The Blessing Stone (27 page)

And now Cornelia herself was waiting for the same news…

The newborn was a boy, perfect and unblemished. The young father broke into a smile and lifted the baby off the floor. “I have a son!” he cried, and the others in the room cheered and offered congratulations.

Lady Amelia nearly collapsed with relief. But as she was about to hurry back to her daughter with the good news, there was a sudden commotion outside. Philo, the majordomo of the villa, materialized in the doorway with his wooden staff and dignified manner. “Lady, the master is home.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. She was not ready!

Amelia did not go directly to greet Cornelius but instead watched from the shadows as slaves rushed forward to welcome their master with wine and food, to relieve him of his toga, to fuss about him in transparent excitement: when the master was away, life in the country was deadly dull. He accepted their adulation with the graciousness of a king. At forty-five, Cornelius was tall and handsome with just a brush of gray at the temples. Amelia could almost remember what it was like to be in love with him.

But that was before she had discovered his cold, unforgiving heart, when he had learned from friends of her brief indiscretion with a poet who had been passing through Rome, and she had confessed, and begged forgiveness, and told him it was because she had been so filled with grief over the loss of her last baby and the poet had crooned the words she needed to hear. But Cornelius had said he would never forgive her, and everything changed.

She silently followed him as he went straight to the birthing chamber where he congratulated his son-in-law and took the infant from the wet nurse to fuss over it. Then he sat on the bed and bent over Cornelia. She had always been his favorite. When those two were together Amelia had always felt left out. What secrets was he whispering to her now?

A little boy came running in then, shouting, “Papa! Papa!” Lucius, a plump and pampered nine-year-old, was followed by an old hound he had named Fido, Rome’s most popular name for a dog as it meant “faithful.” Fido could be a good name for the child as well, for he worshipped his father and followed him everywhere. Amelia watched as Cornelius scooped the child up in a loving embrace. He wasn’t really their son, only by law. Cornelius had adopted the boy when he was orphaned at age three. Lucius was the child of distant cousins and therefore family. Amelia tried to love Lucius but could not find it in her heart to do so. It was not the boy’s fault. Amelia could never forget the fact that Cornelius had embraced another woman’s child while discarding her own.

Amelia was thirty-seven when she had conceived her last child. Already she had been feeling the changes in her body, signs that her fertile years were coming to an end. And so it had been a special pregnancy because it would be her last, and she had loved the life in her womb more deeply than any of her other children. It was to be the companion of her older years when her other children were grown and gone, the special child that receives an older mother’s attention and wisdom.

And then Cornelius had thrown it away.

Amelia had tried to remind herself that she should in fact be thankful: to have five living children out of ten pregnancies was a sign of favor from the gods. Roman children weren’t even given names until they reached their first birthday, infant mortality was so common. Had that precious one survived the rubbish heap? Was there a little orphaned girl somewhere in Rome hobbling about on a lame foot? People who scavenged rubbish heaps to salvage broken pots, and lamps, and scraps of papyrus and cloth, sometimes took babies that still breathed. Such rescues were not out of compassion but for profit: a small child could be raised on minimal food and care, and then, if it lived to see its third or fourth birthday, could be sold at the slave market for nearly pure profit. If she was lucky, the girl would grow up to serve a gentle master. More likely she would be sold into a life of harsh servitude, and if at all comely, for sexual entertainment.

After watching the family reunion as if through the eyes of a stranger—for she knew she would never be included, no matter that she was wife and mother—Amelia left her place in the shadows and went to give instructions to the cook for the evening feast. The morning’s tension dispelled, the house was alive with activity. That the young master had accepted the newborn into the family was reason enough for celebration, but now there was the added and exciting prospect of moving back to the city.

But as Amelia inspected the fresh game and discussed sauces with the cook, to her great surprise, Philo the majordomo appeared unexpectedly to announce that her husband wished to see her. Amelia didn’t trust Philo. She knew that his sleepy eyelids belied a keen intellect. She suspected he spied on her and reported her activities to Cornelius.

