The Lamia
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge
"Christabel"
Chapter I
Elizabetta Sorriano heard the knocker at the front door. She peered into the glass, pulled the ceremonial cap from her head, and brushed out her hair. The tap was louder. Beatrice was always impatient; let her wait a minute. Elizabetta tugged at the hem of her gown; she adjusted the silky sash under her bust and went to the door of the villa.
Beatrice stood on the threshold. She was edging toward the entry, trying to get out of the damp weather. Her arms were folded beneath her heavy black cape. Elizabetta caught a glimpse of a child's form; she lit a taper in a wall sconce.
"You're sure? The old one said to be sure. There were no other relatives--no snooping aunt or suspicious old grandmother?
Beatrice nodded. "They're all dead. No one will even miss her." She set the child down on a low bench, and huddled deeper into her wool cloak. She chuffed warm breath over her cupped hands.
"How did her mother and father
die? Was it cholera?" Elizabetta knew
"I killed them."
Elizabetta frowned; a small line appeared between her light eyebrows. She looked at the little girl who lay curled, sleeping on the hard wood. She was perhaps five years old, her hair was matted and wet from the rain. Her clothes were poor, and she had no shoes. Elizabetta put her fingers around the child's small feet, and felt her cold skin. "I guess she'll do."
Beatrice smiled. "Look at her. She's perfect. The perfect token for the ceremony. Martine will be pleased. Now she might even tell the others I'm to be chosen. "
"But the old one has said it will be tomorrow night. She feels the power of the waxing moon." Elizabetta looked down at the bright glazed tiles. She folded her hands between her knees.
"The moon. The `old one' would. I'll be glad when she's dead. All this slavish devotion to the old ways bores me."
A fleeting image of the powerful ceremony came to Elizabetta. She glanced at the child, and took a soft velvet cloak from its peg. She covered the little girl who tucked her small bony knees up in her sleep.
Beatrice stood up, and started walking toward Elizabetta's dining room. "It's cold tonight. Aren't you going to offer me a glass of wine?"
* * *
Elizabetta watched Beatrice splash unsteadily through the deep puddles on the path and slammed the door with relief. She went slowly up the stairs to her room.
The gold cloth headdress had belonged to Gilda. She had been the Cabira, the leader of the Roman sect. Gilda had given the cap to Elizabetta, with the promise that someday, she, Elizabetta would lead the others.
Gilda went back on her word. Instead, Martine, now called the old one, had been chosen. And after Martine, it would be Beatrice.
She fitted the ceremonial cap on and shook her head from side to side. The dangling pearls made tiny clicking sounds. Elizabetta looked into the mirror flanked by bronze sconces that held thick white candles. She raised her arms into a long vee, and put her head back, mimicking the movements of a high priestess. She caught sight of her reflection and then pulled the heavy cap off in disgust.
Beatrice is older by a day. One
day, she thought. And when she's chosen, when she becomes Cabira, there'll be
no place here in
She glanced at the child. Beatrice had been given the honor of choosing a sacrifice. Elizabetta had been relegated to a secondary role: The Cabira told her to bathe the victim, wash her hair, clip her nails.
She looked at the the collection of round silver pots that held paints and perfumes she was to supposed to use to bedizen the child. No, she thought. I won't do it.
The little girl lay quietly on the canopied bed. Elizabetta leaned over and stroked her hair. She kissed her cheek. She heard the girl murmur, "Mama."
Elizabetta paced the floor, poked at the logs in the fire. Beatrice's image forced its way into her mind. She saw her mocking black eyes, pale skin, long regal face with its slow cunning smile waver in the shifting flames. Damn Beatrice! She was always in the way.
Elizabetta looked at the little girl that would be the instrument of Beatrice's power. Beatrice was right of course, the child was the perfect sacrifice for the ceremony. No, not this time. I'm not going to let Beatrice secure her place through this child.
Elizabetta roused the little girl. She sat up and rubbed one eye with her tiny fist. In the light, Elizabetta thought she might be younger than five.
"What's your name?"
"
"How old are you,
"This many." She held up
three fingers. Elizabetta put
Elizabetta nodded.
