Curses and Smoke

by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  The boy’s eyes grew wide. “How did you know?”

  “Father made me assist the midwife when you were born! You were probably about three when I left. Do you remember me?”

  Castor shook his head.

  Tag wondered when young children started remembering. Could there be a connection between that and when the elderly stopped remembering? If only he could find out what that might be, so that he could help his father.

  “Can I mix some medicines with you?” Castor asked.

  “No, absolutely not.”

  “Why? Your father lets me!”

  Tag ran his hands over his curls. Damocles should never let a child this young near the medicines.

  The little boy grinned and puffed up his chest. “Sometimes he thinks I’m his son! Is your name Tages? Because that’s what he calls me sometimes.”

  Tag closed his eyes for a moment as fear for his father ran through his bones. What was happening to him? More important, how could he keep him safe from the master? He needed to distract this child so he could think. Tag pointed to a bundle of fabric in a fraying basket. “Why don’t you help me by rolling up those linen bandage strips?”

  Castor squatted like a little monkey and began pawing through the basket. Tag reached for the agrimony root, henbane, and madder leaves he needed for a muscle salve. He sat at the mixing table and began measuring out the ingredients.

  “I helped Domina tie up her dog yesterday,” Castor said. “It got free when the earthquake shook the ground.”

  “I bet she was grateful for your help.”

  “Yes. I like it when Lady Lucia smiles at me.”

  Me too. Tag had been thinking about the way she’d looked at him when she’d said, “Welcome home.” Such a simple sentiment, but her smile had been like the sun unexpectedly breaking through a heavy gray sky.

  “I’m bored,” Castor groused after rolling three strips. Tag couldn’t complain — it was two and a half more than he thought the boy would do. Castor picked up a long wooden spoon and held it out like a sword. “I’m going to be a gladiator when I grow up!” he announced, scowling furiously at an imaginary opponent.

  “No, you don’t want to do that,” Tag said as he scraped lard into a clay bowl.

  “Yes, I do! And I’ll fight so well, the emperor himself will crown me the best gladiator in the world!”

  Tag wondered if his desire to fight for his freedom sounded as silly to Pontius as this little boy’s dream sounded to him. After sprinkling in the herbs, he began blending the mixture with a thick wooden spoon. “Well, you’d better learn to keep your arm closer in. You’re exposing your whole chest to your opponent.”

  The boy looked down at his grimy tunic. “I am?”

  “And you need a shield.”

  Castor rushed over to a pile of wax writing tablets on the side table. “Can I use one of these?”

  “No. Leave those alone. Those are our fighter records.”

  “Fighter what?”

  “Before every man begins training, we have to know his health, illness, and injury history. It helps us healers take better care of them.”

  “Can you make a record of me? Since I’m going to be a fighter?”

  “Sure. The blank tablets are on the floor.”

  Castor scrambled under the wooden table and picked up a tablet. He held it out to Tag. Still stirring his mixture, Tag pointed with his head to the jar with styluses. “Grab one.”

  When Castor shoved the tablet and stylus at him, Tag set the ointment aside and scribbled on the wax. “Here,” he said, showing Castor.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “Repeat after me,” Tag instructed, pointing to each letter. The boy imitated him: “Kappa … Alpha … Sigma … Tau … Omega … Rho.”

  “That’s your name in Greek,” Tag finished.

  Castor looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Greek?”

  “Healers have to know how to read Greek. Did you know that?”

  Castor shook his head.

  “See if you can copy that first letter on the wax,” Tag said. “And maybe after a while, you’ll be able to read your name like an educated medicus.”

  The boy grinned up at him as if the very idea was magical. He dropped to the floor, cradling the tablet between his stick-thin legs, and began cutting lines into the wax.

  “Now,” Tag murmured to himself. “Where was I?” And he set back to work.

  Lucia appeared late to her father’s tablinum. He showed his displeasure by refusing to look up when his man announced her. She could not bring herself to care. It wasn’t that she liked angering her father; she just never seemed to please him. So why bother trying?

