Chapter Twenty-Three

Amphion, may I ask a question?”

The old man lifted his head and stared as if surprised I could speak. “Yes?”

“I am so pleased that I work steadily for you. It occurred to me I could support you better and handle more women if I had an assistant.”

“You need help?” Amphion released a sharp laugh. “You seemed perfectly capable when you delivered Octavia’s son.”

“Thank you. But if I could train another slave—Sabina, for instance—she could deliver a child at one woman’s home while I delivered at another. And if either of us had difficulty, we could call on the other for assistance.”

Amphion looked at me through half-closed eyelids, then stared at the wall, thought working in his eyes. “And you could both earn . . . mmm.” He faced me again. “When would you like to train her? How long would it take?”

“Not so long. Sabina does not read, so I would have to teach her everything I have learned, but after ten deliveries or so, she ought to have a good understanding—”

“Make it five deliveries,” Amphion said, smiling. “Teach her quickly so she can begin to earn sooner.”

I folded my hands in gratitude, then went in search of Sabina.

I found her in the bathhouse, tending the fire that heated the water. “It is settled,” I told her. “You will go with me on my next five deliveries. Then you will begin to work by yourself.”

“Chava! Thank you!” She squeezed my arms, then clapped her hands to her face. “You are so clever and so kind to do this for me. Not only will I be freed from this bathhouse, I will be able to buy my freedom and marry Duran. And I’ll have a skill, so I can earn a living to help support us.”

“In time,” I said, lifting a warning finger, “for there is much to learn. I will read my midwifery book to you whenever we can get away. I want you to be fully prepared in case something goes wrong.”

She grinned and threw her arms around me for a quick hug. “What could possibly go wrong? The gods are smiling on me!”

As I hurried from my master’s house to a waiting pregnant woman, I could almost forget I was a slave. Indeed, if I had worn something other than a simple slave’s tunic, a passerby might think I was a member of an outstanding family. I walked with a slave boy who carried my birthing chair. On hot days, Amphion sent an additional slave with a parasol to shade me from the sun, reasoning that it wouldn’t do for me to arrive hot and sweaty from exertion. And when I lifted a newborn in my hands and accepted praise and thanks from the happy mother and her attendants, I blushed with pleasure, realizing I was exercising a gift HaShem had graciously given me. A gift and a skill I could employ anywhere, at any time, no matter what my status.

On other occasions, however, when I remained in Dominus’s home, Amphion would call on me to serve guests, rub the master’s feet or scrub the stepping-stones that led from the curb to the front door. On those days I felt very much like property.

At least I was not alone. Sabina was often required to assist me with various duties, so when we were not dispensing wine, offering platters of fruit, or fanning guests, we would retreat into the shadows and talk about midwifery.

One night Amphion called for me, looked me over with a critical eye, and gave me a gown of sheer material. “Wear this when you serve tonight,” he said, his tone clipped. “Dominus is entertaining a group of friends.”

I had only to hold up the garment and peer through it to realize what sort of entertainment Dominus had requested. “Are these men expected to stay—?”

“Not your place to ask questions,” Amphion snapped. “Now go make yourself appealing. Dominus will not want his guests to be disappointed.”

I sighed heavily, then went downstairs to the slaves’ rooms to change into the diaphanous garment. Sabina had already changed, and when she stepped out from behind a stack of boxes, the blush on her cheeks spoke volumes.

“Have you had to do this sort of entertaining before?” I asked, pulling my regular tunic over my head.

She ran her fingers over her hair, smoothing it. “Our master is not much given to pleasures of the flesh, so he does not entertain like this often. His mother, while she lived, much preferred to be the center of attention, so she would never dress us this way. But this is Rome, where it is considered manly to pursue fleshly pleasures.” She pulled her long hair back, tied it with a leather strip, and turned to face me. “How do I look?”

I blew out a breath. I had seen such sheer garments in Egypt, where the ancients saw nothing wrong with displaying the female form.

I gave her a reluctant nod. “Dominus will be pleased.”

The gathering was not as large as I had expected. Octavian had invited his sister and her elderly husband, along with his two closest comrades, Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa and Gaius Cilnius Maecenas. Dinner had been served in the peristylium, and afterward the five of them lounged on couches around the atrium’s reflecting pool.

