Chapter Twenty

The sound of an approaching drumbeat pulled me to the doorway of the women’s hut. Anticipating our mistress’s arrival, Berdine had given each of us a clean tunic, then she had plaited my hair and sewn the plaits so they draped in loops around my head. Her attempt at hairdressing was a far cry from the fashionable arrangements Nuru used to create for me, but I thanked Berdine for her trouble.

“I am hoping Domina likes you,” Berdine said, her generous nature shining on her face. “I do not know which god sent you to us, but you do not need to be picking grapes when you could be delivering babies or teaching someone to read. I am going to introduce you to Domina at exactly the right moment.”

I leaned against the doorframe and watched from the shadows as a pair of horsemen came into view, followed by two slaves beating drums. After the drummers, three gilded litters arrived, surrounded by a large company of slaves. The first litter held a tall, thin youth in a white toga, whom I assumed was Gaius Octavian Caesar. The second litter carried Atia, our domina and mother to our master. The last was occupied by a young woman, whom I assumed to be Octavia, sister to Gaius Octavian. As the family members stepped out of their litters and approached the villa, I shrank back into the women’s hut. Young Gaius had the appearance of one who noticed everything, and I did not want to be spotted before Berdine could make proper introductions.

I tried to remain quiet and calm, but I was hoping that her plan worked. Why should I risk my life trying to escape when my mistress might transport me to Rome? Berdine’s plan was far better than mine, and I looked forward to meeting the woman who could change my future in a moment.

After arranging for the family’s refreshment and rest, Berdine came to the hut and grabbed my hand. “Here,” she said, handing me a pole with wide feathers at the end. “Domina has just complained about the heat. You know what to do.”

I turned the fan and smothered a smile. As a youngster, I had sat beneath dozens of similar fans, though I had never held one. Nevertheless, I followed Berdine into the villa and silently moved to a position behind Domina, who was reclining on a couch. Carefully, I moved the fan back and forth in a constant rhythm.

“Oh, that’s much better.” The woman adjusted the front of her dress and smoothed her throat. “Thank you, Berdine, for seeing to my comfort.” She glanced upward, her dark eyes fixing on me. “I do not recognize this one.”

“Domina.” Berdine bent forward at the waist. “Chava has been with us over a year.”

“So long?” The woman looked up, her eyes vacant and distracted. “Where was she acquired?”

“Triton arranged for the delivery of more slaves after the Gaulish woman died. But this one, my lady, is not suited for the farm.”

Domina’s features hardened in a stare of disapproval. “Is she rebellious? I could have her whipped—”

“No, not rebellious. Indeed, she is quite agreeable. Furthermore, she has been educated. She reads and writes. She is studying to be a midwife.”

The noblewoman shuddered. “I simply do not understand why anyone would want to perform such work. The girl must be Greek.”

“She comes from Egypt, my lady. From Alexandria.”

“Have her present herself.”

I lifted a brow, amused that the woman would not simply look up at me. But I lowered my fan, walked around the couch, and stood before her.

“Why has the air stopped moving? This room is stifling.”

Quickly, another slave stepped forward to take the fan.

When the mistress pinned me in a long, silent scrutiny, I lowered myself to the floor and bowed.

“Lift your head, girl.”

I did as I was told.

The mistress squinted at me. “You speak Greek?”

“Yes, Domina. And Aramaic, Hebrew, and Latin.”

“You read and write these tongues?”

I nodded.

“Speak, girl. Do not be impertinent.”

“Yes, Domina.”

“Read this.” She pulled a small scroll from her sleeve and handed it to me. I bowed as I accepted it, then lifted the seal and read the words: “My dear Atia: May the gods continue to favor you! We have missed you at our dinners, and would appreciate it if you would grace us with your presence again. Could you—”

“Enough.” The woman held out her hand, and I returned the scroll.

“Have you ever taught children?”

“I have not, but I believe I could. Yet I would rather practice midwifery.”

I had spoken honestly, openly—as I would have responded in Alexandria if someone had asked the question of me. But I had not answered as a slave.

The woman stiffened as if I had struck her. “Do you think I care what you would rather do?”

“Please, Domina.” Berdine stepped forward, her head low. “She has been studying hard; I am sure she spoke out of enthusiasm. She will serve you well in whatever capacity you choose. She is a clever girl, obedient and honest.”

The woman shot me a penetrating look, then nodded at Berdine. “One thing is certain—we will not waste such a lovely thing out here in the wilds. When we pass this way on our return from the country, we will pick her up and take her to Rome. Now, girl—take the fan and keep the air moving before I expire.”

As I resumed my place, the mistress smiled at Berdine. “I will see that extra sestertii is added to your wages this year. You have served us well.”

