Avenger of Blood

by John Hagee

  As soon as Peter left, Priscilla returned, bringing Agatha with her. The maid set a breakfast tray by the bed, and Helena’s mind began to spin with possibilities. She guessed that Agatha was about ten years younger than Quintus. A single woman with a small child, Agatha needed a husband as much as Quintus needed a wife.

  Helena had the soul of a matchmaker, and that was something she could do even from her bed. She sighed and braced herself to move. “Help me sit up,” she said to Priscilla. And to the other woman she said, “Agatha, dear, please stay and keep me company.”

  There was no chair in the small bedroom, so when Helena motioned for her to sit, Agatha perched on the edge of the bed. She felt a bit awkward; it did not seem appropriate for one of the servants to be treated as an equal. Yet this guest was staying in the servants’ quarters, and this household did not seem to observe the usual class distinctions anyway.

  “I’m so happy to see you recovering,” Helena said. “I didn’t think you would be back at work so soon.”

  “I’m not working yet. But I felt better this morning, so I went to the kitchen for breakfast. The cook asked me to bring this tray back to you.”

  “I could have carried it by myself,” Priscilla said. She began to tear a small loaf of bread into pieces and feed them to her mother.

  “My room is next door,” Agatha said, “so I was coming this way.”

  In between bites of food, Helena said, “Tell me about yourself, Agatha. You haven’t always been a housemaid, have you?”

  “No, ma’am.” Agatha hesitated. She was never sure what to tell people about her life before she started working for Peter and his family. “I once had a house of my own,” she said tentatively.

  “It must be difficult,” Helena said, “being a widow with a small child. How old is Aurora now?”

  “Almost ten months.”

  “She’s a pretty baby,” Priscilla said, her lovely curls bobbing as she turned from her mother to address Agatha. “Can I hold her sometime? I could keep her for you while you rest.”

  “That would be nice. She’s asleep in my room right now.”

  Helena finished a few bites of fruit and resumed her questioning. “She was so tiny when you first came here. Was your husband still alive when Aurora was born?”

  “Actually . . . I’m not a widow.” It would be easier for Agatha to let people think that; it’s what they usually assumed. She tried to avoid questions, but when someone asked her directly, she told the truth, as she did now. “My husband divorced me.”

  “That’s a sin,” Priscilla said. “I heard it in church.”

  “He’s not a Christian,” Agatha explained. “And neither was I at the time.”

  Helena shook her head sadly. “Imagine that—and you with such a young baby. How terrible for you!”

  She couldn’t know the half of it, Agatha thought. But all she said was, “My husband didn’t want children.” Well, he certainly hadn’t wanted a daughter. She hoped Helena wouldn’t ask too many more questions. Agatha was getting tired, and she was uncomfortable being the focus of attention.

  “Have you given any thought to remarrying?” Helena asked, then she waggled her head when Priscilla offered her another bite. “That’s all I want,” she told her daughter.

  The question surprised Agatha, and she didn’t know how to respond. She really hadn’t thought about it. At first she’d thought of nothing but survival. Lately all she’d thought about was work. She liked to keep busy so she wouldn’t have too much time to be alone with her thoughts. The villa was huge, and she worked very hard; she wanted to do a good job so she and Aurora could continue to live there. She simply hadn’t considered any possibilities beyond that.

  Priscilla rushed to say, “Quintus needs a wife—you should marry him!”

  Helena laughed and seemed to brush the comment aside. “I don’t know where Priscilla comes up with these ideas.”

  “But he’s really a nice man,” the little girl said, “and not usually grumpy. He just works too hard. He has a lot of responsibility, you know.” Like her mother, once Priscilla got going, she tended to keep on talking. “Have you ever been to the harbor to see Peter’s office? That’s where Quintus works too.”

  “Yes, I’ve been there,” Agatha said. “And Quintus is a very nice man.”

  She thought back to the day she’d first met Quintus. When Peter had found her at the dock, he’d brought her inside his office. Quintus had gotten a blanket to wrap around her and had given her the food he had brought for his lunch that day. Then he’d held Aurora while Agatha, who’d had nothing but scraps from the garbage heap for two days, ate greedily.

