by Angela Hunt
“Aye. Alexander Helios, the Sun, and Cleopatra Selene, the Moon. They’re apt to be toddling age by now. But now that Antony is done with Parthia, we expect him to return to Cleopatra.”
“Not to his wife?” I thought of Octavia, patiently waiting for a husband who might not return to Rome. “Octavian cannot be happy about that.”
“He is not. Nor is he happy about Cleopatra’s oldest son, Ptolemy XV Caesar. The boy is near eleven years old and could cause trouble before long.”
Amphion did not need to explain. Octavian had built his power base on the fact that he was Julius Caesar’s adopted son, yet a biological son of Caesar lived in Egypt.
Experience had already taught me that two heads could not wear one crown.
After defeating Sextus Pompeius, Octavian and Agrippa came home and shifted their focus from war to improving Rome. Octavian named Agrippa to the post of aedile, a position that allowed Agrippa to apply his genius to the city’s infrastructure. My conversation with Amphion had convinced me I should pay more attention to my master’s work. But since Agrippa never talked about it, I had to learn by questioning others. Fortunately, Amphion was a walking reporter. Often I would ask him to join me for a walk. I would point to reports painted on building walls as we strolled, and Amphion would explain everything that was fit for a woman’s ears. When the city artists only gave me hints of a story, Amphion was able to fill in details.
I learned that Agrippa had not only reorganized and refurbished the water system, he had also commissioned a new aqueduct to bring more water to a thirsty city. He built five hundred fountains, along with luxurious public baths. He distributed olive oil and salt to the poor and arranged for Rome’s baths to open free of charge to everyone, slaves and free men, several days during the year. Unemployment had been a severe problem among the poor, but Agrippa’s building programs provided jobs and public works that benefited the entire city.
Learning of Agrippa’s success brought me great pleasure. During the years I worked in his house, my feelings for him calmed—partly because he was rarely in Rome, and partly because I had become fond of his wife. Caecilia had been sheltered as a child, and she continued to be pampered and shielded in her husband’s household. I liked her, much as I might like a charming puppy, but I also worried about her. How would she survive if for some reason her life were upended? I thought of the proscription, when the political winds changed overnight and many comfortable noble families found themselves homeless, impoverished, and marked for murder. Could Caecilia Attica survive something like that?
In the fourth year of their marriage, Caecilia Attica became pregnant. Agrippa asked me to oversee his wife’s pregnancy. So I did, spending time with her every day to evaluate her health and mental well-being. To my surprise I found Caecilia to be a highly literate and educated young woman. She had read widely and shared several of her favorite scrolls with me. Touched that Domina would think of me as a person and not merely a slave, my heart softened toward her.
One morning I went to see her as she was breaking her fast. She was heavily pregnant, and though I did not participate in her rituals to determine the sex of the child, she told me she was carrying a daughter. “I will name her Vipsania,” she said. “Vipsania Agrippina. I think it has a melodic sound—do you agree?”
“I do.” I gave her a sincere smile. “And how are you feeling? Any pains in the lower back? Any bleeding?”
“No and no,” she said lightly. “And I am so glad you stopped by. I have something for you. A gift.”
I blinked, stunned beyond speech. A gift? For a slave?
“I asked Agrippa if I should follow my impulse, and he encouraged me,” she said, pulling an oblong object from beneath her couch. “Of course, when I saw this, I thought of you.”
She handed me the object and smiled as I slowly lifted the wool wrapping and let it fall away. A scroll.
“Thank you. I love reading. I am sure I will enjoy the writing, no matter who—”
“Look again,” she said, her youthful voice softening. “Please.”
I opened the scroll and read the first line. The Septuagint. The Writings. The holy Word of HaShem. For years I had been living on memories, but here was the Word for me to breathe in whenever I wanted.
“Thank you,” I whispered, nearly overcome with gratitude. Blinking tears away, I looked up and saw sweet concern shining from her oval face.
“I know you are Jewish,” she said, offering a shy smile. “I know you must be homesick. So I asked myself what might give you comfort in the way you have comforted me.”
