Chapter Nineteen

When Minos and I returned to the farm, I expected Barabell to meet us in tears. But she did not, nor did she mention her baby when I saw her at dinner the next day. Either she had resigned herself to losing the infant or she had already lost so many that she had grown accustomed to having her children taken away.

Darby, father of the child, sat at dinner with his head lowered, refusing to look at anyone throughout the meal.

But when we set to work the next day, Barabell went about her work with a stony face that showed no emotion. If not for her red and swollen eyes, I would not have known that she was suffering.

And I did not tell her what happened to her child in Neapolis.

Late that morning, I pulled Berdine aside and showed her the scroll I purchased at the market.

“You bought something?” she said, her brows rising nearly as high as her widow’s peak. “Who gave you permission to spend Domina’s coin?”

“You charged me with making sure Minos made good bargains,” I said. “If I read this and learn the art of midwifery, I can save the lives of Domina’s slaves and earn money for her. I understand a good midwife can be well paid.”

She looked at me, her eyes narrowing as she studied my countenance. “Yes,” she finally said, “you are right. I am not sure how busy you will be out here on the farm, but you will likely be called on enough to give you some practice.”

“I want your help, too,” I said, catching her arm. “I know you have delivered babies here—”

Berdine cackled as if I had just told a joke. “I am no midwife. I deliver babies because there is no one else to do it.”

“But you know things. Surely you can teach me what you know.”

“I can do that in the time it takes to blink an eye. But you won’t know nearly enough. Sometimes the mother cannot push the baby out, and sometimes the baby chokes on the wee rope.”

“What do you do then?”

All traces of humor vanished from Berdine’s lined face. “You watch them die. Sometimes the mother, sometimes the baby, sometimes both.” She crossed her arms and scuffed the ground with her sandal, then lifted her head and looked at me. “Barabell has lost two babies at birth, and I was of no help either time.”

“I am sorry.”

“Well.” Together we stood and listened to the sounds of the woods—the whisper of wind in the olive trees, the churr of insects, and the rumble of male voices coming from the men’s hut.

“Maybe you will do us some good as a midwife,” she finally said. “When I tell Domina, I will say you are smart, so you will do her honor. But—” she pointed to the scroll, partially unfurled on the table—“are you sure you can read that? It looks like chicken scratching to me.”

I smiled. “It is written in Greek, the language of Alexandria. I will have no trouble with it.”

“Just keep up with your work,” Berdine said, moving away. “If you must read, do it at night. You can use a lamp.”

Content to know that I had begun to make my way home, I went to work with a lighter heart. I spun wool, helped Lesley feed the sheep, and dumped old food into the pigs’ trough. I helped wash clothes, mend tunics, and gave Berdine a hand in the kitchen when necessary. And at night, when everyone else had gone to bed, I went back to the tables where we ate, lit a lamp, and read until my eyelids were too heavy to remain open.

Though the farm kept all of us busy, I thirsted for news of the outside world. At home, either Urbi or Father had informed me about what was happening in the world; I knew nearly as much about international affairs as I did about my neighbors in the Jewish Quarter. But on the farm, passing travelers were our only source of news.

I asked Berdine if she had heard anything else about Caesar’s death, but Minos and I knew more than she did. Because she had been born in the city, Berdine also missed hearing news of the world, yet in her younger years she had gleaned her news from Rome itself. In the city, she told me, even those who could not read could learn of noteworthy events by studying the pictures scratched or painted onto public walls. “It is all there,” she said. “Who is in love with who, who is selling her body, who has the best bread in town, and who is the worst swindler. Of course, some of the images are crude, and others only make sense if you know the people involved.”

In April, at the Festival of Ludi Ceriales—an eight-day festival dedicated to Ceres, goddess of the harvest—Triton visited Domina at her country pleasure villa and returned with a report that gave all of us much to consider.

