Aries Fire (40 page)

The white stone walls of the house warmed in the setting sun and cast an orange shadow through the northwest window that faced the sea. The sea wasn’t far and she could smell the salt air.

Three bedrooms on the second level faced east for bright and cheery dawn greetings. Their kitchen was the largest room in the house and sat next to an open salon. Seira kept her house neat and filled the salon with scrolls tucked into shelves built by Alexander.  She walked over to the wall that held the scrolls and thought of the Empress Eudocia and how kind she was to let her have Hypatia’s Astronomical Canon. It had crushed a bit during the escape through the tunnel but she managed to smooth it out and have it copied.

She admired Eudocia’s bravery for finally leaving her husband and moving to Jerusalem with her remaining child to establish the church of Siloam. On one occasion Eudocia sent Seira her latest poem and one very profound work by Soranus, ‘On Midwifery and the Diseases of Women.’

Soranus of Ephesus lived several hundred years prior and was a leading obstetrician of his time. Trained at Alexandria and practiced in Rome, he supported the official training of maia, female midwives. Seira read his work every day of her pregnancy, absorbing information quickly, preparing herself for the unknown. She especially reread the contraceptive pages. Seira had practiced and preached to other women, especially the young Hun women, about a solution of honey, and natron—soda ash from the lake bed. When she mixed natron with oil it made efficient body soap, but when she combined natron and honey with siliphium, the resinous paste from the rosinweed, it made an almost infallible contraceptive.

Soranus wrote extensively about the acidic properties that were exceptionally effective in killing the seeds of men through soaking cotton with an infusion of acacia bark, goat’s milk, carob-soaked water, and honey. Once inserted into the vagina prior and post intercourse it created a deadly environment for male seeds.

Seira made note to use this method. One pregnancy seemed enough.

Alexander agreed with Seira. He wanted her all to himself anyway. He saw how she hid her fears about birthing their child and had suggested a maia to help her when her time came. She resisted at first, but finally realized her foolishness and accepted the idea.

Seira silently blessed Eudocia for Soranus’ ancient text as it eased her mind about childbirth. She loved powerful women as they gave her permission to be herself.

Seira reached for Eudocia’s poem about St. Cyprian on the shelf and felt a tug on her waistline. Her body wouldn’t cooperate.

“Saturn’s curse,” she mumbled aloud.

The front gate bell pealed abruptly.

Alexander! she waddled to the kitchen door as an unfamiliar voice called out.

“Misstrus Seira, I have come to call. Hallo?”

Seira peeked out of the window and saw an attractive dark skinned middle-aged woman with a black cloak draped across her shoulders tentatively enter the courtyard.

“Hallo? Misstrus Seira? Is anyone at the home?”

“Good day,” Seira said and stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Good day Misstrus,” the woman said as she brightened to see Seira at home.

“I’ve come at the requesting of your husband, the Capitain.” 

The woman stopped not wanting to encroach further without proper introductions.

“My name is Ramla. I’m to be your maia.”

Ramla stood and straightened her cloak and gave Seira time to respond.

“Midwife? Oh.”

Seira hesitated out of cautionary habit but finally motioned for her to come inside.

Ramla reached through the gate and pulled a carpetbag through.

“My things,” she said perfunctorily and smiled.

Ramla walked regally across the courtyard and past the garden of herbs and lilies. She bent over and severed a senna leaf from its stem with one quick twist and held it up to Seira.

“This is most useful plant,” she smiled at Seira. “May I?” She asked, reaching out to touch Seira’s belly.

Seira frowned a bit and wished Alexander had sent word. She liked that Ramla had slender fingers, clean hands, and trimmed fingernails. She felt assured that Ramla would make a competent maia.

“Yes, of course.”

Ramla gently placed her hands over Seira’s belly. She slid her fingers lightly around to the bottom of Seira’s fullness and said, “Mmm…ahh.”

Seira liked the gentle touch of this midwife.

“She come early,” Ramla said.

That statement suddenly annoyed Seira.

How can she know what I don’t?  Seira cleared her throat.

“Please come inside Ramla. How did my husband find you and is there any news from him?”

“Oh, yes. Please forgive,” Ramla said and pulled a tiny box from her cloak.

“For you, from the Capitain as assurance that I am who I say.”

