Avenger of Blood (18 page)

Miletus. Her father had been elderly when she was born; he had died while Agatha was still a young girl. A few years later her mother had succumbed to a protracted illness. Agatha's much older brother had been only too happy to see her married to Falco, a distant cousin who lived in Ephesus.

Feeling trapped and without options, Agatha suffered silently. She couldn't talk to Falco about her sorrow, and she had no close friends with whom she could unburden herself.

Finally, she made an effort to bridge the emotional estrangement from her husband. Agatha reasoned that she could not deny him conjugal rights forever; he was her husband. Besides, she still wanted a child, and there was only one way to create one.

All Falco said was, “I knew you'd come to your senses one of these days.”

Several months later Agatha conceived again. Not trusting her husband's reaction, she hid her pregnancy for as long as possible. When she could hide it no longer, she told Falco.

Agatha prepared his favorite dinner and tried engaging her husband in conversation while they ate. Although he didn't say much, he at least made the pretense of having a dialogue. Business had picked up at the fuller's shop, so he was in a relatively good mood. The man dearly loved dirt—dirty clothes, that is. The more soiled garments his customers brought in, the happier Falco became.

After they finished the meal, Agatha refilled his wine goblet. She smiled and said, “I have some good news.”

Rather than replying, Falco simply looked at her doubtfully, as if nothing she might have to say could be interesting enough to hold his attention.

Although stung by his arrogance, Agatha continued to smile. This news was too important to let her feelings interfere. “I'm going to have another baby,” she said.

“Well, I hope you get it right this time.” Falco drank the last sip of his wine, then pushed back from the table.

“Wait,” Agatha said, her anger rising. “I have something to say.”

Falco raised his heavy eyebrows at her show of emotion. “By all means,” he said sarcastically, “let's hear what you have to say.”

Agatha took a deep breath. “If it's a girl, we're keeping it this time. I know you want a son, and we'll keep trying until we have one. And I know that sometimes we're financially strapped,” she said, “but we're not destitute, Falco. I'll work with you in the fuller's shop, to help cut expenses. I'm strong, I can do it—”

Falco erupted. “That's preposterous—a woman doing the work of a fuller. You'd make me a laughingstock.” He rose from the table. “End of discussion, Agatha.”

“But . . .” Agatha started to protest.

“Don't get any ideas. Just keep praying to your goddess that you have a boy this time. Because if it's another girl, I'll divorce you.” Falco turned and walked out.

Agatha was stunned by his threat; she knew he meant it.

In the days that followed, she refused to let herself dwell on the possibilities. Instead, she renewed her daily rituals of prayer to Artemis, and this time Agatha prayed fervently for a boy. It was clear to her now: she had simply not prayed the right words the last time. Now she recited the
Grammata
and invented precise petitions, reworking her language until she thought there was no way Artemis could misunderstand her petitions or her devotion.

Alfidia attended the birth again, and Agatha was reassured by the kindly midwife's presence. But the delivery did not go well. The baby was too large, and no matter how hard Agatha tried, her body would not open wide enough.

She screamed from the horrendous pain, and periodically Alfidia soothed the worst of it with a bitter brew that contained mandrakes and poppies. Agatha's cries would diminish for a while, and once she even dozed fitfully. But the medication soon wore off, and the ferocious battle with pain would begin anew.

After an endless night of agony, Agatha was beyond exhaustion.

But she determined that if she died giving birth, so be it. She would give her own life in the process, but she
would
bring another life into the world.

Toward dawn, Agatha said weakly, “Promise me something.”

“Shhhhh,” the midwife replied. “Don't try to talk.”

Agatha persisted, raising up on one elbow as she pleaded with Alfidia. “Please promise me that if it's a girl, you won't let Falco abandon her to die.” With an urgency born of desperation in her voice, Agatha repeated, “Please.”

Alfidia gently lowered Agatha to the bed, then looked away for a moment. Finally, she turned back. “I promise. Even if I have to raise her myself, I won't let him throw this baby away.”

