed oak leaves. The green sap prevents infection. Tell the person tending him to wash the wounds thoroughly with Nestor’s soap and clear water three times a day, and then apply this salve to the cuts.”

“I’ll be tending him,” Larthia said.

Paris raised his brows. “I see. Well, then, listen carefully. Once the scabs start to form discontinue the use of this salve and apply butter to the wounds, keep them moist at all times. That will minimize the scarring, but as I said, he will have some, it can’t be avoided.”

“Butter?”

“Yes, you know, skim the cream off cow’s milk and then churn it...”

“I know what butter is, doctor, I don’t think I have any. I’ll have to send Menander to the market.”

“Send him to the Parthian section. They’re sure to have it, they eat it in Persia.”

“Eat it?” Larthia said, gagging.

“Yes, as a condiment, and they heat it to clarify it and then use it in cooking.”

Larthia made a disgusted face. “Can he be moved?” she inquired, nodding at Verrix.

“Where?”

“To my room. There’s a cross breeze there, I thought the fresh air would be better for him.”

“Tomorrow or the next day, as soon as he can walk, I don’t see why not.” Paris stood back from the bed and surveyed Larthia curiously.

“Lady Sejana, there’s something I don’t understand,” he said. “You seem very concerned about this slave’s welfare, but didn’t you give the order to have him flogged?”

“It was a misunderstanding, doctor. My orders were not interpreted correctly.”

Paris nodded. “I was very surprised to hear that I was to be tending a man who had been flogged. I didn’t think it was the practice in your house to flog the servants.”

“It is not,” Larthia said shortly. “Is there anything else I should know in order to take care of him?”
 

“Just watch him for signs of infection: fever, suppuration of the wounds. If he seems hot to the touch, confused in his mind, or the flesh around the abrasions becomes raised and purpled, swollen, call me back. Otherwise, just let him sleep as much as he wants and proceed as I have already directed.”
 

Larthia nodded.

“I doubt you will have any problems with him, he looks like a very hale specimen. How old is he?”

Larthia shrugged. “Twenty-six, twenty-eight.”

“From Gaul?”

She nodded.

“They’re very sturdy,” the doctor said reassuringly, closing the flap of his pouch.

“How much do I owe you?” Larthia asked.

Paris thought about it. “Six sesterces,” he said.

Larthia took a gold denarius
out of the coin purse at her waist and pressed it into his hand.

Paris looked down at it in shock. She had given him more than twelve times the sum he’d requested. He was well known for his keen interest in money, but even he had to protest this largesse.

“It’s too much,” he said. “I did very little...”

“Keep it,” Larthia said. “What you did was very important to me.”

Paris closed his fingers around the coin.

“One more thing,” Larthia said. “Please keep this incident to yourself. I wouldn’t want anyone to think...”
 

Paris held up his hand. “Say no more, Lady Sejana. In my profession, I have seen and heard everything. I will tell no one how you feel about this man.”

Larthia felt the hot color come up in her face, but made no reply.

“Good evening, Lady Sejana. Call me again if you need me, any time.”

Larthia didn’t walk him to the door.

She sat in a chair next to the bed where Verrix lay and stayed there for the rest of the night.

* * *
 

“I don’t want any more of that,” Verrix said crossly, as Larthia held another dose of medicine to his lips.

“The doctor said...” Larthia began.
 

Verrix turned his head. “I don’t care what the doctor said. It’s making me sleep all the time, and I want to talk to you.”

“You’ll feel better.”

“I feel fine. Sit down.”

Larthia sat in the chair next to his bed. He had been recovering for three days, and during that time had refused to move to her room, refused to stay in bed, and was now refusing to take his medicine. His wounds had healed to a mass of scabs on his back. They itched furiously and were coated with a rancid grease which seeped through his clothes and stained the bed.

Not surprisingly, he was in a bad mood.

“When this first happened, were you here in the room with me?” he demanded.

“Of course. I called Paris.”

“Before that. I remember your being here, but I’m not sure if I was dreaming.” He was watching her closely.

Larthia shifted uncomfortably.

“Maybe you were,” she said.

“Did you say anything to me?”

“I told you not to talk, that I knew what had happened, and that I was getting the doctor.”

