68. The Woman

The Woman

Time is for the mundane, I once thought. Real time, though, is a creature. It’s moody and irritable, prone to fits of ecstatic speed and depressive slowness. I feel it now, living in Mia’s domus, how the upcoming mortua season cools the air and the creature that calls itself time tries to curl into itself, ready to slumber.

The forum feels it, too. It’s emptier than usual and I’m able to move easily through the stalls. I buy ingredients for bread, items that had once felt like gold, now so commonplace. I find a new mortar and pestle for Mia, as her current one looks worse for the wear we’ve put on it since consistently grinding our stones.

The Senate will remain out of session for the next two quads during mortua, but I still linger on the steps, wondering what he’s up to.

I turn to leave and notice something out of place. At the top of the steps, instead of a bust of Cassius, or even Tristan or their father, there’s a new bust adorning the entrance.

Tisiphone.

My heart stutters. It’s not just that it’s a message for me, because of that I’m sure.

It’s because there’s a woman in the Senate, the very first.

And even though she’s made of stone, I know she’s just the beginning.

The next day I can’t help but travel to the Furies’ temple. It’s as beautiful as the day Cassius and I wed, all gold, silver, and bronze. It’s mostly deserted, except for a priestess speaking in low tones in the front of the room.

I don’t know why I’m here. I’m hunting praeda I have no intention of catching. I should return to Mia’s. I should forget about the Evanders, the republic. I could even leave Divus.

At the very least, I should leave the temple.

But I don’t.

My heart begins to race before I know why, and my feet carry me forward, towards the altar. One of the priestesses, in gray robes, stands over a man as he kneels. His broad shoulders are bent forward as he prays, and his copper gold strands catch more shadows than sunslight.

Breathing shouldn’t be this hard.

Air stutters in and out of my lungs. I don’t decide what happens next; my feet pursue their own self-preservation, darting behind a pillar in case he should turn.

The Imperator.

Cassius Augustus Evander.

My husband.

The pillar is close, close enough that his prayers carry. “I’ve already asked so much, but I still can’t see it all. Show me who else needs your judgment, Tisiphone. Alecto, give me your righteous anger and help thwart the jealousy of the Senate, Megaera.”

Cassius makes the traditional offering in return, grain and goats.

“Leave me, please, priestess,” Cassius says.

“I’m sorry, Imperator. I wish I could give you a different answer.” I desperately want to know what she means, but I know I need to leave, lest he see me crouching behind a pillar like a common thief. It’s not my way to spy. Kill? Yes. Poison? Absolutely.

Spy and sneak and hide? Only in plain sight.

I turn to leave but Cassius' voice freezes me, his words lower than before. I strain to hear him, leaning closer.

“And if you see fit, please send her back to me. Show me what she needs me to be. For this request, I give you what she’s given; my blood.”

A small gasp escapes Cassius and I know he’s sliced his palm. Offering human blood to the gods isn’t a ceremony performed often. Some believe it will only open the gates to human sacrifice, while others just dislike the discomfort of it.

The only gods who ask for blood are Bacchus and Mars, but even Mars would only ask for it from the battlefield. And Bacchus, well. He’s a bastard.

When Cassius stands to leave, his clothes rustle and his sword scrapes the ground. It startles me out of the rage induced paralysis that my thoughts of Bacchus conjured, and I maneuver around the pillar to keep out of sight.

I peek out at the exact moment Cassius disappears from view, leaving the temple.

My sigh cuts short, startling into a scream when a hand brushes my shoulder.

“Hello, pullus, ” the priestess says.

“Stones, you scared me.”

“Did you think I was your husband?” she asks, cocking her head. Her dark brown curls spill off her shoulders with the movement and I know my mouth has opened in a most undignified way. Not that I’m too concerned with how ladylike I appear these days.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, my voice betraying the lie beneath.

“Then I suppose you don’t care that he comes every day?” She hums, considering. “Or that he makes the same offering each day.”

“The Imperator has plenty of goats and more than enough grain,” I mutter.

“Not that one.” She shakes her head as though I’m as hopeless as I feel. “He asked me to leave because I told him to stop offering blood to the Furies. They will grow fat on it, gluttonous. I told him they wouldn’t force you to do anything and his blood was worthless.”

The words pass my lips before they’ve formed in my mind. “Then why does he keep doing it?”

“She bled for us, I’ll bleed for her,” she mimics in a deep voice. “I think he threw some curses in there, but I won’t repeat them while in a place of worship.”

I take a step back. “Every day?” It’s been clipses. Quads. Multiple quads.

“And he leaves an offering on the dais, with a note.” I step forward. “Since you’re not his wife, though, perhaps you don’t care what they said?”

“You’ve read them?” I ask.

“Of course not.” She looks as offended as if I’d recommended she defecate on the Furies’ altar. “I did save them. In case.”

“He’s the Imperator,” I admonish. “You can’t share his personal communications with a random woman.” I feel defensive of the letters, not him. Definitely not him.

“A random woman wouldn’t have been swooning behind a pillar.” She meets my stare and I know I’m scowling.

“Fine.” I loose an irritated breath. “May I see them?”

The offering makes me cry. It’s not a goat, or blood, or food. It’s none of the customary or even non-customary items.

It’s for me.

The small basket at first appears to be full of roses, except each and every one had been beheaded, leaving just the long thorny stems. Not a petal in sight.

My hand is over my mouth, trying to hold back what I’m not sure. A curse? A sob? A laugh, maybe.

“I didn’t save all the stems. This is just from today, but here are the notes.”

Each is a small piece of parchment, rolled and sealed with imperial purple wax. I count them. Then I count them again.

The priestess didn’t lie. There is one for every day since I left the Domus Aurea.

Sixty-four in total.

My legs don’t crumple so much as they fold, as if they give in to my heart which has grown so heavy that it can no longer defy gravity by remaining so high in my chest.

The priestess places her hand on my shoulder and murmurs, “I’ll give you privacy, Imperata.”

I don’t flinch, at least not perceptibly; my mind is too curious, too greedy for what’s in these letters.

If I expected poems, or ballads, or stories, I would not have known Cassius very well. That is why, when I crack the seal on the first, I am not at all surprised to find none of those things.

Cassius writes like he speaks, with purpose.

I miss you, cor meum.

-Matulo

That’s it. I smile at the simplicity, the honesty, and then open another.

I love you, cor meum.

-Matulo.

And another. Thank you, cor meum. I hope you’re safe, cor meum. You’re brave, cor meum. I’ll write to you forever, if you like my letters, cor meum. You’re the best latrones partner, cor meum.

And on and on. Sixty-three simple, sincere sentiments, all signed the same way. Not one is addressed to me. Not Rose, not Luella, not Skylar.

He doesn’t call me Tisiphone, or Vidua, or even Domina or Imperata. I’m not a title, not a name.

Just the woman that he loves.

I pick up the last one and open it.

It’s always been you, cor meum.

-Matulo