Her breathing shallow and her face contorted with pain, Agatha whispered her thanks. She lay quietly for a moment, then said, “I'm going to do this, Alfidia. I'm going to have this baby.”

Holding the sides of the bed with both hands, Agatha summoned all her strength and gave a final, powerful push that wracked her body. But at the end of the movement, the baby's head emerged fully.

“It's coming,” Alfidia said excitedly. Then she frowned in concentration as she twisted and pulled the child all the way out of the womb.

It didn't concern Agatha that the midwife did not speak again or that she had turned pale. It didn't occur to Agatha that the child was not crying. All Agatha could think was that she had done it; she had finally given birth. Numb from the pain and the narcotics, Agatha did not even realize that she had started hemorrhaging. When she passed out, she was smiling wanly.

Hours later, Agatha regained consciousness. She drifted in and out of a drug-induced haze for a few minutes, then finally woke up.

“Drink some more of this,” Alfidia said, holding out a cup. “It will help you sleep.”

Agatha didn't want to sleep anymore. She wanted to hold her child for a while first. “Where's my baby?” she asked hoarsely.

Alfidia placed the cup on the washstand without speaking.

“Was it a girl?” Agatha tried to sit up. “Did Falco take her away?” Alfidia had promised she wouldn't let him.

“No, it was a boy.” The midwife spoke quietly and almost reverently.

“A boy?” Immensely relieved, Agatha lay back down. She'd had a boy. Artemis had answered her prayer. “Have you presented him to Falco yet?”

Alfidia came and sat on the side of the bed. She folded her hands in her lap before speaking. “The baby wasn't breathing when he was born. The cord was twisted around his neck, and he had been in the birth canal too long . . . there was nothing I could do.”

Agatha's mind was still fuzzy, and the realization dawned slowly. “He's dead? My son is dead?”

“I'm sorry,” Alfidia said helplessly. “So sorry.”

She reached for the cup again and offered it to Agatha. “You bled some,” the midwife said. “You need to rest.”

This time Agatha took the cup and drank it all.

She woke just before daylight the next morning. Alfidia was gone, but she had cleaned up the bedroom. Falco was not there, and his side of the bed was undisturbed.

It was still early; he wouldn't be gone to the shop yet. The floors were cold, so she put on her slippers before she went looking for her husband. She found him in the dining room, reclining on the single
triclinium
; the room was too small for the traditional three sofas around the square table.

Falco did not look up when she entered. Agatha did not know what to say. She knew better than to expect comfort from her husband; he wasn't the type. But perhaps he would at least acknowledge their loss.

Instead, what he said was, “I'll give you a few days to recover. Then I want you to pack your things and leave.”

“L-leave?”

He finally looked up at Agatha. “I'm going to divorce you and find a proper wife. One who can give me the one thing in life I want.”

She was shocked. Falco had said that if it was a girl he would divorce Agatha, but it had been a boy. She had risked her life to give birth to their son—and it had all been in vain. Now her husband was through with her.

“Where will I go?” Agatha finally asked.

“That won't be any concern of mine once I file a bill of divorce.” Falco calmly wiped his mouth, then stood up from the table. He left for work without another word.

Agatha did not look up as he left. The rejection was too great to fathom. He had never even liked her, let alone loved her. He'd wanted a wife to take care of his needs and to give him a son. She had tried her best but failed. Falco was correct; she couldn't do anything right.

Eventually Nonius brought her something to eat, but avoided looking at her as he served it.
Not even a slave can find anything worthy of respect in me,
she thought.

Falco had said he would give her a few days, but as Agatha ate her breakfast, she decided she couldn't bear to stay a moment longer. She didn't have much to pack—just a few tunics and some copper kitchen utensils that had been her mother's. The most valuable thing Agatha owned was the silver statue of Artemis. Surely she could sell it for enough money to travel to Miletus. Perhaps her brother would take her in.

But when Agatha went to the atrium, she found her shrine destroyed and the statue gone. Dismayed, she went to the bedroom, packed her few things in a threadbare valise, and left the house.