Ramla clasped her hands, an elongated neck held proud, patiently waiting for Seira to grant her stay.

Seira’s mildly suspicious glance crinkled in a false smile as she took the box. Opening it she saw her fibula, given to her many years ago by her mother and left aboard the Ishtar. Seira let out a short laugh. Alexander saved her fibula and surprised her with it on their wedding day.  Later they would decide to use it as a code to signal each other as a way to thwart subterfuge. Seira rubbed her thumb over the slick stones and relaxed.

“Thank you Ramla. You are welcome in our home. But where is Alexander?”

“He contracted my services in Iraklion through our mutual acquaintance, the Rabbi Isaac, and sailed me in port just two hours past. The Capitain instructed me to gather necessities and make my way to you.”

Seira interrupted, “So he is in Alexandria? But why did he not escort you himself?”

Seira noted her thick dialect and had to quickly translate…

Iraklion? Oh, Crete.

Seira grilled her midwife for information. It seemed Ramla spoke only when necessary. Perhaps it exhausted her to speak another language.

Ramla’s brown skinned hands were strong and herb stained. She wore a silver ring on her thumb with a foreign inscription on it. Her eyes were the color of chamomile flowers and she had dark freckles on her caramel face that made her look girlish and innocent. Tiny strands of wiry black hair strayed loose from her khimar that covered the whole of her head.

“Are you from Africa?”

“I am from the Western Kingdom. My father is from Al Iskandariyah. My mater is a Zulu Princess. Not a pair grandfather would have. They escape to Rabbat and I, raised in Al-Maghrib al Aqsa.”

Seira hadn’t heard Alexandria or Marrakech referred to in their Arabic names for a quite some time. She paused to map out Ramla’s ancestry in her mind.

That explains the mixture of accents, she thought.

“And Alexander found you in Cre…Iraklion?” Seira probed further.

“Take care to sit and rest now,” Ramla said and pulled Seira’s chair closer to her.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, sitting with effort.

“Being a Jew and Arab breed, and not Christian, I fled to Iraklion during Donatist Christian wars. I was twelve years in age.”

Ramla moved over to the fireplace and stoked the flames. She picked up the kindling and placed the pile in the basket by the hearth. Spring evenings cooled quickly and the stone house held the chill in the air. Seira watched Ramla’s efficiency with admiration.

“I am not married and have no heirs. I have trained in Zulu plants and Jewish sciences,” she spoke as she refitted the logs. Ramla dusted off her hands and turned to Seira.

“I am maia to two hundred and thirty seven women. Only fifty two women and seventeen babes die,” Ramla paused and looked around the room for the shutter pole to close the windows. “But not because of me,” she added.

“I’m sure not,” Seira replied, remembering the women she helped in childbirth. She counted them, too. Chiding herself for the ones who didn’t make it, but finding the reason why kept her from guilt. She’d stay up for days recounting the birth in her mind only to come to the conclusion that she did all she could and was not to blame.

Seira wasn’t sure if she ought to be intimidated by this midwife or congratulate her on her confidence as a woman.

“You have started to make bread. Do you continue or may I?” Ramla offered.

Seira tried to remove her ring before rolling out the dough earlier but couldn’t. Her fingers were swollen.

“Please,” motioned Seira.

Ramla went to the water basin with her bag and removed a small jar with scented oil. She dripped the oil onto her hands and rubbed them vigorously in the water to cleanse her fingers.

“I have made note that woman who clean, live long,” she said to Seira without looking at her.

“As have I,” Seira said with approval. “What are you using?” Seira asked already smelling the oregano oil.

“An extrication of oregano oil mixed with my own solution of aloe to make soft and clean,” Ramla said with a glint in her eyes.

Seira smiled at her with appreciation. Her competitive nature relaxed in the company of this strong, yet non-competitive woman.

“Did you spend much time talking with my husband on the journey across the sea?”

Seira realized she was happy to have company, even if she was with a stranger. She didn’t notice that Ramla hesitated to respond to her question.

“Your husband was…em,” she paused.  “Your husband was busy with his business and we did not speak much,” she finally said.

Seira was suddenly alarmed. She studied Ramla. Did she hesitate to answer because she struggled with translation or did she refuse to divulge information? Why Alexander would not present Ramla in person if he was already here in Alexandria perplexed her. Something was wrong.