"Will Mama be there?"
Elizabetta hugged her. "Yes," she lied, "She's waiting for you."
The chubby blonde woman who answered the door sleepily did sewing and mending. Elizabetta had left a dress there to be embroidered.
"Ah, Signorina," She paused, and looked with surprise at the child Elizabetta held by the hand.
"Send her to Gemma,"
Elizabetta said, and hastily took out a handful of coins. "Take this. Tell
Gemma to watch her, I'll come for her as soon as I can." She pushed
"But Signorina, Gemma's no takin' any more children. My sister has her own baby comin' soon."
"This one's too old for a wet nurse, anyway."
"I don't know--"
"Please." She pressed another florin in the woman's palm."
The seamstress shrugged, and took
Elizabetta pulled her cloak tighter as she hurried along the shabby street. The rain had stopped, but the night was chilly. Her heels made a clacking sound against the pavement.
She crossed to the Via Donnato; there was an old convent behind gates. The nuns who lived there ran a foundling hospital.
She cut across the outskirts of a tidy herb garden and stood along the north side of the building. Elizabetta crouched down and cupped her hand against the glass. She peered through a narrow window into a dark cellar.
She stepped back and looked up at the facade of the convent. Only a few dim lights burned high over head. It would be easy to get inside. Elizabetta swung her fist lightly against the small pane of glass, and reached in to raise the casement. The noise wasn't loud, but she waited briefly to see if lights appeared suddenly or if she heard movement inside the convent. Then she shifted and slid her body through the window; she felt the rough sill scraping her back painfully, but she hung on to the frame until she felt her feet touch a dirt floor.
She felt her way blindly along the walls. Twice she drew back, suddenly startled when her hand touched chill wet places where slow leaks were dripping down the stone foundation.
She had moved over one wall, and was rounding the next when she came to a flight of stairs. She craned her neck, and looked up. There were lamps gleaming on the higher levels.
Elizabetta climbed the old carved staircase upwards through the heart of the convent. Here and there she saw a small alcove in the wall that held a statue of the Virgin or one of the Saints adorned with tiny flickering votive lights or drooping flowers. It reminded her of the decorations in the catacombs.
She would have to hurry. She could hear low voices in the chapel. The nuns were at matins.
She passed a landing, and was setting her foot onto the third riser, when she caught a heavy distinct odor. She stopped. Yes. It was just what she'd been looking for. She smelled eucalyptus and the oily fumes of camphor used in sickrooms.
Elizabetta headed back down. She could see the lamp on a table through a partly open door. The smell was stronger inside the ward. She heard a croupy cough from one of the row of beds filled with sleeping children.
She glanced in the first crib and saw a sickly infant. She snickered. No Beatrice, he's perfect, she thought, and snatched up the child, bedding and all.
She went back down the stairs, hugging the small body to her chest. He bounced in her arms as she hurried, but he was too weak to cry out. When she reached the lower hall, she heard the sound of someone chocking back the chapel door, so the nuns could pass through. She could already hear their measured footsteps; there was no time. Elizabetta drew back the thick iron bolt, closed the wooden front door softly behind her, and raced out the gate.
She hailed a passing carter and
cadged a ride along the Via Appia. She was going to leave this child instead of
Elizabetta smiled to herself. Like that first ceremony when they were made so many years ago, she thought this might be a ceremony that Beatrice would never forget.
She saw the other women moving through the catacombs, and heard the faint swish of their white robes against the narrow passage. She saw the dull gleam of gold at the head of the procession, where the Cabira led the way and six acolytes carried sacred torches. They walked slowly to the rhythm of the low chant. She knew Beatrice was somewhere a few paces behind her.
Elizabetta's mouth sang the words along with the rest; her heart was racing, pounding to a different beat. Her mind was tuned to the steady thump of her own thoughts, to the stratagem she was about to ply. Over and over she intoned, they will believe the lie. They will. I will make them believe it. Before she was aware of it, they were in the huge underground vault of the tomb, standing in a rough circle before the fire-blackened altar.
Elizabetta bowed her head but she raised her eyes. She saw the rapt look on Beatrice's face, her dark eyes glittered. Her tongue flicked across her dry lips to wet them.