  Later she’d been embarrassed that Quintus had seen her like that, dirty and starving, even though he was gracious and never mentioned it. She had seen him at church almost every week since then, and he always spoke kindly to her but didn’t say much beyond the usual greeting. Perhaps she’d never given him a chance to say anything else.

  Helena leaned her head back on the pillow. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Talking has exhausted me. I think I need a nap now.”

  “Can I go next door and see Aurora?” Priscilla asked her mother. “You can call if you need anything.”

  Helena nodded. “That would be nice—if Agatha doesn’t mind, that is.”

  “I don’t mind,” Agatha said. “I feel like lying down too. You can watch Aurora for a while,” she told Priscilla. Agatha returned to her room, thinking about the possibility of getting married again someday but doubting that any man would want her, especially not a fine Christian man like Quintus. Divorce and remarriage were common in Ephesus, except among the Christians. And Agatha was not just another divorced woman with a child. She was a broken woman harboring an abandoned baby . . .

  13

  FROM THE MOMENT AGATHA had known she was pregnant again, she wore an amulet in the form of a copper cuff around her upper arm. Inscribed on the bracelet were the Grammata, six magical terms associated with the chief Ephesian deity, Artemis. More than a mere fertility goddess, Artemis was the all-powerful Queen of the Cosmos, and Agatha had desperately needed divine assistance.

  So every morning and evening she stood in front of a small shrine in the atrium of her house and recited the Grammata, then beseeched the many-breasted image to bestow nourishing power on the child Agatha carried in her womb.

  “I hope you’re praying for a son,” Falco had said when he first discovered his wife’s daily ritual.

  “I am,” Agatha lied.

  Her husband was determined that she produce a male heir, and he lost no opportunity to remind Agatha that was why he had married her. Part of his insistence on having a son was pride: Falco wanted a son to carry on the family name. And part of it was economic: A son would provide financial security during old age.

  Falco operated a small fuller’s shop and struggled to make ends meet. He envisioned having several sons to replace some of the slaves and freemen he hired to stand in huge vats of water and chemicals and tread the fine woolen fabrics to be cleaned and bleached, then sewn into rich men’s clothes.

  After three years of marriage, Agatha had given birth to the son Falco craved, but her firstborn had arrived weeks too early and had lived only a few hours. It had taken two more years for Agatha to conceive again, and now she didn’t care whether the child she carried was a boy or a girl; she simply wanted a healthy baby, so her prayers to Artemis were gender specific only when Falco was nearby.

  Agatha was not an avid practitioner of magic, but she chanted the Grammata with fervor, convinced she had found the right formula to guarantee the birth of a healthy baby. She had purchased the silver statue of Artemis with money she had saved out of their household expenses. At first Falco had been furious at what he perceived as extravagance, but he changed his attitude once he knew the purpose of his wife’s worship of the goddess.

  Falco had never been a particularly compassionate man, and since the death of their son, he had become increasingly cold a
nd, on occasion, even cruel. He thawed somewhat during his wife’s second pregnancy, and Agatha began to relax and enjoy the changes in her body. Even Nonius, their one household slave, was more deferential to Agatha as the pregnancy progressed.

  As the time for her confinement neared, Falco contracted with a midwife to assist with the delivery because Agatha had no relatives, female or otherwise, in Ephesus. Hiring an obstetrix was one of the few expenses the frugal Falco did not find objectionable. The midwife he chose this time was named Alfidia, and she had a reputation as one of the best. Falco was immensely pleased to have secured her services.

  Early one morning Agatha woke with a start. She’d had pain in her lower back for a couple of days; now it was suddenly sharp. She tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t, and when the first labor pains began in earnest, she roused Falco.

  “Go fetch the midwife,” she said. “I’m having the baby.”

  Falco stumbled out of bed and threw his tunic over his head. He ran out of the room, his hair plastered to one side of his head and sticking straight up on the other.