I worried that Atia would forget her promise to return for me, so my nerves were strung as tight as a bowstring when the family caravan appeared on the road. After looking out of her litter to make sure I found a place in line, Atia uttered words that made my heart tremble: “Good. You will deliver my daughter’s baby.”

Octavia was pregnant?

Now I walked, shivering, toward the first real test of all I had learned in my study of midwifery. My mind vibrated with a thousand possibilities—I could make a mistake and kill the mother. I could kill the child, or I could kill them both. And this would not be just any mother and child, but relatives of Gaius Octavian Caesar, one of the men whose name carried great authority in Rome.

The Octavii family did not travel lightly. I was one of many in a parade of slaves whose titles ranged from butler to kitchen slaves. The anteambulones went before the procession to clear the way for the family’s litters, and half a dozen maids followed Atia’s conveyance, carrying incidentals she might want on the journey: wraps, feathered fans, and fabric sunshades. Next came a pair of horses hitched to a cart that carried the family’s trunks and supplies, and finally, oiled and armored gladiators, matched pairs that walked at the beginning and end of the procession to provide a show of strength.

We traveled for days, and though I would have gladly asked questions of the slaves who traveled with me, few of them seemed kindly disposed toward a newcomer. Those who did speak above a whisper were shushed by others, so we trudged silently northward, forcing other travelers from the road as our procession made its way to the city of seven hills.

From what I had heard of Rome’s greatness, I expected to see another Alexandria rise from the hills in gleaming splendor. But the city that opened before me was nothing like my home. Rome had no seacoast, only the Tiber—a winding, muddy river that marked the city’s northern border. The streets were scarcely wide enough for a wagon, and serpentine, turning and twisting without warning.

As we made our way to Palatine Hill where the Octavii family resided, we passed by tall buildings. The lower apartments were storefronts selling various goods, but evidence of renters—laundry, flower boxes, and balconies—appeared on higher stories. Wooden shutters framed the windows, and in several of those openings I spied men and women who looked down and pointed to our procession as we passed. These poorly constructed insulate housed dozens of families. I shuddered as we walked by, realizing that a single wayward spark could enflame one of these structures and consume every occupant within minutes.

Palatine Hill, I later learned, had been built on ancient ruins that reportedly stretched back to the time of Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome. According to the story, the two infants, sons of Mars, had been abandoned on the flooded Tiber and washed up at the foot of the Palatine. There they were discovered by a she-wolf who nursed them until they were able to fend for themselves.

I expected to see expansive homes of gleaming white limestone like those in Alexandria, but the houses of Rome were plain in comparison. The buildings seemed pathetically similar, brick structures finished in stucco and offering no windows except on the upper stories. I saw no gardens, no statuary, no fountains, and no sparkling colors to entice the eye. If grandeur resided in Rome, it must live on the inside of the buildings.

We stopped outside a home that appeared larger than most. A mosaic path led from the street to the front door, yet other than a few potted palms, the open courtyard was unfurnished. The family members climbed from their litters. Amid a chorus of complaints about the length of the journey, they approached the carved front door. A slave opened it, bowed, and waited outside until they had all entered.

Once the family was inside, the slaves seemed to slump in relief. Relaxed chatter filled the air like birdsong as the gladiators dismounted and walked their horses around the house, presumably to a stable. Several female slaves sat on the raised walkway along the side of the street and examined their blistered feet while others pulled baskets and trunks from the wagon.

I stood alone and wondered if any of the other slaves would speak to me. A couple of them had hissed when I stepped out of formation on the journey, but none of them had proven as friendly as the slaves on the farm.

Finally, a dignified man in a white tunic approached. “You.” He pointed to me. “Speak Latin?”

He had addressed me in Aramaic, so I understood him easily. “Yes, but I am more fluent in Greek.”

“I am Helios. Come with me.”

We walked up to the house, where he opened the door. “Vestibule,” he said, pointing to the space between the door and the street. “And this is the ostium.” He pointed to the doorway.

I nodded. Mosaic tiles covered the wide threshold, where someone had arranged light-colored tiles in the word Salve. Welcome. Above the doorway, embedded in the transom, tiles spelled Nihil intret malī. No evil may enter. I hoped the saying would prove true.

Glancing around, I saw an older man sitting on a stool against the wall. “Doorman,” Helios said. Above the doorman’s head, the wall had been decorated with a mosaic featuring a chained dog. Across the bottom, Latin letters spelled Cave Canem! Beware of the dog!

“Is there a dog?” I asked.

He smiled for the first time. “Not anymore.”

