by Barbara Wood
“Me? Surely you mean my daughter. Or her newborn.”
“The signs were very clear. A man is coming into your life, Lady, and he is holding his arms out in welcome.”
The only man she could think of was her husband, Cornelius, due back from Egypt any day. But that wasn’t possible. He hadn’t opened his arms to her in years.
“What do the birds say of my daughter?”
The soothsayer shrugged—a quick gesture—and held out his hand for payment. “They say nothing of her, Lady, only of you.”
Amelia gave the man a gold coin and hurried along the colonnade to the bedchamber where her daughter was laboring to bring new life into the world.
Lady Amelia had taken every precaution to ensure the success of this pregnancy, her youngest daughter’s first. As soon as Cornelia had announced she was with child, Amelia had insisted she come and stay at home during the pregnancy, home in this case being the country villa where the patrician Vitellius family had produced wine and olives for generations. Amelia would have preferred their house in the city, but whenever her husband Cornelius was away, as he was now on a trip to Egypt, he insisted she and the household retire to the country. Only Amelia knew his secret reason for this unbending rule. Only Amelia knew that it was a form of punishment.
She went into the bedchamber that was crowded with midwives and their assistants, Cornelia’s aunts and female cousins, her older sister and two sisters-in-law, and the astrologer who sat in the corner with his charts and instruments, ready to record the moment of the child’s birth. Following a very old tradition among aristocratic families, Amelia’s daughter had been named after her father, hence Cornelia (just as their eldest son was Cornelius), which sometimes led to confusion. Amelia would have liked to name her daughter after herself, but it wasn’t done.
Amelia’s heart went out to Cornelia who, at seventeen, was the same age she herself had been when she had given birth to her first child, a son who would now be twenty-six had he lived. Amelia’s second pregnancy had ended in miscarriage, but her third pregnancy, when she was twenty-one, had resulted in her eldest son, Cornelius, twenty-two years old and studying the law in the hopes of following in his father’s illustrious footsteps. Amelia had been pregnant seven times after that: one that had given her twins, now twenty years old, the one producing Cornelia, two producing babies that died in infancy, the one that had given them Gaius, their thirteen-year-old son, another ending in miscarriage, and the final pregnancy, six years ago when Amelia was thirty-seven, the pregnancy that had altered her life and her universe forever.
She went to her daughter’s bedside and, looking down in sympathy and concern, placed her hand on Cornelia’s feverish forehead in a sincere wish that she could take her pain upon herself.
The young woman pushed her mother’s hand away. “Where is Papa?” she said fretfully. “I want Papa.”
Amelia felt a stab of pain. Cornelia had not finally agreed to stay at the country villa because she wanted to be with her mother but because she had wanted to be there when her father returned from Egypt. “I sent word to Ostia,” Amelia said. “As soon as his ship arrives, he will be told.”
Cornelia turned away from her mother and lifted up her hands to her sister and sisters-in-law. The other young women crowded around until Amelia was pushed out of the circle. She did not protest. Lady Amelia had been pushed out of the family’s circle years ago, when grief had driven her to commit an unforgivable act. Little girls that had once worshipped her and followed her around like sunbeams, had turned their backs on a woman they decided was no longer worthy of their love.
Yes! she wanted to cry, as she had wanted to cry for the past six years. I committed adultery. I sought comfort in another man’s arms. But it was not for need of sex or love—I was driven to him out of grief because my baby was born lame and my husband threw it away!
But the cry went unspoken, as it always did—no one cared why Amelia had slept with another man, only that she had—and she clasped her hands tightly as she watched the midwife at her work. The woman had lubricated the birth canal with goose grease, and still the baby would not come, so now she drew a long white feather from her bag, climbed onto the bed to straddle the laboring mother, and proceeded to tease Cornelia’s nose into a sneeze.
