“Shall I offer condolences?”
“I wouldn’t accept them. Anyway, he was killed, but not before he had gone into debt again. I was so stupid; legionaries, whoring, gambling — just different names for the same word. Those men had come to collect. They showed me the contract; his mark was on it, there was no denying it. And they knew about the forty aureii. I tried to stop them, but they came in and found the hiding place within minutes. I thought I had been clever, but they had experience. We save anything that might be reused — I never discarded the broken staves; they found them in my trunk. But how had they found me? Before the battle my husband must have told them he had given me the money. I hope they tortured him.”
“Why do you insist on calling him ‘husband?’ It borders on profanity.”
“I do it with purpose. He was my husband. Our marriage was not arranged. I chose him, Minerva help me. Livia is gone because I could not govern her father. I call him ‘husband’ to remind me.”
“If you hadn’t chosen him,” I said quietly, “she would not have been born.”
“She would have been better off.” Her tears came now.
“You cannot think so.”
“I can. And do. Look at the world I have given her.”
“It was never yours to give.”
“I am her mother. I am responsible.”
“You are not a goddess, Sabina. If every bride stopped to think upon the odds of their family’s future, there would soon be none left to risk the vows. You can only do so much.”
“Say what you will. I have not done enough.”
I wanted to find more words of comfort but did not know where to look. They were not within me, of that I was certain. Her story had made me feel like a scoured gourd.
“You do not yet know the worst of it,” she said wiping her eyes and composing herself. “The forty in gold was not enough to settle this new debt — he owed four thousand sesterces beyond what those men stole from me. My loving husband’s estate, his gift to me upon his death,” she said bitterly.
It took me a moment to digest this new information. Suddenly, it dawned on me. “Tell me you did not do this thing.”
She glanced at me, then away. “I did. I went to the slave merchants quarter. I found three, but none would give me more than two thousand sesterces. Pretty young girls fetch so much more than mothers in their thirties. Finally, I found Boaz. He was not hard to locate; he supplies the finest houses in the city. I was wrong about him. He tried to talk me out of it; getting in, he said, is so much easier than getting out. For me, the choice was simple. In the end, he gave me twice what I was worth — four thousand sesterces. I was his for less than a week, then he resold me to the house of Crassus.”
Sabina, indentured by her own hand. Such love and sacrifice; how I envied her steel-edged purpose. And how I despised this life! “But your healing skills, surely they were worth a premium?”
“I may not be voluptuous and my hair may be cropped close, but I should like to think I have not fallen so far that a buyer would mistake me for a man. Most Romans insist that included among their doctors’ salves and instruments one may also find a pair of balls.”
I laughed, or tried to. “Then why did Crassus take you on, if not to use your skills?”
“As a wet nurse for the baby.”
“Then your debt to your husband’s creditors is paid.”
“In full.”
“Which leaves you?”
“A little more than half of what I sold myself to Boaz for: twenty-three hundred sesterces. It’s not as bad as it seems. He has taken pity on me, Hera knows why. If I can but raise a total of eight thousand sesterces, he will sell her back to me when he can and take the loss.”
“Why would he do such a thing?”
“Who knows? I never stopped to question him, only to fall to my knees to kiss the hem of his robe. Are not all men sons?”
“I hated him when I saw him take her away.”
“There are many things to hate in this city. This man should not be counted among them.”
I found that hard to believe; how could you not despise such a person? Every new admission of Sabina’s gave me more to ponder. "Perhaps he is fond of you."
"I have no interest in men."
"But if he were, might he not free your daughter himself?"
"Do you think I have not begged him? There are contracts; leases with clients for… for Livia… which he must honor. She must be available a certain number of days each month."
"When do they expire?"
"I could not bring myself to ask."
I shook my head. “Tell me, is it permissible for a… for you to buy Livia’s freedom before your own?”
“No. But what good is flour, water and salt to a baker without an oven? First things first: the money.
“5,700 sesterces, Sabina. How can we raise such a fortune?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find a way.”
“I’ll try to help if I can.” Empty, hollow words. I thought of the girl, and of the future she faced.
Sabina sat uneasily with that barely restrained tension of hers, her hands palm down on her thighs. I took one of them in both of mine and held it. I had no idea how to comfort her. It was such a clumsy act it forced a smile from her. Encouraged, I said the only thing I could think of to turn both our thoughts away. “When did you learn the healing arts?”
Sabina gently reclaimed her hand and patted my own. “My husband’s father was a doctor.”
“Truly? Surely he would help if he knew your plight.” Words came racing ahead of thought. She would not have left any option untried.
“You are right. They would have done anything for their granddaughter. But they sided with Marius.”
“Ah.”
“Otho was an unusual man, nothing like his son. He believed aptitude deserved nurturing wherever it settled because to him, it was a gift from the gods. If they saw fit to bestow it upon a woman, who was he to argue? When his son was off with his legion for months on end, I learned from him. Sometimes my father-in-law was called away to an accident or to perform a complex surgery. He would grab me and yank me out the door, all excited about the chance to show me something new, or to try something new himself. Livia would hold up my kit for me to take, tears streaking her little face. She broke my heart, she was so sweet, so brave. My mother-in-law would shoo us on our way, promising she’d look after her. I was torn; now I wish I’d stayed with her those few extra hours, just to have had them.”
“Sabina,” I said, a thought suddenly furrowing my brow, “how is it that Livia spends as much time with us as she does? Wouldn’t Pio have to approve, and make the arrangements?”
She didn’t answer, but pointed with her chin to the other side of the peristyle. The man himself was heading this way. That was twice I had asked her about him without getting an answer. An awful light revealed something I desperately did not want to see. “Leave it,” she whispered urgently, then stood and walked briskly away from both of us. I tried not to look where my imagination tugged, but sometimes our minds are our worst enemies. Pio beckoned to me impatiently and I rose to do his bidding.
Chapter IX
81 BCE — Spring, Rome Year of the consulship of Marcus Tulius Decula and Gnaeus Cornelius Dolabella
Over the next several months a change came over the house. Many profited by it, others suffered. I refer, you understand, to everyone excluding the family. Crassus, his wife and children never faced anything more troublesome than a boring houseguest or a hangnail. Both the start and the culmination of this transformation were each marked by an absence. The first was cause for celebration; the second spurred me to an unthinkable confrontation. It all began with Nestor’s bed.
Some days life was easier to bear than others. This had been one of the difficult ones. It was near the end of Martius and Livia had been reclaimed by Boaz that morning. After a week’s stay helping to prepare for and then cleaning up after the festivities surrounding little Marcus’s fourth birthday, we were just getting used to having her around. I’m not much of a drinker, but that night I had four cups of lora. I might have shown more restraint had not the mistress herself set two pots of honey out for us, surplus from the party. With this nectar, the wine was made less bitter, but not I. Euripides said “wine is the happy antidote for sorrow,” yet I retired both foul of mood and stomach. I doubt a libation as insipid or as astringent as lora had ever passed the playwright’s lips.