The cup of wine came to Elizabetta's hand for the second time and she took a deep draught; it smelled of cinnamon and spices, and was sweet in spite of the metallic taste of the silver goblet. She drained it. You could lose yourself in the drugged well of the cup, give in to the swaying sensuous bodies all around you. The words, the songs, the images that shimmered on the edge of your mind had that power. She closed her eyes and set her jaw. I will have it. It will be mine.
She focused on the blurry figure of the Cabira, silhouetted against the huge blazing fire that burned behind her.
The Cabira lifted her arms for silence.
"In
Ah, it was lovely. Elizabetta's eyes widened. Hundreds of small twinkling lights flashed like stars in the crevices of the rock.
"Was it then She began to hear
the prayers of our mothers? Did she
answer us then? Or did she intercede through the Cybele, she, the Hittites
called the Great Mother? That was nearly four thousand years ago. Was it on
"We do not know, the legend doesn't tell us; but she whom we revere and honor was known as the Cabira. Behold!"
Elizabetta heard the high sound of a flute, and three young women danced slowly in a circle, arms outstretched, palms pressed each to each.
"Rings within rings to give
power," Martine, the old one said. "So it was with the first Cabira
who ever lived. She was great, and her followers built her round temple on
"She may have been one of the Ancients, perhaps Arge or Opis, the two virgins who were burned as sorceresses. They were accused of laying waste to crops and cattle. It was said that even as the two girls clung to one another in the flames, they called on the goddess who answered them: In place of the burning wooden pyre, the tortured human forms, stood a twisted tree with scarlet berries. The pyracantha, the fire thorn."
The voice of the old one rang out."Who was the first Cabira?" It is one of our great Mysteries; we cannot know. yet we believe.
"Times changed, custom
spread. Our faith grew stronger. We were
worshiped in
The three women cartwheeled into the blaze, momentarily lost from sight; then reappeared at the foot of the altar in front of the Cabira.
"We were known in
"Men have called us witches, shape-changers, succubi, she demons. We are glorified in the legend of the phoenix--the golden bird that dies in the flame and arises new made from the ashes.
"We are the daughters of Cabira, we are Lamias!"
"We are Lamias," their voices were clear and strong.
"Who was the first Cabira? It is said she was not marked as all lamias are marked with the sere flesh of a blackened left breast. It is said she had the power to cloud men's minds, to beguile a husband, to bear a child.
"It is said, that one among us may live as she did. That the time may yet come when we know her secrets.
"We wear her emblem to signify our passage through the flames, our victory over death. But we are marked because we do not possess her greatness.
"As the race of men has declined, so have lamias become debased and scarified. Who can say when humans or immortals shall see the like of the Ancients once again? When human achievement is at its pinnacle and a lamia may conceive?
"When spirit and wisdom and flesh conjoin through the power of our three sacred bloodstones?" She held them up, and Elizabetta heard the acolytes ring small tinkling brass bells.
"We must be ready! We are her children: She gives us years, that one among us may be raised up again. We believe, we offer our sacrifice. She was the one who gave us life."
The lamias responded. "Hers is the light within us."
"Long may it burn." The Cabira raised her arms wide and overturned two vials she held. A dark heavy powder spilled out and drifted down. Elizabetta saw thick black smoke billow upwards.
The priestess turned and faced the circle of women. The light behind her suddenly went out.
The lamias moaned and wailed. They cried out for the Cabira to rekindle the light. They beat their breasts and tore at the robes.
"Shall the fire be lit?" The priestess screamed.
"Yes, yes," they shouted.
Elizabetta swallowed. The time was coming very soon.
"Shall the fire burn us?"
"Give us life, give us life." The naked swaying women chanted.
Elizabetta saw the withered left breasts on every lamia. Dark hideous sacs the color of dull lead, scored with deep wrinkles hung on youthful bodies. The Cabira, she they called the old one, looked no more than twenty; but she had been the priestess in this circle of supernatural creatures for more than a century.
Elizabetta cupped her breast along with the other lamias; it oozed a few pin drops of a pale greenish liquid.
