Broken Vessels (volume 2 of Jars of Clay) (9 page)

Where
was her mistress? Anxiety filled her chest, and the ease at which she flew
faltered. Where, oh where was Lady Helena? She flew through the household, the
atrium
,
the gardens, and out towards the slave quarters. Perhaps her mistress lingered
by the well. How improbable; she wouldn’t be there. Lady Helena had no need to
tend to the well.

Oh,
oh, danger. She spotted the eldest son of Brutus. Somehow, intuitively she knew
he was to be feared, and fear was like a clipper to her wings. She began to
fall. Oh no! She pleaded with the gods, but they, too, ignored her. She fell;
helpless, frightened, seeing the hungry look in her master’s eyes.

Surely
this time he would take her life.

“
Felicitas
!
Wake up!” It was the voice of her mother. She had not died, but indeed she had
fallen. The memory of her disgrace washed over her anew, and she felt she would
surely suffocate.

“You
were dreaming.” Annia said, stroking her daughter’s face. “I’ll get you some
tea. Try not to fret so.”

How
impossible not to fret. Could she think of anything else but the dismal future
that lay ahead of her now? She could take no comfort in her position as Lady Helena’s
personal slave, for she believed she had not secured her mistress’s affections.
Would she discard her soon? If so, what would that mean? Would she be sold on
the slave market, separated from her parents forever?

Never
before had Felicity questioned her station in life. The gods had ordained it;
she was the daughter of slaves, who were themselves the offspring of slaves.

Yet,
she had always imagined that at least in this life she would know the joys of
married love, and motherhood, even as a slave. That was ruined now, forever. No
man, slave or otherwise, would have her once word got out, and it would get
out; that was as certain as the sunset and sunrise. Nor would she have a child.

Unless,
on no, that was unthinkable! Except according to the cycle of her body and the
moon, it was indeed a possibility. If that happened, her life would surely end.
Brutus would spare his son and himself the embarrassment by forcing her to have
the child removed, or an even simpler solution would be to have her killed.

Annia
brought the tea and assisted her daughter’s shaky hands lifting it to her mouth.
She said nothing, and Felicity guessed that her mother’s thoughts paralleled
her own.

How
would her life be taken, she wondered, unable to exit the morbid trail on which
her thoughts had set themselves. No, that approach would be too messy, and she
knew Brutus didn’t have the heart for that kind of thing. Likely she would be
given an abortion and then sold.

Oh,
how deep was her despair! Perhaps she should take her own life. She couldn’t
think of one process to that end that appealed to her, but oh, once she had
succeeded she would be free again. Free to roam the underworld, unencumbered by
the duties and obligations yoked on her young shoulders. No longer a constant
reminder to her mistress of the shame she had brought on the household of
Brutus Vibius.

Yes,
perhaps it was the best solution. The question remaining was how, and when?

She wished to remain covered by the darkness in her room, but
she had no such luxury: this, her own mother and father had pronounced. She was
a slave, and as such she must rise and serve her mistress.

She bathed, put on a clean tunic, brushed out her hair and
braided it. It was not yet dawn, and if she hurried, she would be in the
chamber of her mistress before she arose.

When she saw the light of the oil lamp in her mistress’s room,
she grew afraid. Perhaps she should just climb up to the roof now, and jump.
Would the gods release her with the gift of death, or would she make matters
worse by severely injuring herself?

She climbed the steps softly, ignoring the pain that seared
through her body and indeed her soul.

She slipped in, not wanting to disturb Lady Helena who was
sitting at her desk, writing.

The sunlight cast dust rays over her mistress, caressing her
rounded abdomen. Lady Helena’s child would live while hers, if indeed there was
one, would not. She turned softly proceeding up the next flight of stairs.

“Felicity?”

Felicity had never denied her mistress before, but now she
must. She quickened her pace to the rooftop in sight.

“Felicity!”

Her mistress had followed her. She must hurry.

The brightness of the morning sun blinded her momentarily. She
cupped her eyes, squinting. Only a few more steps…

“Felicity, stop! I beg you.” Her mistress drew closer.