Maecenas, who was witty and talkative throughout the dinner, was clearly taken with Sabina, as he often called her to his side and held her close as she poured his wine.

Deducing that Dominus had asked for me and Sabina so he could impress the two single men, I let Sabina work Maecenas’s side of the room while I stood near Agrippa. That young man remained quiet and did not touch me, though I often felt the pressure of his gaze.

The quintet talked of many things—young Marcellus, Octavia’s growing toddler; Mark Antony’s decision to name Herod and his brother Phasael as tetrarchs in Judea; and Antony’s decision to winter at Alexandria with Cleopatra.

Small prickles of unease nipped the back of my neck at the mention of Cleopatra’s name. Though I would never forget her, the hard work of midwifery, coupled with the task of training Sabina, had freed me from obsessing over Urbi. But no matter where I went, I could not escape my childhood friend. She was with me in that warm atrium, her charms evident even though she was far away. . . .

Octavia’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she lifted her cup. “They say Antony is quite smitten with her.”

“The people of Tarsus are still talking about the banquet she threw for him,” Octavian said.

“Banquet?” Maecenas looked from Octavian to his wife. “What banquet?”

Octavia smiled. “Twelve banquet rooms,” she said. “Thirty-six couches, glimmering with embroidered tapestries. Tableware set with semiprecious stones, rose petals knee-deep. And above their heads, a lace of lights strung through the tree branches.”

Agrippa frowned. “How did she manage—?”

Octavia continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “And the woman herself—draped in jewels, dangling earrings, and a plea to excuse her appearance; she had dressed in a hurry and would do better next time.” Octavia snorted softly. “The woman simply knocked him off his feet.”

Octavian lifted his cup for me to refill. “No doubt she has a flair for the dramatic.”

I barely suppressed a smile. If he only knew the extent of Urbi’s talents.

“I heard,” Maecenas said, “she allowed Antony and his guests to take all the furnishings after the meal. Every man present carried away couches, tapestries, litters, horses, and Ethiopian slaves.”

I pressed my lips together, imagining how the slaves would have been dressed. They were probably wearing less than I.

“Antony tried to reciprocate by giving a feast for Cleopatra,” Octavia went on, smiling at her husband. “But he was completely unable to compete. So he poked fun at himself, describing his banquet as ‘meager and rustic.’ Instead of being offended, Cleopatra laughed at him as he had laughed at himself. When he was coarse, so was she; when he belched, so did she.”

“Really!” Maecenas gaped.

“Then she introduced Antony to her son, her co-ruler. Ptolemy XV. The so-called son of Caesar.”

I tilted my head, confused by what I had heard. Ptolemy XIV was her co-ruler as far as I knew; she had married young Sefu after Omari died in the Alexandrine War. So Caesarion could not be her co-regent . . .

“At least this one has a good chance of surviving,” Marcellus said. “The first died during the war, and they say she poisoned the second a few months after Caesar’s death. All to make way for her son, of course.”

My arm began to tremble so violently that I turned and rested the heavy pitcher on a pedestal. Cleopatra poisoned Sefu? She who used to tell me that she feared being murdered by her siblings? I did not want to believe it, but I felt the truth like the solid stone beneath my feet. In order to advance her agenda, Cleopatra would not hesitate to kill her brother, and poison was a quiet way to commit the deed.

I should have realized what she would do. She could have but one co-regent. Once she decided that Caesarion should share her throne, sweet Sefu was doomed.

In the curve of my back, a single drop of perspiration navigated the course of my spine. Cleopatra could be warm, charming, bright, and lovely—until her purposes were thwarted. Then, as coolly as any of her royal ancestors, she could destroy even a friend.

A shiver spread over my shoulders as I remembered something Urbi once told me. “A ruler labors under a peculiar disadvantage,” she had said. “Though he can protect himself from his enemies by arranging his friends about him, he has no one to protect him from his friends.”

Urbi had gotten it wrong. Her friends needed someone to protect them from her.

“Cleopatra has a—” I snapped my mouth shut, unable to believe I had actually begun to speak my thoughts. A slave did not speak while serving her master, and she did not join in conversations with guests.

Maecenas’s brows rose. “Did that one say something?”

I backed away, hiding my face in shadow.

“Did she?” Dominus stood and grabbed my arm. “Slave, did you speak?”

