"No." Rosa reached forward, pulled Lucia's arm out from under the table, and took her hand. It was the first time anybody had touched Lucia for weeks. It was as if an electric current ran through her. Rosa said, "You're too important to lose, Lucia. Yes, you're different. But the Order needs girls like you."
Lucia said weakly, "Why? What for?"
But Rosa drew back, subtly, breaking the touch.
You weren't supposed to ask. Ignorance is strength. It said so, in big letters on the wall before her. Lucia said quickly, "I'm sorry."
Rosa said, "It's okay." She stood up. "Everything's going to be okay, Lucia. You'll see."
Lucia, weak, starved, sleep-deprived, clung to that. In her dazed, hurting state, all she cared about was that her isolation should end. And she did her best to ignore the small voices in her head that even now asked persistent, impertinent questions: How can it ever be made okay again, how, how? And what do they want of me?
• • •
Rosa booked Lucia into the downbelow hospital.
The doctors said her condition wasn't too serious, though she had lost more weight than was healthy for a girl her age. She was given some light medication and put on a special diet.
Rosa encouraged Lucia's friends to come visit her. They came slowly and shyly: Pina the first day, Idina and Angela the second, Rosaria and Rosetta the next. At first they stared at Lucia with wide, curious eyes, as if she hadn't been among them for weeks — and, in a sense, she hadn't. They talked to her, feeding her little dribbles of gossip about what had been going on during her "absence."
It took three days before any of them could touch her without flinching.
But gradually Lucia felt old connections mending, as if she were a bit of broken bone being knitted back into the whole. The change in her mood was astonishing. It was as if the sun had come out from behind clouds.
After a week in the hospital the doctors discharged her. She was sent back to her dormitory, and her work in the scrinium, though the doctors insisted she call back every few days for checks.
She knew she should not reflect on any of this, nor analyze it, but simply accept it. She had to learn again to live in the moment.
Chapter 26
Brica went to work in her father's bakery.
When she was with Regina, Brica remained withdrawn, sullen, somehow defeated. But away from Regina, Amator reported, she was more open, lively, willing, and she would socialize with the younger workers when the day was done. Amator was no doubt embellishing the truth; Regina was sure he would not miss an opportunity to slide a knife blade of difference between mother and daughter. But she didn't begrudge her daughter her bit of happiness.
As soon as the money from Amator started to come through, Regina began to search for her mother.
What made that hard was that so much of Rome was so obviously unplanned. The historic core of the city had always been the seven hills, easily defended in the days when Rome had been just one of a number of squabbling communities. The first Forum had been built in the marshy valley that nestled between the hills' bluff protective shoulders.
But since then, away from the monumental heart, the city had simply grown as it needed to. The streets wandered haphazardly, following the meandering tracks of animals across fields that now lay far beneath the strata of rubbish under her feet, nothing like the arrow-straight highways laid out in the provinces. The only orderly development that had ever been possible was when fire or some other disaster had laid waste to part of the city, giving a rare chance to rebuild. It was whispered that once the Emperor Nero had deliberately started a fire in the central districts to make room for the House of Gold he planned to build for himself.
And yet in this sprawling chaos there were, oddly, patterns.
She could see it in the shops, for instance. There were distinctive artists' quarters, jewelers' quarters, fashion quarters. You could see how it happened. Where a successful bakery business opened, like Amator's, other food stores were attracted, selling fish oil or olives, lamb or fruit. Soon you had a district that became renowned for the quality of its food, and subsidiary businesses like restaurants might be drawn in. Or you might find folk of a similar inclination drawn together by common interests: thus Amator's house on the fringe of the Trajan complex was one of several in the area owned by grain and water magnates. Then there were more subtle, short-lived changes, as one area became more fashionable for some uncanny reason; or as another became more prone to crime and disorder, thus attracting more criminals and driving out the law abiding.
The way the city somehow organized itself struck her deeply. The growth of the city, street by street, building by building, had been driven not by any conscious intent, not even by the will of the emperors, but by individual decisions, motivated by the greed or nobility, farsightedness or purblindness that afflicted every human being. And out of the millions of small decisions made every day, patterns formed and dissipated, like ripples on a turbulent stream; and somehow, out of these patterns, the soul of the city itself emerged.
Remarkable it may be, but she feared it might take her years to get to know this mighty nest of a million people. She decided that the best thing to do to shorten the search was to let Julia come to her.
Using Amator's money, she began to make her name known wherever the better-heeled people gathered, in the more prominent baths and restaurants and theaters. She went to the temples, too — not just the new Christian churches that had been sprouting throughout Rome since the days of Constantine, including his mighty basilica over the tomb of Saint Peter, but also the older temples to the pagan cults. She hoped that if her name got to her mother one way or another, Julia might be drawn — by curiosity, shame, even the remnants of love? — to come seek out her daughter. Regina knew the odds were long, but she had no better idea. She got no quick result, however.
And as their weeks in Rome turned into months, Regina was not surprised by a further development: Brica fell in love again. He was a boy called Castor, a customer of the store, a young freedman of good bearing and intelligence who had quickly risen to a position of some responsibility, working for one of the grander senatorial families.