“Domina, I am only doing what a midwife should—”
“You must know how terrified I am of having a baby. Though I pretend to be brave for my husband’s sake, sometimes I wonder if I am strong enough to do this. I find myself worrying, but whenever I do, you are always there to tell me I am doing well. I have taken such strength from that . . . I wanted you to know.”
She stood and swayed slightly as she reached for the table.
“Domina, are you all right?”
“Just a bit dizzy.” She tried to smile but ended up grimacing as her hand moved to her lower back. “That hurts. My back. Does that mean anything?”
“It could.” I gripped her arm and held her steady as we moved away from the couch. “Let me take you to your bed, and we’ll see if the baby is coming.”
I smiled, but my smile faded when I glanced down and saw blood on the front of her tunic.
After one look between my mistress’s legs, I realized she was not in labor. Something had happened, something serious, but the entrance to her womb had not begun to open and her pain was not sporadic, but continual.
The blood kept coming. And life is in the blood, so the more she lost, the more of her life ebbed away.
I told her I needed clean water, then slipped out of the room and called for the vilicus, a slave called Lucius. He must have heard the urgency in my voice, for he appeared almost at once, his eyes wide and his brows lifted. “You called?”
“Do you know how to find Dominus?”
Lucius frowned. “He is away with Octavian.”
“Can we send a messenger?” I lowered my voice. “The mistress is gravely ill. I am afraid she will die.”
Lucius’s jaws wobbled. “I will send a messenger to Octavian’s house. I will—”
My mistress’s agonized scream cut off his words, and Lucius pointed to the lady’s bedchamber. “Go to her! I will find the master.”
I turned back to my mistress’s room, then hesitated. “Adonai.” I breathed His name as a prayer, for I had no one else to turn to. “Show me what to do.”
I searched my memory for any reference to profuse bleeding from the womb, but my mind returned instead to a Shabbat dinner, when Father lifted his copy of the Septuagint and read a psalm: “Into your hand I commit my spirit. You have redeemed me, Adonai, God of truth.”
HaShem honored truthfulness, so that was what I would give Domina. I straightened my shoulders and returned to my mistress, ready to give her the hard news.
“Chava?” Despite her fear, her voice remained gentle.
I sat by the side of her bed and took her hand. “I believe your womb has torn. Your baby will die unless it is brought out, but your body is not ready to let the baby pass.”
Caecilia’s wide eyes went wider at this news, and her slick hand tightened on my fingers. “You must save my daughter.”
“Domina”—I covered her hand with mine—“I cannot promise this child will live. And you have already lost a great deal of blood.”
She shook her head. “This child will be the daughter of Agrippa and related to the great Cicero. Her life is more valuable than mine.”
“Mistress . . .” I strengthened my voice. “Pliny the Elder says I can save the child if I cut your belly and quickly lift the baby out. But the technique is only used on women who have already died.”
She lifted her head, her eyes blazing with ferocity. “Am I goin
g to die?”
I could not lie. “Adonai may yet have mercy—” my voice broke—“but yes, you are.”
She sighed and lifted her tunic, exposing the rounded mound of her womb. “Then cut my belly. Save my baby.”
I stared, amazed at her courage. I had not yet met a Roman mother who would give her life for her child’s. In a society where children were frequently abandoned because they were inconvenient, red-haired, female, or afflicted with some other undesired quality, babies’ lives held little value.
“Listen to me.” Caecilia clenched her jaw and forced words through her teeth. “Cut the child free! Do not think of me, think of my daughter. Tell Agrippa this was my decision, and mine alone.”
Fear lodged in my throat, making it impossible to speak. I met Domina’s gaze and pulled out the short blade I ordinarily used to cut the cord. I held it over the mound of bare belly, tested the tautness of her skin with my fingers, and then carefully inserted the tip of the blade into the apex of the rounded flesh. Caecilia’s hands fisted in the linen sheets beneath her, and her clenched jaw imprisoned a scream.