Lady Amelia closed her eyes as a painful memory flashed in her mind. Her own labor during the birth of her last child, the baby Cornelius had refused to acknowledge, ordering a servant to take it, only minutes old, to a rubbish heap to be left exposed. Amelia had never even seen the child. It had been taken straight from her womb to Cornelius, who had taken one look at the crooked foot and declared the child unfit. Amelia had spent the years since trying to understand what she had done to cause it, for surely she must blame herself. How else to explain the baby’s malformed foot? With a grief-filled heart she had relived the months of the pregnancy over and over, trying to discover the one mistake, the one slip she had made that had caused the deformity. And then it had come to her: the day she had been sitting in the garden of their city house. She had been reading a book of poetry and had not felt the butterfly land on her foot. It was only when she glanced down that she had seen it, and because she had been so entranced by its proximity and its beauty, and its apparent lack of fear—for it had lingered there, glorious in the sunshine, fluttering its fragile wings—she had not shooed it away. How long the butterfly had rested on her foot she did not know, but clearly it had been enough to leave a mark on the baby that had been taking shape in her womb at that moment, for three months later the child was born with a twisted foot, marking it for disposal on a waste heap.
This was why Lady Amelia had been so protective of her daughter these past months, reading the auspices several times a day, watching for signs, being careful not to break any taboos or to bring bad luck into the house. When a black cat had appeared in the garden, she had had it destroyed at once. But a stray white cat had been brought in and pampered for good luck. Lady Amelia could not bear to have her daughter go through the agony she herself had gone through with that last, lost child.
Since the feather had not produced results, the midwife dug again into her bag and brought out a measure of pepper that she emptied into her hand. Bringing it up to Cornelia’s nose, she said, “Inhale deeply.” The girl did and produced such a forceful sneeze that the baby was pushed down and the assistant cried, “There is the head!”
Moments later, the infant slithered onto the waiting blanket. While the midwife tied and severed the umbilical cord, Lady Amelia stood apprehensively at the bedside.
“Is it a boy?” Cornelia asked breathlessly. “Is he perfect?”
But Amelia would say nothing. The baby having been born, the matter was now out of the hands of women. What happened next was up to her daughter’s husband. If he rejected the child, then it was best Cornelia knew nothing about it, for it would be taken from the house and laid on a rubbish heap to be exposed to the elements.
As soon as the midwife bundled the newborn in a blanket, Lady Amelia took it from her and, cradling the child gently, hurried from the room. Behind her, Amelia heard Cornelia asking the midwife if it was a boy or a girl. But the woman, from experience, wisely kept silent. The less a mother knew of her baby the better, just in case.
Lady Amelia entered the atrium and immediately had the attention of the young men gathered there: her eldest son, Cornelius, who already had two small children of his own; her next son, twin to Amelia’s twenty-year-old daughter; her youngest son, only thirteen; the young husband of her twenty-year-old daughter; male cousins and close friends; and finally Cornelia’s husband, nineteen years old, drawing himself tall and proud, aware of the solemnity of the ancient tradition he was about to follow and the gravity of his next actions.
She laid the baby at his feet and stepped back. No one moved or breathed as he bent to part the blanket to see the child’s sex. If it was a girl, and she had no flaws, he would acknowledge the child as his and then leave it for sla
ves to take to a wet nurse, as custom dictated. But if it was a boy, and unflawed, he was to lift it up and declare it his son in front of family and friends.
The moment stretched. Amelia was nearly sick with fear. Six years ago, Cornelius parting the blanket, seeing that the baby was a girl, and then seeing the crooked foot that would make her lame for life. Turning his back. Gesturing angrily to the slave that whisked the infant away like so much spilled garbage. And Cornelia, only eleven years old, rushing into the bedchamber, saying, “Mama, Papa has ordered the baby thrown away! Was it a monster?”
And now Cornelia herself was waiting for the same news…
The newborn was a boy, perfect and unblemished. The young father broke into a smile and lifted the baby off the floor. “I have a son!” he cried, and the others in the room cheered and offered congratulations.
