Chapter Twenty-Four

During the summer of my fifth year in Rome, Dominus married Scribonia, a dignified, serious woman. The lady was several years older than Octavian, but she had powerful connections that would be useful to him. The wedding was a simple affair, yet the house flooded with highborn people ranging from senators to foreign kings.

I had been anxious as the day approached, afraid that Mark Antony and Cleopatra might appear, but they did not. Later I learned that Antony had been in Sicyon with his wife, Fulvia. The woman had fallen ill and eventually died, but Antony left her without even saying good-bye. He and Octavian were at odds over some issue regarding troop movements, and war between them seemed inevitable. But their legionaries, reluctant to fight fellow Romans, compelled the two men to make peace.

One of the wedding guests did cause my heart to beat faster—Herod of Judea had come to Rome and visited Palatine Hill to congratulate Octavian on his marriage. From a safe distance, I studied the Judean ruler and eavesdropped on as many of his conversations as possible. I could not forget that Asher and Yosef had fled to Judea, so they might be affected by anything this Herod might do.

During my eavesdropping I learned that Antigonus, a son of the high priest, had offered to pay the Parthian army if they would help him recapture his lands from the Romans. A battle ensued, Jerusalem was captured, and Antigonus named as king of Judea. The battle forced Herod and his brother Phasael out of power, and they had been named as tetrarchs by Mark Antony. So after Phasael was captured by the Parthians, Herod fled to Rome to ask for help.

“You see why I had to come,” Herod told one of the wedding guests. “My family has been destroyed. Rather than be tortured and disfigured, my brother Phasael took his own life by smashing his head against a wall.”

“A bloody land, Judea,” the guest replied.

Herod offered a vague smile. “Is Rome any less bloody? Your Julius Caesar was stabbed numerous times by his friends, was he not?”

The guest’s face deepened to the color of the wine in his glass, then he muttered something and wandered away.

I held a pitcher of wine and lingered near the doorway, studying the man who desired to be king over Judea. Was he the sort of leader Asher would support? Or would my brother be fighting for Antigonus and the opposition? I knew little about Judean politics, and in that moment I yearned for my father. Though any of these Roman men might be able to explain what had happened in Judea, only Father would understand which king was devoted to Adonai . . . or if any of them were.

Later that night, after I had been summoned to Agrippa’s room, I sat on the edge of his couch as he attempted to explain what was happening in Judea, still home to thousands of Jews.

“To understand Judea,” he said, pushing a stray hank of hair away from my eyes, “you cannot ask about what happened last year. You have to ask about what happened a hundred years ago, or even five hundred. Those people have long memories.”

I smiled, knowing I had a far deeper knowledge of Judea than Agrippa realized. “I know a few things,” I admitted, “but I am confused about this Herod and his brother. Are they good men? Are they righteous?”

Agrippa shrugged. “Who is truly righteous? And who can judge? Shouldn’t we leave that to the gods?”

“Absolutely.” I smiled. “Though I am sure my master believes he has the right to judge men.”

Agrippa grinned, conceding my point. He reached for my hand and tenderly pressed his lips to the scar across my palm. “You do not really want to discuss Judea, do you?”

The touch of his lips sent an unwelcome surge of excitement through me. “I do.”

“We could do other things to pass the time.”

I gave him a reproachful look. In truth, I had grown fond of Agrippa and looked forward to our time together. When we were alone, he treated me like the gentle lady I had been reared to be, and I felt like myself again. He never forced himself on me, and even in public he never ordered me about.

But what could become of this friendship? As Octavian’s second in command, Agrippa had risen to the pinnacle of social status, so he could never marry a slave, or even a free woman. Such things simply were not done. So I could become his mistress, yet . . . I could not.

Esther and Bathsheba had no choice when taken to their kings’ bedchambers, and Samson had visited prostitutes, as had Judah, one of the twelve patriarchs. But Samson and Judah suffered consequences for those visits, and Solomon, the wisest man on earth, advised his son to flee the wanton woman.

I did not want to be the wanton woman in Agrippa’s life. I cared too much for him.

Just when I made up my mind to be no more than a friend to Agrippa, I could hear Urbi calling me a fool. “Why do you deprive yourself of pleasure?” she would say. “Give yourself to him! What difference would it make?”

What difference, indeed?