Cleopatra had been in Rome, he told us at dinner, when republicans in the Senate murdered Caesar. These killers accused Caesar of aspiring to tyranny and planning to establish a monarchy, but most of them were old men who did not favor Caesar’s egalitarian approach to government. Instead of welcoming foreigners and individuals from the lower classes to the Senate as Caesar wished, they wanted to reserve the upper echelons of government for those who had been born from noble parents and therefore deserved to rule. “As if,” Triton added, “the gods had declared power as their birthright.”

“Tell me,” I asked, edging carefully into the conversation, “what you heard about Cleopatra.”

Triton replied that the Egyptian queen began to prepare for her journey home as soon as she heard of Caesar’s murder. “No one could blame her,” Triton said, passing a bowl of greens to Berdine, “for some accused her of being among those who planned Caesar’s death. But when Caesar’s will was read, he left her nothing. He left the house and grounds where she had been living to the people of Rome, and gave seventy-five drachmas to every male Roman citizen. And he named Domina’s son as his heir.”

“If he loved the Egyptian woman, why would he not mention her in his will?” Berdine asked.

“Because Egypt is the richest land in the world,” I answered as I stirred my stew. “What could Caesar leave a woman who has everything?”

Several curious faces swiveled toward me as I spoke, but they returned to Berdine when she rapped for attention. “Given Octavian’s new situation, will Domina make changes?” she asked. “Here, with us?”

Triton shrugged. “Who can say? She may leave us alone, for she has more pressing matters to consider right away. The gods are clearly angry. A thunderstorm followed Caesar’s funeral, and for a week after his death, a burning star streaked the nighttime sky. When the heavens finally stilled, the Egyptian queen got into her ship and sailed back to her homeland. Apparently she was done with Caesar and Rome.”

As the other slaves murmured among themselves, awed by Triton’s stories of the rich and powerful, I rested my chin in my hand and closed my eyes. Did the entire world see Urbi as an evil seductress? She was neither a temptress nor a power monger. All she had ever wanted was to be the queen her father raised her to be, but how could she explain herself to Romans who sought a scapegoat for the murder of their beloved leader?

“There is more.” Triton lowered his voice to a whisper. “The noble Cicero claims that Cleopatra was carrying a second child for Caesar when she sailed for Egypt . . . and this one was conceived on Roman soil. Cicero worries she will try to disrupt the transfer of power to Caesar’s heir. If this foreign queen has another son, Gaius Octavian will lose the authority he would command as Caesar’s legal son.”

Prickles of unease lifted the hair at the back of my neck. Cleopatra, pregnant again? I thought of the many times we had pretended our clay dolls were babies. We had named them, given them personalities, and promised that we would never abandon them as our mothers had abandoned us.

Urbi and I were now twenty-six, and only one of us had held her baby in her arms.

One chilly afternoon, as the sun was sliding toward twilight, Triton built a fire in the clearing outside our huts. We had all put in a long day, and the thought of spending a few minutes around the fire brought a little cheer to our hearts. Kepe and I were the first to claim places by the fireside, and within a few minutes we were joined by Vara, Alroy, and Meletta, who joked about her arthritic knees as she sank to a log behind the others in the circle.

Not everyone wanted to be social. Minos took one look at the comfortable gathering, grunted, and walked straight into the men’s hut, presumably to go to bed. Cletus lingered a moment before withdrawing into the shadows, where he leaned against a tree and watched the women. Doreen came close to the fire, held up her hands, and then proceeded to show us a dance from her homeland. Vara and Meletta started clapping, and the more they clapped, the better Doreen danced, the hem of her tunic flaring outward as she twirled in the firelight, her coppery hair tinged with highlights from the fire.

I sat with the others and smiled, grateful that even we slaves were able to find moments of joy in our lives. While the farm demanded a lot from us, Triton and Berdine were reasonable overseers, perhaps because they worked as hard as we did. Domina left us alone for the most part, and so long as the farm turned a profit, she would probably continue to do so.

“YHVH Ro’i,” I whispered, remembering the Hebrew for yet another name of HaShem. “YHVH my Shepherd, the one who keeps and protects.” He had certainly kept me through every circumstance.