“I am sorry, Dominus.” I lowered my gaze. “The words . . . slipped out.”

“You spoke as if you knew something about Cleopatra.” Octavia leaned toward me, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Finish your thought. If you’ve heard a rumor, I am sure we would all like to hear it.” She smiled a bright smile, yet I couldn’t tell if she was being friendly or merely toying with me.

I glanced at Dominus, Octavia, and Agrippa, in whose eyes I saw nothing but kind concern. “I grew up in Alexandria,” I said, my gaze flitting over the circle of faces to measure their reactions to my words. “I knew Cleopatra.”

“Well, of course you did.” Maecenas shook his head as if I were an idiot. “The entire country knew their future queen, surely.”

“She was not a queen in those days,” I continued as something like pride slipped into my voice. “She was my friend. And she has always had a changeable nature . . . and a gift for measuring people, no matter what language they speak or what status they hold. She is a chameleon.”

I glanced around the circle again, wondering if I’d said too much, but Octavian and his guests were looking at each other, their eyes sending silent signals I could not discern. Were they inwardly laughing? Would I be punished later?

“Thank you,” Dominus finally said, dismissing me with a quick bend of two upraised fingers. “We will send for you when we have an urgent need for insight into the minds of other royal leaders.”

Flushing, I backed out of the room, then walked quickly to the kitchen, where I lowered my pitcher and pressed my lips together. Thanatos stood near the back wall, stealing leftovers from the dinner trays, and his brows rose when he saw me. “Serving Dominus’s guests tonight?”

“I was,” I answered, realizing that not only had I paraded myself before Romans, now I was providing a show for a fellow slave. “But I am done. I am going to change—”

“I wouldn’t,” Thanatos said, idly popping a fig into his mouth. “Until the master’s guests have departed.”

I turned as Amphion entered. His brows lifted when he saw me. “You left the master?”

“He sent me away.”

“Do not go far. He has two male guests, and he had me prepare two rooms. I have a feeling you will be summoned again.”

I was waiting in the shadowed hallway when I heard Dominus bid his guests good-night. Octavia and Marcellus departed for their new home, but Maecenas and Agrippa were invited to stay in guest chambers. “I hope you rest well,” Octavian called as they went into their rooms.

I turned, about to head back to the kitchen when I heard footsteps behind me. “Slave.”

I froze. “Dominus?”

“Agrippa has asked for you. He is in the second chamber.”

I drew a deep breath. “Shall I . . . would he like to hear music?”

A smile slid into Dominus’s voice. “You’ll have to ask him.”

With my heart in my throat, I left my master and walked slowly toward the room where Agrippa waited.

I argued with myself as I walked to Agrippa’s room. By some miracle of HaShem’s grace, I had never been forced to lie with a man. Yet I knew what my master considered me—a profitable slave, an attractive creature to be used for men’s pleasure and service. Perhaps I was naïve to think I could avoid the situation looming in that guest room.

To further complicate the situation, Agrippa was not the sort of man who repulsed me. He had been coming to the master’s house long enough for me to know he was not from a noble family. He and Octavian had become friends when they met at school, and their friendship seemed to be based on knowledge, trust, and mutual acceptance. I did not think Agrippa a bad person, and if he insisted on taking me to his bed, I would not think of him as evil for behaving like thousands of other Roman men.

But what would I think of myself? And if Yosef knew what I was doing, what would he think of me?

Perhaps I was foolish to think of Yosef. He had probably found a wife in Jerusalem and settled down to raise a family. I was only a distant memory, so he wasn’t thinking of me at all.

I reminded myself that Agrippa was not a Jew. He was as Roman as Caesar, and as a Roman he worshiped a host of gods and goddesses, he offered sacrifices to graven images, and he considered marriage little more than convenient arrangement. The Romans considered sex one of many sensual pleasures; they did not look at it as the cleaving of two souls that had become one in marriage. I could still hear my father’s voice in my ear: “The physical union of a man and woman is HaShem’s illustration of unity, and its blessing is new life. Always treat it with reverence, and always revere the husband Adonai brings you.”

HaShem had not brought me a husband, nor had He given me a man who could understand what I had been taught about love and marriage. So what was I to do?

I could ignore my master’s order and go to my own bed, but on the morrow I would be flogged within an inch of my life. Even worse, I would lose my master’s trust. He could send me back to the farm, forbid me from practicing midwifery, or sell me to someone far more brutal.

