Chapter 37
As the days drew down towards the birth in the legate’s house, so too did the conflict between the rival factions increase in the streets outside: those vowing loyalty to Majorian were ever more stanch, while those favoring Valentinian grew ever more stubborn and unyielding.
Violence between the two camps sparked and flared. Assemblies were disrupted and gatherings dispersed by opposing gangs; opinions were more often expressed with fists, and fealty with sticks and clubs; rocks thrown, dung was hurled. People were getting hurt, and citizens were calling for an end to the conflict. Unfortunately for Aridius and his cohorts, Valentinian’s faithful were beyond reason or persuasion, their support of the inconstant emperor unbending and—thanks to the roving gangs of hired ruffians—were largely successful in shouting down any dissenting voice. Though Majorian had many friends in the eastern court at Constantinople, the reality was that we lived in the western half of the empire; Britannia was far removed from what increasingly seemed like another world altogether. Thus, Emperor Valentinian, for all his faults was able to maintain his shaky grasp on power in the west. Steadily, inexorably, through fair means and foul the emperor’s laurel crown remained on Valentinian’s head. The man himself was somehow able to hold himself above and apart from the excesses of his frenzied supporters.
“I don’t understand it,” complained Aridius wearily, not for the first time. “He lies to them and they clamor for more. His latest lie? He has promised to burn all barbarian settlements in Gaul and Britannia and drive the invaders into the sea by Easter Tide. Can you believe it? As if no one has ever thought of that before! As if our legions have not been fighting them along the Saecsen Shore for years!”
He rubbed his hands over his face and leaned back in his chair. “If I stood in the basilica and made such a claim, I would be stripped and whipped and run naked out of Deva by a baying mob!”
I motioned to one of the young female servants and whispered for her to bring the legate some wine and tell the others to help Nona prepare the table for the evening meal. “We will sit down as soon as the legate is ready.”
“We cannot go on like this,” he continued. “The proconsul is calling for a truce over the Christ Mass Tide to let tempers cool and restore the peace.” Aridius shook his head. “But that won’t be the end of it. I’m told Londinium in the south and some of garrisons on the Wall have joined Valentinian’s camp. From here, Riothamus goes to Viroconium to secure the blessing of Procurator Constantine and his people. That might help. But I’m even hearing rumors that the procurator himself will seek the High Kingship of Britain if Valentinian remains in power—and who could stop him?” Aridius made a sour face. “But listen to me, dragging all this into my home. How is Helena? I should go to her.”
“She has slept most of the day, but she’ll want to see you,” I told him. “Go in to her and I will see to supper. We can all sit down together whenever you’re ready.”
Thanking me, he rose and moved off, giving my arm a light squeeze as he passed.
Our supper that night was a glum affair. Though Helena made an effort to lighten her husband’s mood, she could not muster strength enough to succeed and tired quickly, pushing aside her bowl as soon as she had taken a few bites. “You must eat more,” Aridius chided. “For the baby.”
“Don’t tell me about the baby!” she snapped. Helena shoved back from the table and rose laboriously to her feet, throwing aside her hand cloth. “Your baby lies in the lap of luxury. It is your wife who is suffering!”
Aridius, stricken, regarded her in alarm and put down his bowl.
Helena instantly regretted her angry outburst. “Forgive me, my love,” she relented. “I am just so sick and tire of dragging around like a bloated brood mare. I cannot wait until this is over.”
“It will be—and soon,” Aridius reassured her. “Cornelia tells me it could be any day now.”
Cornelia, the midwife, had been coming to the house daily for the last week or so to sit with Helena and perform her little duties. She had assured me of the same “any day now” for some time. No one doubted the truth of that assertion, but the vagueness that made it true also rendered it useless information. “Nature finds her own way, Aurelia,” Cornelia had told me. “When it comes to birthing a child, she will not be hurried.”
“But when?”
“It takes as long as it takes, dear,” she replied. A robust elder woman with short gray hair, strong hands, and years of experience, Cornelia was inured to any anxiety or impatience behind such questions. “And that is how long it takes.”
Two days later was the Christ Mass. Aridius had invited several local worthies to a small, quiet celebration on the evening before. We would enjoy a modest feast and good wine and at midnight wend our way along to the church for the first of two special rites. Helena rallied and, I must say, looked radiant and lovely in a flowing blue robe, her hair freshly braided, coiled, and pinned with tiny gold pins. We enjoyed the candlelit meal and, at the church bell’s chime, the household and guests dutifully flocked to an already overcrowded church where we stood in the crush at the back to observe the mass—which was mercifully short, for Helena was feeling slightly queasy.