Triton approached the campfire, his wide mouth stretched into a rare grin. “Tum, can you sing us one of the songs of Egypt?”

The old man, who rarely spoke, lifted his head and looked at me. I understood at once—Triton had asked the question in Latin, and Tum probably spoke only Egyptian or Aramaic.

I translated Triton’s request into Aramaic while the old man listened, his face impassive. When I had finished, he looked at Triton, and for a moment I thought he would refuse. Then, with a dignity we rarely saw in the country, Tum stood, thrust back his shoulders, and lifted his arms as he began to sing. His voice was parchment-thin and reedy, the tune quavery and unpredictable, but when he finished, Tum lowered his arms and saluted us with a smart dip of his chin.

We broke into spontaneous applause, and I marveled at the mystery of the little Egyptian man. What had he been before he came here? Where had he lived in Egypt?

I would never get a chance to ask. Before our clapping stopped, a blade flew through the air and struck the old man’s bare chest. Tum looked down, his eyes widening when he saw the handle protruding from his breastbone. Then he looked at me and crumpled beside the fire.

Triton, Darby, and Alroy sprang to their feet, and the rest of us spun around to see a band of five men at the edge of our gathering. Dressed in the rough tunics of Roman soldiers, the men wore no armor, but carried knives, swords, and spears. Unlike the typical Roman soldier, they were not clean-shaven, but scruffy, and the eyes with which they stared at us were bold and brazen.

“We are hungry.” The apparent leader stepped forward, his eyes roving around the circle of seated women as he drew his sword. “And we are tired. You will feed us, pleasure us, and let us rest here. If you do not complain, we will allow the rest of you to live. If you resist, you will be joining your friend over there.” He jerked his chin toward the spot where Tum lay motionless.

“We have nothing to give you,” Triton said, standing. His chest seemed to swell as a warning cloud settled over his features. “This is the Octavii farm, and the family keeps nothing of value here.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” A second intruder emphasized his remark by spitting toward Triton’s feet. “I see women. I see tables. If we looked around a bit, I am sure we could find a jug of ale and some food.”

“You will not touch our women,” Triton said, taking another step forward. “They belong to a noble Roman family. If you abuse them, you are abusing the property of—”

An owl hooted, and reflexively I glanced up to the trees. In that same instant, a spear flew across the fire and struck Triton’s chest, knocking him backward and pinning him to a tree.

I gasped but was unable to draw enough air into my lungs to push a scream past my throat. Doreen shrieked and took off running while another of the intruders went into the woods after her.

As color drained from Triton’s face, he reached for Berdine and made a noise that sounded like several languages jumbled together. She hurried to his side, her arms reaching up to cradle his face.

“Now,” the leader said, “perhaps one of you ladies can fetch us some dinner?”

At the mention of food, Berdine seemed to collect herself. She turned and lowered her head. “Go!” she shouted, her voice hoarse. “Run!”

Like the others, I sprang to my feet and fled.

The owl.

Running. Straining to see in the darkness, leaping over shadows, falling on my knees, running again.

Sweating, despite the chill of the night.

Screams in the distance. Shouts and curses.

A flash of Triton’s surprised face; Berdine’s insistent plea: “Run!”

I was. Running. Running. Couldn’t breathe.

I dashed into the vineyard, where the aging vines had formed living walls. I crouched behind them and crawled in the dirt, seeking out a hollow where I could hide myself.

Another scream echoed from the clearing.

I spotted an opening in the vines and squirmed into position, ducking my head beneath a gnarled vine, forcing my knees to my forehead, tucking my feet out of sight. Thick clouds blanketed the moon as I took deep breaths, trying to calm my heart.

A sudden memory—hiding in Urbi’s garden in a similar position, trying to calm my breath lest I burst out in laughter.

My blood banged in my ears; the rhythmic beat kept time with my frantic panting.

All was quiet. Breathe.

A dead branch snapped. The clouds parted, and a stream of moonlight fell on my tunic, turning it silver. A beacon.