The Cabira intoned, "She who has not killed, let her kill. She who has not created, let her create."
There was a silence. The Cabira paused. Elizabetta saw several lamias crane their heads to look toward the dark recess of a niche carved into the rock.
Now was the time. They were waiting for the child to be carried out by one of the acolytes to be sacrificed, to renew the Cabira first, then each of them in turn. The rite celebrated their communion in symbolic form--what Elizabetta thought of as the beguiling.
She sensed their growing restlessness. They were hungry for the kill. Elizabetta bit her lip. Any second now.
The acolytes came out bearing a gilded litter. On it lay a small form completely swaddled in a black cloth marked with red and orange streaks. They hefted their bundle on the altar. The lamias knelt.
Elizabetta lowered her eyes. If the others suspected what she had done she could be banished; she might be put to death. She glanced over toward Beatrice and saw the other woman was lost in ecstasy.
The Cabira lifted the cloth to reveal a hooded figure draped in white. One small circle had been cut in the cloth, and the victims's pink lips were outlined by the gap.
The priestess shed her robe; her left breast had the withered look of mummified flesh. She pressed herself close to the figure. Its small mouth fastened to her breast and sucked loudly. She closed her eyes.
Her voice rose to a hectoring scream. The startled lamias lifted their faces in fear and bewilderment.
The Cabira writhed and gasped. "Pain, this life has known nothing but pain." She jerked herself away with tremendous force. She staggered backwards, her arms flailing out. A huge taper set on a heavy candlestand toppled and broke against the floor with a loud crash. The acolytes moved around her and covered her with her own robe. The lamias quickly picked up the white gowns from the stony floor and put them on.
The Cabira pulled herself up to the altar stone. Her eyes bulged in their sockets, one hand was painfully contorted like a bird's claw. "Take off the hood."
The child, now uncovered on the altar, was profoundly deformed. His head was huge and misshapen. It bulged here and there with with lumpy protrusions. His limbs were pitifully twisted; one hand was webbed to the first knuckle.
Who did this?" The Cabira glared. "Who brought forth this abomination? Who brought a child here that is dying, that has no years to give us?"
Elizabetta heard the lamias muttering. Beatrice's name was spoken aloud.
"Beatrice," Martine said. She waved her gnarled fingers.
Elizabetta looked away. She remembered that once she had beguiled a woman with perfect, even teeth, and that afterwards, she had been entranced for hours looking in the mirror to see her own gleam so whitely.
"Beatrice!" The Cabira glowered at her. The acolytes moved protectively toward the priestess.
"I didn't do it," Beatrice gazed at the old one defiantly. "I wouldn't."
She knelt and held her hands out, palms up, in supplication. "I brought a girl to Elizabetta." Beatrice paused. She slowly raised her head, and a bolt of sudden insight came over her, she pointed at Elizabetta. "I drank too much last night. I slept late. This evening, when I came to her house to get the sacrifice, she told me she'd brought the girl here already. She carried this monster into our midst! Ask her. Ask her what she's done with the little girl I chose."
All eyes were on her, and Elizabetta felt a spurt of panic rising through her. "How she lies! You all know how she lies! Beatrice never showed up at all. I waited for hours. I'm sure she was drunk--but she never came. I gave up at dawn and went to sleep. She never brought the victim for me to purify."
"You're lying. Go to her house, she's got the child hidden somewhere. I'm sure of it. Look at her," Beatrice pleaded. "She's different. She's taken the dark-haired girl already, just look at her, you can see that!"
"Quiet." The Cabira said. "Just leave me, all of you. "
The lamias filed out in twos and threes through a passage at the rear of the vault. Elizabetta heard her name whispered.
She walked slowly along the dusty road. Wagons rumbled past. A coach with heavy curtains rolled by her. She recognized one of the acolytes, Sylvanna, when she lifted one corner of the drape. Sylvanna shook her head. Elizabetta felt a dart of anxiety. The carriage turned east towards Trastevere where she lived.
Chapter II
She delayed as long as she could, but she was hungry, and she needed money. Elizabetta went in through the gate cautiously. She looked around, she was anxious: her eyes jumped from the roof line to the first floor windows to the row of trees and back up to the chimneys. But there was no one.