Living among Gentiles had proved my father right—the Gentile world did operate by different principles than we who followed Adonai. The Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans considered sensual pleasure nothing more than an enjoyable act, and I had heard some Romans encourage prostitution, calling it a useful deterrent to adultery. The concept of loving one’s wife was considered quaint, and kissing one’s wife in public was apt to produce a scandal. But a man could regularly visit brothels with no repercussions. So long as an adulterer or fornicator restricted his attentions to the proper classes, no one cared. Free boys and free women were out of bounds, but any noncitizen or slave could be taken for a man’s pleasure without guilt or shame.

Marriage had more to do with celebrating Roman ideals than love. Only citizens could marry citizens, and to wed a foreigner was unthinkable. A union between a Roman citizen and a foreigner—like Julius Caesar and Cleopatra—would never be accepted by Roman society. Marriage was designed to produce Roman families and sturdy Roman children, a guarantee for Rome’s future success.

I knew I could never marry Agrippa, but something in me hungered for his touch. I looked at him, stretched out on the couch, handsome and smiling and waiting for me to come into his arms. I wanted to go to him . . . but surrendering would cost me dearly. I would forfeit a measure of self-control and self-respect. Before HaShem, who saw everything, I would demonstrate that I cared more about my personal desires than obedience to Him.

And that I could not do.

“Agrippa.” I whispered his name, enjoying the feel of it on my tongue. “I do not know if I can make you understand, but I choose to live a holy life before my God.”

“I know about the Jews and their law,” he said. “And I know it is impossible for you to follow that law here. You cannot rest on the seventh day, you cannot keep kosher because you must eat what is set before you.”

“It is true that I cannot do all I want to do,” I said, “but when given a choice, I try to make the righteous choice.”

A muscle clenched in his jaw. “Then I must leave you for a while,” he said, rising from the couch. “I am not a eunuch, Chava. And when you are near me, I—”

I lifted my hand, cutting him off, and moved away from the doorway so he could pass. I would not embarrass us both by having him tell me where he was going; I knew the weaknesses of Roman men.

I stepped aside as he draped his toga over his shoulder, then he walked swiftly past me and left me alone.

After he had gone, I lifted my gaze and wondered if I was being unfair. By allowing myself to love him, by indulging in this pleasurable friendship, was I doing him a disservice?

“Am I, Adonai?”

I heard no answer in the quiet night, only the unexpectedly swift beating of my heart.

A few weeks after Octavian’s marriage, his sister Octavia, now mother to two daughters and an infant son, lost her elderly husband Marcellus. Seeking a genuine peace with his co-ruler, Octavian approached Antony about marriage to Octavia. If Antony married Octavia, Octavian proposed, they would renew the Triumvirate for another five years, cutting the empire in half: Octavian would rule over the west, including Gaul, and Antony would oversee the east. Lepidus, whose role had shrunk until it was nearly insignificant, would retain control of Africa.

At Brundisium, a city in southern Italy, Octavian and Antony entertained each other by giving banquets. Octavian’s banquet featured the best in Roman fashion, and Antony played the host in Egyptian style, complete with painted eyes. The party then moved on to Rome, where Antony and Octavia were wed. They rode into the city on garlanded horses as if they were celebrating a military Triumph—which, I suppose, they were. The union resulted in peace.

I watched the newly married couple with a sense of impending doom. I genuinely liked Octavia because she was a good mother and a kind person, but the reports about Antony had not impressed me. The gossips insisted that Cleopatra was madly in love with Antony, but I knew better. Urbi loved Egypt more than anything. I believed she had been catering to Antony, doing whatever she must to keep him interested, to keep him on her side. Because he could take her kingdom away with a word.

Even Agrippa admitted that something sinister hid beneath Antony’s affability and his love for fun and games—a cold and ruthless will, coupled with an inability to empathize with others. “I have seen his ruthlessness,” he told me one night. “He can be cold and utterly without feeling when he is pressured.”

Knowing Urbi’s skill at reading people, I was sure she had sensed this about Antony. In light of his recent marriage, she would redouble her efforts to charm him, please him, and turn her kingdom on its head for him, because in a single moment he might take it all for himself.

And she possessed a ruthlessness that more than matched his.

Those few months of peace brought another respite of a different sort—Agrippa left Rome to mount a campaign in Gaul. A couple of the other girls teased me because Agrippa was not around to single me out for attention, but I ignored their teasing and thanked Adonai that I was no longer tormented by desires I could not righteously fulfill. I missed him, but slept easier at night.

And I had something else to focus on. Barely two months after Octavian’s marriage to Scribonia, our dominus had made an announcement: his bride was expecting a baby. I celebrated with the rest of the household but felt as if a coil in the pit of my stomach had begun to tighten. Octavian would expect me to deliver the child of his older bride, and nothing, absolutely nothing, could go wrong.