And I would never see my family again.

I released a sigh as I knocked on the door of the guest room. When I heard “Enter,” I placed my hand on the latch and went in.

Agrippa was sitting on the edge of the couch, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I was about to untie my sandals,” he said, indicating his intricately laced shoes. “I suppose you’ll want to do that?”

Was that all he needed? I sank to the floor and reached for the laces, desperately hoping he only wanted someone to help him prepare for bed.

“I have noticed you before,” he said, his voice warm in the room. “Octavian tells me you are a midwife.”

I kept my eyes lowered as I undid the leather laces. “That’s right.”

“You were by far the loveliest girl in the room tonight. Perhaps the loveliest girl I have seen in all of Rome.”

When I pulled the last shoe from his foot, he stood and held out his arms. For an instant I thought he meant to embrace me, then I realized he was waiting for assistance with his toga. I hurried forward and lifted the toga from his tunic, preserving the intricate folds as I draped it over the back of a chair.

Agrippa came toward me again, his gaze dropping from my eyes to my shoulders.

I closed my eyes, knowing what was expected of me. A good slave, an obedient slave, would offer herself to her master’s guest, allowing him to do whatever he wanted, for she was only a thing, a commodity, a possession offered by a generous master. Any other slave in the house, male or female, would have freely done so, knowing that to refuse meant a whipping or even worse.

But I—

“I am not like the other slaves.” The words spilled out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“Really? How so?” Agrippa’s hand was on my shoulder, his fingers tugging at the brooch that supported my gown.

“I am . . . precious to my father.” I did not know where the words came from; I had never spoken or thought them before that moment. But when I looked up into Agrippa’s face, I saw traces of mild confusion, accompanied by a suggestion of humor at his mouth. “You have a father?”

“Everyone has a father, but mine taught me about the acts of love and marriage, and this is not what they are meant to be.”

He withdrew his hand, then stretched out on the couch, bending his elbow and propping his head on his hand as he smiled. “This should be entertaining. Will you show me what they are meant to be?”

“I will tell you, if you like.”

“A slow start, but we are making progress. May I have your name?”

“Chava.”

He tried the word out on his tongue. “I asked Octavian to send you to me because I was hoping for an evening’s entertainment . . . mostly because you are beautiful and I wanted to look at you. If we are not going to couple, will you at least talk?”

I stared at him, astounded. “You want me to talk?”

“I know you can. You proved it this evening.”

My cheeks burned at the memory. “That was a mistake. But Dominus was speaking about a friend.”

Agrippa’s smile widened into a grin. “Already I can tell your story is not at all like the stories of other slaves. You were not brought to Rome as spoils of war, were you?”

I shook my head.

“And you were not enslaved as a child, because you speak like an educated woman. You are refined, which is highly unusual for a slave so lovely. Most beautiful slaves are used up by the time they reach your age.”

I swallowed hard. “I would not have you think I am naïve. I am not.”

“I believe you. So tell me your story. I would very much like to hear it.”

I tilted my head to study him better. His face was broad, unlike Octavian’s narrow visage, and his eyes were a mingling of blue and green, so his ancestors might have hailed from Gaul or some other northern land. His hair was the color of light-brown sand and clipped short, like most soldiers’. His smile was even, with good teeth. He was not a big man, like some brutish warriors, but tall enough that I looked up to catch his gaze, and slender enough that I could slip my arms around him. Intelligence snapped in his eyes, and already I had seen that he was a man who could put his desires aside in pursuit of something more valuable. Finally, he was not so aware of the social gulf between us that he would refuse to have an actual conversation with a slave.

“You are judging me,” he said. “Do I meet with your approval?”

My face heated with embarrassment. “It is not my place to judge you. Besides, I thought you wanted to hear my story.”

“I beg your pardon. Please.” He tipped his head in my direction. “Tell me everything.”

I perched on the edge of the chair, careful not to sit on his intricately folded toga. “I was born—”

“Not like that,” he interrupted. “Sit on the couch where you can relax. Talk to me as anyone would.”

I lifted a brow, then slowly moved to the couch and sat at the end, near his feet. Then I began sharing the history of my life. One moment slid seamlessly into the next, one episode followed another, until the candles guttered and my voice had grown hoarse.

