Storms and Grief
The quiet pitter of the falling rain filled the unnerving silence between me and my master. Unlike most, I didn’t need to fear his wrath, yet I still quivered slightly. This master, Octavian, was the eighth of his siblings. I had been given charge of him since birth. His status as youngest of five boys left him forgotten among the house’s immense cast. Thankfully, because of this, his brothers’ haughty disposition had yet to capture his quiet nature.
“Cassia, where did you take Lupa?” his voice wavering in poorly hidden worry, “ I asked you to let her visit the gardens. Not to leave her there.”
I had to be his parent in this moment. My words had to be careful in the ways theirs was never. Years of neglect made trying to navigate Octavian’s delicate emotional state an onerous task. I could only compare it in difficulty to when I used to carried vases, filled to the brim with wine, across drunken courtyards.
Gently, I responded, “She ran off. I gave her your usual command and she bolted away. I ask for forgiveness, but I am far from a match to your dog’s physical prowess.”
With an unfocused ire, he asked; “Please, don’t try to flatter me. I am not as vain as my brothers.”
“Oh yes! Mast…”
“Please! My anger is not at you. I’m sorry...” He snuck a small calming breath, “ You don’t have to speak. All I ask is for you help me find Lupa.” Silently I nodded my head, trying to follow as close behind his swaying tunic as one could while we exited his chambers into the hallway. In the bedroom of his youth, I was protected by years of care, but now I was only a servant. Octavian’s domain stretched only as far as the doorway; his brothers’ stretched well beyond them. Of course, the long journey from the garden to Octavian’s room was one I knew too well from years of couriering him back and forth from his places of refuse. Each room and arch a reminder of one time or another I rescued him from a familial abuse.
“Where do you think you are going?” the booming, self-congratulated voice of Magnus echoed from a shrouded room behind us, “Has your wet nurse finally run out of milk? ”
I could tell that Octavian was holding in his anger as he said, “No brother, Lupa has gone missing. We are trying to find her.”
He informed us bluntly, “Why would you want to retrieve that decrepit husk? She’s too old for hunting. I would let the beasts get her.” Seemingly over what he was doing previously, Magnus protruded his head out from behind the curtain.
“Do not bother him,” a careless voice commanded, hidden, “We are busy.”
A facetious smile crept up Magnu’s cheeks as he said, “ I know you do not understand this, but I have a duty to this woman. Leave us. Forget that stupid dog!” As quickly as he came out he slithered back in; a commotion resuming in the room. Flustered, I turned to see my master in a shaken state. His usual stony eyes began to glisten against the torch light.
“She will not be dead.” He reassured himself. Frankly, my master had always seemed to have a way with fate. Ever Since he was young his convictions had been used as strong foundations for servants’ bets. However, gods had ways of breaking commonalities when they wished.
As we hurried along, I heard a voice, the volume of chatting ants to my front; Octavian was pondering, “We live in Italia why has the weather turned so sour?” Finally we reached the garden, the growing storm unable to deter my master from his mission. “Where did you last see her?”
I looked out across the yard hoping to see the bushes she escaped through, but the pounding wind and pouring rain’s efforts defied me. I could only see but ten feet ahead, and what could be seen was very little. Squinting my eyes I noticed the large well out from my right. Centering my vision on the landmark, I recalled my memory of this afternoon.
The warm and gently Roman sun had yet to be blotted out by the dark clouds looming in the distance. A gentle breeze swayed the olive trees; creating waves of green leaves off into the horizon. Confusingly, Lupa in her advanced age was giddy running around me. I knew she was expecting Octavian to take her on their daily runs. He was off today though, training to be a soldier. Earlier he had told me of his distaste for it.
“Uncle, Patruus thinks it’s good for me. He said I need a source of manhood in my life…” His words had drifted off from there. I knew of his troubles with expectations and how he chafed under them. Still, I could not judge. My lack of husband and child would usually condemn me to the grave if it weren’t for this kind-hearted boy I had been charged with.
I consoled him then with words few except mothers could muster, “Know I will never condemn you. I never blamed you when I heard you never wished to sleep with another. Neither did I blame you when you hid away on your Liberalia. I know your spirit. You will only become who you want to be.” He embraced me then, and I too did the same. Days passed and I still contemplated how such a timid child could weather all the derision they faced.
Just the same, I was thinking of this when I commanded Lupa to “go-go”, a command Octavian had asked Lupa since he was small and first allowed to venture past the flower gates. With speed to rival Mercury, she sprinted off. While I knew Octavin could keep up with her due to years of play gifting him the speed to rival even that of a wild wolf, I was far from that athletic ability. Futilely, I had yelled at her to come back, but she ignored my pleas as she ran into the thick of rosemary bushes growing east of the garden well. Soon after I had rushed to Octavian’s bedroom to retrieve Lupa’s whistle, only to find him putting up his garments. From there I reached the end of my memory, and an answer formed on my tongue, “She went this way.” I pointed past the well to its far right.
Instantly with great resolve, Octavian bolted like a lion freed from their cage. His voice screamed out with the power of a great runner’s lungs, “Lupa! Lupa!”
Whirrr! Whirrr! I blew the whistle in hopes it would travel past the thrashing wind and rain. An eternity of searching awaited us, our bodies threshed and pummeled by the wind, as our voices grew hoarse from unceasing exertion.
...
“Lupa! Lupa?” A hint of doubt entered Octavian’s plea.
A desperate swear departed my lips as I cried, “By the mother of Romulus, help us find her!”
Then as if an answered prayer we heard a suppressed, “Aruuu! M! M! Mmm!”
In an exclamation of relief, Octavian alerted me, “I heard her coming from there.” His finger hurriedly pointed to my left. Nevertheless, I had no time to get close before Octavian hefted her into his arms and frantically darted to the villa.
…
Boom! The sound of thunder rattled the room. Octavian paced outside the doorway as the visiting Greek physician, Alexious, assessed Lupa’s condition. I could tell he wouldn’t bring good news when he gested, “Be glad I was mostly trained on animals!”
Restless and impatient, Octavian pleaded, “Please, tell me if she will survive.”
His demeanor quickly changed, “I cannot say. Some beast must have attacked her in the confusion of the storm. Her stomach is ruptured.” I doubted Octavian had overlooked this fact, his clothes were soaked more by blood than rain now.
In a voice unwilling to accept its own judgment; he said, “She will not survive, will she?”
Shaking his head in defeat Alexious responded, “It is up to the fates now.” With the doctor’s abilities exceeded, Octavian asked us to leave him in peace. I tried to reach out, to comfort him, but I was not allowed.
More than just an outstretched palm separated us, “Leave. I do not wish to burden you with my grief.” I wanted desperately to tell him how much his pain will always grieve me, yet I did not intend on pushing too far- loss can make one forget many things. Thus, with grief in mind; I forsook him to barter with Hades. My echoing steps drowned out by his and my own tears of sadness.
…
That night I lacked my usual trepidation for going to bed during a storm, for the slaves quarters where in the upper attic— a place so easy to be struck by lightning. This common fear usually lead me to offer libations to all gods applicable. I would give a part of my stolen sweets to Jupiter for protection in the downpour. I would pray, “To Jupiter, father of the gods and Progenitor to Mars; the patriarch of Rome. All I ask is for mercy tonight. That I may not be punished for any crime, mine or other’s, until I reach the Judges of Hades.”
However, tonight I cared little if Jupiter struck me dead. All I wished to do was lay opened-eyed upon my bedding of coarse straw.