Amelia did not go straight to her husband’s private chambers but stopped at her own suite first to check her hair, her dress, her perfume. She was suddenly nervous. Why had he asked to see her? Amelia and her husband barely talked, even after a seven-month separation.

Cornelius Vitellius, one of Rome’s most popular lawyers and a current favorite of the mob, had gone to Egypt to oversee family business there. Amelia and her husband were very wealthy. While Cornelius owned copper mines in Sicily, a fleet of cargo vessels, and grain fields in Egypt, Amelia owned several blocks of tenement apartments in the heart of Rome.

She found him seated at a small writing desk. Freshly home from such a long journey and already he was catching up on correspondence and news. She stood patiently. Then she cleared her throat. Finally she said, “How was Egypt, my Lord?”

“Egyptian,” he said dismissively.

Amelia wished she could have gone with him. Ever since she was a child she had dreamed of visiting the ruins of Egypt, but of course such dreams were now beyond all hope of coming true. As she waited nervously for him to state his reason for summoning her, she thought frantically over the past seven months to see if there was anything he could remotely take to be an infraction of the rules he imposed upon her. But it was impossible to recall what it would be. Cornelius could take her slightest word or gesture as an act of rebellion. Whatever it was, what would he do to her this time? Leave her behind in the country when he returned to Rome? She did not think she could bear much more of this seclusion.

His punishment was always manifested in the most subtle ways. And part of his control over her was that he would not even allow her to bring up the issue for explanation. He had judged her and that was the end of it. She wanted to say, “Let me tell you why I did it.” But the subject was closed, even though it was
her
subject, part of her life, and she should have control over whether it was discussed or not. Cornelius hadn’t interrogated her as other husbands might do. He hadn’t raised his voice or called her names. Amelia often thought that if only he would do these things then the “monster” could be brought out into the open and perhaps be put out of their lives. But Cornelius had sealed every avenue, making sure the nameless phantom couldn’t escape, that it would continue to exist between them as Amelia’s private torment.

The adultery was something that had simply happened. She had been disconsolate over the loss of her baby. The love affair had lasted only a week, but it had been enough. Instead of divorcing her and banishing her to exile as was his right, Cornelius had surprised her by staying married to her. At the time she had thought it was his way of forgiving her. The real reason was in fact quite the opposite.

He now controlled her life utterly, and periodically, as part of her continued punishment, sent her to stay in the country. Amelia loved the city, all her friends were there, and her beloved bookshops and theaters. Whenever she was forced to stay in the country she was reminded of Julia, the daughter of Augustus, who had been exiled to the island of Pandateria, a barren volcanic outcropping in the ocean that was so small she could walk the length and breadth of it in under an hour. Julia had been allowed no wine, no favorite foods, no pets or entertainments or companionship—no luxuries whatsoever. And there she had died after years of never seeing another soul except the old man who brought fish up from the beach. Such was the fate of adulterous wives, if they were not in fact executed for their crime.

But Cornelius had chosen a slower, more painful punishment. Instead of just cutting her down with one blow and banishing her to exile, he kept Amelia so that he might slowly whittle her down, chipping away at her self-confidence and pride. There was a goddess statue in the garden exposed to the elements, and every season it would be a little smaller, a little more diminished as the wind and rain slowly eroded it. Long ago it had been a beautiful, perfect statue with distinct chiseled facial features but now her nose and cheeks and chin were all worn away, her face formless so that it was no longer known which goddess she had been. That was how Amelia saw herself: she was a statue exposed to her husband’s harsh elements. And like a statue, she was immobile and could not run away. Someday, she feared, she would be so featureless that her identity would no longer be known.

Cornelius finally rose from the writing desk and held a small ebony box out to her.

She stared at it. “What is it?”

“Take it.”