“Did you touch me?”

She knew what he wanted her to say. But now that he was awake and kicking and back to his old formidable self she couldn’t admit what had occurred when he was half conscious and she was worried, her guard down.

“You were trying to get up, I held you back,” Larthia replied obliquely.

“I remember...” His voice trailed off as Menander appeared in the doorway and said, “I have summoned Nestor to the tablinum as you requested, mistress.”

Larthia rose immediately, glad of the excuse to escape the interrogation.

“I’ll check in on you later,” she said to Verrix, leaving him to look after her as she swept out of the room.

Nestor was staring at the floor as she entered the parlor. Even when she stood before him he was unable to meet her eyes.

“You overstepped your authority in an inexcusable fashion with Verrix, Nestor,” Larthia said to him sternly. “I would never have authorized such a punishment, you know I am not in favor of brutal methods to extract obedience from servants. Since my husband died and left me in charge of his affairs there has never been a flogging of a slave in this house.”
 

“But mistress...”

Larthia held up her hand. “I have left you alone for several days to think about what you did, and I see you are unrepentant. You have been suspicious of Verrix since he came and ordering his beating was your way of dealing with your resentment.”

“He seems to have an undue influence over you,” Nestor said primly. “I am not the only one who has noticed it. Many of the servants have remarked on your partiality toward him.”

“That is my concern, Nestor, not yours! You are relieved of all duties and confined to your room in the dormitory. Menander will take over for you in the house until I have decided what to do with you. That is all.”

The old man didn’t move; he seemed frozen to the spot. Larthia saw that he was shaking and she took pity on him. Old servants were often discarded by heartless masters when they could no longer perform up to standard; the fate they met when passed on to lesser houses, or even the streets, was not kind. Perhaps that’s why Nestor was so threatened by Verrix from the first day he arrived. Verrix was obviously intelligent and capable, his job kept him close to their mutual mistress. Nestor feared replacement by a younger, more able man.

“It’s all right, Nestor,” Larthia added in a gentler tone. “Nothing will happen to you. I just need time to think about all of this. I must be mismanaging this house if such a thing could happen under my roof. I will talk with you and share my thoughts when I have formulated them.”

Nestor bowed his head and fled, clearly relieved.

Larthia sat on her couch and wondered what she was going to do about Nestor, Verrix, Julia’s forbidden liaison, and the shambles her own life had become.

* * *
 

Julia knelt before her clothes chest and rummaged inside it, finally extracting the garment she sought.

“Here it is,” she said to Margo. “I knew it was in here.” She handed Margo the gold bordered suffibulum, used only once a year on the first of March.

Margo examined it closely. “It should be steamed, I’ll give it to the wardrober.” She folded the veil on a side table and said, “You’ll need the purple embroidered stola too. Where is it?”

Julia pointed to the tunic on a chair. The two women were preparing for the New Year’s celebration to take place the next day. The ceremony involved the annual ritual of extinguishing and relighting the sacred fire of Vesta. In the time of the Etruscan kings, the fire was rekindled by the friction of dry sticks; now it was rekindled by the sun’s ray’s brought to a focus by a concave mirror. If the fire went out long ago, when it was the focal point of village life and needed to start the home fires of the locals, the negligent Vestal was scourged. But in Julia’s time, when the fire was symbolic and supervised constantly, it failed only when doused on the sacred hearth by the Chief Vestal and rekindled before the watchful eyes of the Roman people on New Year’s Day.
 

Julia’s special clothes were part of the tradition. Livia Versalia performed the kindling by herself, but the rest of the Vestals dressed in the ancient robes and looked on as witnesses. The ceremony’s humble origins could barely be remembered by the average citizen who saw it, but it was a beloved passage into each new year, the unifying ritual of the Roman state.

“Whose sandals are these?” Margo asked, turning to Julia with Lady Gracchus’ shoes in her hand.

“My sister Larthia’s,” Julia lied smoothly. “It was raining when I went to her house and I ruined my shoes. She gave me those to wear.”

“You should have brought yours back,” Margo said, scowling. “They might have been salvageable. The Roman people bear the cost of your wardrobe, you must not be wasteful.”