I stopped talking and listened for noises in the night. A Shabbat stillness reigned in the house, with only the distant sound of Maecenas’s snoring to disturb it.

“I am so sorry.” I slid off the couch and moved to the door, my head bowed. “You wanted entertainment and all I have done is bore you.”

“You have not.” Agrippa sat up, his eyes seeking mine. “And I will not send you away at this hour, when anything could happen on your way to the basement. You must stay with me tonight.”

“But—”

“Wait.” He stood, picked up his toga, and shook out the folds. He then wrapped me in the rectangle, cocooning me in its soft warmth. “There. Be warm. Be safe.”

Stretching out on the couch, he slid to the far edge of the cushion and patted the empty space beside him. “I am a sound sleeper, and I am tired. On my honor, I will not disturb your rest.”

As if to prove his point, he lowered his head to his outstretched arm and closed his eyes. I wavered, studying his face, which seemed durable and boyish in the lamplight. I was on the verge of fleeing to the slaves’ quarters when I remembered Thanatos, who had been lurking in the kitchen earlier. Agrippa was right—at this hour, I would not want to run into anyone, not even one of my fellow slaves.

I lay down beside him, wrapped up like Urbi in Caesar’s carpet. I was drifting on a tide of exhaustion when I felt his hand on my waist. I stiffened as my eyes flew open, but he did not move again. After a moment, his breathing deepened and the candle sputtered out, thrusting us into darkness.

I closed my eyes and relaxed, and after a while I felt nothing but his arm around me, keeping me safe.

Life settled into a routine. Octavian, my master, remained in his mother’s house, and I regularly left that house to deliver the babies of Roman wives. Our master was rarely at home, however—he, Lepidus, and Mark Antony kept themselves busy running the Roman republic, so Amphion ran the household. He never complained about my midwifery, though, because now two midwives brought in a steady income.

Every week or two I would stop by the amanuensis’s desk. “How much more?” I would ask. “How much do I need to buy my freedom?”

Amphion would sigh in exasperation, flip through a few pages of his ledger, and look up at me. “Years,” he’d say, one corner of his mouth drooping. “So get to work.”

Even with the excitement that accompanied every birth, life might have become predictable if not for Agrippa, who had become Octavian’s chief friend and second in command. What Octavian envisioned, Agrippa carried out, and even from my lowly position I saw what a talented and capable man Agrippa was. If not for his humble and obscure origins, he might have been Rome’s first citizen, but I found his devotion to Octavian admirable. The relationship between Agrippa and Octavian reminded me of Urbi and myself before Urbi turned into a queen who would stop at nothing to advance her own ambitions.

A friendship of sorts had formed between me and Agrippa the night he summoned me to his room, though both of us knew it could never be publicly declared. Romans barely acknowledged household slaves, and only held meaningful conversations with trusted handmaids or personal servants. Octavian rarely spoke directly to me, and neither did Agrippa while in Octavian’s presence.

But whenever he visited the house and saw me, a simple quirk of his brow let me know he had noticed me; a twitch of an uplifted finger meant he wanted to speak to me. I would go to the garden and sit in a sheltered niche, or I would linger in the shadows of the library, pretending to peruse the family’s scrolls or dust the death masks of their noble ancestors.

Did I think of Yosef in those days? Yes, at first. But as the months passed, I found it increasingly easy to believe that he had forgotten me and married another. I wished him every happiness HaShem could provide, even as I yearned for another meaningful friendship.

One afternoon I caught a flicker of Agrippa’s signal and went to the library, where he joined me after a few moments. He stood so close I could smell incense on his clothing, and my heart thudded when he smiled down on me.

“I have some news that might interest you,” he said.

I could not imagine what he meant. “News?”

“Of Cleopatra. As you might know, her sister Arsinoe has been held at the Temple of Artemis in Ephesus, upon the orders of Julius Caesar.”

“I did not know.” I closed my eyes and tried to remember the last time I’d heard Arsinoe’s name. It had been during the Alexandrine War, when she had proclaimed herself queen in Cleopatra’s absence. “It has been years since I’ve thought of her.”

“Caesar brought her to Rome, where she rode as a prisoner in his triumph.” Agrippa’s face darkened. “The people of Rome did not enjoy the sight of a young girl in chains. Caesar’s mistake. Too many of the people felt sorry for her.”

