Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(77)

Caecilia was not ready to finish the roll call. “Tas and Thia?”

“The gods have spared them.”

She found herself. Cytheris placed her arm around her. “There, there, mistress. The worst is over.”

Caecilia broke from the maid’s embrace and rested the back of her head against the headboard. “Bring them to me.”

Cytheris hesitated. “Soon, but first let me bathe you and change your clothes. It’s better you greet them with untangled hair and smelling clean.” She bustled to the doorway, beckoning to the slave boy who was stationed outside to fetch hot water and fresh sheets.

“Come, my lady, let me help you to stand.”

Too long in bed, Caecilia let the servant assist her to step onto the footstool and then the floor. The brief exercise tired her. She closed her eyes to let giddiness pass, then, with unsteady steps, walked to the armchair and sat down.

The slave boy returned with a pitcher. Cytheris dismissed him, then poured some hot water into the ewer, steam curling from the surface of the fluid. The handmaid’s face was lined with fatigue. Her vigil had been lengthy.

“Cytheris, do you remember that day in the family sanctuary with Artile? When he predicted my future as a mother?”

The Greek woman paused in helping her mistress from her sweat-stained nightdress. “Yes. But why do you speak of the rogue now?”

“Because of what he said. That I would bear a son who would bear a son.”

“And you have born three.”

“But what if it means only one will survive to be a man? I kept dwelling on it as I lay watching my boys suffering with fever.”

“You always worry too much, my lady. One may never marry, or sire only daughters. And one might be like Prince Tarchon, not interested in women at all.”

Caecilia blinked, aware yet again how she could take a kernel of concern and let it swell into calamity. She hugged the maid, taking Cytheris off guard. “What is that for, my lady?”

“For being a good friend.”

Nonplussed at the declaration, the servant eased herself from the embrace and then dipped the cloth into the bowl. “Lift your arms so I can wash you.”

Caecilia felt childlike as she stood and held on to the chair for balance. Cytheris wiped her clean from armpit to hand, and between each finger. Then, sweeping the princip’s loosely plaited hair to one side, she pressed the cloth along neck, shoulders, and spine before bathing breasts and belly. Caecilia closed her eyes as the handmaid smoothed the cloth along the swell of hips and buttocks, mound and inner thighs, before bending to wash the queen’s long legs.

What had happened to the prudish girl who wore her ugly woolen stola as a shield? The Roman virtue of modesty had been instilled in Caecilia from childhood. She’d shied from intimacy, reluctant to stand naked before either man or woman. Yet Cytheris had encouraged her to welcome Vel’s embrace. And he’d taught her there was no shame in sensuality or being greedy for sensation. To seek the touch and scents and tastes of passion. To forget Roman strictures and custom, and accept pleasure was not a sin.

She glanced down at her body. The rash was no longer livid but brown and fading in places. Cytheris fetched a fresh gown from the linen chest. The sheer fabric glided over Caecilia’s skin, fine and soft and lovely.

“Tell me, is the rest of the household well?”

The Greek woman bowed her head, voice cracking. “Arruns has recovered, as has Perca, but Cook . . .”

It was the queen’s turn to murmur solace, but at her touch Cytheris stiffened, composing herself, always mindful of keeping her emotions under control.

“I’ll help you back to bed and fetch the children.”

“No, wait.” Caecilia pointed to the cista on the side table. “Bring me my paste and spatula. I can’t greet them with a red-tipped nose and puffy face. The remnants of the rash will only frighten them.”

As the servant covered tearstains with albumen and pale lips with carmine, Caecilia realized there was one more person who might not have survived. She turned her head. “And what of Aricia?”

Cytheris stopped combing. “I heard she’s well, mistress.”

Seeing the happiness on the maid’s face, Caecilia knew the time had come to cast aside distrust. She guessed Cytheris’s loyalty had stopped her from reconciling with her daughter. “You must visit her. Make peace. The plague has shown me that we must ensure words of love are not hoarded. Aricia has shown she is contrite. I’ve been stubborn in not forgiving her. And selfish in expecting you to do the same.”

Cytheris beamed, her missing dogtooth revealed, not hiding her feelings this time. “Thank you, mistress. Thank you!”

She returned her smile, then bade her bring the children to her. Settling back onto the bed, Caecilia listened to her sons’ piping, eager voices drawing closer along the corridor, and murmured a prayer of thanks to Uni for saving them.





THIRTY-FOUR



Semni, Veii, Spring, 396 BC

Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, Semni tugged at Arruns’s hand, urging him to follow her to the stairs to the upper story. He refused to budge. “Why are you leading me to the loggia?”

“I’ve something to tell you, and I don’t want anyone to hear.”

He frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”