eh?”
“A pity,” I echoed.
I wondered what had become of Marcus Brutus’s wife, Portia. She had ardently espoused the Republican cause and encouraged her husband in the course he had taken. The day after we heard news of my father’s funeral, word came of her fate. Often when a man is impelled by honor to take his own life, his wife will do the same. And so Portia did, most painfully, jamming a hot coal down her throat. When I heard of this, fear tugged at me. What if my mother should also resolve to die?
What anchored Mother to life was my pregnancy. She was aware, as all women are, that first births are very dangerous. As the moment for my baby’s birth approached, Mother did not treat me with any new warmth. But she hovered over me as she never had before, prepared special foods that were supposed to be particularly nourishing for women facing childbirth, and hung an amulet round my neck that she had worn when she gave birth to her children.
I felt the first pangs of labor early in the morning a fortnight after I heard the news of my father’s death . W hat I learned on the birthing chair was this: my body’s capacity for pain. The midwife, Mother, and Secunda all stayed in the room with me. They wiped my face with cool water, and they murmured encouraging words. But they could not ease my agony or make the baby come forth. I did not call on Diana or any other god or goddess; they all seemed so far off. I felt I had only my own strength to rely on as I pushed and pushed, gripping the arms of the mahogany chair. I knew if I won the struggle I would live, and my son would live. Otherwise we would both die.
When the day had waned and come again, sunlight slanting in through the bedchamber windows, and still the baby had not been born, I saw grave looks on my mother’s and the midwife’s faces. As for Secunda, she had already begun to cry.
I was beginning to lose my battle, that was plain. Something in me revolted at this thought. I would not lose. Would not . I said to myself that when the sharpest pains came again I would push with all my might, while I still had strength left to make this attempt, push and push and push and hold back nothing, and not cease until the baby was born. Live or die: I would stake everything on one toss of the dice. As soon as the pain came, I did just as I resolved, biting on the strip of leather the wet nurse had given me, refusing to scream. I felt my insides being torn asunder. I did not know I had won my battle until I heard the midwife cry, “A son! And he is perfect!”
What more honored estate can there be for a woman in this world than to be mother to a son? But I was too exhausted to feel triumphant.
Later, I held my son in my arms and counted his fingers, almost suspiciously. Five on each hand. I told myself that proved he was perfect, just as the midwife had said. They say every child looks beautiful to his own mother, but the truth is, he did not seem beautiful to me. His tiny, wrinkled red face reminded me of a peevish little old man. Yet I loved him.
We hired a woman named Rubria, whose own baby had died, to serve as wet nurse for the child. Right after the birth, of course, the midwife had laid the swaddled baby at Tiberius Nero’s feet, and he—exultant—had lifted it in his arms, signifying his decision to rear, rather than expose it. I have never known a wealthy father to cast out of doors a healthy, legitimate child, even a girl.
Nine days after the birth, as custom required, we held a naming ceremony for the baby. The celebration was a small one, since Father was so recently dead. There sat Mother, Secunda, and I in our white mourning clothes, trying to balance grief and happiness. Tiberius Nero hung a child’s protective amulet—a bulla—on the baby’s cradle. Our guests applauded, which made the baby wake up and wail. I rocked him, but could not soothe him. Finally, Mother lifted him, and little Tiberius Claudius Nero quieted in her
“A pity,” I echoed.
I wondered what had become of Marcus Brutus’s wife, Portia. She had ardently espoused the Republican cause and encouraged her husband in the course he had taken. The day after we heard news of my father’s funeral, word came of her fate. Often when a man is impelled by honor to take his own life, his wife will do the same. And so Portia did, most painfully, jamming a hot coal down her throat. When I heard of this, fear tugged at me. What if my mother should also resolve to die?
What anchored Mother to life was my pregnancy. She was aware, as all women are, that first births are very dangerous. As the moment for my baby’s birth approached, Mother did not treat me with any new warmth. But she hovered over me as she never had before, prepared special foods that were supposed to be particularly nourishing for women facing childbirth, and hung an amulet round my neck that she had worn when she gave birth to her children.
I felt the first pangs of labor early in the morning a fortnight after I heard the news of my father’s death . W hat I learned on the birthing chair was this: my body’s capacity for pain. The midwife, Mother, and Secunda all stayed in the room with me. They wiped my face with cool water, and they murmured encouraging words. But they could not ease my agony or make the baby come forth. I did not call on Diana or any other god or goddess; they all seemed so far off. I felt I had only my own strength to rely on as I pushed and pushed, gripping the arms of the mahogany chair. I knew if I won the struggle I would live, and my son would live. Otherwise we would both die.
When the day had waned and come again, sunlight slanting in through the bedchamber windows, and still the baby had not been born, I saw grave looks on my mother’s and the midwife’s faces. As for Secunda, she had already begun to cry.
I was beginning to lose my battle, that was plain. Something in me revolted at this thought. I would not lose. Would not . I said to myself that when the sharpest pains came again I would push with all my might, while I still had strength left to make this attempt, push and push and push and hold back nothing, and not cease until the baby was born. Live or die: I would stake everything on one toss of the dice. As soon as the pain came, I did just as I resolved, biting on the strip of leather the wet nurse had given me, refusing to scream. I felt my insides being torn asunder. I did not know I had won my battle until I heard the midwife cry, “A son! And he is perfect!”
What more honored estate can there be for a woman in this world than to be mother to a son? But I was too exhausted to feel triumphant.
Later, I held my son in my arms and counted his fingers, almost suspiciously. Five on each hand. I told myself that proved he was perfect, just as the midwife had said. They say every child looks beautiful to his own mother, but the truth is, he did not seem beautiful to me. His tiny, wrinkled red face reminded me of a peevish little old man. Yet I loved him.
We hired a woman named Rubria, whose own baby had died, to serve as wet nurse for the child. Right after the birth, of course, the midwife had laid the swaddled baby at Tiberius Nero’s feet, and he—exultant—had lifted it in his arms, signifying his decision to rear, rather than expose it. I have never known a wealthy father to cast out of doors a healthy, legitimate child, even a girl.
Nine days after the birth, as custom required, we held a naming ceremony for the baby. The celebration was a small one, since Father was so recently dead. There sat Mother, Secunda, and I in our white mourning clothes, trying to balance grief and happiness. Tiberius Nero hung a child’s protective amulet—a bulla—on the baby’s cradle. Our guests applauded, which made the baby wake up and wail. I rocked him, but could not soothe him. Finally, Mother lifted him, and little Tiberius Claudius Nero quieted in her
Similar Books