  It hadn’t always been that way. She remembered spending countless hours on his lap as he told stories about famous gladiators while she combed through the dark hairs on his forearm. He’d changed after her older brother, Lucius Titurius Bassus, had been killed years ago. She wished she could conjure up her brother’s image, but he was nothing more than a vague memory of a stocky young man in gleaming armor, smelling of leather as he kissed her head on his way out of their lives. He died as a soldier somewhere in the hinterlands of Germania.

  Once, she’d asked her father why he’d let him go; as paterfamilias, he could have forbidden his eldest and only surviving son from joining the army. But her father had said Bassus convinced him that making connections in the military would be good for the school. Contacts with Roman officers, he was sure, would bring prestige to the family and even possibly new sponsors. Prestige and money — Father’s endless obsessions.

  She stood, hands clasped, and waited. Her father’s small study always smelled of lampblack and metal, as if the coins exchanged in that room left an odor behind. Had it smelled differently when her mother had been alive? Would her perfume have lingered in this room?

  Gods, she missed her. It was hard to believe that it had only been three years since she had died of a broken heart after she lost their last baby in childbirth. Her once beautiful mother had given birth eight times, and Lucia was the sole survivor. She knew this was her father’s greatest disappointment: It should have been her brother who lived, not her.

  Finally, he raised his head, leaned back, and inspected her. “It would not kill you to put some effort into your appearance,” he said.

  “Yes, Father.” She was wearing her dingy gray tunica, and, to her nurse’s horror, she hadn’t allowed her to rebraid and repin her hair.

  He sighed. “You should thank the gods that you take after your mother and not me,” he said. “You should not dishonor them by ignoring the gift of your beauty. Soon you will be a married woman, and you will need to be presentable to your husband and his people at all times.”

  His people? You mean the six grandchildren he already has?

  Lucia kept her eyes on the desk between them. Even though her father had put the wood stylus down firmly, she noticed it suddenly made several revolutions toward his wine goblet. What had caused that? There was no wind in the room. Was this yet another type of tremor, invisible to them somehow, but strong enough to make small objects move as if of their own accord?

  “Did you hear me?” His stern voice broke through her thoughts.

  “Yes. I mean, no, Father.”

  “I said that your betrothed is anxious to proceed with the wedding, but because of the tremors, he insists the ceremony take place in Rome. We will have to leave before the Meditrinalia to prepare. That’s in just three weeks.”

  Her mouth dried up like that disappearing spring in the woods. Miss the wine-tasting festival in Pompeii? How could they? It also meant missing the Fontinalia, the day garlands were placed on all the fountains and wellsprings in the city. These were her favorite festivals. She didn’t want to celebrate them in big, dirty, miserable Rome!

  “Father, please don’t make me marry him,” she begged. “I don’t want to move to Rome! I love Pompeii. This is my home. This is where my friends live, where Mater is buried —”
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br />   He brushed his palm over his face as if he were weary. “It’s not as if you are going to Britannia, child! I will come and visit you often. Especially once the colossal amphitheater opens.”

  She willed herself not to cry, her throat growing tight with the effort.

  “You will see, daughter,” he said kindly. “Once you have a child, it will all be worth it.”

  “Unless I am cursed like Mother,” she mumbled.

  “What did you say?” he asked sharply.

  “Nothing, Father.”

  “Good. Then, you are dismissed —”

  “Wait, there is something I wanted to ask,” she said. The sight of Tag’s back right after he’d been whipped had haunted her for some days now. She took a deep breath, hoping her practiced speech would come out effortlessly. “I am concerned about the rough treatment of some of the slaves in the household. And I thought —”

  He began to laugh. She snapped her mouth shut as heat spread up her neck.

  “Are you practicing running a household on me?” he asked. “Now?”

  She swallowed. “No, I … I just thought —” she began.