I closed my eyes. Please do not let him see me, please do not let him see me, please do not let him see me, please—

My eyes flew open as a dried leaf crunched. A foot appeared just beyond a sheltering branch, close enough for me to count the taut stitches in the leather between the intruder’s toes.

I bit my lower lip until I tasted blood. The sandaled foot moved away.

Overcome by relief, I slipped into oblivion.

I woke in the dirt, felt gritty soil on my fingertips, and gasped as horrific memories came rushing back. I rolled onto my side, nearly choking on the bolus of vomit that rose in my throat, and crawled out of the muddy depression where I’d hidden.

Despair rose inside me like a fountain, sending rivulets of agony in every direction. Branches scraped my cheeks and twigs snapped beneath my palms as I crawled, afraid to stand lest I be spotted by the enemy. I heard a soft tapping of blown rain, the wind whistling through the cypress trees, and somewhere, women keening.

I drew a deep breath and realized the attackers were gone. The women would not mourn unless they were.

Slowly, I stood and walked out of the vineyard, back to the huts.

I hesitated at the edge of the clearing and looked around. I saw Tum lying where he had fallen. Triton, dead now, pinned to the tree, his arms ending abruptly at the wrist. Behind our vilicus, Alroy, tied to another tree and disemboweled. Vara lay still at his feet, her skin a pale shade of blue.

Were all of the others dead? Had I imagined the sounds of grief?

I crept backward, sank to the earth, and curled into a ball. HaShem, God of Israel, are you seeing this?

“Operam! Nunc ergo veni foras!”

The commanding voice woke me, and I felt grateful for the authority in it. I crawled back to the tree line, then lifted my head to see a unit of Roman soldiers, fully armed and uniformed. The captain stood at the embers of our fire, his sword drawn and his face a mask of distaste.

Slowly I stood, bracing myself on a nearby tree as my legs trembled beneath my weight.

One of the soldiers saw me and nudged the commander, then pointed in my direction.

The captain’s features softened. “Come out, woman, and tell us what happened here.”

I glanced left and right. Surely I wasn’t the only one who survived the night. The others were probably hiding or had run for their lives.

I took a few steps forward. “Outlaws,” I said, struggling to find the right Latin words amid the jumbled thoughts in my head. “They wore military tunics, no armor. But they had weapons.”

“What did they want?”

I lowered my gaze. “Everything. They took . . . anything they could get.”

The captain came closer and pointed to a tree stump near the fire circle. “Sit.”

I sat.

“Now . . .” The captain squatted before me, and for the first time I could clearly see his face. “Who is your master?”

“We belong—this farm belongs—to Atia, mother to Gaius Octavian Caesar.”

The captain shot a sharp glance to his second in command, then turned back to me. “And how many slaves lived here?”

“Fourteen. Twenty pigs. Twenty-five sheep. Two dogs. A cat.” I shivered. “The others must be hiding.”

The captain stood and looked into the woods. “Dead or alive, we’ll find them.”

By the end of the day, the Roman soldiers had completed their work. Five out of the fourteen slaves were dead: Triton, Vara, Alroy, Tum, and Kepe. One of the pigs had been slaughtered, and one of the lambs was missing, probably carried away. Doreen was also missing.

“Could be anywhere,” the captain said, speaking to those of us who remained. We had gathered around the cold fire, taking warmth from one another. “She might have fallen off a cliff or drowned in a lake. She might still be running.”

“Or they might have taken her,” Berdine said, her eyes hard. “Men like that—”

“We will send a message to your domina,” the captain promised. “In the meantime, take care of each other and get back to work when you can. Your mistress will expect you to continue with your duties.”

I stared at him, too numb and astounded to voice my horror. Continue with our duties? As if nothing had happened?

I looked around, examining the others for visible signs of damage. Berdine’s cheek bore a bruise the size of a man’s fist, plus she had lost her husband. Cletus’s tunic was torn and dotted with burrs, so I suspected he had run through the woods and escaped most of the trouble. Barabell was untouched, but she clung desperately to Darby, leading me to believe that the outlaws had gotten the best of both Gauls.

