69. The Baker

The Baker

I place the round ball of dough in a rattan basket, clap the flour off my hands, then move to another mound that’s ready to be folded. The heat from the ovens dampens my brow and my dark hair clings to my forehead where tendrils have escaped the crown braid I wear.

I’ve been working in this kitchen for a full clipse now, hired as the new baker.

I’m just curious, I tell myself when I apply.

I enjoy the dough crusted along my cuticles and the smell of wheat. Plus, there is a cook here who knows his way around the soup kettle, and his wife Bernice makes sweet pastries to rival any I’ve attempted.

I just want to stay busy, I say when I tell Mia about the job.

“Can you make that mushroom stew again, Claude?” I ask, moving the dough aside to rest before it’s final folding.

“Cassandra, you’ve asked for that thrice in one clipse!” Claude chides.

I once thought I had never met a decent man, but I’m starting to wonder if I never looked.

I was searching for praeda, eyes glossing over anyone who wasn’t. I saw men like my pater, like Tristan, and they went on my list. Or, I saw boys and men like Taln, who were abused the way we were. There was no in-between. Abusers and the abused. Predator and prey. Even vidua and praeda, because every time I close my eyes I still hear the crunch of Tristan’s face and know that I broke something inside myself that day, too.

There are monsters in the world and perhaps I will always find them, because like calls to like.

“Don’t you give that girl a hard time,” Bernice scolds. “If she wants that soup, stones help you, you better make it!”

“Don’t put me out, Bernie. I’ll make the gods-forsaken soup.” I might expect irritation to line the admission, but not from Claude. He laughs, looking at me like he wouldn’t have denied me even if Bernice hadn’t threatened him.

“I can help,” I offer.

Claude waves me off. “You make the bread, I’ll make the soup. Bernice can just look beautiful.” He winks and Bernice and I match eye rolls, but Bernice also lets out a small groan. She tosses a crisp white dishtowel at him. He catches it swiftly and offers her a little bow.

I’m just having fun, I tell myself today.

I was worried, during the interview. I didn’t think he’d be there, of course, but perhaps he would be keeping an eye out on newly hired servants. Or he would have issued a warning to alert him of women who looked too familiar.

Were these fears logical? No. They didn’t rule me, because I would never allow that. But they did visit. Whisper.

And it was all for naught. I am having fun, though. Mia is healed and I’ve moved back to my domus. Her back room certainly isn’t empty, but it’s different. No violent rituals, no nightly floggings. No floras at all.

Domestic disputes. Praeda I can easily and quickly manage, although some women know by now, and they beg Mia not to tell Tisiphone. They wish to return to their normal lives. They aren’t ready for safety or for freedom, because the fear is still too thick.

That’s their right, but I certainly don’t have to like it.

A young man appears in the doorway, probably around Taln’s age. He nods to Claude, the respect due to the head of the kitchens.

“He’s ready,” the young man says, and I realize Remus must have already set.

“I’ll have it sent right up,” Claude nods in return.

My lips move against my better judgment. “I’ll take it, Claude.”

He just stares at me, as does Bernice. They don’t know much about me besides that I’m a young woman, and I’m a baker. I’m average height, with brown hair and blue eyes. I’m old enough that I’m assumed a widow or a spinster. And, I’ve avoided leaving the kitchen the entire time I’ve been here.

I only offer because I like to be helpful. Right?

Finally, Claude slides the completed tray over.

I only take it because I’m curious.

What’s the harm in that?

The halls confirm my suspicions, only Romulus casting his shadows across the marble pillars. The tapestries are different than before, no more excess. No more condescension.

There’s one of a woman knitting beside a pond, a soft smile on her face. A temple of Vesta filled with small candles, making it glow, the hearth flame almost emanating warmth. An archway with large yellow blossoms clinging to the underside, bursting with light.

The tray is heavy, because of course it is. Claude doesn’t even take the trays up, letting the ‘young saplings’ do it. That’s what I get, for letting my curiosity get the better of me.

When I arrive to the chamber I assume is his, I find no Praetorians outside. I set the tray on a table but when I knock, there’s no answer.

Suspicion and necessity war within me. Can I even open this door? Should I?

I probably shouldn’t, but I do.

And it’s nothing like I expected. The room is completely empty. No bed. No posts.

Nothing.

Footsteps echo down the hall and I turn to see one of the Praetorians. My gut clenches. I do have vials in my pocket, and a knife. Will I need them? That’s what I’ve really been wondering since I started working here.

If it’s as real as it seems.

“Good lady, are you lost?” he asks, the term of respect making me squint.

