Call to Juno (A Tale of Ancient Rome #3) (24 page)

T
HIRTY
-T
HREE

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.

“Ati, Ati!” Larce struggled to sit.

“Hush,” she crooned, drawing him onto her lap. “Hush. I’m here.”

“I saw the blue demon,” he sobbed. “He was laughing and holding a hammer. He was going to hit me on the head to make sure I was dead.”

She rocked him. “Ssh, it was just a dream. There are no monsters here.”

“But the blue demon will be there when I die.” He clutched her. “I don’t want to be alone in Acheron. I want you to be there.”

His pleading tore at her. She crushed him against her. Suddenly the Roman spirit world of the Good Ones seemed one of terror and nothingness. How could she tell him he was destined to dissolve and merge with the Shades? Larce needed solace, not dread. She wished Vel were here to hold them. He hadn’t been present at the birth of any of their children. How would he feel to be absent when one died?

She felt the bulla pendant on Larce’s necklace hard against her breast. Calming herself, she eased his arms from her neck and drew the coverlet around them for warmth. She slipped the chain over his head, showing him the tiny gold figurine.

“See Fufluns’s dolphin? Apa gave it to you to protect you from the evil eye. The dolphin will guide you across the Great Sea in Acheron.”

The boy stroked the amulet with his forefinger. “So I will be safe in the Beyond even when I die?”

She brushed the hair from his brow and kissed him. “When you journey to the Afterworld, you will meet all your family at a banquet. Grandmother and grandfather are already there.”

“So we will be together again?”

She replaced the bulla around his neck, patting the dolphin. Suddenly, acknowledging the power of the wine god’s creature gave her hope. If Larce was going to be taken from her, then she wanted to believe she’d see him again. “Yes, Apa and Tas and Arnth and Thia. All of us, forever.”

Larce encircled her waist with his arms, laying his head on her chest. She noticed the rash behind his ears was turning brown. His skin was cool against hers. His fever had broken. Relieved, she murmured a prayer of thanks to both Uni and Fufluns.

“Why are you are shivering, Ati, when your skin is hot?”

She realized she could not stop trembling, her muscles contracting, the rigors uncontrollable. Her teeth chattered as she spoke. “It’s nothing, my love.”

“My lady!”

Cytheris stood at the doorway holding Arnth by the hand. When the servant saw how her mistress was shaking, she hurried to her, lifting the boy to sit on the edge of the bed. He was listless and coughing, his eyes leaden.

Larce crawled over to sit next to his brother. “Ati, Arnth has a paint splash just like yours behind his ear.”

Caecilia closed her eyes, hoping when she reopened them the evidence of the telltale rash on Arnth’s skin would have vanished. Instead the scarlet flush remained. Head aching, limbs achy, she lay down, holding out her arms. “Bring him to me.”

The handmaid helped Arnth lie beside his mother. Even with her own fever, Caecilia could feel his temperature was high. He nestled against her, whimpering. The sound cut like a knife. Her youngest was not one to whine. “Cytheris, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I’m sorry, mistress. His fever has been mild and only worsened today. The rash has visited him quicker than I’ve seen before.” She pressed her palm against Caecilia’s forehead. “You’re ill, too.”

“Don’t worry about me. What of Tas and Thia?”

“Semni’s milk protects the princess. And Tas is yet untouched.”

Caecilia nodded, reassured. Larce sidled back to lie beside Arnth, his brief spurt of energy sapped.

Caecilia coughed, then coughed again. “And the others?”

“Perca and Cook are gravely ill. Semni forced Arruns to go to bed. He refused for a time, but now the sweats have gripped him.”

Caecilia’s guilt worsened. The red scourge was finding other victims she may have infected. Another rigor seized her.

Cytheris drew the quilt over the mother and sons. “Rest,” she murmured. “I’ll watch over you all.”

Caecilia tried to demur, shivering, needing sleep but fearful once again. What if Arnth died before she awoke? What if she was the one to perish? And in that moment, she knew she must worship Fufluns. She needed to ensure she and her family would remain together forever.

The chair scraped across the tiles as Cytheris drew it next to the bed. “Sleep, mistress. I will wake you should Arnth worsen.”

Eyelids heavy, Caecilia murmured her thanks. She was overcome with a yearning for Vel, needing him to be with her. She drifted into a fevered sleep, trying to conjure an image of him in the blackness between closed lid and tired eye.

Caecilia woke. Her mouth was dry. For a moment she was disoriented, wondering why she was sleeping in daytime.

She dug the heels of her hands into the mattress, pushing herself to sit, anxious to find Larce and Arnth. “Cytheris! Where are they?”

Dozing in a chair, the handmaid’s eyes flew open at her mistress’s croaky voice. “They’re fine, my lady.” She hastened to the bedside and reached for Caecilia’s hand. “Larce is playing with Semni. And Arnth is sleeping in his room. The rash has almost faded. I thought it best to give you some peace. The fever has gripped you for days.”

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?”