He had brought her a gift? Her heart leaped with brief hope. Had his months in Egypt, and absence from home, given him pause to reflect and reconsider? She thought of the Bird Reader’s prophecy of a man welcoming her with open arms, and she wondered in a rush of excitement if Cornelius had forgiven her at last.

She drew in a sharp breath when she opened the box and saw what was inside: the most exquisite necklace she had ever laid eyes on.

Giddy with joy and sudden hope, she carefully brought the gold chain out of the box and held it up to the light. Set in expertly crafted gold was a stunning blue stone, egg-shaped and smooth, shot with hues from skies and rainbows and lakes. As she fastened it behind her neck, Cornelius said, “The legend is that it was found in the tomb of an Egyptian queen who deceived her husband and was put to death for it,” and Amelia’s hopes and joy collapsed.

She saw the truth of her life, all in an instant: a woman whose children no longer needed her, whose husband was cold and cruel, and whose few friends gossiped about her behind her back. An intolerable situation. Yet she could never leave for the law gave Cornelius absolute right of life and death over her. Besides, she
had
done wrong. She deserved to be punished.

Amelia woke with a start.

She listened to the night and heard, beyond her open window, the never-ending noise of the city. Wheeled traffic was not allowed in the streets of Rome during the day and so the night was always filled with the clip-clop of hooves and the creaks and groans of wagons. But it wasn’t the city that had wakened her. “Who’s there?” she whispered in the darkness.

When there was no response she continued to lie still, holding her breath. She was certain she felt a presence in the room. “Cornelius?” she said, knowing that would be impossible.

Her skin suddenly rose in bumps and she felt her scalp crawl. Filled with nameless dread, she sat up. Her bedchamber was flooded with radiant moonlight. She looked around the room but saw no one there. Yet she was certain someone was there.

Creeping from her bed, she stole across the room to look out the window. Rome slept. Rooftops, towers, hills, and valleys covered with buildings glowing in moon- and starlight. And the relentless traffic in the streets, strangely solemn and muted, as if ghosts drove the horses and mules.

She felt an icy breath on her back. Turning with a start, she surveyed the bedchamber once more. Her senses were heightened. The furniture seemed to stand in eerie relief in the supernatural light of the moon. Suddenly it didn’t look like her bedroom at all. It made her think of tombs and death.

Crossing the cold floor, she reached her dressing table and looked at the ebony box Cornelius had brought from Egypt. And suddenly she knew:
There lay the nameless presence.
The hateful blue crystal that had lain a thousand years upon the bosom of a dead woman. It terrified her. When Cornelius had first given it to her, Amelia had gazed long and hard into the blue depths of the stone, and what she had seen there had so filled her with dread and terror that she had put the necklace away, swearing never to bring it to light again.

For she had seen the ghost of the murdered queen.

As morning sunlight streamed through her window, Amelia sat at her dressing table as she always had, applying makeup, inspecting jewelry, getting her hair arranged: a necessary ritual. Amelia kept her sanity by keeping up appearances. By ordering the arrangement of her hair she had order over her emotions. By doing what was expected she didn’t have to think or make decisions. As a woman of a certain station, there were rules she must follow, and Amelia followed those rules almost obsessively. She was like a mime in the theater, all gestures and no substance. She had loved Cornelius once, long ago, but now she could not recall what it had felt like, loving Cornelius, or loving at all. She had not been in love with her lover, a man she had known for exactly one week and whose face she could barely conjure now. Looking back, she could not recall the emotions that had driven her to his embrace, and certainly no trace remained of their fleeting, physical passion.

Adultery was a strange thing. It all depended on who committed it, and with whom. Among the lower classes, spousal cheating was almost a national pastime and a great source of jokes for the theater. But the nobility was held to a different standard and a straying wife was looked upon as cheating not only on her husband but upon her social class as well. As Lucilla, the beautiful widow of a famous senator, had once snippishly told her, it wasn’t the adultery that was the sin, it was getting caught. Amelia had acted in the highest stupidity, and for that the lords and ladies of Rome could not forgive her.