Summer had just yielded to autumn when we slaves became aware that our dominus was not himself. He had taken to smiling for no reason, and one of the housemaids reported that he had been singing in the bath.

I overheard several of the slaves talking in the kitchen.

“Has he come into money?”

“Bah! He has more than enough.”

“Perhaps he is excited by the idea of becoming a father.”

“He was not excited at the beginning of the pregnancy—why now?”

“Perhaps he is in love.”

“Who is the lucky lady?”

I poured myself a cup of honey water and considered the question. Octavian often entertained visitors at the house, but the only guests who had appeared more than once were Tiberius Claudius Nero and his wife, Livia Drusilla. Nero was arrogant and unpleasant, but his young and very pregnant wife seemed intelligent and cheerful.

The couple had dined with Octavian and Scribonia several times over the past weeks. The women had shared stories about their pregnancies while the men talked about matters before the Senate . . . or so I had assumed. I searched my memory, trying to recall if Dominus had engaged Livia in conversation alone. Doubtful, especially with the other two spouses present.

In early September, Dominus announced that he would sponsor a public festival. At twenty-four, the fair-haired man was finally ready to experience his first shave. The Romans made a ceremony of nearly every “first,” and the first shave was no exception. The depositio barbae was usually celebrated when a boy was in his late teens, but our master, who had accomplished so many things while young, was determined to let the world know that his body had finally caught up to his mind.

I had never seen Dominus so excited about a party. He fussed over the menu, got Amphion out of bed when inspiration struck at midnight, and modeled three different togas before settling on the one he would wear. The festival was to be held on his birthday, the twenty-third of the month, and as the day approached and our master grew more restive, I wondered at his motivation. Clearly he was trying to impress someone. The public? He cared little for what they thought. Mark Antony? No, Antony was in Egypt. His wife? Scribonia did little but complain about her pregnancy. Octavian’s mother was deceased, his sister newly married and more concerned about her marriage than a party, so who did he wish to impress?

On the day of the festival, I joined the serving women and carried pitchers of honey water throughout the crowd. Octavian stood in a shaded corner, under an elegant canopy with two women at his side—Scribonia and Livia, with Livia’s small son, Tiberius, standing in her shadow. Scribonia, who looked uncomfortable and tired, spoke little and wore a frown, but Livia sparkled under our master’s attention.

Later, I asked Amphion for his impression of the event. “You mean the party for Livia?” One of his brows arched. “It is a good match. Though he is the most powerful man in Rome, the aristocrats see him as a provincial upstart. Livia, however, is from an old and noble family, the Claudii. If they marry, each will help the other—he will be supported by her noble forefathers, and she and her family will have access to his power.”

“But . . .” I drew a curved belly over my tunic, reminding him that both women were pregnant.

“Oh, that.” He laughed. “Only a small impediment, dear. Wait and see.”

Amphion knew his master well. On the day Scribonia gave birth to Julia, a beautiful little girl, Octavian divorced her.

A few weeks after the depositio barbae, our master became engaged to Livia. A grand betrothal banquet was held at the house, and all the fashionable people of Rome attended. Livia owned little slave boys known as deliciae, or darlings, and they scampered throughout the crowd, entertaining the guests and behaving like typical children. At one point I was offering our master a platter of pigeon eggs when one of the little darlings noticed that Octavian and Livia reclined on one dining couch while Livia’s husband and another woman took their ease on another. “What are you doing here, mistress?” he asked, his high voice easily carrying over the rumble of the other guests. “Your husband is over there.”

I froze, my back bent, the tray in my hand as the room went silent. Horror flickered in Livia’s eyes, and Octavian paled.

Obeying an impulse, I dropped my supporting hand and allowed the tray to flip and rattle onto the floor, scattering pigeon eggs in every direction.

The guests gasped, and ladies moved out of the way lest they soil their gowns, but Dominus bent to help me pick up the mess at his feet. “Clever girl,” he murmured, his gaze catching mine as he handed me an egg. “Very clever indeed.”

I suppressed a smile and nodded, then heaped the rest of the food onto my tray and left them alone.

“Chava?”

I paused in the doorway to Livia’s room, my basket of birthing supplies in hand. “Domina?”

“We are expecting a guest later in the day. Do you think you will be back in time to help serve? I know there are other girls, but this guest seems to have a particular fondness for you.”

I felt an icy finger touch the base of my spine. Could it be—?