Minos had a swollen eye, a cracked lip, and a gash in his upper arm—he had not run. He had fought and been beaten. Lesley was both bruised and disheveled, her tunic torn, and I was fairly certain she had been violated. Meletta, the old woman, appeared to be untouched. I later learned that she had run to the olive grove and climbed a tree. The intruders never found her.

“We will be going now,” the Roman captain said, picking up his helmet. “Your mistress will be in touch.”

He turned, and his men with him, and began the long walk down the avenue that led to the Via Appia. I watched them go, feeling as though someone had just pulled a warm blanket from my frozen body, leaving me alone to shiver in the dark.

Berdine stood and faced us. “As your vilica,” she said, her voice cracking, “I would urge you to sleep. Tomorrow I will tend to your wounds, and we will go on. The captain—” she paused to draw a deeper breath—“the captain said that group has been terrorizing small farms for miles around, but they will be caught. They will not bother us again.”

A smile flickered over her lips, a smile that might have been the bravest effort I had witnessed in hours.

Swallowing the sob that rose in my throat, I stood, embraced Berdine, then walked slowly to my hut.

And as I lay on my collection of piled rags, I pressed my hand over my face and remembered YHVH Nisi, YHVH my banner, the God who protects. I had escaped physical harm, but I would never forget the horrors I had seen. Yet even though I was a slave, the lowest of the low, I had a defender even greater than the men who had come to our aid: YHVH Makah, the one who smites and punishes sin.

Powerful knowledge, but it brought little comfort in those moments. I pulled a worn sheet over my shoulders in an effort to stop my shivering, and yearned for Yosef.

We buried our dead and tended our wounds. Our domina did not come to the farm, but sent a parcel of food, wine, and new tunics, as if those items could assuage the pain we had endured.

Over the next several weeks, we accustomed ourselves to new roles, as the work of maintaining a farm could not be ignored. Minos took over Triton’s role as vilicus, and Lesley tended the pigs Kepe had left behind. We all worked a little harder and spoke little about the attack.

Grief hung over the farm for months. A heavy sky, pregnant with unshed rain, drooped over the earth and blocked the sun. Later, scribes would record that the sun did not show its face during the year after Caesar’s death. Berdine declared that the gods were mourning Caesar, but I wondered if HaShem was mourning the loss of Cleopatra’s second child. For no word came of a second birth, and no second son of Caesar’s was ever acknowledged.

By the time we marked the anniversary of Caesar’s death, I realized that Urbi must have lost her second baby. And despite my anger toward my former friend, I could not rejoice in her sorrow.

With Triton gone, Berdine reached out to me for friendship. Though she was an unsophisticated, earthy woman, she hungered for stories of wealthy people, fine cities, and distant queens. I did not tell her about growing up in the royal palace because I did not think she would believe me. Even if she had, I decided it was not wise to reveal my relationship with a queen who was unpopular in Rome.

But because Berdine hungered for tales of life more exotic than what she had known, I told her about Alexandria’s wide streets, the wealth of marble statues, the many exotic obelisks, and the brilliant ships in the harbor. I described rich dinners in noblemen’s houses and dining off plates of gold and drinking from tankards of fine silver. I described our coins, most decorated with images of the queen, and smiled when Berdine said she had heard everything worth hearing about the mysterious Cleopatra who bewitched the mighty Caesar.

I suppose my stories were the only entertainment Berdine had, but somehow she learned to trust me. I would say we became good friends.

“How far away,” I asked her one day, “is Rome?”

She lifted a ragged gray brow. “By foot or horse?”

“Foot.”

She shrugged. “Seven or eight days. Domina usually takes ten days when she comes, but of course the family travels by litter with their slaves. They stay with friends on the journey and make a party of it, spending as much time at dinner and drink as traveling on the road.”

“Are they coming any time soon?”

