The Magister Populi spoke, his arm still around his first child. “Let’s go home now.”
But Una hesitated, looking back at Julien. “Julien and Vita must come, too.” And then she told him about Julien’s father and Vita’s soup and all that had happened that day and the previous day.
As she spoke, the Magister Populi looked at the skinny boy, his gaunt cheeks dirty and tear-stained. “I’m very sorry,” he said to Julien. “I remember your father well. The first Magistrix spoke very highly of him. The gardens have never been the same since your father was head gardener. Will you consider staying with us, at the very least in your time of grief, if not longer?”
Julien looked back at the gaping cave. “I can’t leave him here.”
The Magister Populi lifted a hand, and one of his men hurried to his side. “Leave four of your men to give this man a proper burial.”
The man nodded and signaled to three others.
“What about Vita?” Una said.
The old woman bowed before the Magister Populi and said, “I would offer you soup, sir, if I could.” She looked helplessly at the ground where the contents of her soup pot had spilled, sacrificed to capture Cassius.
“Would you join us, too, Grandmother? I should very much like to taste your soup.”
Vita was pleased beyond words.
But before they could go anywhere, Una reached into the sack that Florian had dropped when he was surrounded by the soldiers. She pulled out a slightly wilted but still sturdy plant with vivid green leaves and a single large bud. “I have the silva flower for you.” She held it out to her father.
Baffled, he said, “I don’t understand. That was going to be my gift to you.”
“I know. Ovid told me. I wanted to find it so I could prove to you that I was capable of doing something on my own, that I was worth your time.”
The Magister Populi looked stricken.
Una stared at her feet. “The last time I saw you, you left without even looking at me. Your new son was more important than me because I’m not a boy, and I’ll never be the next Magister.”
“No,” he said. “The law forbids you from being a Magister.”
Una felt frustration growing inside her at this arbitrary law and her luck at being born a girl.
“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be a Magistrix.”
Una’s mouth dropped open.
“You have shown more compassion, more bravery, and more level-headedness than men five times your age. I think a change in the way we do things is in order.”
At a nod from the Magister Populi, the guards helped Una, Julien, and Vita onto horses and the group returned to the city, the Magister Populi leading the way.
Ruana, Una’s paste-scented stepmother, met them at the gate. The anxious look on her face disappeared when she spotted them. Ruana still seemed like an exotic bird to Una, but clearly her feathers had been ruffled by Una’s absence.
She ran out to meet them. Ruana pulled Una down from her horse and wrapped her in an embrace. And Una noticed a strange thing: her stepmother’s paste scent wasn’t so strong. Now the woman smelled almost sweet, as if her paste had been used to hold everything together.
Ovid was there to greet them, too. His gaze took in Baba’s absence, but he only said, “You both look as if you could use some care. Come, let me tend to you.”
