There was a rustling, shuffling sound, and a shadowy figure uncurled itself from behind a bush. Crispina recognized Cassandra, the brown-haired young woman who helped in the kitchen.
Cassandra twisted her hands before her. “F-forgive me, mistress.” Tears shone on her cheeks in the dim moonlight. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Crispina stepped nearer to her, keeping her voice low so as not to wake anyone else. “You’re upset. Tell me why.”
Cassandra shook her head. “It’s nothing, mistress. Please, may I fetch you anything?”
“I rose to get a bite to eat, but now I wish to know why you were crying.” Her words sounded much too peremptory. If she really did want to help Cassandra, ordering her to spill her secrets was not going to get her very far. She strove to soften her tone, speaking as she would to a pupil she wanted to encourage. “My husband would want to know if there was anything wrong.”
“The master is a kind man,” Cassandra murmured. “There’s no need to burden him with my troubles.”
Cassandra’s hand went to her stomach in an unconscious, momentary caress. Crispina nearly missed the gesture, but her eyes caught the movement of Cassandra’s pale hand in the darkness. She drew in a breath, putting together the pieces. She had seen that gesture dozens of times from Horatia during both of her pregnancies. Between that and Cassandra’s tears …
“You’re with child,” Crispina said.
Cassandra flinched and took a quick step back, nearly stumbling into the bush. “Yes, mistress.” Her voice trembled.
“Why not say so? A child is a happy thing.” Crispina forced a smile. First Horatia, now her husband’s slave. As if she needed another reminder she was a failure.
Cassandra swallowed hard. “Forgive me, mistress. I was afraid. I-I know of your…struggles.”
The crying was starting to make sense. “You thought I would be angry?”
Cassandra nodded jerkily. “I feared you would s-sell me. Once I got too big to hide it.”
“You know Aelius would never permit that.” Her words came out too coolly. She took a breath and tried to sound kinder. “Would you tell me who the father is so we may congratulate him?”
A pained look came into Cassandra’s eyes. “I…”
Crispina thought through the male slaves in the household. Cassandra seemed to be on friendly terms with everyone, but Crispina had no idea who she might have a special fondness for. “Is it Malchio? Ajax?”
Cassandra shook her head.
“Hector?”
“No, mistress.” Cassandra bit her lip.
Crispina hadn’t yet learned the names of all the slaves, so she had no more options to put forth. “Won’t you tell me? It must be someone in the household.”
Cassandra remained tight-lipped and silent. A horrible possibility hit Crispina, and a heavy stone of dread settled in her stomach. Her throat tightened, but she managed to get the words out. “Is it Aelius?”
He had promised fidelity to her, yes, but Cassandra must be months along. It could have happened before the wedding, before they’d even met.
A shocked noise burst from Cassandra. “No, mistress! The master would never…and I would never…it’s not him, mistress.”
The vehemence of her denial assuaged Crispina’s anxiety, and she let out a relieved breath. “I see.” Aelius did not seem like someone who would force his attentions on one of his slaves, and she was comforted she hadn’t been completely wrong about him.
“It’s someone from another household, mistress,” Cassandra confessed. More tears sprang to her eyes. “I-I fear…” Her words broke off in a sob.
“Has this man mistreated you?” Crispina asked. Because slaves were considered property, Aelius would be entitled to demand financial satisfaction from anyone who had harmed one of his people.
Cassandra shook her head. “I love him.” Her face crumpled, and she pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle another sob.
“And you’re sad because you’re parted from him?”
Cassandra wiped her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. “I learned today that his master, Epidius Verus, means to s-sell him. He’s young and strong, and I’m afraid he’ll get sold off to a mine and I’ll never see him again.” She bowed her head, wrapping her arms around herself as if to hold in all her grief.
Crispina eyed her uncertainly. Surely she should offer some comfort, but the thought sent a prickle of unease over her skin. Consoling someone felt like attempting to speak a language she hadn’t studied. Times like these made her grateful, in a twisted way, that she wasn’t a mother. She would certainly fail at providing the sort of solace and warmth a child required.