“Domina will come when she is able,” Berdine said. “They always spend the festival days of Lemuria at their country estate, and sometimes stop here to examine the orchard and vineyard. So we—those of us who are left—must be at our best.”

“They come here when Rome fills with festival goers?”

“Domina doesn’t care for bloody sports, and the days of Lemuria are filled with gladiatorial contests. She told me that once she saw a herd of elephants killed in an event sponsored by Pompey. The animals seemed human to her, and she never got over it. She will not go to the arena again, if she can help it.”

I shuddered at the thought of the gladiatorial arena. Egypt had not yet caught the blood fever that seemed to infect so many Romans. While horse racing and animal fighting were popular among the Egyptians, gladiatorial contests had not yet become commonplace in Alexandria.

I hoped they never would.

Once things settled down at the farm, I returned to my study of midwifery. Reading not only took my mind away from dark memories, it also renewed my hope. Every night, while my little oil lamp poured a stream of weak light over the scroll on the table, I read about pregnancy, childbirth, and pregnancy prevention.

To discover if a woman was pregnant, the scroll advised, the midwife should keep emmer wheat and barley seeds moistened with the woman’s urine. If the seeds sprouted, she was pregnant.

A woman who had trouble getting pregnant should go to bed with a clove of garlic between her thighs. If she woke with garlic on her breath, all the channels were open and she would be able to conceive.

Pliny the Elder wrote that boys were delivered more easily than girls, and I noted the truth of his words, for Barabell’s baby had not involved a great deal of fuss or bother.

For more difficult labors, Pliny said, fumigations with the fat from hyena loins would produce immediate delivery. Also, placing the right foot of a hyena on the woman would result in an easy delivery, but placing the left foot in the same spot would cause death.

I made a note in the margin—tie a string around the hyena’s right foot to avoid mistakes. But where would I find a hyena in the city?

A drink sprinkled with powdered sow’s dung would relieve labor pains, as would sow’s milk mixed with honey wine.

Fortunately, we had plenty of sows, so obtaining the required dung or milk wouldn’t be a problem in the country. But would they be available in Rome? Finding honey wine might prove difficult in the country, but should be easily procurable in the city.

Delivery could be eased by drinking goose semen mixed with water, or the liquids that flow from a weasel’s uterus through its genitals.

Since I had no idea how to obtain either of those items, I read on.

The root of vervain in water, Scordotis in hydromel, and dittany leaves were recommended for the lying-in woman. Amulets and other objects were also considered efficacious. To withdraw the infant, a midwife should obtain the afterbirth of a canine bitch, make sure it had not touched the ground, and place it on the woman’s thighs. Or tie a snake’s slough to the woman’s thigh, but be sure to remove it immediately after delivery of the child.

A vulture’s feather might be placed under the woman’s feet to aid delivery. A sneeze would relieve difficult labor. And drinking hedge mustard in tepid wine on an empty stomach would also ease labor pains.

Earthworms taken in raisin wine, Pliney insisted, would bring away the placenta.

I looked at the list of recommended treatments and scratched through anything I knew nothing about. I also slashed through amulets, for they were far too much like graven images for my comfort. I wasn’t sure where to find a snake’s shed skin or a dog’s afterbirth, but if I did find them, I could always preserve them in a clay pot.

“A suitable person for midwife,” the author concluded, “will be literate, able to keep her wits about her, possessed of a good memory, a hard worker, respectable and not unduly handicapped, sound of limb, robust, and endowed with long, slim fingers and short nails at her fingertips. She should be of sympathetic disposition and keep her hands soft so as not to cause discomfort to mother or child. She should also be free of superstition so as not to overlook some beneficial measure on account of a dream or omen.”

After reading the summary, I felt certain I would be a good midwife. Surely a woman who used common sense and followed the principles of the Torah would be more effective than one who surrounded herself with pagan idols and amulets. I would be a simple midwife, relying on cleanliness and HaShem’s design of the body. After all, who would better know how to care for a mother and child than the God who designed procreation?

All I needed now was practice . . . and several heavily pregnant women.