Chapter Text
By social law Acantha needed to accept a few more invitations to other homes before she could extend her own welcome, but enough time had passed now that she could be seen in public with the children. It would be advantageous, cementing her as a mother in the eyes of the other women and proving her capacity as a homemaker, and even better it would be freeing. To take the children out like a real mother, to carry Lebuinus through the marketplace away from the heavy gaze of Coriolanus, to instruct Martius to cling to her stola so he wouldn’t get lost, to enjoy the smells of dough being cooked in the roadside stalls and promise the boys a sticky sweet at the end of the day if they behaved. Acantha’s belly fluttered excitedly at the prospect.
The task now was simply to get Coriolanus to agree to it.
“Take him out?” Coriolanus asked sharply. “Where?”
“The feriae conceptivae,” Acantha said, not pretending to be casual.
“There will be many people,” Coriolanus said, staring her down. “An entire crowd. It would be easy to lose a child, easier still for someone else to find him.” Acantha bit her tongue against the sharp swell of anger in her chest.
“I will not lose him,” she said, admittedly a little ruder than she had hoped. She softened her tone. After all, it was a genuine enough concern. “I understand your worry, but I have herded seven children at once through that same festival and none came to any harm.”
“None of them were the sons of consuls,” Coriolanus said, crossing his arms. Acantha’s arms twitched from how desperately she wanted to do the same, shield herself somehow, but she kept her arms at her sides. She was learning how to play this game.
“True,” Acantha conceded. “But that also means none of them had a small legion of servants at their disposal. There will be at least four serving maids there with me, and even if Martius manages to get more than three feet from me at any moment he will not get past them.”
“Don’t misconstrue my meaning, woman,” Coriolanus said. “There are many who were displeased by my appointment to the consulate, and I would not gamble that none of them still hold that ire. Nor will I gamble that none of them would aim their sights at my child.” Acantha’s brows went up in acknowledgement.
“I admit I had not realized those tensions still hold sway,” she said.
“They do,” Coriolanus rolled his eyes. Ah, so he was just as nonchalant towards public opinion as the stories claimed. But at least he took their threat seriously enough, and it diverted his aggravation from Acantha to the general populace. “And I have made no secret of my love for my boy. Anyone with eyes could devise what harming him would do to me.”
Acantha hummed in understanding. Of course, she thought, even she with her low opinion of the man could see how devastated he would be by the woe of his child. The thought squirmed uncomfortably in her stomach--Martius was too good a boy, and a child nonetheless, and his pain--oh the thought hurt. But her husband was right, and she knew it.
“Very well,” she nodded. She would just have to tell the ladies the truth--she could not put the boys in danger. The disappointment stung nonetheless. “I’ll leave you then—”
“I didn’t say he couldn’t go,” Coriolanus said as Acantha turned away. “He enjoyed the festival greatly last year. But he cannot go with none but a girl and a few handmaids to protect him.” Acantha turned back and met Coriolanus’ eyes, stunned by the sudden proclamation.
“What would you have me do?” she asked. If it would allow her to take the boys out, she would do it.
“And here I expected rebuttal for calling you a girl,” Coriolanus smirked, as if he were pleased with Acantha’s answer.
“To you, I probably am,” Acantha said simply. “And I know how to put my pride to the side to see them smile.”
“Them?” Coriolanus asked, eyebrow raising critically. The sliver of appreciation he’d shown a moment ago vanished. Acantha cursed herself; she had meant to sneak Lebuinus out, knowing that Coriolanus would never agree to let the babe leave the house, and a simple slip had seen those plans crashing down.
“Of course,” she said smoothly. “Both sons of the consul must make an appearance,eventually. Although if you consider the babe too young yet—”
“I have only one son,” Coriolanus said.
“So you have said,” Acantha said, entirely unimpressed. “But the other ladies clamor to see him, and if you wish to keep the social drama to a minimum it would be worthwhile to humor them.”
“What those old hens have to say means nothing to me,” Coriolanus said.
“Nor to me, but it means something to your house. If there is any outward display of a family divided then it is a display of weakness, and one that can be used to undermine you. The house of Coriolanus is already shaken by the loss of its matriarch and the addition of a new lady of the house, any further cracks to the foundation will see the wolves of the nobility descending. I am barely fending them off as it is and if they were to discover your hatred of the youngest of the home--.”
“I’ve already told you there is only one child in this home,” Coriolanus gritted out. Acantha huffed.
“Regardless, to those outside these walls there are two and I will need a better reason than ‘because my husband doesn’t like him.’” Coriolanus scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I could tell them the truth, but—”
“Truth?” Coriolanus bit out, appearing startled. “Who told you the truth?”
“It isn’t necessary to be told,” Acantha said, “not when the reasoning is so clear. But the upper class believes your late wife’s death to have been the cause of a neglectful midwife, not the child himself, and though no one would question your grief over her loss—” Coriolanus laughed.
“You think I hate that--that thing because it killed my Virgilia? You fool.” Acantha took a step back, frightened of the manic air suddenly peeking out around the soldier before her. “I hate it for taking root in her at all. I hate her for giving it the opportunity. And here you thought you understood.” Acantha’s eyebrows bunched.
“Clearly I was wrong,” she said quickly, trying to keep her voice even. “But then understanding is not my duty. My only goal in this life is to see your sons prosper—”
“He is not my son,” Coriolanus spat.
“He doesn’t know that,” Acantha said, arms coming up to placate. Or perhaps to block a coming blow, she wasn’t sure. “Neither does anyone else. You deny him, fine, but still he breathes under your roof and so he is a part of this family to the outside world. And the outside world is watching.”
“You think that I—” Coriolanus stopped abruptly, seemingly having seen Acantha’s flinch when he flung his arm to gesture. He paused and breathed deeply, lowering his arm slowly. “I...apologize,” he said. Reluctantly, but he seemed to mean it. “But the point remains. I know the world watches, and I know they seek an opening. But I can’t--I can’t—”
“Alright,” Acantha said, trying to find a good way to end this conversation without giving too much ground. “I will tell them he is too young still and could catch illness. That lie won’t hold forever but it will spare us for now. I will leave you to decide if it is safe for Martius.”
“Wait—!” Coriolanus reached out for Acantha as if to grab her but aborted the movement. One look into her wide eyes and his mouth twitched. “No. Go. We’ll--speak later. When I am more...calm.” Acantha nodded and backed swiftly out of the room, keeping her eyes on him as she ducked from the room.
She slid into the next room over, leaning against the wall and letting her heart settle. Oh, how quickly a conversation with her husband could turn dangerous.
But, she reflected, he had agreed to speak at a later time. Perhaps he was coming to admit to himself the role he had to let her play. But still she was perplexed; never before had Coriolanus appeared to recognize her reactions as fear, let alone attempted to take a step back. Was that some sort of respect he was giving her, or was he trying to trick her into a false sense of security? Acantha didn’t think it was the last. He seemed genuinely distraught at his own lack of control. So perhaps it was not about Acantha, but Coriolanus’ own view of himself? Perhaps beating a defenseless woman lacked the glory Coriolanus prided himself on.
But the way his voice cracked when he applied the word ‘hate’ to his former wife…
Acantha was coming to realize how much she still did not know.