Act 9: The Oathbreaker (Part 4)
Four
As Apollo's splendid chariot descended from the sky once more, Diana's cream-colored oxcart solemnly and steadily took his place. Ambicia, with a blue sash tied in a flat knot over her parale, orange shoes, and a wreath of olives, laurels, and myrtle on her head, returned home after the twins who ruled the sun and moon exchanged their scepters. At night, she removed her veil and placed a coin on the altar painted with the moon and wings—the abode of Noctennias' household gods.
"You're back so early?" Camilla, surrounded by servants, ran joyfully and sorrowfully down the corridor and took her warm hand. "My daughter... is a woman now. I thought you worshipped the goddess of the moon and the oak tree and wanted to remain a virgin forever."
Anbichia immediately became angry upon hearing this. She took off the obsidian-backed ruby ring from her wrist and threw it rudely at her mother. Her face instantly turned icy. "I haven't slept with that person yet," she couldn't help but shout angrily, "Is that all you think about all day?"
“Why? No wonder you came back so early…” Camilla, seeing her anger, stroked her fiery red hair with even more affection—the strands were all braided and tied tightly, hidden beneath the sturdy branches of the floral wreath. “You are such a beautiful bride, no man could refuse you…”
“Shut your mouth and don’t say another word about this.” Anbichia brushed her hand away and pulled off the veil and wreath from her head. “I came back to return the ring to you and to check on the family business. I didn’t come here to listen to you talk about these things.”
Camilla's face broke into an unpleasant smile, a mixture of suppressed laughter and speechless frustration. Her utterly foolish yet intelligent demeanor only fueled the anger of those who argued with her, leaving them powerless to do anything about it. Nothing could teach this wretched woman a lesson; she always found amusement in everything—Ambicea had spent decades learning to deal with this weak and dreadful mother. She fell silent, repeatedly telling herself that anger was futile, and headed deeper into the manor to review the estate's and property records—after the marriage, many properties would be transferred to the groom's family by contract. Though a risky gamble, it perfectly aligned with her expansionist plans.
However, Camilla refused to let her mood improve for a moment. "My daughter is so beautiful!" The affected mother insisted on admiring the red-haired figure in the moonlight, letting out a self-pitying sigh, "Truly my daughter!"
From the direction Ambikia was heading came the sounds of slaves being beaten and objects breaking—this was the only way she could express her discontent.
The main meal at the Noctenias household is held at midnight, when the moon is at its highest. Blood slaves, their chests marked with inscriptions, dress in theatrical costumes and heavy makeup, portraying themselves as pure and beautiful. Some hold harps in their arms, singing and playing; others bathe in wine and milk; some embrace, caress, and kiss each other; some bury themselves in a sea of rose petals, suffocatingly waving their arms. The muscles of men and women intertwine and writhe, like a giant, moving Babylonian erotic statue being pushed to the center of the stage. It's as if the vampires don't feed on blood, but on the sins of human indulgence and pleasure.
“You look extremely distressed.” A bleeding neck lay docilely on Camilla’s lap. “What’s wrong?”
“You can’t solve it.” Anbichia wiped her mouth with an expensive, deep red handkerchief. “There’s no point in telling you.”
“I’m your mother, and I have far more experience than you.” Camilla climbed onto Ambicea’s deck chair. “Tell me, what if I happen to have a brilliant plan or a solution?”
Her icy hand encircled her daughter's waist, stroking her with an appreciative air—Ambichia loathed this behavior. She transformed into a wisp of black mist and moved to the back of the recliner, avoiding her mother's nauseating gesture. "Get away!" she roared. "Go back to your own chair!"
"Why won't you be closer to your mother?" Camilla's eyes suddenly filled with crimson tears. "It's just the two of us in this world, relying on each other! I'm the person who loves you most and understands you the most in the world!"
Upon seeing her expression, Ambicia felt as if a pair of hands were gripping her neck, intent on killing her. "Get back in your chair," she tried to make her voice sound as cold as possible. "Sit back down, and I'll talk to you about my troubles."
As she expected, yet to her disappointment, Camilla's tears vanished instantly upon hearing this. Her mother flashed a childlike, obedient smile and tiptoed back to her seat—a sight that made Ambikia extremely uncomfortable, as if she weren't Camilla's child, but rather Camilla's—it was utterly upside down. "Look at you, all angry, like a sparrow caught in a cage," Camilla said, reclining in her chair, chin in hand. "Tell me, let me offer you some advice."