Brica obviously expected Regina to oppose the match. But Regina kept her counsel. Even when Brica defiantly said she wished to marry the boy, Regina gave her blessing. She paid for a betrothal ceremony and banquet, and even provided a small dowry to Castor's family. This would normally be paid by the bride's father — and it had actually come out of Amator's money, if unwillingly extracted.
Brica had to live; Regina accepted that. She had no desire to control her daughter's every movement. It was enough that her own longer-term goals should be fulfilled. Even a wedding would not hamper that. After all, somebody would eventually have to be the father of Brica's children, Regina's grandchildren, and better a Roman boy with prospects than a doltish apprentice of Myrddin.
Besides, anything that encouraged Brica to learn better Latin must be a good thing.
It was more than three months after their arrival in Rome, as the leaves of summer had already begun to brown, that the mysterious package arrived for Regina. It was brought by a slim young girl with startling gray eyes, who would not leave her name.
The package contained a single brass token, which turned out to be for a seat in the amphitheater. There was no other label or note. Regina's pulse hammered.
As she counted down the days before the show, her sleep was even more disturbed than usual.
• • •
On the appointed day, Regina set out early in the morning. As she walked through the dense streets, she felt as nervous as if she were seven years old again and approaching her mother's bedroom, where Julia would be putting on her jewelry, and Carta would be fixing her hair.
And then she came upon the amphitheater itself. It was a tremendous wall of marble broken by four stories of colonnades, from which statues peered down at the thronging crowd. Her heart surged at its magnificence.
> Her little token directed her to a numbered entrance. She had to walk a long way around the perimeter before she found the right one. Vendors worked the milling crowds, selling drinks, sweetmeats, hats, and favors for star performers. There were, she learned, a total of seventy-six entrances through which the crowd could be processed. There were also six unnumbered entrances, four for the Emperor's party, and two for the use of the gladiators — one through which they would walk back to their barracks if they survived, and the other through which their corpses would be dragged out if not. But no gladiators fought to the death these days; the emperors had banned lethal contests some thirty years before, when a Christian martyr, righteously interposing himself between two warriors, had been killed by a mob eager for its ration of blood.
Her entrance was an arch with detailed stucco paintwork, though much of the paint had faded and cracked away. She passed through and found herself inside the hollowed-out belly of the great building, a maze in three dimensions of corridors and staircases up and down which people trooped — the big radial staircases were graphically called vomitoria. But Regina's ticket kept her on the ground level, and led her along a short corridor, deeper into the guts of the complex.
She emerged into daylight, and a wash of color and noise.
She found herself in a small concrete box lined with wooden benches. There was nobody else here; she sat down tentatively, on the end of a bench. She was surprised to find herself here, for she knew that these boxes were reserved for the Emperor's family, and for senators, magistrates, priests, and other notables.
She was in one of a series of boxes set just above the level of the wooden floor itself. Around her, the arena was a tremendous elliptical bowl. Behind her, rows of wooden seats rose up in four great terraces. The seats were quickly filling up, and the faces of the people receded to mere dots in the shadows of the upper tiers.
She saw workmen on the perimeter of the stadium's huge open roof. They hauled huge sheets of cloth over a spiderweb of ropes suspended over the gaping roof itself: this awning would shelter the spectators from the sun. It was said that the workers were sailors from the docks, a thousand of them brought here for their skills in working rigging and sails.
And when she looked across the floor to the far side of the arena, the people in those distant seats merged into a sea of movement, color, and flesh, a mob ordered by the amphitheater's vast geometry. In one glance she could take in twenty thousand people — perhaps four times the population of old Verulamium, as if whole cities had been picked up and shaken until their human inhabitants had tumbled out into this gigantic dish of marble and brick.
On the arena floor the spectacle had already started. To the blaring music of trumpets and an immense hydraulic organ, a parade of chariots raced around the floor, each bearing a gladiator dressed in a purple or gold cloak. They were chased by slaves carrying shields, helmets, and weapons. The crowd began to roar for their favorites. Though the arena was not yet full the noise was already powerful — exhilarating, terrifying — and the air was full of the scent of wood chips, blood, and sweat, making Regina shiver.
More performers appeared in the middle of the arena floor. They rose from trapdoors, but so cunning was the effect that it looked as if they had erupted from nowhere. They put on boxing matches, women fencers, and a series of clownish acts — like a race between two enormously fat slaves, driven by the spear tips of soldiers, which finished with both slaves left flat out and panting on the ground. The crowd appeared to enjoy it all.
Then the acrobats, jugglers, and clowns were cleared away, and a squadron of workers emerged to litter the arena floor with shrubbery and rocks. The traps sprung open again, and out poured a host of animals: leopards, bears, lions, giraffes, ostriches, even an elephant. These animals, startling and strange to Regina's eyes, wandered aimlessly, suddenly thrust into this great bowl of noise and sunlight, clearly terrified. Even the great predator cats were unable to take advantage of the confusion and closeness of their prey. Warriors ran on armed with spears, swords, nets, and shields, and they began to goad the bewildered beasts.
As the creatures began to die the noise of the crowd rose to a crescendo.
