Cleopatra’s Daughter

“She belongs to the gods.” He made his way down the stairs, and Julia rushed to Horatia so that she wouldn’t faint. “Take her to the dump,” Pollio called over his shoulder.

Horatia fell on her knees. “Please!” she begged. “Take her to the Columna Lactaria. Give her a chance!” But Pollio was gone. She looked up into the face of the midwife. “Don’t take her away,” she pleaded, but the midwife had already gathered the child in her arms. “You can’t take her away from me!” Horatia shrieked.

Hot tears burned my cheeks, and I realized that my hands were trembling. “Don’t do this,” I said.

The midwife’s look was firm. “It’s Dominus who pays me. They are Dominus Pollio’s orders that I follow.”

“But don’t take her to the dump. She’s a child. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

The woman’s smile was full of vengeance. “Neither did those two hundred slaves.”

“So what?” Julia cried. “Because slaves die, patrician children must die as well?”

The woman didn’t respond.

“Let me give you denarii,” Horatia said desperately. “Please. Just don’t take her to the dump.”

The midwife hesitated, then turned to the other slaves and snapped, “Go!” The women swiftly disappeared, some down the stairs, others to separate chambers. When the hall was empty, the midwife said, “Two hundred denarii.”

Horatia went pale. “That’s my entire dowry.”

“And this is your daughter’s chance at life. Maybe someone will take her, maybe they won’t, but at the dump the wolves will eat her.”

“Wait.” Horatia was trembling. “I will give you the money.”

Julia stared at the midwife, who looked back at us without any remorse.

“You are no better than a beast,” Julia said.

“And isn’t that what slaves are supposed to be? Beasts of burden?”

Horatia returned with several heavy purses, and the midwife stuffed them beneath her cloak. “How will you carry her?” Horatia asked worriedly.

“Just fine.”

But even if Gaia survived, she would likely end up in a lupanar, abused from the time she was old enough to speak. My mother had told me there were men who liked girls too young to understand what was happening to them. Tears rolled down Horatia’s cheeks, and Julia whispered, “Isn’t there someone who can adopt her?”

“How could I arrange it without Pollio knowing?”

The midwife pulled her cloak over the child, and I turned away from the terrible scene. While Horatia and Julia wept, I made my way slowly down the stairs. In the triclinium, the harpist was still playing, and Pollio was raising a cup of wine in toast.

“What happened?” Alexander asked.

“It’s a girl,” I told him.

Marcellus frowned. “Was she deformed?”

“No. Pollio wanted a son, so he ordered that she be put out.”

“As a foundling?” he cried.

I nodded.

Octavia rose from her couch and came over to me. “Where is Horatia?” she asked quietly.

I told her the story, even the part about the two hundred denarii and the Columna Lactaria. When I was finished, her face was hard.

“What do you think will happen to her?” I asked.

“The infant or Horatia?”

“Both,” I said.

Octavia drew a heavy breath. “If they survive, they will live the rest of their lives in terrible sadness.” She walked back to the table where Octavian was reclining between his wife and Terentilla, then whispered something into his ear. He glanced briefly at me, then rose from the couch.

“What is this?” Pollio exclaimed. “The dessert has not even come.”

Octavian’s voice was clipped. “I hear that your wife has given birth,” he said. “It would be rude of me to stay, when you belong with her.”

Pollio’s fat mouth opened and closed like a fish’s.

“Marcellus,” Octavian said sharply, “go and find Julia.”

Pollio looked around him. “But we cannot let Saturnalia be interrupted by women’s matters.”

“The children of Rome matter to everyone,” Octavian said coldly. “Even foolish men like you.”

Several dozen guests remained in the triclinium, but everyone who had come with Octavian prepared to leave.

“Congratulations,” Agrippa said, not knowing what had happened in the upstairs rooms.

Pollio’s face took on the color of unbaked dough. He led us through the atrium to the carriages outside. “Are you certain?” he protested. “It’s cold. Perhaps you would like to stay the night!”

Octavia turned and said quietly, “I’m sure your daughter would have liked to stay the night as well. When you shiver, remember how cold it is in the dump.”

On the ride back to the Palatine, I thought of Horatia’s daughter freezing beneath the Columna Lactaria while the rest of Rome drank wine beside crackling fires and ate roasted meats. And once all of his guests left, Pollio would probably climb under the covers next to his wife, demanding her attention even as her breasts leaked milk through her bindings. The thought made me wince, and while Julia wept softly, Alexander and Marcellus exchanged doleful looks.

When we reached Octavia’s villa, Juba excused himself, but Agrippa and Octavian remained, settling with the rest of us in the warmth of the library, where Vitruvius’s plans were spread across the tables. No one said anything, until Julia broke the silence.

“What about a home for foundlings?” she asked.

Marcellus looked up from his place near the brazier, and Alexander caught my eye.

“A place where mothers can leave their infants and they can be adopted by freedwomen and citizens,” she said. “Selene has drawn sketches of what such a house might look like.”

“And how would that help Rome?” Octavian demanded.

“We would be saving lives. Roman lives,” Julia protested.

“And increasing the number of mouths on the dole,” Livia retorted.

“Not if citizens were to adopt the infants!”

“And who would want to do that?” Livia asked. “When a woman is barren, she takes a child from a slave. Why would she need a dirty foundling?”

Octavia recoiled. “I doubt that there was anything dirty about Horatia’s child.”

“How do you know? Did you see it? The child was probably deformed.”

“It was perfectly healthy!” Julia exclaimed. “I was there and so was Selene.” She turned to her father. “If there was a foundling house—”

“It would be too costly,” Octavian overruled her. “There is a Columna Lactaria for a reason, and the plebs are satisfied. We do enough by paying nutrices to suckle infants.”

“But most of them die!” Julia cried.

“Then that is the will of the gods.”

She looked at me, but I knew better than to speak.

“You do enough for these people,” Livia assured Octavian. “Free grain, free baths, even men who fight fires and patrol the Subura watching for crime. How much are you supposed to give?”

“As much as possible,” Octavia said.

“Then why don’t you fund this foundling house?” she demanded.

“If my brother thought it was a good idea, I would.”

Everyone in the library looked to Octavian, who was shaking despite the warmth in the room. “My wife is right. We do enough.”

Julia’s eyes shone with tears, and I saw Marcellus pat her knee tenderly.