5
"Sylvia?"
"Yes, my dear?" Calliana shifted uncomfortably upon her divan, thankful that Antonius had left in a rather embarrassed rush after their earlier conversation.
"I have a…a rather delicate matter to discuss with you." A look of tender concern filled the eyes of the Roman; she leaned closer to her young friend.
"Speak then." Calliliana picked at her purple robe as a deep flush overspread her snowy skin, like new-spilled blood on new-fallen snow.
"I…I am starting to be quite frightened. I have been in your house for well nigh three months now… and not once has my blood flown during this time." Sylvia's half-crescent brows raised in concern.
"Calliliana…you do know what that means, do you not?" The girl buried her face in her hands, as dry sobs shook her body.
"Yes, yes, of course! I am so afraid, Sylvia!" The older woman did her best to comfort her friend, but inwardly, her own fear was growing as well.
"It is alright, my friend, it is alright. Having a child after the death of your husband will be painful, yes. But think of this: you have one now to carry on his name, and to serve as a reminder of his father!" The anguished young woman lifted a pain-filled face to her friend, her emerald eyes like the waves of a storm-tossed sea.
"But I…I had no relations with my husband for oh, ever so long, while I carried his child." A marbeline pallor slowly spread itself like a shroud over the bronzed skin of the older woman.
"Then it is…" The look in Calliliana's eyes was enough to strike fear into the heart of any who beheld her, so great it was in its burning intensity.
"It is his child." She needed to say no more. She stood slowly, her hands hanging limply at her sides, and she looked out sightlessly over the gardens of her benefactors. "I will not love this babe, Sylvia. I cannot—he is the child of my misery and of my disgrace. I would rather have born the marks of Agrippa's cruelty upon my body until death…but this…this is the worst humiliation of all!" She turned then, as a new thought struck her. "What will I do? He must never find out about this child, surely you see that! If he knew…if he knew he would come for me…" Sylvia stood and hastily wrapped her arms around the trembling maiden.
"Of course he will not know, Child. You will stay here with us, that goes without question, and we will help you care for your babe." Calliliana closed her eyes, attempting to shut up the pain with them.
"I thank you for your kindness, as always." The Roman woman rubbed her back tenderly, her mind working quickly to formulate an answer to this puzzle.
"No thanks are necessary; you are our family, Calliliana." She paused, a thoughtful look entering her shadowy doe-eyes. "No one need know that this child is not your husband's." Calliliana looked at her uneasily.
"I do not wish to lie…" Sylvia shook her head.
"You will not need to. Think for a moment—how many people, other than Antonius, myself, and the servants—do you see regularly?"
"None."
"Then who is there to know of your misfortune?" A bright look of hope entered the face of the troubled young woman for the first time in what felt like years.
"Oh Sylvia…you are so kind!" Calliliana embraced her friend heartily as a sense of relief flooded over her like sweet, spring-time rain. No one would have to know that the child she carried belonged to her despised tormentor! Agrippa himself would never know...
But neither of the two rejoicing young women thought to pay heed to the bitter slave woman, who was still tending the gardens. Her rage flared like the brightest fire as she compared her state to that of her rival—she felt the hot sweat trickle down her back, and she contrasted this discomfort to that of the lovely Calliliana, who was clean and dressed in a fine purple robe. As she swiped viciously as a strand of her own sweat-bathed hair, she observed the perfectly wrought coils of the Grecian maiden's locks—curls that she herself had tended!
Mara leaned back on the balls of her feet and pondered all that she had heard. It was no surprise to her that her master was in love with the pretty little chit—no surprise at all, and yet the pain of it smote her bitter heart like hell-fire. It stunned her even less to hear that her mistress thought of Calliliana as a sister—this indeed had been obvious to Mara ever since she herself had been forced to attend the woman who was supposed to be yet another "ladies maid".
However...the woman stood, grunting heavily as she strained to lift a basket of weeds with her as she rose. That her detested opponent for the affections of her master was with child was a detail not to be overlooked. What was the name that the girl had mentioned, the name of the babe's sire? Mara furrowed her dark brow in thought and pursed her lips in frustration. It had begun with an A; she knew that much…and it certainly was not Antonius. Could it have been Augustine? Aurelius? Agrippa?
Agrippa! A small, sly smile snaked its way across Mara's sour face. Yes, Agrippa it was—Marcus Agrippa it must be, one of the most notorious generals of Rome! Mara knew many people outside of the microcosm of her master's villa, and she had heard of the exploits of Agrippa often. "Indeed," she smiled to herself as she cast the weeds into a small fire she had built earlier for the purpose, "it would be a cruelty past imagination to deny a father the right to his child!" The light of the fire danced in the wicked cat-eyes of the slave woman as she pondered this thought—at last, she had found a way to rid herself (and her master) of the intriguing young beauty!
As the heat finally became too much for the woman to bear, she turned and walked back towards the villa. She passed her mistresses as they stood together in the garden, discussing their plans in a low undertone thought to be safe from all ears. Mara continued her trek past the women…when suddenly a strange thing began to happen to her. She could not remember the last time that she had ever felt this way; it was almost suffocating her! The bitter woman held it in as long as she possibly could; tried in vain to suppress it—but at last it conquered her and rendered her helpless.