  He put a hand up to stop her. “I appreciate you trying to help with the household, daughter, but you must understand that for most slaves, physical punishment is the only language they understand. Also, you must remember that the paterfamilias makes the decision about how property is managed, as he makes the decisions in all matters. When you move into Vitulus’s household, you will see that Vitulus ultimately decides how to manage his household slaves, not a softhearted girl like you. Understand?”

  Lucia looked down. She wanted to remind him that Mother had often discussed those matters with him. Had he forgotten? Or perhaps it had made him angry, and he didn’t want her following her mother’s example. Either way, she had not expected her opinion to be so thoroughly disregarded. She wanted to argue, but no words came.

  “Now, is there anything else, daughter?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” She cleared her throat. “May I borrow one of your scrolls — the third book of Pliny’s Histories?”

  He blew air out of his cheeks. “Why? I have already told you, part of your problem is that you read too much. I am convinced that it has corrupted your female mind.”

  “I wish only to read what the admiral says about prodigies of the earth in Campania,” she explained. “I have noticed some strange activity around Vesuvius, and —”

  He put up a hand irritably. “Fine. I should warn you, though, that your future husband is of stern Roman stock and does not hold with women reading and studying. This may be your last chance to read the old boy’s works.”

  Gods, that can’t be true, can it? Well, even if it were, she would find some way to continue studying, no matter what the old man said. When she found the scroll she was seeking, Lucia pulled it out by its tag and shoved it under her arm. “Thank you, Father.”

  He grunted without looking up.

  * * *

  Later that day, Lucia sat on her haunches, pulling weeds in the garden. She would much prefer to be out in the woods with Minos, but she’d missed her chance: Metrodona was awake and watching her from the stone bench.

  With a sigh, she broke off a sprig of rosemary and sniffed, relishing the sharp tang of it. Why were the gods ignoring her pleas for help in getting out of the marriage? she wondered. Had she not served them well enough?

  A thought stopped her hand as she moved to prune a potted quince tree. Maybe the gods were angry with her. Maybe they wanted her to pay them more attention. Well, she could do that.

  Brushing her hands off and scooping up a quince and another sprig of rosemary, Lucia marched toward the kitchen hearth and the lararium, the household shrine. Garlands of pine, rosemary, and thyme hung over the mini-pediment within the small arched niche built into the stucco wall. A painted green snake — bringer of peace and prosperity — coiled underneath the shelf of offerings.

  Two bronze statuettes of the dancing lares, the household gods, grinned up at her. Behind them on the wall was the painted image of the genius of the family — the essential spirit of the household — showing her father’s ancestor in a toga, his head covered in the act of worship. Perhaps if she could reach the genius, she might get more help from the rest of the gods who were painted around the shrine. The stern face of the patriarch, however, did not look accommodating. She could almost hear the admonition — Accept your fate. We know what is good for you.

  She turned her focus instead on the painted gods — Apollo, Diana, Minerva, Fortuna, and even Hercules, the patron god of gladiators. For the first time, she realized Venus was not represented among them. Was that the problem? Was Venus punishing her for this oversight by forcing her to marry an old and bitter man? She quickly scrounged up foods she hoped the goddess would appreciate: tiny blushing apples, dried pomegranate seeds, and bright wild berries — all shades of red, the goddess’s favorite color.

  After placing the new offerings on the shrine, Lucia bowed her head, only to realize she did not know what to ask of Venus. She wasn’t looking for love. Perhaps that was another reason the goddess was angry.

  Venus was forced to marry the vile, misshapen Vulcan. She of all the gods would want to help Lucia avoid a similar fate, wouldn’t she? So Lucia asked for guidance in finding a plan to evade the marriage altogether. To sweeten the offering, she promised the goddess yearly sacrifices of the purest white lambs if only she did not have to marry Vitulus.

  After a few minutes, she sensed someone watching her, so she lifted her head and opened her eyes.