A happy party, we departed the church and made our way through the dark streets by torchlight, warmed by the thought of angel hosts proclaiming the good news of Christ’s birth and salvation for all. We had reached the iron gate outside the villa when the birth pangs began. Helena suddenly stopped in her tracks as the first of the spasms doubled her over. She grasped the ironwork of the gate and held on until the convulsion had passed. “Oh!” she gasped, taking hold Aridius’ arm for support. “That was sharp.”
“Is it time to summon Cornelia?” he asked, concern creasing his brow.
“I think it would be best.”
“I’ll go at once,” I offered.
“No,” said Aridius. “I’ll go. You stay and help Helena.”
“Your place is with your wife,” I countered. “I will go—”
“Listen to the two of you,” chided Helena lightly. “Send Jason,” she nodded to the young servant standing by. “He will go more quickly, and you both can stay here with me.”
Aridius sent the servant away on his errand and hastened us inside. While the others hustled around making small arrangements, I helped Helena change into her birthing clothes—a loose-fitting, voluminous gown handed down from her own mother—and arranged the couch and bedding for her.
“I expect Cornelia will bring her birthing chair,” she said. “I don’t know if I should—” She did not finish her thought as another pang seized her. She clasped her bulging belly and stooped over as water spilled down her legs to pool on the floor at her feet. She looked up, aghast, then gave me a weak, embarrassed smile. “Oh! This child is impatient. I think I might just lie down a little before Cornelia gets here.”
“Don’t worry,” I told her as I helped her onto the couch, “I’ll see the birth water cleaned up.” I went to fetch Tatiana and then fussed around doing little things to make Helena more comfortable—a cup of water, a damp cloth, some candles—unnecessary things perhaps, but it kept us both busy until the midwife arrived. When she did, she brought her daughter, Coeli, along with her—a young woman who had born two children of her own and knew her mother’s ways. They worked well together and knew what to do without having to chatter about it. As Helena predicted, they had brought along a sort of low wooden chair, or stool, on which the birthing mother could squat to allow an easier passage of the infant. Fascinated as I was to see how this process might be effected, it would be some time before my curiosity could be satisfied: the child would not be born for another day-and-a-half.
Despite the midwife’s repeated assurances to both Helena and Aridius, each was wracked with worry, anxious that the birth was taking much too long. “That is sometimes the way of it,” Cornelia explained gently. “When it is time to worry, I will let you know.”
In the end, however, it was Cornelia and Coeli—women well acquainted with every mishap and danger and the myriad things that can go wrong in childbirth—who became most worried. I saw them head-to-head more than once through the night and next day, and though I could not hear what they were saying in their whispered tones, their drawn expressions told me their unease was mounting.
Helena endured her ordeal with a warrior’s fortitude and valor, but in the end her strength began to wane. She had long since sweated through several changes of clothing and was keeping Nona busy washing and drying her gowns and coverings. Unable to keep away, I haunted the corridor and doorway throughout the day and as evening approached, I risked their disapproval and went in. I was shocked by what I saw: Helena, her flesh waxy, her hair wet and matted, her eyes sunken, staring wildly as the birth paroxysms seized her. I caught Coeli’s attention and motioned for her to follow me from the room.
“This cannot be right,” I said. “She looks terrible.”
Coeli agreed.
“Can’t you do something? I don’t think she can take much more.”
The young woman nodded gravely. “Mother and I have been discussing this very thing.”
“And?”
“There is an herb we can try,” she said, biting her lip uncertainly. “We have refrained until now because it is very strong and is to be used only in the most extreme cases.”
I did not hear Aridius coming up behind me, but he overheard us. “This is just such a case, is it not?” he said. He looked to me, saw my fraught expression and said, “Do what you must.”
The young woman nodded and retreated into the birthing chamber. She and her mother held a quick consultation and Coeli returned to say, “We will need some hot water to make a tincture. It won’t take long. We’ll give it to her right away.” She glanced at the legate uncertainly. “I must warn you—”
“It is very strong. So you have said,” he replied. He looked at his stricken wife moaning and restless in her bed. “I grant you permission and you have my full support—come what may.”
Coeli mouthed her thanks and went back to relay the legate’s consent to her mother, and I fetched hot water for the tincture. I cannot say for certain what was in that potion they gave her but, as the eastern sky began to lighten, Helena gave out a cry and a short time later the baby was born.
I had been slumped asleep in a chair outside the door of her chamber and woke when I heard Helena’s half-defiant, half-agonized scream. I rushed into the room in time to see a slick head of black wet hair attached to a tiny red body shaking with the outrage of being so rudely pulled from the cozy warmth of his home and thrust into this cold, indifferent world. The little squished face clenched and the round mouth opened to emit a cry at once plaintive and a joy to all who heard it.
Cornelia saw me standing in the doorway and said, “Fetch Aridius. Tell him it’s a boy.”