She laughed.
Sylvia turned in surprise when she heard the sound; she could not recall the last time she had ever heard the woman laugh. Calliliana, however, listened to the coarse, croaking guffaws of her adversary and felt a nagging fear tug at her mind. Could the woman have heard everything? Though she did not share the feeling with her friend, a sense of panic thoroughly pervaded each and every part of her body, and she breathed deeply to still the fearful beating of her heart.
She trembled.
"Milord?" Marcus Agrippa looked up at the silhouette of his slave girl, framed in his doorway by the light of the disappearing sun.
"What is it?" Lavina tiptoed hesitantly into the room, her body crying aloud in pain, and her mind tripped over itself with confused and restless thoughts. Ever since that first fateful night of her disobedience, oh so long ago now, Agrippa had begun tormenting her almost nightly—the great pain of her shame had become as a sixth sense to her, so ever-present was it. The pitiful young woman longed to be salved and comforted as she had consoled the beautiful young Greek woman so many months ago—but there was no one now for her.
Except for Appius—there was indeed the tender friendship of the handsome young Appius that remained to her despite her mortification. The young man had become a caring confidante to her; many were the times she had sobbed out her fear and her mortification to his listening ears. She was unaware that her recitations of her trials were becoming more and more difficult for her friend to bear in silence—he had long since come to care deeply for the pretty young Lavina, and he felt a rage against his master greater than the tossing of a stormy sea welling within his heart. He wished that he could heroically save the girl from her tormentor—but he also knew that in so doing, he would ensure a death-warrant for himself and for her. Lavina, in her turn, knew this as well—and she knew surely without a doubt that if it had not been for her Appius and her prayers for deliverance, she would have ended her own life long ago.
"Well, what is it? You are keeping me waiting, Wench." The stern voice of her master—like a whip-lash to the back of a slave—caused the young woman's mind to jolt back to the present with painful reality.
"There is a young woman here to see you, Milord." Agrippa stood and stretched the knotted muscles of his legs; he had been working far too hard lately. A little pleasure with a new woman would certainly be most welcome.
"And did she give her name?" Lavina cast her eyes upon the floor and shook her head.
"She did not, Milord." Marcus strode to the cowering slave, took her chin between his thumb and forefinger with a vice-like grip, and kissed her forcefully. Lavina had learned much in the last few months; she did not whimper or struggle. She only waited patiently until he deemed her submissive enough to set her free—free until that night at least.
He is an iron hammer, she thought. And I am the anvil.
Marcus let her go only when he himself had grown short of breath; he smiled and widened his coal-black eyes at her. With his lips peeled away from his white teeth—whiteness that matched the whites of his large, fearsome eyes—he resembled a monster of mythology to the pitiful wench before him. "Send her in, then. Do not keep me waiting, Girl." Lavina bowed hastily and scampered from the room.
Marcus sat down again behind a large, parchment-covered table that served as his desk, and waited. He had decided long ago that sitting at this desk made him look far more magisterial, more formidable…
A black-clad woman with a scarf about her face entered the room, and the Roman was struck at once by her regal bearing. "This woman is tall enough to be a queen," he thought, his mind appraising as much of her as it could in her loose-fitting robe. Marcus squinted his eyes at veiled visage. "Who are you, Woman? Let me see your face." Wordlessly, the woman unwound the scarf from about her head, and any illusions that the general had had about her beauty vanished.
She was tall, that was certain, but beauty she had none—her face resembled a grotesque corpse almost more than it did a maiden. The woman stepped closer to him then, and he looked for the first time within her eyes. Pale and golden were they in color, eyes that now snapped at him and seemed to be attempting to weave a spell about his senses. "These are the eyes of an animal," he thought to himself, "of a lioness, and not a woman." Agrippa swallowed thickly and repeated his question. "Who are you?"
"My name is Mara, Milord, but that is not of importance to you." Mara leaned forward slightly, and braced her long brown hands before her on his desk. "I have some information that I know you will find most beneficial." Agrippa looked at her shrewdly; it was obvious that the woman was not wealthy, and it had been his unfortunate discovery that such women did not simply offer information for nothing.
"What price do you wish of me?" Mara uttered a raw growl that chilled the very marrow of the evil man.
"I wish only for revenge against she who has wronged me, Milord. That is all." Agrippa's mind whirled; never before could he remember being so bewildered! Perhaps, he thought as he gazed at the woman, those strange, cat-eyes were beginning to affect him…
"Well?" Mara's lips separated in a bone-chilling smile, and her eyes were alight with the monstrous happiness of retaliation.
"I have news of one called Calliliana, Milord; a woman you once knew I assume?" A shock of desire coursed through the veins of the general, and his voice was hoarse when he spoke.
"And what of her?" Mara threw back her hideous head and laughed then, a sound that seemed to freeze the hot blood of life within the body of Agrippa.
"She is with Child."
So simply, so simply were those words spoken that would decide the lives of many.