I shook my head. “They should have withheld their pity. Arsinoe was conniving and ambitious.”

“All the same, she and the priest of that temple have been kept in Ephesus until now. Mark Antony has just ordered that she be removed from the temple and executed on the steps.”

My hand flew to my throat. “Is this—?”

“We know it is Cleopatra’s doing. Arsinoe has been plotting against her sister all these years, even having the high priest proclaim her queen. Cleopatra begged Antony to release the priest, and he did. But now Cleopatra has no more siblings. She rules with her son, Caesarion, as her co-regent, and Antony as her lover.”

I sank to a chair, stunned but not surprised.

“We hear,” Agrippa went on, “that Cleopatra spoils Antony, allowing him to indulge himself in sports and the diversions of a man of leisure. They have made a pact—they call themselves the Inimitable Livers.”

I made a face. “Livers?”

“Apparently they intend to live with—how was it termed?—‘an extravagance of expenditure beyond measure or belief.’”

I drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Extravagance was a Ptolemy trait, and Urbi reveled in her heritage. But what must the staid Romans think of such a free-spending queen?

“We hear that she plays dice with him, drinks with him, hunts with him,” Agrippa went on. “They say he goes out among the populace, and she accompanies him, disguised as a serving maiden.”

I nodded, remembering how Urbi and I had done the same thing on the Canopic Way.

“Can these reports be true?” Agrippa asked. “They sound so . . . unbelievable.”

“If she is not allowing him to leave her side, she doesn’t trust him,” I said. “As to whether or not they’re believable . . . yes, Cleopatra would do those things. She would do anything to please the man who can help her save Egypt.”

A line appeared between Agrippa’s brows. “Rome is not at war with Egypt.”

“But . . .” I hesitated, torn between Urbi’s interests and my own. If I said too much, would I be giving the Romans an advantage? On the other hand, did Urbi deserve to have her secrets protected? “Cleopatra is aware that Rome could remove her at any time,” I finally said. “So she will love Mark Antony; she will please and humor him. She would do anything for him . . . because of Egypt.”

Agrippa leaned back. “So Antony might stay in Egypt for the foreseeable future.”

“If Cleopatra has her way, she will keep him as long as possible.”

Agrippa stared thoughtfully at the wall of death masks, then turned. “Is she really so beautiful?”

“She is really so . . . fascinating.”

My heart twisted at the thought of my friend. I did not allow myself to think of her often, but Agrippa had asked, and my mind had conjured her up, as real and vital as she had always been.

“I will see her again,” I whispered, daring to speak only because I had learned to trust Agrippa. “HaShem gave me that promise.”

Agrippa caught my shoulders, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and released me. “Maybe you will,” he said, retreating. “One never knows what will happen tomorrow.”

I stepped onto the street, then nodded at the men who had brought torches to escort me safely to Palatine Hill. I had just delivered my second set of twins, and though the labor was long, once the first baby arrived, the second followed soon after. The mother was overjoyed by the double blessing, and the father’s disappointment over having a girl had been eased by the arrival of a son moments later.

Walking between my two escorts, I gripped my basket of supplies and stepped carefully over the paving stones, not wanting to turn an ankle in the darkness. A cloudless sky had painted the buildings to my right and left with a thin wash of moonlight, accented by the occasional spill of lamplight from the edges of a shuttered window. I did not enjoy walking the streets of Rome at night—trouble always seemed to stir in darkness, and amid the uneven staircases, shadowed doorways, and shuttered shops, men tended to forget their better natures. Even at this late hour, the city vibrated with noise—an angry voice, a screaming woman, the wail of frightened children. Rats skulked in the shadows, and stray dogs splashed through the sewers in search of food. And always, always, the scent of sewage, rotting fruit, and the occasional corpse dumped into the street.

I looked up in gratitude when we reached the house of Gaius Octavian Caesar.

“I believe this is your master’s house?” one of my escorts asked.

“Yes. Tomorrow I’ll send a message as to where the birthing chair should be delivered.” I moved toward the door. “Bona noctem.”

The doorman had been sleeping beneath the BEWARE OF DOG mosaic, but he woke at the sound of the door closing. He gazed at me, eyes wide, then realized who I was. “Salve,” he said, greeting me. He leaned back against the wall and nodded, probably eager to get back to sleep.