Lady Amelia nearly collapsed with relief. But as she was about to hurry back to her daughter with the good news, there was a sudden commotion outside. Philo, the majordomo of the villa, materialized in the doorway with his wooden staff and dignified manner. “Lady, the master is home.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. She was not ready!
Amelia did not go directly to greet Cornelius but instead watched from the shadows as slaves rushed forward to welcome their master with wine and food, to relieve him of his toga, to fuss about him in transparent excitement: when the master was away, life in the country was deadly dull. He accepted their adulation with the graciousness of a king. At forty-five, Cornelius was tall and handsome with just a brush of gray at the temples. Amelia could almost remember what it was like to be in love with him.
But that was before she had discovered his cold, unforgiving heart, when he had learned from friends of her brief indiscretion with a poet who had been passing through Rome, and she had confessed, and begged forgiveness, and told him it was because she had been so filled with grief over the loss of her last baby and the poet had crooned the words she needed to hear. But Cornelius had said he would never forgive her, and everything changed.
She silently followed him as he went straight to the birthing chamber where he congratulated his son-in-law and took the infant from the wet nurse to fuss over it. Then he sat on the bed and bent over Cornelia. She had always been his favorite. When those two were together Amelia had always felt left out. What secrets was he whispering to her now?
A little boy came running in then, shouting, “Papa! Papa!” Lucius, a plump and pampered nine-year-old, was followed by an old hound he had named Fido, Rome’s most popular name for a dog as it meant “faithful.” Fido could be a good name for the child as well, for he worshipped his father and followed him everywhere. Amelia watched as Cornelius scooped the child up in a loving embrace. He wasn’t really their son, only by law. Cornelius had adopted the boy when he was orphaned at age three. Lucius was the child of distant cousins and therefore family. Amelia tried to love Lucius but could not find it in her heart to do so. It was not the boy’s fault. Amelia could never forget the fact that Cornelius had embraced another woman’s child while discarding her own.
Amelia was thirty-seven when she had conceived her last child. Already she had been feeling the changes in her body, signs that her fertile years were coming to an end. And so it had been a special pregnancy because it would be her last, and she had loved the life in her womb more deeply than any of her other children. It was to be the companion of her older years when her other children were grown and gone, the special child that receives an older mother’s attention and wisdom.
And then Cornelius had thrown it away.
Amelia had tried to remind herself that she should in fact be thankful: to have five living children out of ten pregnancies was a sign of favor from the gods. Roman children weren’t even given names until they reached their first birthday, infant mortality was so common. Had that precious one survived the rubbish heap? Was there a little orphaned girl somewhere in Rome hobbling about on a lame foot? People who scavenged rubbish heaps to salvage broken pots, and lamps, and scraps of papyrus and cloth, sometimes took babies that still breathed. Such rescues were not out of compassion but for profit: a small child could be raised on minimal food and care, and then, if it lived to see its third or fourth birthday, could be sold at the slave market for nearly pure profit. If she was lucky, the girl would grow up to serve a gentle master. More likely she would be sold into a life of harsh servitude, and if at all comely, for sexual entertainment.
After watching the family reunion as if through the eyes of a stranger—for she knew she would never be included, no matter that she was wife and mother—Amelia left her place in the shadows and went to give instructions to the cook for the evening feast. The morning’s tension dispelled, the house was alive with activity. That the young master had accepted the newborn into the family was reason enough for celebration, but now there was the added and exciting prospect of moving back to the city.
But as Amelia inspected the fresh game and discussed sauces with the cook, to her great surprise, Philo the majordomo appeared unexpectedly to announce that her husband wished to see her. Amelia didn’t trust Philo. She knew that his sleepy eyelids belied a keen intellect. She suspected he spied on her and reported her activities to Cornelius.
Amelia did not go straight to her husband’s private chambers but stopped at her own suite first to check her hair, her dress, her perfume. She was suddenly nervous. Why had he asked to see her? Amelia and her husband barely talked, even after a seven-month separation.