I tell him what my mission is and he smiles, shaking his head. He tells me where to deliver the tray and I hurry away. I should have asked Claude where to deliver this monstrosity before I walked out, but I was too busy convincing myself this was a good idea.

I find him exactly where the Praetorian said I would.

And now I know this was a terrible idea.

He looks good.

He’s in the atrium where we took our sapa , the hideous fountain nowhere to be seen. Instead, there’s a new statue. It’s two faced, like Janus. Yet statues outside their temple always depict Janus as male, and this statue is decidedly female. The faces are similar, with only the noses and ages a bit different. One slightly younger, perhaps late teens, and the other a grown woman. The younger is smiling a shy type of smile, while the other smirks, knowing.

I look away from the statue to him. He’s writing on a large parchment and I can see it’s some matter of the republic, numbers on the top showing which article of the Senate it would fall under. His copper hair is more mussed than usual and he’s not clean shaven the way he usually is, instead sporting a dark smattering of hair that looks the exact right amount of rough.

“Thank you,” he says without looking up. “You can leave it anywhere, I’m just finishing up.”

I should say something, but I’m not sure my voice will cooperate. I’m not sure what I’ll say.

I can’t wear the mask around him anymore.

Setting the tray on the table, I turn to leave when I hear, “Wait.”

I turn, keeping my eyes downcast, not sure if I should trust my voice. “Yes, Imperator?” It works and it obeys me. Thank Janus.

“I haven’t seen you before,” he says, letting it hang in the air between us, heavy and full of promise.

“No, Imperator.”

He makes a humming sound, and I feel it in my bones, vibrating through my soul. I finally raise my eyes to meet his.

Sharp. Piercing.

Knowing.

His blue orbs widen ever so slightly. “Would you like to stay?”

“Stay, Imperator?”

“To eat?” He doesn’t wait for my answer before moving over on the bench, making room for me.

“I shouldn’t, I’m working.”

The corners of his mouth, which were beginning an upward trajectory, freeze. “As you wish, of course.”

He knows. Just like I know this is my choice. He won’t push me here.

“I brought your tray to the old Imperator’s quarters,” I say.

“Did you think I’d ever be able to sleep there?” he asks.

I look away, then back to him. He hasn’t looked anywhere except me. “I’m not sure what I expected.”

“I’ll be turning that wing into a temple,” he says.

“For whom?”

“Whomever she tells me to. Tisiphone, Venus, Janus. Whomever makes her feel the most powerful in erasing him.”

I don’t bother pretending I don’t know what he means. I don’t play the game we once played.

“What about how you’d like to cover him up?”

He waves the scroll at me. “I’m already working on that with the Senate.”

My steps are slow, halting, until I stand before him. Our fingers brush as I take the scroll and the warmth shocks me, but not as much as what I read.

I knew Cassius would make changes without me. I knew he wasn’t his brother. Still, I didn’t expect this.

It’s a law that would create a new type of marriage, one where a woman no longer belonged to her husband. She could continue to belong to her closest male relative or… to no one. He would grant all women the freedom that only widows like Mia had enjoyed before. To own land, to sell more than their bodies.

“Cassius…” I manage.

“It’s just a start, but I need to do more politicking before I can push more through and eliminate the old ways. You could help… even if…” He clears his throat. “Even if you want to work in the kitchens and you want nothing to do with me. You could still tell me what to do.”

“You’d let me dictate laws?” I scoff.

“Let you?” He shakes his head. “Cor meum , you’re always in control here. And we both know you’ve been denied your right for over ten years.”

“What right?” I ask, tilting my face towards him.

“To rule, Imperata. You’ve been Empress for ten years.”

I have, I suppose, been married to an Emperor for that long. A version of me, at least. “That means our marriage didn’t count. I’m finally a true widow.”

Cassius reaches forward, removes the scroll from my hands, and places it on the table. Then he reaches forward again, clasping my hands in his larger ones. “I said it then, and I say it again. I’d marry you in any temple, in front of any gods, and as many times as you’d let me. Even if you won’t have me, I’ll still answer to you.”

I can’t help the way I sway towards him, like a flower reaching towards the light. “What if I will?”

“Will what?”

“Will have you?”

He grins, his face brightening enough to make up for the missing sun. “Then I just have one question.”

“And what is that?”

“What’s your name?” His eyes are teasing, but I see the relief there, too. The joy. I don’t realize I’m smiling until his finger reaches out to trace my lips. He draws me closer, so I’m standing between his legs.

I lean down, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. It feels right, it feels like the reason I’m alive. My forehead meets his and for a moment I just breathe in his air, sharing life with this man who saved me as much as I saved myself.

Finally, I have my answer.

“Luella,” I say once.

Kissing him softly, I whisper it again, “You can call me Luella.”