Seduced By Her Rebel Warrior. Greta Gilbert
Rome—101 CE
Atia always knew she would die young. Even before she visited the ancient sisters she sensed her days were numbered.
On the morning of her twelfth birthday, Atia’s mother shook her awake. ‘Dress quickly, my dear,’ she said. ‘Today all will be revealed.’
Together they hurried down the Via Sacra, their heads hooded, their eyes fixed upon the paving stones.
‘Faster, Atia,’ her mother urged, for gossip moved like brushfire through the streets of Rome. ‘If your father finds out about our errand, we will feel his wrath in lashes.’
Atia hurried after her mother as they made their way into the Subura slum. They entered a towering insula and began to climb—one floor, five floors, ten. Finally, they reached the highest floor and stood before a door. Atia’s mother knocked and it creaked open.
‘May I help you?’ called an ancient voice. Atia peered into the shadows and beheld a short, round woman with hair as white as the moon.
‘We have an appointment,’ said Atia’s mother. ‘A reading for my daughter.’
‘Ah yes—the ladies of Palatine Hill,’ said the woman. She gave Atia’s mother a second glance, as all people did. ‘Please, seat yourselves,’ the old woman said, then disappeared down a dark corridor.
Atia and her mother took their seats at a large circular table. Soon the round woman re-emerged, carrying an incense lamp. A chunk of amber-coloured rock smouldered inside the lamp’s wide belly, producing a rich, otherworldly scent.
‘Frankincense,’ her mother remarked admiringly.
‘To invite the goddess’s favour,’ said the woman. She set the lamp on the table, then pulled a large scroll from beneath her belt and ceremoniously unfurled it.
Atia gazed in wonder at the eerie drawing: a perfect circle divided into twelve proportionate wedges. Strange symbols decorated the insides of the wedges and colourful lines crossed between them—some of the lines blue, but most of them red.
The round woman placed the scroll on the table and studied it, then fixed Atia with an onyx stare. ‘The girl is good,’ she pronounced.
Atia released a breath she did not realise she had been holding.
The woman pointed to a blue line. ‘This means her heart is tender. She abhors the suffering of others.’
‘It is true,’ trumpeted her mother. ‘Atia has always been kind. A blessing from Juno.’
‘And look at this,’ said the woman. ‘Mercury conjunct Saturn. A disciplined mind. Like a general or a politician.’
Her mother smiled wistfully and Atia knew what she was thinking: If only Atia had been a boy.
‘Sensitive to the thoughts and feelings of others!’ exclaimed the woman.
Atia took a long whiff of the sacred smoke and began to relax. ‘The girl is loving and helpful,’ said the woman. ‘The girl likes to jest.’ Atia was almost enjoying the game now. ‘She is a natural peacemaker.’
The woman puzzled over the wheel some more, tugging her silver chin hairs. She pointed to a symbol that looked like the moon. ‘Here is the girl’s mother. Very well aspected in the house of Venus. So much beauty.’
Since Atia could remember, strangers had remarked on her mother’s uncommon beauty, often expressing disbelief that Atia was indeed her mother’s daughter.
‘You speak only of my daughter’s gifts, Grandmother,’ said Atia’s mother, turning the subject back to Atia. ‘What of the ill? What challenges will she face?’
‘The ill? I am sorry, domina. We do not usually speak of ill in such a reading.’
Atia’s mother gave a loud tsk, then plunged her fingers into the depths of her coin purse. She held up two gold coins. ‘One for the good and one for the ill,’ she said.
The old woman shook her head. ‘The ill can be difficult for some to bear.’
‘You mean that it can be difficult for some patricians to bear,’ her mother said.
The old woman only bowed her head.
‘Grandmother, I was born in this very neighbourhood. I rose to my station by the blessing of this alone.’ Atia’s mother gestured to her own face. ‘I can bear whatever it is you have to say and so can my daughter. We are stronger than we look.’
Atia had never heard her mother speak so forcefully in all her life. Nor had she heard her lie with such conviction. After all, her mother had been born to a family of Roman patricians from the province of Hispania.
Had she not?
Her mother pressed the coins into the old woman’s palm and a kind of knowing passed between the two women.
‘Decima!’ the round woman called.
Suddenly, another old woman emerged from the corridor. She was tall and thin and wore a pronounced scowl. Her bones made creaking complaints as she walked.
‘At your request, I present you with my sister,’ said the round woman. ‘She has a talent for seeing the ill.’
The thin woman gave a curt nod and seated herself beside Atia. She pointed a bony finger to a symbol inside the seventh wedge. ‘Here is Saturn in the girl’s house of marriage. It bodes ill. Many obstacles. And look here—it makes a bad angle to Jupiter, the planet of progeny.’
Atia’s mother nodded gravely. ‘Anything else?’
The thin woman sighed. ‘Where to begin?’ She pointed to a red line. ‘The girl will labour beneath the