He peered into the next room, then held up his hand, warning me to wait. Looking over his shoulder, I saw Atia and Octavia conversing in an open doorway. When they went their separate ways, Helios motioned me forward. “We never walk through a room when a member of the family occupies it,” he said. “Walk around the house if you must, but never appear before the mistress unless you are summoned. Domina believes that slaves should do their work without being seen.”

“A fine trick,” I muttered.

Helios shot me a stern look. “You will learn how we do things here,” he said, “but it will take time. I am trying to make things easier for you.”

“Sorry.” I offered a small smile. “Forgive me.”

He led the way into the atrium, a room that reminded me of home. The large rectangular chamber featured a reflecting pool in the center. Above the pool, the ceiling opened to the sky, allowing light and air into the space. To the right and left I saw doorways leading into smaller rooms. I turned to my right, almost expecting to see my father at work on a manuscript.

“The atrium,” Helios said, spreading his hands. “These smaller rooms are for dining, reading, or sleeping. Beyond the atrium”—he pointed to a wider doorway at the rear of the house—“is the peristylium, which features the garden and kitchen. You’ll spend most of your time there, unless someone in the family calls for you.”

I nodded. “My home in Alexandria was similar. We preferred light colors, though, and not so much . . . red.”

Helios grunted. “As much as I would love to discuss color palettes with you, I have no time for such foolishness. Let me introduce you to the man who really runs this house.”

Already I had realized that urban slaves operated in an entirely different pecking order than those on the farm. At the top, Helios explained, was our mistress’s assistant, the amanuensis who wrote her letters and attended to her schedule. He was an educated Greek called Amphion.

We found the man in the garden, where he was choosing linens from a basket. When he had finished, he looked at me. “And this is?”

I dipped my head in a polite bow. “Chava.”

Peering down his nose, Amphion took my measure in one glance and seemed to find me lacking. “Helios,” he asked, a note of exasperation in his voice, “where did we find this one?”

“On the farm.”

“That might explain the dirt under her nails. Go at once, girl—”

“Amphion?” Domina’s voice startled all of us. Coming into the garden, Atia pulled her veil from her hair and released a tinkle of laughter. “Be kind to that one—she reads, writes, and delivers babies. She is going to deliver Octavia; then we can hire her out as a midwife.”

“She is literate?” Amphion looked to Domina, but she had already wandered away. When he frowned, I intuited that he did not want anyone encroaching upon his responsibilities.

“If it please you—” I began, keeping my gaze lowered.

“Silence.” He cut me off with a stern look. “You will not speak unless directly addressed. You will not look up unless asked a direct question. And you will never, ever, look your mistress or a superior slave in the eye. Do you understand?”

“I apologize.” I kept my head down. “But until this moment, I did not know one slave could be superior to another. Are we not all property and owned by the same woman?”

Silence simmered between the three of us for a moment, then Helios laughed, breaking the tension. “She has a point,” he said. “Just because one slave has more responsibility than another does not make him a free man.”

Amphion’s scowl deepened. “Go with Helios,” he said, jerking his head toward a room at the back of the house. “He will set you to work.”

Helios took me to the kitchen, where the cook was choosing vegetables from a boy who struggled beneath the weight of a produce basket.

Helios tilted his head. “Do you cook?”

“Not well.”

“What do you do?”

“I can spin wool and embroider,” I told him. “I read, write, and speak Greek, Aramaic, Latin, and a bit of Egyptian. And I have studied midwifery.”

He nodded, scratched his head, and gestured for me to turn around. I did, moving slowly, and when I had finished, he clicked his tongue against his teeth. “First, we get something to fatten you up,” he said, his voice heavy with weariness. “Then we scrub the dirt from the back of your neck and give you a decent tunic. When you are fit to be seen, we will ask Domina how you should spend your days. But know this—in this house, the slaves are always well-groomed and clean. Any slave who does not keep herself tidy will be sent to the farm or the slave market.”

He pulled a folded square of linen from a shelf in the kitchen, then gave me a small loaf of bread and pointed the way to the bathhouse.

Helios was not jesting when he said he would have someone scrub the dirt from the back of my neck. I had just settled into the steaming bath when another slave entered the room and smiled at me. “The butler sent me,” she said, kneeling at the side of the pool. “He said I am to scrub your skin until it is pink.”

I instinctively recoiled when she picked up an instrument that looked like a blade.

“This is a strigil.” She held up the instrument for my examination. “Do not worry, it is not sharp enough to cut. It is used for scraping dirt off your skin.”

Relaxing slightly, I lifted my hair from the nape of my neck and settled on the stone seat in the pool. “I am Chava.”

“I am Sabina.”

“How long have you been here?”

The girl shrugged. “Five years? Six? This”—she waved a hand to indicate the bathhouse—“is my domain. I keep the water hot, the towels clean, and a strigil at hand.”