Cornelius Vitellius, one of Rome’s most popular lawyers and a current favorite of the mob, had gone to Egypt to oversee family business there. Amelia and her husband were very wealthy. While Cornelius owned copper mines in Sicily, a fleet of cargo vessels, and grain fields in Egypt, Amelia owned several blocks of tenement apartments in the heart of Rome.
She found him seated at a small writing desk. Freshly home from such a long journey and already he was catching up on correspondence and news. She stood patiently. Then she cleared her throat. Finally she said, “How was Egypt, my Lord?”
“Egyptian,” he said dismissively.
Amelia wished she could have gone with him. Ever since she was a child she had dreamed of visiting the ruins of Egypt, but of course such dreams were now beyond all hope of coming true. As she waited nervously for him to state his reason for summoning her, she thought frantically over the past seven months to see if there was anything he could remotely take to be an infraction of the rules he imposed upon her. But it was impossible to recall what it would be. Cornelius could take her slightest word or gesture as an act of rebellion. Whatever it was, what would he do to her this time? Leave her behind in the country when he returned to Rome? She did not think she could bear much more of this seclusion.
His punishment was always manifested in the most subtle ways. And part of his control over her was that he would not even allow her to bring up the issue for explanation. He had judged her and that was the end of it. She wanted to say, “Let me tell you why I did it.” But the subject was closed, even though it was her subject, part of her life, and she should have control over whether it was discussed or not. Cornelius hadn’t interrogated her as other husbands might do. He hadn’t raised his voice or called her names. Amelia often thought that if only he would do these things then the “monster” could be brought out into the open and perhaps be put out of their lives. But Cornelius had sealed every avenue, making sure the nameless phantom couldn’t escape, that it would continue to exist between them as Amelia’s private torment.
The adultery was something that had simply happened. She had been disconsolate over the loss of her baby. The love affair had lasted only a week, but it had been enough. Instead of divorcing her and banishing her to exile as was his right, Cornelius had surprised her by staying married to her. At the time she had thought it was his way of forgiving her. The real reason was in fact quite the opposite.
He now controlled her life utterly, and periodically, as part of h
er continued punishment, sent her to stay in the country. Amelia loved the city, all her friends were there, and her beloved bookshops and theaters. Whenever she was forced to stay in the country she was reminded of Julia, the daughter of Augustus, who had been exiled to the island of Pandateria, a barren volcanic outcropping in the ocean that was so small she could walk the length and breadth of it in under an hour. Julia had been allowed no wine, no favorite foods, no pets or entertainments or companionship—no luxuries whatsoever. And there she had died after years of never seeing another soul except the old man who brought fish up from the beach. Such was the fate of adulterous wives, if they were not in fact executed for their crime.
But Cornelius had chosen a slower, more painful punishment. Instead of just cutting her down with one blow and banishing her to exile, he kept Amelia so that he might slowly whittle her down, chipping away at her self-confidence and pride. There was a goddess statue in the garden exposed to the elements, and every season it would be a little smaller, a little more diminished as the wind and rain slowly eroded it. Long ago it had been a beautiful, perfect statue with distinct chiseled facial features but now her nose and cheeks and chin were all worn away, her face formless so that it was no longer known which goddess she had been. That was how Amelia saw herself: she was a statue exposed to her husband’s harsh elements. And like a statue, she was immobile and could not run away. Someday, she feared, she would be so featureless that her identity would no longer be known.
Cornelius finally rose from the writing desk and held a small ebony box out to her.
She stared at it. “What is it?”
“Take it.”
He had brought her a gift? Her heart leaped with brief hope. Had his months in Egypt, and absence from home, given him pause to reflect and reconsider? She thought of the Bird Reader’s prophecy of a man welcoming her with open arms, and she wondered in a rush of excitement if Cornelius had forgiven her at last.