“Did Alexander bring many slaves back?” Seira probed.

Ramla wiped her hands and kneaded the bread dough. She looked up at Seira with a pleasant expression.

“Only one,” she said.

Seira suddenly realized that Ramla didn’t answer her earlier question.

“Did you meet Alexander in Iraklion?”

“Yes,” she said as she laid the dough onto a stone tablet looking for the oven.

“It’s there,” Seira said and pointed to the brick oven where she did all of her baking.

“Rabbi Isaac contracted me, and I care for the wounded one on your husband’s ship.”

Ramla put more wood into the oven and poked at it with a stone stoker then picked up the bellows and fanned the fire as if she had lived in this house all of her life.

Seira kept her thoughts to herself and watched Ramla, who knelt down to massage Seira’s aching feet. She decided to give in to the pampering and enjoy herself for once without having to take control of the situation.

The smell of nut bread wafted through the house. The evening breeze caressed the delicious scent with that of Ramla’s oregano oiled skin. Seira’s stomach growled.

“Oh,” she said and put her hand to her belly. “I think we’re both hungry,” she said and laughed. “Thank you for the foot rub. I didn’t realize how much they hurt until you touched them. You’re very thoughtful,” she said to Ramla who peeked into the oven to check the bread.

Seira felt a sudden fatigue overcome her and she closed her eyes to look for Alexander in her mind. Her heart beat irregularly and she drew in a breath with sudden speed. “Ramla. I thought you told me my husband hired you?”

Ramla bit her lip and turned her back to Seira.

Seira labored to stand. “Where is my husband?”

Ramla turned to look at Seira. Seira noticed her sleek features and, for a brief moment, saw how sad Ramla was. Her regal profile radiated a loneliness that only someone in an isolated life could have. Seira didn’t have to ask her why she had no husband. It was clearer than the color of her eyes; she would be no man’s chattel, no man’s whore. An outcast dedicating her life to service was her only opportunity.

“He is to arrive shortly,” she replied quietly.

Seira stared at her and held her fiery temper. What wasn’t she telling her? Seira let it go. Ramla would not divulge her secrets and Seira would not persist. The truth would be hers soon enough.

They sat in an uncomfortable silence while the bread baked. Ramla swept the floor and Seira sat back in her chair, too tired to do anything. She needed to be done with pregnancy.

Not thirty minutes passed when Seira heard the clopping of mules and the creaking of their wooden cart beyond the front gate. She strained to grab the corner of the table and held her belly as she slid across the chair to stand.

“Alexander?” she called out.

Ramla grabbed a towel and wiped her hands as she laid the bread back onto the table. She sped past Seira whose surge of anger escaped her lips.

“I’ll go!”

Ramla stood still and lowered her head with embarrassment. She nodded at Seira.

“Yes, Misstrus, yes.”

“Oh, Saturn’s curse,” Seira mumbled and regretted her outburst. Seira took Ramla’s hand and huffed, out of breath. “We’ll go together,” she said.

Ramla helped Seira through the door. A searing pain shot down her leg and numbed her foot. She gritted her teeth and held a firm hand onto her lower back. She began to feel feverish.

Seira reached the doorway and saw Alexander at the back of the cart. His temple had dried blood etched on it.

“Wha…” she yanked her hand away from Ramla.

“Alexander. What is it? Are you hurt?”

Seira shuffled as fast as she could past the gate that jingled when she flung it open. He wasn’t looking at her and that infuriated her. She neared the cart and grabbed the wooden panel that was worn and rotting from too many days in the sun.

Seira peered into the cart and saw a mound of white linen. She searched Alexander’s face for an explanation. Alexander untied a bundle anchored to the rear panel. She looked inside the cart again and suddenly saw his face.

“Isaac?”

She gasped at its meaning and grasped at the air simultaneously frozen in a gripping contraction. Ramla ran to her aid, Alexander to her side. Seira reached for him and fell into Alexander’s arms. He caught her. 

Seira cried out, “ISAAC!” But she knew he wouldn’t answer. She knew he was dead. And the baby wouldn’t wait. Water spilled from her womb. She twisted forward in excruciating pain.