Felicity stood near the rim of the rooftop and peered down.
Only three floors. Would that be enough to kill her? She slipped out of her
sandals and curled her toes over the edge. She would take her chances with the
gods.

“Felicity, what Gordian did to you was wrong!”

Felicity teetered but swayed back.

Her mistress continued. “I apologize on his behalf.”

Surely, she had heard her wrong. A mistress apologizing to her
slave? With a hoarse voice Felicity replied, “I bring shame to the family. It
is better off if I am dead.”

“No, it’s not. Felicity, I am truly sorry that this happened to
you, and I promise I will do everything in my power to keep it from happening
again.”

Was her mistress honest? Or was this a trap?

Helena must have read the doubt on her face. “I would not jest,
Felicity.”

“There may be a child.”

“If you are with child, then we will share the experience
together. Now please, come away from the edge.”

Felicity stepped back. Her mistress either spoke the truth, or
she would now be severely punished. She bit her lip, holding back the tears.

“It’s okay to cry when you are hurt,” Helena said gently.

Felicity collapsed onto the floor and though she made every
effort to hold back the sobs that threatened, she was overcome. Helena knelt
down and did something she had never done in all the years Felicity had known
her. She held her.

“Oh,” Felicity cried, “You are all goodness!”

When the weeping subsided, she managed to say, “I don’t
understand. Why are you being so kind to me?”

“Someone was kind to me today.”

“Who?”

“Jesus.”

“Jesus?”

“Yes. He knows every sparrow that falls.”

Chapter Seventeen

HELENA’S JOURNAL

The pains started in the deep darkness before dawn. It felt
like I wore a wide leather belt that some invisible hand tugged on sharply,
squeezing me in intervals. The midwife had draped me in a loose tunic and sat
me in the birthing chair. Annia brought buckets of hot water and clean rags.
Mother paced, and repeatedly asked the midwife how much longer. I wanted to
tell her to go back to her room, but I couldn’t risk insulting her. Felicity
held my hand and wiped my face with a cool cloth.

The pressure on my abdomen pushed in from the outside and down
on the inside. Giant fingers constricting around my belly like it was a ripe
lemon being juiced. I couldn’t help but scream out in pain. Felicity’s eyes
widened unnaturally, and she held my hand too tightly. I frightened her. She
was fortunate that Gordian’s seed did not take, and she would be spared from
this agony.

“Midwife!” demanded my mother. “How much longer?”

“Only the gods know that,” she snapped.

I prayed silently to my Lord, as did Felicity with me and found
some comfort in knowing that my faith family was at Saturus’s home praying for
a safe delivery.

The sun just crested the hilltops when, with one last push and
throaty cry, the babe arrived.

A boy.

My mother rushed to view him. “Is he normal?”

The midwife nodded. Annia ushered the babe away, to the office
of my father to be laid at his feet. I was cleaned up, face and hair washed,
new tunic pulled over my wet head, and helped down the stairs to see my father.
There would be no rejoicing until my father picked up the child, legally
claiming it as his own, as I had no rights to the child myself.

The babe lay swaddled in a wicker basket, cleaned and shiny
pink. He whimpered hungrily.

Father lifted him up toward the statue of Jupiter and promptly
dedicated the baby to him.

Nine days later, during the dedication ceremony, Father
declared the name: Antonius Marcellus, after the great emperor Marcus Aurelius—who
had called himself Antonius—and after his own deceased son.

Father gave him back to me to hold. I considered my son’s face,
dismayed by my thoughts. The child resembled Vincentius. I found myself wishing
he looked like Lucius, but then banished those silly thoughts from my mind
immediately.

Chapter Eighteen

LUCIUS

The gates were made of tall cedar posts fastened together and
chiseled to sharp points at the top. They were opened by the guards which set
the donkeys off in joyous braying, knowing they were home and soon would be in
the barn to eat and rest. The carriage jerked to a stop, knocking Lucius into
the strong, dark man beside him. The man nudged him upright like he was shaking
off a tick.