But I needed to ask a question. “Has Sabina returned?”

We had both departed that morning, heading for two separate homes. Her prospective mother was pregnant with her fourth child, so she wasn’t expecting a protracted delivery.

The doorman’s brow furrowed as he shook his head.

“Are you sure? I would have thought—”

“No,” the man interrupted. “Now be off with you.”

I stepped back and eyed him, wondering if he’d made a mistake. I had been gone all day and half the night, so something must have gone wrong with Sabina. If she were struggling, I might be able to help her.

“What was the address?” I asked the doorman, who had already lowered his eyelids. “Where did Sabina go?”

The doorman’s dark eyes bored into mine. “Can you not see I am trying to sleep?”

“I thought it was your duty to guard the door.”

“For the dominus, not for the likes of you!”

My mood veered sharply to anger. “Would you like me to tell Dominus that you refused to help one of the midwives? Our women give him a great deal of money for our services. I would hate for him to hear that you refused to cooperate when we needed your help.”

His face paled, all but a pair of deep splotches over his cheekbones, as though someone had slapped him twice. “The home of Harpocrates the blacksmith, on Aventine Hill.” He spat the words.

I hesitated. The area surrounding Aventine Hill was rough and poor. The towering insulae held dozens of families, and Sabina could be working in any one of the many apartments.

“Have you no clearer direction?” I asked. “Or tell me who escorted Sabina to the Aventine—perhaps he will take me there, as well.”

The doorman’s face twisted in a leering smile. “Duran took her. If she’s not back, maybe we should ask him where she is.”

“Where is Duran? In the men’s quarters?”

“I do not know. And I wouldn’t advise you going down there at this hour.”

The doorman had a point. I stepped back and bit my lip, weighing the risks of the streets versus the risk of the men in the basement. Thanatos might be in there, and the man was still watching me, taking every opportunity to make rude remarks or crude gestures. . . .

Perhaps I could walk a short distance. I might encounter Sabina on the street, and we could keep each other company on the walk home.

“I am going to find her.” I leaned closer to hiss in the doorman’s face. “And I will be back.”

Years of traversing Alexandria with only Nuru by my side had taught me to walk quickly, avoid other people, and behave as though I knew exactly where I was going. Since I had no one to accompany me, I grabbed a blanket from my bag and draped it over my head like a hood, allowing the rest of the fabric to hang over my shoulders and down my back. My simple tunic, the uniform of a slave, might actually draw less attention than if I’d been dressed like a Roman matron, with tunic and stola.

I strode quickly down Palatine Hill and past the Circus Maximus, then along the street that led to the Aventine. I looked out from beneath my hood, searching for any sign of a slave between escorts, but all I saw were groups of men, occasional clutches of legionaries in search of a tavern, and a couple of scrawny children. A line of white-robed priestesses walked the street, murmuring some incantation, but they made me uneasy, so I hurried past them.

I stood at the base of the Aventine and looked at the insulae, several of them rising four and five stories high. Lights glowed through the shutters, and the sounds of humankind echoed in the darkness. Tatters of clouds hung like rags above the rooftops of the buildings, and stiff clothing swung on laundry lines stretched from window to window.

I lifted my chin and girded myself with courage. If I were ever going to find the home of Harpocrates the blacksmith, I’d have to ask someone for direction. Which meant I’d have to approach someone, and I had not seen anyone who looked even slightly approachable.

I had started climbing the hill when I realized I should look for signs of a forge. A blacksmith used a fire and tools and usually had a bucket for cooling hot metal. Most of the insulae had businesses or shops on the first floor, so if I found a building with a forge, I would narrow my choices considerably.

I kept moving. I walked past a butcher shop, a brothel, a shop that sold idols. A weaver, a sculptor—and there, a forge. Custom-designed swords and blades, the sign proclaimed in Latin. Tools for your country estate.

I stepped back and looked up. No lights shone on the fourth floor; only a solitary light gleamed on the third. But the second floor, just up the wooden staircase, blazed with light.

I gripped the stair railing and climbed the first six steps, then turned at a small landing—and froze. At the top of the stairs, exposed to the night, lay Sabina, her throat cut and her eyes open. One step down, just beyond Sabina’s lifeless hand, lay a newborn baby.