She dipped the blade in the warm water and began scraping it over my neck. “I have a rinse to clean your hair, and a brush to scrub beneath your nails.”

I peered at her from beneath the fringe of my damp hair. “I can clean myself, you know.”

“Next time you will,” she answered. “But this time, we will make certain you meet Helios’s standards. He is meticulous, that one.”

Gradually, I relaxed as she scrubbed my skin and worked a pumice stone over the soles of my feet. I could almost close my eyes and pretend I was home, where Nuru had performed these duties for me.

Sabina kept up a steady stream of chatter as she scrubbed, probably to ease my nervousness. I learned that she liked her work, that she had come from another household where she had been required to look after children, and she liked her new position better. In the course of talking about the other slaves, she mentioned one name more than once.

“And who is this Duran,” I asked, giving her a sly smile, “that you should mention him in every other sentence?”

A flush rose from her neckline and colored her cheeks. “Is it so obvious? He works in the stable and I adore him.”

I smiled, amused by the thought of love flourishing in even dire circumstances. “Does this Duran return your adoration?”

“He does.” A smile trembled over her lips. “We are hoping to earn our freedom so we can marry. But even if that day never comes, it is enough that we are together now.”

I made a small sound of agreement because I did not know what else to say.

“Have you ever been in love?” Sabina asked.

“I might have been,” I admitted. “My father was always bringing young men to the house—bright and handsome. I always felt I was meant to be something other than a wife, but one man—”

“His name?”

I smiled, recalling Yosef’s face. “His name does not matter, but he said he would always wait for me.” My smile faded. “I do not believe he is still waiting. Even love’s patience has a limit.”

Sabina crouched beside me, her eyes filling with pity. “You must open your heart to someone else. Love is everywhere.”

“Even for a slave?”

“Why should slaves not know love?” Her words were convicting, but she spoke them gently. “It would be easier if I did not love Duran, but then what joy would I find in this life? Because I love him, and I know he loves me, I love being part of this household. I love being where he is, and I would follow him anywhere. And who can say? Perhaps you will find someone to love among the slaves in this house.”

“But—” I stopped when a man in a slave’s tunic entered the bathhouse. He halted at the threshold, his eyes roving over my submerged body, and the smile he gave me was nothing less than lecherous.

“Thanatos!” Sabina snapped. “You should not be in here.”

“I smell of horse,” he said, turning his head to sniff beneath his hairy arm. “The mistress has sent for me, but she will have me whipped if she catches a whiff of the animals.”

“Wait outside,” Sabina commanded.

I froze as images from the farm flitted through my mind. The men who attacked us had been brutes like this one, and they had smelled of animals and sweat and feral living. A man like this one had almost caught me—

“Chava?”

Shivering, I closed the curtain on my dark memories and met Sabina’s gaze. “Yes?”

“He is gone.”

I looked behind her and saw only empty space. Only then did I feel my shoulders slump and realize how tense I had been. “Who was that?” I asked.

Sabina sighed. “Thanatos, the stable master. He is a crude sort.”

“I am surprised Domina would keep a slave like that. Or that Helios would let him into the house.”

“He usually confines himself to the barn,” Sabina said. “But he has always made me uneasy. He is always staring at the girls, and once he tried to—well, it is a good thing Helios interrupted when he did.” She stopped scraping and looked at me. “We slaves have no legal recourse if we are ill-used. Most masters do not want to hear about our troubles. I have heard of girls becoming pregnant and then being sold because their masters thought a big belly spoiled their beauty.”

I looked away as my face burned. I had heard Urbi dismiss slaves for the same reason, and at the time I thought her reasons sound.

“Stay clear of that one,” Sabina said, scraping my skin again. “And do not ever think you can snatch a nap in the barn. Better to curl up on the hard kitchen floor than to let your guard down near Thanatos.”

She swished the strigil in the water, then picked up a sponge, dipped it in a basin of cool water, and dribbled it over my shoulders.

“If all the male slaves were as gallant as Duran, this would be a perfect place.” She stood and picked up a folded piece of linen, unfolded it, and held it up.

I stepped out of the pool and into the large square, wrapping the linen around me. “What would you do if Domina sold Duran?”

Sabina shrugged. “Why should I worry about that until it happens? That would spoil all the joy I feel today.” She pulled a clean tunic from a basket. “Here,” she said, handing me the white garment. “Sometimes Domina will want you to wear something more festive, but we wear these tunics every day.”

When I had pulled the linen tunic over my head, she nodded, tied a rope belt around my waist, then ran her fingers through my tangled hair. “You will do very well here,” she said, smiling, “if you learn to relax and enjoy the place. Others have not been nearly as fortunate.”