She unlocked the door, and entered the hall. The ormolu clock on the mantel in her drawing room ticked steadily. Tall irises set in a large urn were reflected in the mirror over the table. She saw one lying on the floor, and stooped to pick it up. She wondered if the lamias had searched her house after all.
She was suddenly aware of commotion, rapid movement, and when she looked up, six of Martine's lamias blocked the exit at the other end of the hall.
They surrounded her. "Come with us."
She hung her head. It was useless. "What did Martine decide?"
The tallest, a lamia named Michaela answered. "It's for her to say. We're taking you to the Villa."
"Not to the catacombs?" She thought of the dark underground passages that extended for miles and miles beneath the earth, and for a second, Elizabetta felt relief.
"You're not worthy to enter our sacred place." Sylvanna spit, and Elizabetta saw the globule shine up from the scrubbed tiles. She would never see this house again.
"Listen, we're going to walk through the streets, if you try to escape or make any signs to passing humans," Michaela fingered the sheathed length of a dagger which hung at her waist, "I'll use this. Don't force me to kill you." Michaela pushed her toward the door.
The wind had risen and Elizabetta heard the unlocked door creaking back and forth against its old hinges, banging on the jamb as they moved along the path. She shut her eyes. It was too much like the sound of wooden shutters clattering against an abandoned house.
Michaela and the others herded Elizabetta through the gate into the courtyard. At least a hundred cowled women stood in front of the pale jade circle of a shimmering reflecting pool.
Elizabetta saw lamias and their Cabiri who had come from as far away as Lazio. She realized runners had been sent and the lamias had travelled swiftly without rest. Some she had not seen in decades; and there were new lamias she didn't recognize. Elizabetta scanned the crowd for Leonora of Naples, who had made her and Beatrice. Leonora loved her, she thought bitterly, but she wasn't there.
The courtyard was a peaceful place. Elizabetta had often sat, thinking, meditating in the calm of the tinkling water, the luxurious greenery set round the stone pond. She had dreamed and idled looking on the small statues of wood nymphs and fanciful stags. But now--she swallowed--anxiety washed over her in a tide.
One of the acolytes beat a light rhythm on a tabor. The Roman Cabira held up her hand.
"I have called a Council to decide the guilt or innocence of Elizabetta Sorriano for her part in profaning a holy rite. Let each sect draw lots for those who will represent them."
There was a murmuring among the women, and Elizabetta heard the rattle of stones being cast. She knew each sect would select two. Ten lamias would sit in judgment. Martine would be one.
The stones chittered as they were thrown at the mark--a larger rounded black stone set at a distance. She looked toward an archway, and saw the Roman lamias clapping the back of a tall woman with dark hair. For one wild second, her heart lurched. She thought Beatrice had won the right to sit in judgment. The lamia, pushed her hood back. It was Michaela. She saw the sparkling malice in Michaela's dark eyes. Michaela, she thought, has already made up her mind.
The Council drew aside, and Elizabetta could hear fierce whispering. None of the others even looked at her. She sat alone, waiting, while the Council argued facts and opinions.
The ten lamias suddenly gathered and stood in a half circle around Elizabetta. Her wrists were bound at her waist with a leather cord. A lamia she'd never seen secured the thongs: "So may you be bound by the judgment of the Council."
Elizabetta knelt before them. In front of her was an oval stone basin, its handles were formed by carvings of naked women with pendulous breasts. The font was balanced on a heavy iron tripod, a low flame burned and licked the underside. Inside, a clear liquid heated slowly.
"Raise your eyes and look on those who judge you," the Cabira commanded her.
Elizabetta put her head up, but saw only blankness on their faces. In their hands, each had a semi-precious gem of greyish green chalcedony flecked with bright red jasper called a bloodstone. The Roman Cabira held three ancient beads, they were smaller than the others, and curiously carved.
"Sylvanna Cardossi, do you find Elizabetta Sorriano, guilty or innocent?" Martine said.
"Guilty." She held her hand out, fingers together, with the palm facing down.
"Michaela Aldonado, do you find her guilty or innocent?"
"Guilty."
