To Love Again - Bertrice Small [66]
“Until you found me,” she told him, “I was alone, too. The gods have been kind to us, Wulf.”
“Aye,” he agreed, and looking up, they saw a falling star blazing its way across the heavens.
A slave came from Anthony Porcius one day with a message. Antonia had gone into labor, and the magistrate was at a loss. He wrote that Antonia’s women seemed helpless—although they should not be, Cailin thought. He begged that Cailin come to the villa to aid them. Wulf Ironfist was not happy about it, but Cailin did not think in light of the magistrate’s kindness to them that she could refuse.
“We will pad the cart out, and I will travel in complete comfort,” she told her husband. “Our child is not due for another few weeks. Even if we go slowly, I can be there by day’s end.”
Anthony Porcius was grateful when Cailin arrived. Antonia was still in labor and was having great difficulty. “She sent all the women who had always been with her away after Quintus’s death, and replaced them with a group of fluttery girls. I do not understand why,” he told Cailin, answering her unspoken question.
“It probably had something to do with making a new start,” Cailin suggested. “Perhaps the other women, who were with her when she was married to Sextus Scipio and to my cousin, made her sad. They were only reminders of all she had lost, of better times now gone.”
“Perhaps you are right, Cailin Drusus,” he answered.
“You have asked me to come, and I came,” Cailin replied, “but how will Antonia feel about my presence? I will help her, of course, but I am no expert. Why did she have no midwife among her staff?”
He shrugged helplessly. “I do not know.”
“I have never birthed a child before, Anthony Porcius, but I know what must be done. Antonia will be able to help me, for this is her fourth child. Take me to her.”
When they reached Antonia’s quarters, they found her alone, her maidens having fled. Glimpsing her father’s companion, Antonia’s blue eyes flashed angrily for a moment, but hiding her ire, she said, “Why have you come, Cailin Drusus?”
“Your father called me to help you, though the truth is you know more about birthing a child than I do. Still, I will do what I can, Antonia. Your young women seem very helpless.”
Antonia whimpered as a contraction tore through her, but she nodded. “You were good to come,” she answered grudgingly.
The child, who came shortly afterward, was born dead, the cord wrapped about its little neck. It was a boy, and quite blue in color. Cailin wept openly with sadness at Antonia’s misfortune. Though she had detested her cousin Quintus, she knew that Antonia had loved him greatly. Loving Wulf as she did, Cailin could but imagine Antonia’s deep sadness at losing the posthumous son of Quintus Drusus.
Antonia, however, was dry-eyed. “It is better,” she said fatalistically. “My poor little Marius is now with the gods, with his father.” She sighed dramatically.
Quintus is hardly with the gods, Cailin thought sourly, as Anthony Porcius attempted to comfort his daughter. “I will stay the night and return home on the morrow,” Cailin told them, wincing just slightly as she felt a mild cramp in her belly. She started nervously.
“What is it?” Antonia, sharp-eyed, demanded.
“Just a twinge,” Cailin told her with more self-assurance than she was actually feeling. She hated being here, and the morning could not come quickly enough for her.
“Do not leave me so quickly, Cailin Drusus,” Antonia pleaded. “Stay with me a few days, at least until my initial sorrow is past. You are no use to that handsome husband of yours in your present condition. Bide with me a little bit. I will wager you would enjoy soaking in my baths. You have no such amenities in your hall, I believe.”
Cailin considered Antonia’s tempting offer. She really wanted to go home; frankly, Antonia made her uncomfortable