“So will you be back?”

“I cannot say, Domina. As you know, some babies take their time.”

“Indeed they do.” Livia’s youngest had come quickly, and with so little suffering that the new bride felt obliged to wail and scream, after the child’s birth, as if the process had nearly killed her. Upon seeing the result—a healthy son and a happy wife—Dominus had been extremely complimentary of my midwifery skills.

Livia propped herself up on pillows and yawned. “If your dominus asks where I am, tell him I have decided to sleep a little longer.”

I nodded and hurried out of the room.

Livia had made herself at home in our master’s house, quickly eliminating every trace of Scribonia. Livia’s two sons would remain under the authority of their father until they were of age, so Tiberius and baby Drusus lived with Tiberius Nero, though they visited often. Scribonia’s daughter Julia lived in our household and rarely visited her mother.

I nodded to the doorman and stepped onto the street, where the wind had picked up. I lowered my head and walked toward the Aventine at a brisk pace, my feet keeping time to the heartbeat that had quickened when Livia mentioned their guest.

Could it be Agrippa? He had been away for nearly two years, and during that time I had heard many stories of his outstanding accomplishments, among them securing the frontier on the Rhine and founding a city he called Colonia Agrippinensis. He had recently come home to aid Octavian, who was facing a challenge from Sextus Pompeius, son of Pompey the Great. Sextus had bedeviled Octavian since the time of Julius Caesar, and Octavian was determined to remove him. But Sextus had become a man of the sea, and Octavian was far less sure of his navy than his army.

I paused as a man with an overloaded wagon cursed his mule for being unable to budge the load. Voices from a nearby insulae called down to insult the man who had dared to disturb the quiet of early morning.

I shook my head and walked on.

The delivery was another breech birth, one that required slippery fingers and all my concentration. But the mother was ecstatic when I placed a living son in her arms, and the father slipped me two sestertii for my trouble. “Your fee,” he assured me, “has already been paid.”

Of course it had. But I’d never see a copper of it.

I gathered my supplies, gave the mother a few final instructions, and left the house.

The sun was sinking behind the western hills as I approached the Palatine. I considered using one of my coins to buy a drink at a tavern, where I could wait until Octavian and his guests had finished dinner. But anyone who saw my slave’s tunic would know I was out of place. Word might reach the Octavii house before I’d even finished my drink.

I trudged on.

I greeted the doorkeeper and dropped my basket on a bench. “Is Dominus having dinner?”

“Yes. Dinner was served in the peristylium.”

“How nice.” I smiled in relief—I could walk around the atrium and enter the kitchen. If Agrippa was in the garden, I wouldn’t have to see him. But I couldn’t resist knowing for certain. “The master’s guests? Who is here?”

The doorman’s smile broadened. “Master Agrippa, of course, and Caecilia Attica.”

I blinked at the unfamiliar name. “Who?”

“Agrippa’s betrothed. The marriage,” the doorkeeper glibly went on, “was negotiated by Mark Antony and will take place in this house. Exciting developments!”

I knew it wasn’t reasonable, but the news stole my breath away. For some reason I had imagined that Agrippa would remain unmarried, but why should he? He was twenty-four, strong and virile, and he undoubtedly wished to have children. He and Octavian were close, and as Octavian rejoiced in his young bride, perhaps something had made Agrippa long for a wife of his own.

I gave the doorkeeper a false smile and walked through the atrium, then slipped through the shadows and went to the back of the house.

The cooks greeted me with absent nods and said nothing when I picked up a small loaf of bread. I’d eaten nothing all day, and the bread would keep my stomach from rumbling while I slept. I walked out to the veranda and hid myself behind a pillar, wondering if I could hear the diners at the center of the garden. . . .

I heard Octavian’s bold laughter, followed by the soft murmurs of the women. Then Agrippa said something, and Octavian responded by standing—I saw the shimmer of his hair in the torchlight. “To marriage!” he said, holding his cup aloft. “And may the gods bless you with fruitfulness!”

I looked down and blinked tears out of my eyes. I was exhausted. I wasn’t crying; my tears were simply an overflow of feeling, an excess of emotion after a long day.

“Chava!” I looked up, surprised to hear Dominus call my name. “Come at once.”

Again I blinked the tears from my eyes and, with nowhere else to put it, tossed the bread over my shoulder. I walked toward the two dining couches at the center of the garden and resolutely refused to look at the seat where Agrippa and his betrothed reclined. “Dominus?”