A scream rose in my throat, but I choked it down. What good would screaming do? It would only attract attention, which would result in more screaming, and people taking sides, and before I knew it I’d be injured or dead like Sabina, and I would have no answers. I lowered my head into my hand as words flooded my head: YHVH Makeh, YHVH smites. He punishes sin.

When I could move again, I rushed up the stairs and reached the baby. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. A little boy, perfectly formed, but blue, colored by the night and the lack of life in his little body. The cord had been properly cut and tied, his face had been cleaned, yet here he was . . .

And Sabina?

I groaned as I sank to the steps beside her. I did not bother to feel for the pulse of life at her neck; her blank eyes told me she was gone. She still wore her tunic. Her hair was pinned back, her face splashed with flecks of dried blood.

A tear trickled down my cheek, and I slapped it away. This was not right. Though I did not know details, I knew Sabina’s patient had not done this. A woman who had just delivered a child was not likely to spring up and cut the midwife’s throat. That meant the husband or lover or someone else in the house had committed this murder. Someone who had not been pleased with the outcome of Sabina’s work.

A compliant slave, one born to the life, would not have done what I did next, but my feet were accustomed to freedom. I climbed the remaining steps and pounded on the door. I heard movement from within, then stood with both hands on my hips.

A hulking man opened the door, his face red, his tunic splashed with blood.

“What have you done?” I shouted, pointing to the two corpses on his stairs. “You will be held accountable for this!”

I was thinking of his accountability before HaShem, Master of the universe and defender of the poor and helpless, but he was clearly thinking of something else. Though his eyes flared when I began to shout, by the time I finished he had turned and moved away. “A moment,” he called, leaving me to blink in the lamplight and wonder what he could possibly be doing.

He returned with a bag in his hand—a bag of coin, I realized, when I heard metals clinking against one another.

“I did not know,” he said, lowering his head, “that the slave belonged to Octavian Caesar. I reacted in anger when the babe was born dead, and afterward I learned to whom the slave belonged. Take this to him with my apologies. If he desires more, have him send word, and I will pay.”

He closed the door, leaving me speechless and holding a bag of blood money.

By the time I woke the next morning, the full story had spread throughout the area and reached our household. Sabina had delivered a beautiful baby boy to the blacksmith’s wife, already mother to three girls, but the cord had wrapped around his neck during delivery. The father burst into the birthing room as Sabina worked on the stillborn child, trying to encourage him to breathe. The man yanked Sabina away from the infant, cut her throat, and dragged her out of the house so swiftly no one could intervene. His hysterical wife screamed that the midwife belonged to Gaius Octavian Caesar, so by the time I arrived, the blacksmith was prepared to pay.

I gave the money to the doorman when I came in and then went straight to bed. After hearing the missing details from another slave, I went to the room where Dominus was working and rapped on the door. “Enter.”

Still dazed, I gave my report of what had happened and gestured to the bag of coins on his desk. “I see you have already received recompense for Sabina’s life.”

“Yes. Thank you for bringing it to me.” A smile flashed briefly over his lips. “A lesser slave would have taken the money and run, but she wouldn’t have gotten far.”

I blinked at him. A woman would have to be a fool to run with so much coin—she’d be beaten and robbed before daybreak.

I drew a deep breath. “If you have any questions for me—”

“None,” he said, returning to the parchments on his desk.

I thought—hoped—he might remark on Sabina’s courage and valuable work, but he seemed to have already forgotten the matter.

“Sir—” I hesitated, carefully choosing my words—“should we not send someone to pick up her body? She should be cared for and buried—”

“She was a slave, not a person of significance.” Octavian shuffled through the pages on his desk. “She has probably been thrown into the Tiber by now, so you need not concern yourself.”

“Will you take no action against the man who killed her?”

“Why should I? He has paid his debt.”

He looked up, a smile lighting his face. “That reminds me—you will be the first to hear my news. I am getting married.”

“Sir?”

“A lovely lady called Scribonia. We will have the wedding here, within the month. Send Amphion to me, will you? I expect we have a lot of work to do.”

He waved me away with a flick of his fingers, so I left him, reminded once again of how unimportant slaves were in Rome. Yet I was not discouraged, for another of HaShem’s names overcame my sorrow: El Gmulot, the God of Recompense.

Justice might not be meted out in this life, but gentle Sabina would not be forgotten, and her death would not be unavenged.