“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?”
“Because of what he said. That I would bear a son who would bear a son.”
“And you have born three.”
“But what if it means only one will survive to be a man? I kept dwelling on it as I lay watching my boys suffering with fever.”
“You always worry too much, my lady. One may never marry, or sire only daughters. And one might be like Prince Tarchon, not interested in women at all.”
Caecilia blinked, aware yet again how she could take a kernel of concern and let it swell into calamity. She hugged the maid, taking Cytheris off guard. “What is that for, my lady?”
“For being a good friend.”
Nonplussed at the declaration, the servant eased herself from the embrace and then dipped the cloth into the bowl. “Lift your arms so I can wash you.”
Caecilia felt childlike as she stood and held on to the chair for balance. Cytheris wiped her clean from armpit to hand, and between each finger. Then, sweeping the princip’s loosely plaited hair to one side, she pressed the cloth along neck, shoulders, and spine before bathing breasts and belly. Caecilia closed her eyes as the handmaid smoothed the cloth along the swell of hips and buttocks, mound and inner thighs, before bending to wash the queen’s long legs.
What had happened to the prudish girl who wore her ugly woolen stola as a shield? The Roman virtue of modesty had been instilled in Caecilia from childhood. She’d shied from intimacy, reluctant to stand naked before either man or woman. Yet Cytheris had encouraged her to welcome Vel’s embrace. And he’d taught her there was no shame in sensuality or being greedy for sensation. To seek the touch and scents and tastes of passion. To forget Roman strictures and custom, and accept pleasure was not a sin.
She glanced down at her body. The rash was no longer livid but brown and fading in places. Cytheris fetched a fresh gown from the linen chest. The sheer fabric glided over Caecilia’s skin, fine and soft and lovely.