“I thought that was you,” Octavian said, smiling. “Our Agrippa is going to be married to this lovely young lady. And because Agrippa is my dearest friend on earth, I am giving him a most valuable wedding present: you.”

A ripple of shock spread throughout my body, tingling my toes and leaving me light-headed. Unable to believe what I’d heard, I broke my own resolution and looked at Agrippa, who appeared as shocked and horrified as I felt. “Octavian, you mustn’t—”

“Indeed I must, for what better gift could I give? I know you have a fondness for the girl, and her income will provide tunics and stolas for your new bride. I’ll have her delivered after the wedding.”

My gaze shifted to the bride-to-be, and astonishment smote me again. This Caecilia was no woman—she was a child in her early teens, at best. Flat-chested and thin, and her cheeks still retained the plump curves of childhood—

He was marrying a baby.

Somehow I remained on my feet, then I murmured something—I cannot remember what—and backed away, disappearing into the palms surrounding the garden. I made it to the basement room where the women slept, then fell on my bed, too weary to weep.

How could I live with a man I loved while he was married to another? I would have to quell my feelings for him; I would have to crush them, turn them to hate. For although the Romans thought nothing of loving their slaves and tolerating their spouses, I would never be able to do it.

I closed my eyes and tried to summon up Yosef’s image, but it had been too long. The nose kept elongating, the eyes brightened, and the chin and jawline insisted on being clean-shaven. Every face belonged to Agrippa.

“Adonai?” I mumbled the holy name into my pillow, closed my eyes, and searched my memory in desperation. Was there a name for God that meant door? Because more than ever, I needed HaShem to provide me with a way of escape.

On the morning of Agrippa’s wedding, I rose early and packed my few possessions into a basket, then slipped into a clean tunic. After the ceremony, I would walk with the wedding party to Agrippa’s home, and there I would somehow find a way to fit into a new family and a new set of slaves.

The groom arrived first and remained with Octavian while slaves served guests lemon water and wine. Finally the bride appeared at the door, accompanied by her father, Titus Pompons Atticus. The young woman had gathered her hair into a crimson net and put on a long tunic, secured at the waist by a belt tied with the traditional Hercules knot, to be untied only by her husband. An orange veil, worn over a wreath of verbena and sweet marjoram, covered most of her face but revealed her excited smile.

Since I would be leaving with the bride and groom, I was not expected to serve at the wedding. I should have gone for a walk, but I couldn’t help myself—I had to watch. So I picked up a tray of sweets from the kitchen and mingled among the guests, keeping an ear open for gossip.

As soon as everyone had arrived, a priest of Isis walked to an altar in the garden and sacrificed a ewe lamb. The guests cheered when the blood splashed on the stones beneath the altar, then the couple turned to each other.

Caecilia Attica placed her hands in Agrippa’s and said, “Ubi tu es Gaius, ego Gaia.” Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia.

I closed my eyes as a sudden pang struck my heart. How often had I found myself wishing I could say those words to him! But it was not meant to be—not ever.

The guests shouted “Feliciter!”—Congratulations!—as the crowd poured out of the house and entered the street. The distance between Octavian’s house and Agrippa’s was not great, so I remained in the back of the throng as they escorted the couple to their new home. Flute players led the procession, followed by torchbearers, even in the bright light of day. Two young boys held Caecilia’s hands and led her to Agrippa’s doorstep.

Through watery eyes I studied Agrippa’s home. The bright blue door had been garlanded with flowers, and Caecilia paused before entering. As part of a traditional ritual, she knelt to wind wool around the two doorposts, then coated them with lard, a symbol of plenty. Laughing, Agrippa lifted his bride and carried her over the threshold, for a bride’s stumble would have begun the marriage under a bad omen. They were followed by Caecilia’s three bridesmaids, who carried symbols of domestic tranquility: a distaff, a spindle, and a ball of yarn.

As the wedding guests followed the bride and groom into the house, I remained in the outer courtyard. I knew what would happen next. After singing a chorus of crude songs, the bride would be led to the bridal bed, where Agrippa would take off his bride’s cloak and untie the Hercules knot. That would be the guests’ cue to leave and close the door behind them.

I sat on a stone bench and crossed my arms, refusing to shed another tear. How could I rail against the inevitable? How could I allow myself to become so distracted from my goals? Every minute spent thinking or dreaming about Agrippa was a moment I was not thinking about midwifery or returning to Alexandria.

More than ever, I yearned to go home. I wanted my father, if he still lived. I needed him.

The events of the day had forcefully reminded me that I would never feel at home in Rome.