  When he returned with Alfidia, she immediately banned him from the bedroom. The obstetrix examined Agatha and reassured her, “You’re doing just fine.”

  Alfidia pulled the sheet up over her patient and allowed Falco back in the bedroom for only a moment. “It’s going to take a while—several hours, probably,” she said. “Go on to work. I’ll send Nonius to notify you when the baby is born.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Falco insisted. “Not until my son is born.”

  Alfidia shrugged her shoulders. “Stay or leave, it’s fine with me. Just keep out of the bedroom. This is no place for a man.”

  When Falco left again, Alfidia removed some tools and supplies from her satchel. The tiny bedroom held only three pieces of furniture: the bed, a washstand, and a small storage chest. Alfidia spread her things on the washstand, then sat on the edge of the bed by Agatha. The midwife had sturdy, soothing hands, and she used them to massage Agatha’s back while she writhed in agony.

  In between the labor pains, the women talked about the many babies Alfidia had delivered, and the six children of her own.

  “I would love to have that many children,” Agatha said.

  “Your husband seems to believe you’re going to have a boy,” Alfidia observed.

  “That’s what he’s hoping for.” Agatha clenched her teeth as another wave began to build.

  “Will he be very disappointed if it’s a girl?”

  Alfidia looked troubled as she asked the question, but Agatha was too far into the contraction to wonder why. “Probably. But I won’t be disappointed,” she told the midwife. “I just want a healthy baby— and I want it soon!” She gave up and let the wave carry her into its depths.

  Even though it was winter, Agatha was bathed in sweat as she groaned and travailed. Alfidia repeatedly ran a damp cloth over Agatha’s face and murmured encouragement. Agatha sobbed and tried to chant her magic formula.

  When Alfidia finally told her to bear down one more time, Agatha strained to push hard, and at last, she felt a welcome release as the baby dropped into the midwife’s waiting hands.

  With a sense of exhausted wonder, Agatha watched as Alfidia wiped out the baby’s mouth, and then the new mother heard the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard—a loud wail.

  “It’s a girl,” Alfidia said, laying the newborn at the foot of the bed.

  “A healthy girl?” Agatha asked.

  “Certainly appears that way.” Alfidia grinned as she cut the umbilical cord. The baby continued to cry, her sobs now punctuated with tiny, trembling sighs.

  Agatha reached out her arms. “Let me hold her.”

  “Be patient while I clean this little jewel,” Alfidia said. “Then you can hold her until your arms drop.”

  The midwife washed away the slick, bloody mucous, then lightly rubbed the baby’s skin with salt. Taking a large, clean swath of fabric, she began to swaddle the newborn from the waist down. While she worked, Alfidia said, “You can hold her while I go get your husband. Then we’ll make the presentation.”

  As the paterfamilias, the head of the household, Falco would formally receive the child into the family. By Roman law, the father’s power over his offspring was absolute.

  Before Alfidia could finish wrapping the baby, the bedroom door burst open and Falco strode in, with Nonius on his heels.

  “Well?” the new father demanded.

  The midwife stiffened at the breach of etiquette. “If you had waited a few minutes, I would have brought the child to you. I always observe the proper customs.”

  “Let’s dispense with the formalities,” Falco said, walking toward the baby.

  A sudden fear seized Agatha, turning the lingering residue of pain into a searing heat in her abdomen. “I haven’t even held her yet,” she protested weakly.

  “Her?” Falco stopped, frozen in place. “Her?” he repeated.

  Agatha cringed at her blunder. Before Alfidia could stop him, Falco yanked away the cloth to inspect the newborn, who screamed anew at the sudden jostling.

  Instantly Falco’s face contorted into a seething fury. “What happened to the son you promised me?” he raged at his wife.

  Petrified, Agatha could not answer. She’d expected Falco to be disappointed, but she’d had no idea her husband would react so violently.

  Falco turned his back on his wife and child and walked toward the door. “Take it away,” he told Nonius.