"So I am in time for the animal show." Regina could feel a warm breath on her cheek, smell a subtle scent of incense. The sudden voice, speaking a stilted Latin, was a woman's, soft in Regina's ear, with the husky growl of age. Regina couldn't see the arena anymore. "Once, you know, these games had religious significance. They were called offerings. But now we live in coarsened times, and the games are merely spectacles to placate the crowds of Rome, whom even the emperors fear. That is why the morning show, which still delivers authentic deaths, even if only of animals and criminals, is so popular..."
She had planned for this moment, tried to anticipate it. But now that it was here she felt frozen solid, like one of the hapless statues on the arena walls.
She turned.
The woman beside her wore a simple white stola and a cloak of fine wool. She was upright, slim, gray-haired, her face still handsome despite the wrinkles at her eyes and mouth, and the tightening of her skin by years of Italian light. But the smoke-gray eyes were clear and unchanged, and, in her sixties, she was still beautiful.
"Mother."
"Yes, child."
They embraced. But it was almost formal. Her mother's muscles were stiff, as stiff as her own. It was always going to be like this, Regina thought. For Julia to have survived in Rome she must have found a core of steel. It was a meeting of two strong women; it was not a gushing reunion.
Before them, disregarded, the professional beast slayers continued their taunting of the animals, whipping the beasts to a fury to satisfy the passions of the baying, jostling crowd.
• • •
They exchanged information. Facts, not feelings.
Julia seemed uninterested in Regina's brief account of her life since the night her father had died. To Julia, it seemed, Britain was a cold and dismal place far away and best forgotten. Or perhaps there was some morsel of guilt, Regina thought, even now uncomfortably lodged in her heart, trivial but irritating, like a seed between her teeth.
Julia was scarcely more animated as she quietly told her own story. "I came to Rome to be with my sister. Your aunt—"
Regina rummaged in her memory. "Helena."
"Helena, yes..." Helena, some ten years older than Julia herself, was, it turned out, still alive — one of the few seventy-year-olds in all of Rome. "But then," Julia said dryly, "we have always been a long-lived family."
Julia had needed help from her sister. Contrary to what Regina had always believed, Julia had left Britain with little in the way of the family fortune. Before his death Marcus — always nervous, always overcautious — had taken to burying his money in hoards, in and around the villa. "And there, so far as I know, the family's money lies still, rotting in the earth. Unless it has been purloined by Saxons, bacaudae, or other undesirables." She seemed not to care very much.
Sister Helena, it turned out, had maneuvered herself into a very influential position in Rome, for she had been one of the chief attendants to the Vestal Virgins.
The Virgins were a relic of Rome's earliest days. It was said the order had been founded by Numa Pompilius, the first king to follow Romulus himself, who had designated acolytes to attend to the sacred flame of Vesta, goddess of hearth and fireside. Novices were handed over between the ages of six and ten to the Pontifex Maximus, Rome's chief priest, and were required to remain pure for thirty years. The order had become central to the purity and strength of Rome, and the sacred fire had not been extinguished for centuries.
"But the flame burns no more," murmured Julia. "When Constantine began to build his Christian churches, everything changed."
There were many who believed that the extinguishing of the flame symbolized the decline of Rome itself, for the city had been sacked just sixteen years later. But some of the Virgins and their attendants, including a younger Helena, had n
ot been without worldly wisdom as well as divine. Plenty of money had been salted away for just such a catastrophe.
"A faction of the Virgins found a way to survive," Julia said. "We still serve a god, still dedicate the purity of our young to her service. But she is a different god. We call ourselves the Puissant Order of Holy Mary Queen of Virgins. And we still report to the Pontifex Maximus — but now he is the pope of the Christians."
Regina gaped. "Mary — the mother of the Christ? Mother, have you become a Christian?"
"One must adapt." Julia smiled, and for a moment Regina saw something of Aetius's strength and resilience in his daughter's eyes. "And as you can see, we can still afford one of the amphitheater's best boxes. Your aunt Helena has two daughters, Leda and Messalina — I suppose Messalina is about your age. Messalina, too, has children, daughters." All daughters, Regina noted absently, no sons. Julia went on, "And I have one daughter—"
Regina closed her eyes. "Mother, you have two daughters."
Briefly Julia reached out to touch her hand, but she pulled back. "Two daughters, then. Your sister is called Leda."
"Half sister—"
"Yes. Her father is dead. He was uninteresting." This dismissal was chilling. "And now," Julia said softly, "you are here. What do you want, Regina?"
Regina spread her hands. "I am here to build a better life than I could have found in Britain." She told her mother something of the extirpating advance of the Saxons, and the foolishness of the British leaders like Artorius, still dreaming of empires. "And," she said, "I have come here for repayment of certain debts."
"Debts owed by this Amator. And, no doubt, by me."
Regina said evenly, "You had a duty to protect me — a duty doubled by my father's death. You didn't fulfill that duty. If it hadn't been for Aetius—"
Julia nodded, considering. "We are not rich, my Order. But we can take you in — you and your daughter — if that is acceptable. We are family: Leda, and Helena and her daughters, myself, we all live in the same community."
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