The blade was not terribly sharp and did not move easily through the layers of skin, fat, and muscle. I had no time to send a slave for a sharper knife, so I worked it, moving it back and forth, until I had created an opening the width of my hand. I thrust two fingers inside to be sure I had pierced the womb. When I felt a tiny limb through the sac that held the infant, I knew the job was nearly done.
I picked up the blade again and gave my mistress an apologetic look. “I am so sorry,” I said, dipping the blade into the cut to pierce the bag of waters. “Just a little farther.”
A quick thrust resulted in fluid running over my fingers. I drew a deep breath, braced myself for my mistress’s scream, and slipped my fingers inside the cut and pulled outward, enlarging the opening. I thrust in my right hand and felt for the baby’s head, then scooped up the torso and lifted the baby out.
The pale child inside the punctured sac was swimming in blood-tinged fluid. Holding the infant in both hands, I bit the birth sac to rip it open and tore the membrane away. I brought the child to the light streaming through the doorway, hoping to see the baby’s first breath.
“Is she—is she—?”
I swiped mucus from the child’s face and nose. Then, just as Elisha breathed life into the son of the Shunammite woman, I pressed my mouth over the nose and lips. I blew gently and felt the little chest rise. When I lifted my head, the child screwed up its face and cried.
Somehow Caecilia Attica found the strength to hold out her arms. I placed the little girl, still attached to the birth sac, in my mistress’s hands. Her face paled as she gazed upon her baby, and after a moment she lay back upon her pillow and asked me to place her daughter at Agrippa’s feet. “I know . . . I can trust you,” she said, her voice fainter than a breeze. “And . . . tell Agrippa good-bye.”
She took her last breath as I cleaned and swaddled the infant girl. I gave the tiny baby to Caecilia’s weeping handmaid and told her to find a wet nurse straightaway. Then I closed Domina’s eyes and asked another servant to find the vilicus. I had a baby to look after, and he had a funeral to arrange.
Sometimes, as I looked at my master, I wondered if his broad shoulders ever tired of the burdens he carried. He had been shaken by his young wife’s death, but like the soldier he was, he did not weep. I feared he would blame me. Instead he marveled that his tiny daughter had survived such a violent birth. “She could fit into my hand,” he said when I laid her at his feet, “and I would not have her if you had not been here.”
I swallowed to ease the lump in my throat. “Your wife wanted to name her Vipsania Agrippina,” I said as he picked her up and officially recognized her as his own. “I know it is customary to wait until the eighth day for naming a girl—”
“Whatever Caecilia wanted.” Agrippa peered into the tiny bundle with a perplexed expression on his face. “Do you think she has my nose?”
I had moved closer and smiled. “I would say she does. But time will tell.”
Now Agrippina was ten days old, growing stronger by the minute. Her father purchased a Greek slave to care for the child, and though the woman was already devoted to the baby, I still felt a certain responsibility for the infant. But if anything happened to me, I was certain the nurse would remain by Agrippina’s side until she was grown. I had met many slaves who were as devoted to their master’s children as they would have been to their own.
I was pacing in the peristyle, the mewling baby on my shoulder, when Agrippa entered the garden. “Octavian is on his way,” he said, his expression grim. “He is upset.”
I stopped pacing. “Something in his household, or something in Rome?”
“Rome. Give the baby to the wet nurse,” Agrippa said. “Then prepare wine, so you can be nearby as we talk. You know Cleopatra, so it will be useful to have your input.”
“What has she done?”
Agrippa did not answer, but at the sound of someone arriving, he spun on the ball of his foot and strode to the front of the house.
I took the baby to the nurse, then went to the kitchen to prepare a tray. By the time I returned to the peristyle, Agrippa had taken a seat on a dining couch while Octavian was pacing with a scroll in his hand.
“And the Alexandrians thronged to the festival,” he read,
“Full of enthusiasm, and shouted acclamations,
In Greek, and Egyptian, and some in Hebrew,
Charmed by the lovely spectacle—
Though they knew of course what all this was worth,
What empty words they really were, these kingships.”
“Ha!” Octavian lowered the scroll and glared hotly at Agrippa. “The poet has named it exactly—empty words! But by all the gods, they are words too far! This time Antony and his lover have surpassed my patience.”