  “Tages,” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  A flush crawled up Tag’s neck, and he looked away. “I … I was going to make my own offering, but I did not want to interrupt you.”

  She tilted her head at him. “The lashes on your back … they are not causing you fevers, are they?”

  He shook his head, the corner of one side of his mouth tweaking up. Was that how he smiled now? Barely a movement? Her memory flashed back to the long-ago day when he had found a strange sanctuary in the woods, how his childish face had beamed with pride when he’d brought her to it.

  “… Domina?”

  “I am sorry. What?”

  “I asked if you were praying for something health-related, in — in case I could help you in some way.”

  “But don’t you have your own shrine in the healing rooms?”

  He held out a small terra-cotta foot. “Your father’s stallion stepped on the stable boy’s foot and crushed the bones. I have done what I can, but I thought an appeal to the household gods might help as well.”

  “Oh, yes. Good.” She stepped aside to give him room.

  He placed the clay foot on the shrine and murmured prayers. They stood side by side.

  “So how fare things for you?” he eventually asked in a quiet tone.

  “Fine,” she whispered back, surprised at the bubble of warmth that grew in her chest at speaking with him again. “How has it been for you back in the House of Titurius?”

  Something flashed across his face, but just as quickly disappeared. “It goes well, thank you,” he said.

  In the silence that followed, her skin tingled at his nearness. Earlier, she’d had dozens of questions she wanted to ask him about Rome, but suddenly she couldn’t remember a single one.

  “Well, I must go,” Tag said after a time. He didn’t move, though, and quickly added, “But … you never said if you needed me to appeal to the god of healing for you.”

  “Oh, no … unless the god of healing can help me find a way of getting out of my impending marriage.”

  “Unfortunately, no. But perhaps I can ask the old gods of the city — my Etruscan gods — to help you, if you would like.”

  “I would like that very much,” Lucia said, surprised and touched. “And I presume they will listen to you since your name means prophet in your language, right?” she added, smiling up at him.

  He smiled back.
“You remembered.”

  “How could I forget? You reminded me every chance you got!”

  Tag’s face flushed slightly again and she couldn’t tell whether it was from embarrassment or pleasure. “Have you been able to get out to our wooded cave at all?” she asked.

  “Not as much as I would like.” He cleared his throat. “When do you usually make it out there?”

  “After the midday meal when Metrodona naps. But sometimes later. It all depends on when I can sneak away.”

  He nodded, looking at the fire. Should she have been more specific? She was about to ask him when he went, but the cook pushed her way between them on the way to the hearth.

  “ ’Scuse me, ’scuse me, Domina,” she said, carrying a heavy cauldron. “I need to get in here to begin the stew.”

  Tag gave Lucia a quick smile, murmured, “Domina,” and disappeared around the corner before she could say another word.

  Lucius Titurius was yelling for Pontius in the training yard as Tag checked the splint on a fighter’s arm. He tensed at the sound of the master’s voice and peered into the sand pit.

  A small hand grabbed his — Castor. “What’s happening?” the little boy whispered.

  “Don’t know. Shhhhhhh.”

  Pontius turned from supervising the gladiators as they lifted and threw immense logs over a wooden target. He marched toward Titurius. Studying the person standing beside the master, Tag noticed the rich cut of the man’s clothes and the golden rings on both hands. A young nobleman, Tag figured, here to rent a few fighters for entertainment at a banquet.

  Titurius talked briefly with his head trainer, bowed obsequiously to his guest, and left them standing together. The young man did not return Titurius’s farewell. Tag suppressed a smirk at the insult to his master.

  “Tag, come here,” Pontius yelled, and he jumped in surprise.

  “Go back to the medical room,” Tag instructed Castor as he headed toward the overseer.

  “This is Quintus Rutilius,” Pontius announced as Tag approached. “He is joining the ludus for a couple of months of training. Dominus wants him to get a medical examination and have him prepared to join us out here tomorrow morning.”