Ambicia cautiously returned to the recliner, feeling as if she were covered in thorns, and tried several positions without finding a comfortable one. "...Have you heard about this?" Her eyes darted around, "An edict from Milan."
"Um?"
“That one is called Jesus Christ,” Ambichia said. “The emperor has stopped caring about those who believe in him.”
Camilla blinked her crescent-shaped eyes. "And then?" she asked casually.
"...Don't you know what its doctrines are?" Anbikia felt her anger reignite. She tried to lower her voice, but her speech became faster and faster. "Those ignorant, inhumane, and extreme words will gather fools and idiots together, turning lowly slaves into mobs and strong soldiers into weak children."
"Then what?"
“They say that some have been resurrected and others have been healed. They listen to a few sermons and fabricated stories and think that is a blessing. They forget the people who actually distributed bread and wine to them, forget the power and majesty of Jupiter and Juno, and forget the honor of being a citizen of Rome.”
"Um."
“Even the lowest and most useless foreign slaves think they are noble and kind, and that one day they will go to heaven.” Anbikia stared at her mother’s smiling face. “Are you listening?”
“Of course I’m listening.” Camilla’s smile remained unchanged. “What does it have to do with you that you’re troubled by this?”
Aren't you worried?
What are you worried about?
"Aren't you worried about the empire descending into chaos, the mobs running rampant, our homes and businesses being reduced to ashes, or our very survival?" Anbikia finally rose from the recliner in anger. "Aren't you afraid that we'll have to hide in the cave from the sunlight again, that our identities will be exposed and we'll be driven away, and that we'll have to kill all the blood slaves to escape? Do you want to find another family to control, another city to hide in, and start all over again?"
"Why won't you turn everyone into your blood slaves?"
Camilla lay limply in the chair, seemingly boneless. She listened patiently as Ambicea finished her rant before slowly speaking. "I've answered that question before. Neither you nor I can change these things," she said with a smile. "Even the greatest empires will one day crumble, and the strongest armies will eventually be annihilated. Worrying about these things only brings unhappiness. We are like a lone boat adrift on a vast ocean; we just need to go with the flow, knowing that there will always be tides, and that's enough."
“Are you mocking me?” Anbicia pointed at her nose and cursed, “You think I’m useless in marriage, useless in business, and powerless to change anything? But who earned you a courtyard to shelter you from the rain? Who adorned you with fine clothes and jewelry? Who brought you beautiful and strong slaves?” She tore off her braids and pointed at her disheveled red hair, shouting, “I’m a woman without the right to vote, and I have lowly red hair. You never understand how much I’ve suffered! In your eyes, it’s as if I’ve only ever enjoyed myself!”
“Oh! My daughter!” Camilla’s expression softened again, almost like a pleading child. She climbed back onto Ambicia’s chaise lounge, wanting to embrace her. “But you like it this way, don’t you?” She kissed Ambicia’s bright red lips, painted with vermilion and mercury. “I just want you to be happy; nothing in the world matters more than that. If taking your anger out on me makes you happy, then take it all.”
Ambicia realized she was ridiculously talking to herself. She pushed her mother away with all her might, stretched out her fingernails, and scratched several deep, bone-revealing wounds on the beautiful face—but they disappeared instantly, without a drop of blood.
“I’m leaving.” She picked up the slightly withered myrtle wreath. “I’d rather sleep with that foolish general than share a room with you again.”
The red-haired figure walked towards the courtyard's skylight, a pair of enormous, jet-black membrane wings unfurling behind her as she took flight. Amidst the blood slaves' obeisance and farewell, Camilla followed closely behind, gazing at the departing figure.
"My child!" she cried, stroking her healed cheek, tears welling in her eyes. "May you be well! May the god of marriage, Haimen, protect you!"
"And then?" Yubi asked.
"And then? History proved my judgment right," Ambikia replied. "What a person desires to suffer, that suffering is hers."
As Rome was engulfed in war and smoke, Ambicea, disguised as a nun, concealed her face with a headscarf and hid in the pouring rain, carrying a crucifix. Two Gothic mercenaries dressed in animal skins stopped her.
“You’re not in the church,” said the barbarian. “Then spend the night with us.”
"Go fuck your boss." Anbichia stretched out his hand and pointed to the arena in the distance. "Get out of here."
Tears welled up instantly in the two men's eyes. They suddenly collapsed to the ground, screaming and crying, writhing and scratching their left chests. "No!" they cried, writhing in agony, their bodies covered in mud. "We're going to die! Save us!"