The day was cold and bleak, but that matched the way Agatha felt inside. Could she manage to walk to Miletus in the dead of winter? The journey would take a full two days, if Agatha had the strength for it. She wandered the narrow streets of the inner city, not quite sure of the route she should take but knowing that Miletus lay on the main road to the south.

Agatha was not too far out of the city gates when her nose informed her that she was close to the dump. She stopped in the road, put down her valise, and looked around.

This was where Nonius had left her daughter to die. Agatha wondered if Falco had ordered the slave to dispose of her son's body in the dump as well. No, her husband would have cremated the baby's body. Or should have. No telling what Falco had done—whatever entailed the least inconvenience and the least expense.

A cart drove through the city gates, and she heard the driver shouting. Startled out of her thoughts, Agatha picked up her bag and moved to the side of the road. She began walking toward the garbage heaps.

Dazed, she meandered around the path that circled the dump. It seemed that all her dreams had been consigned to these rotting piles of refuse. Agatha had always wanted a large family. In seven years of marriage she had been through three pregnancies, and still she had no children. The one healthy baby she'd delivered had been thrown out with the pottery shards and human waste and left to die.

The thought left her weak in the knees, and Agatha suddenly plopped down her valise and collapsed on top of it. Perhaps she would just lie down and die—right here, where her daughter had perished. Survival no longer mattered to Agatha. Who would mourn her passing? Would anyone care?

The tears that streaked Agatha's face felt icy. She hadn't realized she was crying until she reached up and wiped them away. A loud, keening sob arose from her chest then, and Agatha keeled forward. She stayed on her hands and knees, wailing brokenheartedly for a few minutes. Then, spent and depleted, she sat back down on the valise while her sobs subsided.

She stared into the garbage piled up near the path, willing herself to take off her cloak and lie down. She would die quicker without the warmth of the woolen outer garment.

When she first heard the tiny cry, Agatha thought it was her imagination. The poppies and mandrakes she had imbibed had played tricks with her mind, and several times during the night she had awakened briefly, thinking she heard her baby.

But Agatha not only heard the cry again, she saw movement just at the edge of her vision. A man was walking away. He had dumped some garbage a few yards from Agatha. Was that where she had heard the baby cry? Agatha stood and walked toward the spot. Holding her breath, she searched the debris littering the ground.

She had not imagined the sound. There, in between two heaps of household refuse, was a baby. The child was carefully wrapped in a blanket. Someone had wanted to give this little one a chance at survival. And she—was it a girl? Agatha did not remove the blanket to find out, but she assumed the newborn was a baby girl, and she could not have been there long; the child was not even cold.

As Agatha cradled the baby in her arms, she began to weep again. She'd never had the opportunity to hold one of her own children— not even her daughter. It felt so right holding this tiny life and crooning to her.

With strength she hadn't felt a moment earlier, Agatha went and picked up her valise, then she carried her bag and her new baby to the opposite side of the path. Her back to the dump now, she sat down beneath a tree and rested her back against its broad trunk.

Sheltering the newborn inside her cloak, Agatha unwrapped the baby's blanket for a moment. She'd been right. It was a baby girl.

Agatha rewrapped the child, then rearranged her tunic to allow the baby to nurse, drawing her cloak around them both. Time after time she tried to feed the newborn, with no success. Agatha didn't know if she had no milk, or if the child was simply too weak to suckle.

Almost to the point of panic, Agatha finally leaned her head against the tree and closed her eyes. She had to do something. She'd been meant to find this baby; she had to be able to nurse her. Agatha could not, would not let this baby die as her own daughter had.

The prayer rose from the depth of her being until the words burst from her mouth into the frigid air. “If any god can hear me,” Agatha cried out, “please help me save this little girl.”

Agatha's panic subsided, and she tried putting the child to her breast again. She stroked the little one's cheek as the tiny mouth searched for nourishment.

At last Agatha felt a determined tug . . . and this time the milk flowed from her breast.