Elizabetta saw her thin hand turn, even as Michaela said the word.
The Cabira questioned all ten, each had pronounced Elizabetta guilty. Elizabetta hung her head, and her blonde hair fell forward. She was scarcely aware of what was going on around her. The words became a drone, a faraway buzzing. There were moments when she actually experienced a kind of near-deafness, an auditory blank. She retreated to place deep inside herself. The scene in front of her faded and dimmed.
"What say you?" The Cabira shook Elizabetta's shoulder. "What say you?" she repeated.
Elizabetta raised her head and looked up. I'm supposed to say something, she thought. I wonder what it is they want me to say. Perhaps, something in my defense. Yes, I'll think of an excuse, a reason that this happened. If they just let me have a moment to collect--
"Elizabetta!" Martine snapped her fingers close to Elizabetta's eyes, and she jerked her head back.
"Where's Beatrice?" she suddenly screamed. "Where is she? Why isn't she here? She did it, she's the one you should punish, not me. Beatrice is guilty!"
Elizabetta began to shudder. "Not me, not me." The cords bit into her her wrists. She struggled to rise to her feet, and felt hands pinion her from behind. One of the lamias pulled her hair in a tight grip, and the steady pressure stung her scalp.
Martine shook her head. She scrutinized Elizabetta carefully. The girl was half out of her mind with fear. Had to be. Elizabetta hadn't defended herself or pleaded for the leniency of the Council, she'd only tried to drag Beatrice into it, like a child laying off blame on a sibling. It wasn't like her at all, Martine knew, and less typical still that a lamia like Elizabetta had committed a serious offense.
The shame of it was she'd honestly thought Elizabetta would be the next
Cabira. Beatrice was eldest; it was true--but one day was nothing, a decade was
nothing--not when it came to the leadership of the sect. She remembered when
her sister Leonora sent them--as young lamias--from
Elizabetta was both competent and compassionate. Beatrice, she thought sighing inwardly, was power hungry and greedy. Elizabetta would have garnered a higher loyalty from the lamias. She had been too young last time, when Gilda passed on, but Elizabetta might have been chosen next.
It was too bad. She'd been found guilty and it was up to the others to decide on the punishment. As the Cabira, Martine could only enter into the judgment if the vote was evenly divided. That was the law, and she had to uphold it. The priestess looked over the tile roof and saw it was nearing sundown. Whatever they decided would happen quickly as the power of the lamias grew stronger with night approaching.
It was sad and terrible, but there was nothing she could do. Martine turned with an impassive face to the first of the ten; she spoke in a steady tone, using the formal words that made her feelings a little easier to bear. "What say you, her punishment shall be?"
"Death." The lamia said, and tossed the bloodstone into the basin, where it sank downwards quickly.
"Death." Michaela dropped the pebble.
"Death-in-life," Another held back the grey-green gem.
Elizabetta closed her lids, and listened to the cold voices. In her panic she could not keep track of the dull serious responses.
She heard a stone bounce into the basin. The last member of the Council spoke. It was finished.
Elizabetta opened her eyes and looked into the watery fluid. She strained to count--were there five? Six, she thought with anguish. I think there are six. The angle made it so hard to see.
The Cabira stood over the basin, the sleeves of her gown were pushed back, and her white wrists were exposed. There were five bloodstones nestled at the bottom of the stone. Five judgments for death. Five against. She would decide.
Martine lifted her hand, and was about to let the three gold-tipped ceremonial bloodstones sift down, when she looked at Elizabetta. Her greenish hazel eyes, fringed with dark gold lashes were vacant. She seemed to be staring at something on the horizon, her lips moved. The Cabira looked up and saw a pale gibbous moon. She thought Elizabetta was saying an inward prayer, or taking a last look at the gleaming planets winding over the nightsky. The priestess saw Elizabetta's mouth turn upwards into a thin smile. Elizabetta chuckled and rocked her slim shoulders.
She's gone mad, Martine thought. Elizabetta has gone mad. The Cabira pulled her hand back, and cupped the bloodstones in both palms.
"Death-in-life." She pronounced.
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THE LAMIA is 119,00 words, 557 pages
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