Ignoring the frenzied, filthy crowd, Ambikia hurried towards the Tiber River. The ancient city was laid out as she remembered, but the roads and buildings were now unrecognizable. The corpses of nobles and elders piled up like fallen leaves along the roadside, their rotting flesh stinking in the rain; the battle cries of slaves and barbarians deafened the air, proclaiming themselves new masters amidst the torrential rain and thunder. Ambikia's shoes were soaked, dripping into the hot rain. Yet, her heart was filled with a mixture of tension and excitement—as if she were about to prove something.
A stone slab painted with a moon and wings floated in the puddles—seeing this, Ambikia knew she had reached her end. She walked into the ruins, removed her headscarf, revealing a head of bright, fiery red hair. But it was soaked, wrinkled, and lifeless.
She saw her mother nailed to a cross, naked, covered in resin, and charred black. Her head was bald, she looked like a slave from Carthage. Ambikia let out a contemptuous laugh, looked around, and picked up a rough, blunt longsword in the room.
"Wake up!" she yelled. "You masochist!"
Camilla was awakened, opening her bloodshot eyes to look at her. "You're back," she cried, tears streaming down her face like melting irises. "My daughter!"
Ambicia didn't want to hear her speak. Those few words had ignited a fire within her, fueling her rage. It was as if Camilla had endured this torture in Rome precisely so that she could return to find her—as if, upon seeing her mother, all the sophistication and composure she had cultivated over centuries had vanished, instantly revealing her true nature: a helpless, irritable, red-haired little girl. But she desperately tried to hide it. "Why don't you bite them to death, drive them away, and run away yourself?" Ambicia demanded fiercely, swiftly severing her mother's arm. "Where do you want to go? Athens, Byzantium, Jerusalem? I have the ability to settle you anywhere."
Camilla did not answer her question.
"Aren't you even a little bit grateful that I came back to save you?" Anbichia looked up, getting closer to that charred face. "What's wrong with you?"
The nailed hand was roughly ripped off the nail. A large gash was torn between the flesh and bone, and it hung lifelessly, like a piece of animal meat in a butcher's hand. Ambicea examined the severed hand in her hand, and suddenly trembled with tension. "Why won't your hand grow back?" she asked. "Why hasn't it healed?"
"I'm so tired, I want to rest," Camilla said quietly.
"What?"
But her mother refused to answer her anymore, and simply closed her eyes, turning back into a charred and mangled corpse.
Since she could remember, Ambicia had never felt so helpless. The desolation of abandonment and the rage of being ignored fueled her, driving her to wield a long knife with her small arms and hack at the body she called her mother with all her might. The corpse swayed, riddled with wounds. "What do you mean by rest?" she screamed. "I saved you, and this is how you treat me?" She dragged her mother from the cross, threw her onto the faded patterned tiles of the ruins, and chopped her body into pieces. "Didn't you think everything I did was meaningless? Didn't you despise me, think I was pathetic and laughable?" Camilla's neck was severed, her head rolling to the ground, which she kicked against the corner of the wall. “You are the mother, therefore you are the truth, therefore you are right! Even if you were a corpse in a ditch, trampled and spit on by thousands, you would still call it doing whatever you want. But I live in a palace, with countless slaves serving and flattering me, and everything I want is within my reach. Is that what you call asking for trouble?”
The torrential rain poured down outside, echoing her roar.
After venting her anger, Ambikia felt both out of control and exhausted. She put down her long sword, lowered her head, and sat on a broken pillar, staring at the raindrops on her hair. The rain was so heavy that it drowned out all the noisy, filthy sounds, creating a chaotic yet quiet atmosphere. Her heart felt as if it were being submerged by the rain; some frivolous thoughts were being lifted and washed away by the current, drifting away from her heart.
"You say you're tired, but I'm much more tired than you," she whispered, as if admitting defeat and talking to herself. "Why did you choose to bring me into this world?"
But apart from the rain, there was still no response to her.
Ambikia sat quietly for a while longer. Time seemed to drag on endlessly, as if the torrential rain would unleash a devastating flood, engulfing all living things. She watched the rainwater rise to her ankles, swirling with mud and blood, soaking the hem of her clothes. It was as if she were Noah, God having placed a heavy responsibility on her shoulders, compelling her to work tirelessly to build, or face utter destruction.
But Anbichia looked up again at the body she had smashed. She thought, is this what you call a god? What god is there? She dragged her nun's gown and got up heavily, wading through the water, picking up her mother's remains with her delicate fingers.
“I don’t care what you think,” she said. “It’s time for you to listen to me.”
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