Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(75)

THIRTY-THREE





The rash appeared on the third day. The inflammation stained Larce’s skin, first behind his ears, then, within hours, spreading over his face and neck, his chest and tummy, until his little body was scarlet.

When the child was not burning, he would shiver, his teeth chattering, the fever gripping him in a violent chill. He lay with his eyes half closed, his breathing labored as he coughed. The spasms denied him sleep.

Caecilia felt powerless. There was no cure. There were not even herbs to assist him. No mint or marshmallow to soothe the cough, no borage or hyssop to bring down the fever. All she could do was offer comfort. Propped against the bed’s headboard, she helped Larce to sip honeyed water as she held him. The sight of his rib cage protruding beneath stretched flesh was piteous.

She would not leave him. She was not prepared to risk others in the house being infected. She alone bathed his body, changed the bedclothes, and peeled damp nightgowns from him. Even the task of dressing him seemed to exhaust him.

Her guilt gnawed at her. Why had she gone into the city? Why had she placed duty to the people above her own children? She’d brought the scourge home with her. Would Vel forgive her for such recklessness?

Cytheris would visit, pleading to take over the vigil to give her mistress respite. She had suffered and survived the scourge when she was young. The fact others had lasted gave Caecilia hope Larce would also be spared. Doubt pricked her, though. She could not forget that the majority of bodies burned in pyres were those of children, a horrific kindling.

She coaxed Larce from his lassitude to take nourishment, holding the palmette-shaped spoon of porridge to his mouth so he could eat, tipping a spouted cup to his lips so he could drink. She longed to see the sweet gleam in his brown eyes instead of a dull, pained expression.

When he managed to gain relief from the coughing and fall asleep, she would lie on her side next to him, studying him as he slumbered, pushing his lank hair from his brow, stroking his flushed cheeks. She was reluctant to sleep herself, keeping watch that he was breathing. She was terrified she might miss his passing, aware there was only one second between this world and the next. She needed to be awake, desperate to kiss his lips and breathe in his soul so that she could release him to the Good Ones.

At times she would hear Thia crying in the nursery, sobbing for her mother’s attention. And Tas and Arnth’s voices were often heard in the hallway, pleading with Semni or Cytheris to allow them to enter. Each time, she fought back the urge to go to them, determined the scourge be contained within her chamber.

In the back of her mind she heard Artile’s voice. How he had predicted that she and Vel would have a son who would bear a son. Would only one of her boys survive to manhood?

She exhorted Uni to save them all. Then Aplu, the god of light and healing, who also cherished children. She wrestled with the thought of which child the gods might spare. She loved each of her children in different ways.

She remembered her relief when she realized she was pregnant with Tas. Thrilled that Uni had pardoned her for her foolish and frightened attempts to defer a child. Her pride in bearing her firstborn still remained. The wonder of holding a new babe to her breast for the very first time could never be repeated. The joy of finally handing a son to Vel had been overwhelming. Yet Tas was solitary and perplexing, reluctant to display affection. She found it difficult to understand him. She worried there would always be distance between them.

When Larce was born, she’d feared she would have no more love to give. But she’d soon discovered that love was not finite. It expanded each time she bore another child.

Arnth had been Vel’s from the start. His little soldier. A small replica of his father, with his sturdy limbs and curls, despite possessing the round eyes of his mother. He’d inherited Vel’s wildness and quick temper as well. She knew he was born to lead. She imagined him kissing her good-bye as a young warrior, his love for her restricted to one small corner of his mind while he sought lovers and adventures.

Death had lurked in the birthing room as she labored with Thia. Caecilia was proud she had fought to free the babe from the womb. And there was a selfish contentment that a girl could be kept close compared to the boys. A daughter could be coddled, while sons needed to be toughened for war. Vel clearly felt the same. To see the seasoned soldier coo and dandle his little princess always made her smile.

Caecilia loved all her children, but she could not deny Larce was her dearest. And this caused her shame, knowing she should not choose a favorite. Yet she had a special bond with him that transcended her feelings for the others. There was a beauty within him, the symmetry of his features an echo of Tarchon’s. As a baby, he would purr as she nuzzled his neck, a smile always ready upon his lips. As he grew older, he liked to run his finger over the birthmark on her throat, laughing when she teased him that it was a paint splash made by the gods. Even after he had learned to walk on steady feet, he would seek her hand, swinging arms as they walked along. There was little jealousy in him either. He held out his arms to cuddle Arnth and Thia when they were born.

Now, watching him lying limp on her bed, a tiny figure on the broad expanse of linen, Caecilia wondered how she would function if he died. She lived with the constant worry of the loss of her warrior husband, a dull ache that flared to sharp panic in the small hours of the morning. But she never expected to face the same anguish over a child, that she might bury one of her children instead of them chanting the death rites over her.