  The slave moved to pick up the baby, and Agatha gasped. “No! Falco, please,” she pleaded. She managed to get to her feet and went after her husband. Grabbing the sleeve of his tunic, she begged, “Please don’t take my baby away.”

  Falco removed her hand. “You can’t do anything right, can you?” he said, not disguising his contempt.

  Nonius walked out behind Falco, carrying the little girl, who was still wailing forlornly.

  Agatha tried to follow, but Alfidia stopped her. “No,” she said firmly but gently. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  The midwife led Agatha back to the bed, then completed the birthing process. Alfidia removed the remains of the afterbirth and used saltwater to cleanse Agatha internally. She sobbed the entire time Alfidia performed her ministrations.

  When it was over, Alfidia helped Agatha wash herself and put on a fresh tunic, then the midwife changed the bed linens and put Agatha back to bed.

  “What will he do with my baby?” Agatha finally asked, her voice ragged from pain and weeping.

  Alfidia skirted the question. “It’s his decision, and his decision is law.”

  “Even though I was the one who gave birth, I don’t have any say in my own baby’s fate?” It wasn’t really a question. Agatha knew the answer.

  “No, even though you carried that child for nine months, you have no rights in the matter.” With a sigh, Alfidia sat down beside Agatha.

  “But I thought infanticide was illegal.”

  “It is,” Alfidia said. “Has been for quite a while.” She hesitated, then said, “But there are ways around it, if a man doesn’t want a child.”

  “Tell me,” Agatha implored. “I have to know.” Her arms ached from the longing to hold her baby. She’d never even gotten to touch her daughter.

  “He’ll likely instruct Nonius to take the child somewhere outside the city and leave it to die of exposure. It’s not really infanticide, see, because he won’t have done the killing.”

  Agatha began to weep again, but with her strength depleted, the tears slid silently down her cheeks. Her heart was so grieved, she wished she could simply close her eyes and never wake up.

  “Sometimes, though,” Alfidia continued, “a stranger will have pity on an abandoned child and take her—it’s usually a girl—in. Maybe that’s what will happen to your baby.” She patted Agatha’s hand in a consoling gesture. “Maybe,” she repeated softly.

  Agatha thought briefly about praying for her newborn to be rescued, but h
er faith in Artemis had faltered.

  For months afterward, Agatha wouldn’t let Falco touch her. Barely able to tolerate being in the same room with him, she distanced herself physically as well as emotionally.

  Frequently she was startled awake by nightmares of her baby girl lying in the rotting piles of garbage outside the city gates. Sometimes she saw the baby’s face covered by maggots. Sometimes she saw vultures swooping from the sky to peck at the defenseless baby. And sometimes she dreamed that dogs devoured her daughter.

  Life became intolerable. She couldn’t exist like this. But what could she do? She could divorce Falco, she supposed, but where would she go? Agatha had no family nearby; her only relatives were still in

  Miletus. Her father had been elderly when she was born; he had died while Agatha was still a young girl. A few years later her mother had succumbed to a protracted illness. Agatha’s much older brother had been only too happy to see her married to Falco, a distant cousin who lived in Ephesus.

  Feeling trapped and without options, Agatha suffered silently. She couldn’t talk to Falco about her sorrow, and she had no close friends with whom she could unburden herself.

  Finally, she made an effort to bridge the emotional estrangement from her husband. Agatha reasoned that she could not deny him conjugal rights forever; he was her husband. Besides, she still wanted a child, and there was only one way to create one.

  All Falco said was, “I knew you’d come to your senses one of these days.”

  Several months later Agatha conceived again. Not trusting her husband’s reaction, she hid her pregnancy for as long as possible. When she could hide it no longer, she told Falco.

  Agatha prepared his favorite dinner and tried engaging her husband in conversation while they ate. Although he didn’t say much, he at least made the pretense of having a dialogue. Business had picked up at the fuller’s shop, so he was in a relatively good mood. The man dearly loved dirt—dirty clothes, that is. The more soiled garments his customers brought in, the happier Falco became.