I set the tray on the table and proceeded to pour the wine.
Agrippa cleared his throat. “So what did they call this ceremony?”
“The Donations of Alexandria,” Octavian replied, his voice hoarse. “Held in the city’s great gymnasium, no less. A silver dais with two golden thrones, one for Antony, dressed as Dionysius, and one for Cleopatra, dressed as Isis. The bastard was there, too—Caesarion, now a thirteen-year-old co-ruler with Cleopatra. And let us not forget the three little ones—Antony’s spawn were on the dais, too, sitting at their parents’ feet.”
“I am sure,” Agrippa said, “it was a glittering display.”
“You can bet it was,” Octavian answered, “given that woman’s penchant for extravagance. But after a series of rituals, Antony proclaimed that Caesarion was Julius Caesar’s legitimate son, for Cleopatra had married Caesar. He did not mention the fact that no Roman would ever marry a foreigner.”
“So what was the purpose of this event?” Agrippa, ever practical, cut to the heart of the matter. “What was Antony thinking?”
“He showered Cleopatra and the children with territories—Roman territories, mind you. Alexander was given Armenia, Media, and all the land east as far as India. Ptolemy Philadelphius, the latest brat, was named king of all the Syrian territories and overlord of the client kingdoms of Asia Minor. Cleopatra Selene received Cyrenaica and the island of Crete. Antony then declared Caesarion king of kings and Cleopatra queen of kings.”
Agrippa lifted both brows and glanced at me. After looking to make sure Octavian’s attention was directed elsewhere, I placed two cups of wine on the table and stepped back into the shadows.
“So what,” Agrippa repeated, “was Antony thinking? Did he really intend to give those territories to children?”
“Of course not.” Octavian stopped pacing and braced himself on the back of a chair. “Could he be so bold as to hope to overthrow us? Perhaps he would establish himself as emperor and Cleopatra as empress . . .”
“I think not,” Agrippa said. “If that had been his aim, he might have given one of the children claim to Rome itself.”
“Isn’t that what he did when he called Caesarion the legitimate heir of Caesar?”
“Perhaps,” Agrippa said, watching me, “the ceremony was merely a symbolic gesture, a way of uniting the people behind him and Cleopatra. As your poet said, the titles were only empty words.”
I nodded, affirming Agrippa’s theory. Of course Cleopatra was constructing an illusion. She wanted to obtain the support and approval of her people, and what better way to do that than to demonstrate that the dynasty would continue for years?
Octavian hung his head and sighed. “They are empty words now. Yet this enmity between me and Antony grows stronger every year. He knows how to undermine my credibility. He is a serpent, dangerous and subtle.”
“Not always subtle,” Agrippa reminded him. “Antony is also full of bluster, especially when he drinks. He is liable to make a mistake.”
On cue, Octavian spied his cup and lifted it, quenching his thirst in one long swallow. “He sends me letters,” he said, forgetting himself as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I wrote and admonished him for being unfaithful to Octavia. He wrote back and asked if I had ever been unfaithful to Livia.”
Agrippa lifted a brow, but did not speak. I did not need an explanation; I knew that few Roman men were faithful to their wives.
“You know,” Agrippa murmured, “the people are not yet recovered from the last civil war.”
“I know.” Octavian sank onto his couch. “I do not want war, but I cannot let this stalemate continue. Already Antony and Cleopatra have moved legions to Greece. They will soon strike.”
“When they do, we will defend,” Agrippa answered. “But we cannot make war on Antony. He is a hero to many, and he is Roman. If you go to war against him, the people will see it as Caesar versus Pompey all over again.”
Octavian hung his head for a long moment, then looked up and smiled. “You are right, as always. So we will not make war on Antony. We will make war on Cleopatra.”
The next day Octavian went to the Temple of Bellona, goddess of war. In front of the temple lay a strip of land officially designated as foreign territory. On that land stood a small columna bellica or column of war. Bellona’s priests sacrificed a pig, collected the blood, and poured it over several spears. These were then thrown into the foreign soil.
