Cytheris bustled into the room with the laundry basket. “Goodness, what’s the matter, my lady?”
Caecilia wiped her eyes and sat up. The maid hastened to her side, arranging the coverlet around her mistress’s nakedness.
“Vel spoke to me about the Beyond last night. I don’t want to be initiated into the Mysteries. I don’t want to become a maenad. I can’t worship Fufluns if I’m expected to be one of the raving women during the rites.”
The handmaid climbed next to the princip, encircling her shoulders. How many times had Cytheris comforted her? She was like an older sister despite divisions of rank. Caecilia always found comfort in the warmth of the maid’s cushioned embrace.
“I keep telling you, mistress, the Spring Festival is meant to be a celebration of Fufluns’s journey from Acheron. After his sojourn there throughout winter, we thank him for breathing new life into bud and vine. There’s a procession and games and revels. It’s not meant to be frightening.”
“How can you say that? You were there the night I stumbled into the rites. I was drugged by the Divine Milk. There was pandemonium, the noise of the bullroarers deafening, the double pipes shrill. The maenad used whips. They ate the raw flesh of fawns! Are you telling me you worship Fufluns after what happened?”
“Yes, I still follow the Pacha Cult. But you must remember the Athenians attended the festival that year. Their god has a darker side than our Fufluns. He is Dionysus the Wanderer. It was they who brought the Divine Milk, which is far more powerful than the strong unwatered wine that usually sets the senses reeling.” She withdrew her arm from around her mistress. “It’s cold in here. The braziers need to be stoked. And it’s time I helped you dress.”
She gathered up Caecilia’s chitons from the night before and dropped them into the laundry basket. There was no comment as to why they were in a tangle on the floor, but the maid couldn’t hide a half smile. Then she opened the cedarwood chest that contained a rainbow of robes and drew out one of deep yellow with a blue border. “Your favorite, my lady.”
Caecilia’s nerves still thrummed as she dressed. “I’ve heard that Dionysus drove the first maenads to insanity because they refused to give up the role of devoted wives and mothers. It’s said they tore their own children apart in frenzy before becoming his devotees. I’m faithful to Uni, the mother goddess. She’s the enemy of Fufluns. If I bowed to him, she would punish me.”
Cytheris picked up a comb from the side table. “You worry too much. You always have. All are equal when seeking communion with the wine god. Such myths are spread because Greek men don’t like women drinking and acting in abandon. They would deny their wives and daughters the chance to celebrate the power of regeneration.”
Caecilia sat down so the handmaid could tend to her hair. “You mean the chance to sleep with another woman’s husband.”
Cytheris pursed her lips. “It is an ecstatic union. A way for your spirit to merge with the divine. Our bodies are just instruments to achieve this.”
“I don’t want to lie with another man. I don’t want Vel to take another woman either. I couldn’t bear it.” Tears welled again. “And I don’t want Seianta to reclaim him.”
The maid stopped brushing and walked around to face her. “The master doesn’t love his first wife. He stopped loving her well before he met you.”
“Seianta suffered so much. All those dead babies.” She touched Cytheris’s hand. “I think she might punish me if she had the chance.”
“For what, mistress? What could you possibly have done wrong?”
“Kept her secret from Vel.”
“What secret?”
“One I swore I would take to the grave. Yet if I don’t believe in the Beyond, Vel will return to Seianta. Because if he knew what Artile did to her—”
Intent on the conversation, the sound of the curtain being drawn aside startled the women. Vel stood in the doorway.
His cold expression was enough to convey to Cytheris that she should leave. The maid curtsied, collecting the basket and hurrying to the door. She cast a worried look toward her mistress as she scurried past the king.
Still wearing his bronze cuirass, Mastarna’s hair was plastered to his head with sweat. “Another secret, Bellatrix? How many more surprises do you have in store for me?”
Caecilia ran to him, but when she tried to embrace him, he held her at bay. She dropped her arms to her sides.
“What did Artile do to Seianta?”
She hesitated. Vel gripped her upper arms. “Tell me!”
“Poisoned her so that your children would be weak and deformed.”
He let go and took a faltering step backward. She tried to clasp his hands. He snatched them from her.
“How do you know this? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Artile told me on the night I escaped to Fidenae. The Zeri poppy juice he gave Seianta contained a drug which ensured she wouldn’t conceive.”
He stared at her. “Why?”
“He wanted Tarchon to be your only heir, thinking he could manipulate him. But instead of merely preventing Seianta falling with child, it made her miscarry or bear—”
“Cripples like my daughter.” His voice cracked. “Or misshapen like my son. No eyes. His mouth cleaved in two. As small as my hand. Only two hours alive.”
The rawness of his grief made Caecilia twist inside. The last time she’d seen him so vulnerable was when he’d first told her the story of his children. How Artile lured Seianta into believing she could defer the death of her daughter by the Fatales Rites. Then, when the child had died, the seer convinced her to follow the Calu Cult to ensure the little girl became one of the Blessed. And all the while feeding Seianta poppy juice and poison that would lead to the birth of a grotesque little boy.
“I’m so sorry, Vel.”
He turned, gripping the edge of the footboard of the bed, his arms straight and head bowed. “Seianta blamed me for our daughter’s death because I wouldn’t let her continue the Fatales Rites. I saw her sinking into addiction to Artile’s potion. I forced her to stop. But in the end I relented because I wanted an heir. She could not bear lying with me without the Zeri.” He shook his head in disbelief. “And all the while, she was being poisoned.”
Caecilia took a deep breath. She’d trodden in Seianta’s footsteps when she’d first come to Veii. Artile had fed her fears, then uttered soft promises to quell them. He’d also slipped Zeri into the sacramental wine for the Calu Rites. Under its spell there was respite from apprehension as well as enslavement to a cycle of bliss, withdrawal, and wanting. She remembered Artile’s spiteful triumph when he’d declared the elixir had ensured any seed planted within her would be cursed.
Vel straightened as though reading her thoughts. “You also drank my brother’s potion when you were gulled by him. Was it contaminated? Is that why you didn’t conceive for a year?”