Once the gates were closed and locked, the guards who had
traveled with them began to uncut the rope that tied the legs of the men to
each other and unfastened their ankle restraints.

Blood surged back into Lucius’s feet and he fought back the
urge to cry out in pain. He must not be perceived as weak.

The men were prodded off the carriage, their arms remaining cinched
together behind their backs. Lucius’s feet felt fat and numb as sausages, the
prickles biting like red ants.

He couldn’t navigate the steps out of the carriage and felt
himself falling. Without his hands to brace his fall, he landed with a thud in
the dirt on his chest, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped for breath,
sucking in dust, which set him off in a fit of coughing.

Laughter. The men were mocking him. As he opened his eyes to
determine how precarious his position was, he noticed the stern faces of the
prisoners who had arrived with him. The laughter came from those who’d come to
greet them. Men in grey tunics and leather belts tightened around narrow
waists. Their legs were bound by metal cuffs chained together but with enough
slack to walk. Their bulging arms were free. They were tattooed with words he
couldn’t make out from his vantage point.

“I bet he doesn’t last a day,” someone in the crowd of
witnesses muttered.

“Cedric’s going to lose denarii on this one,” another said,
snickering.

“Get up!” A boot poked him in the ribs. The owner of the boot
was attired in a white tunic draped with a colorful woven cloak. “Enough with
your amusing entrance,” he said, his voice raspy as if he’d spent several years
shouting. “If you don’t get yourself together, you’ll find your time in this
world will be short.”

Lucius managed to work his way off the ground without the help
of his hands, aware of the many watchful eyes and humiliated by his lack of
grace.

The new arrivals stood in a row, Lucius beside the ginger
haired man, Felix.

“Welcome to your destiny, men,” the man in the white tunic said
with authority. “You are here because you broke the laws of Rome, but, you have
been granted life, at least for a time.

“My name is Cedric. This is my facility were you will be
trained to live and to die. But, if you listen and learn, you may not die today
or tomorrow. If it is the will of the gods, your life could be extended. And if
you are very, very good, you may one day be granted freedom. I stand here as
proof of that.

“You will work hard. This is not a place for the lazy and
incompetent or for bumbling idiots,” Cedric said, staring pointedly at Lucius.
“They will surely die, and dishonorably at that.”

Lucius felt his face flush and cursed himself a fool for being
singled out so quickly. He was frightened now, because he knew he’d have to
work harder than ever to prove himself worthy of life.

“Indeed, death will come for most of you,” Cedric continued, “but,
men, let your death be an honorable moment, celebrated bravely, by glorifying
our great emperor in the games.”

The prisoners were tended to by the men in grey tunics. First
they were placed in metal shackles, after which the ropes binding their wrists
were slashed. Lucius wasn’t the only one rubbing life back into his hands and
fingers.

Then the men were given similar grey tunics. When Lucius
slipped it over his head he shuddered. It marked him. He was now something he
never dreamed he’d ever be. He was a slave.

Once outfitted, they were led to the kitchen, guided to one
long wooden table. Only one man who hadn’t arrived with them joined them.

“My name is Tullio. I’m here to direct you.” Tullio was a
sturdy Italian, built as tall and wide as a door. His dark hair was slicked
back off his ruddy face. When he smiled, Lucius could tell it wasn’t because he
was happy.

The food arrived and Lucius forgot about everything else.
Stewed boar with whole tomatoes and a large basket of thickly sliced bread were
given to them. The men ate like hogs at the trough. Felix and his nephew Titus
sat opposite Lucius, and like all the men, they were ravenous.

Only Tullio ate like he believed there would be more food
tomorrow.

After their meal, they were ushered out doors to the training
arena, an uncovered area crudely fenced and with guards posted on every side.
In fact, Lucius noted, there were several arenas—one for beginners, one for
immediate fighters, and one for the experienced and trained men about to be
presented to the games. On the north side wooden benches were built into the
hillside for the benefit of spectators who enjoyed watching the men train and
fight. Even now the seats were half full.