by Mira Zamin
* * *
Veiled by an amaranth palla, Calista was carried out on a palanquin with Olympia, lofted on the shoulders of four strong slaves. With her eyes downcast, she was the perfect demure pacta. The warm May wind brushed the palla from her face occasionally, and the smell of the sea hung heavy in the air.
Taken to the highest pavilion of the Circus Maximus where her family and Avaritus waited, Calista could not help but feel a brush of excitement at the prospect of the chariot races. The huge pillars loomed over her, their sheer size enough leave her gaping. Up and down the rows, people were crowding into the seats: city folk milled below, while the visiting patricians were attended by their slaves in their cloistered boxes.
Seven chariots and riders were spread out across the lanes of the racetrack. The men that were to drive the gilded chariots were decked out in short tunics which displayed bronzed thighs to which sandals were nearly laced. Down below, plebeians called out wildly taking bets. Portus Tarrus often held races and other minor entertainments, yet the excitement was as if it were the first time the city had seen a race. The horses pawed anxiously on the sandy earth beneath them, eagerly tossing their heads. The chariots flashed in the glaring sun: gold, white, scarlet, orange.
Lucretius, seated upon the most prominent seat of the dais, handed Calista the mappa which, in accordance with custom, she would drop to signify the beginning of the race. Neither the honor nor the bribery were lost upon her. The crowd grew silent in anticipation. Smiling sweetly, she took the linen square, leaned over the stone railing, and let it flutter to the earth below. “Let it begin!” she yelled.
The crowd roared like a many-headed lion as the charioteers surged forward.
Calista had set her heart on the fellow who was riding the crimson chariot. As his white horses started forward, excitement streamed through Calista’s veins. This was what being Roman was all about. This was the heart of the Empire. The excitement, the thrill. A streak of blood gleaming on golden sand. Waving away a slave who was offering cool drinks, she eagerly leaned forward, suffused with a heady rush and in those moments, Avaritus all but faded from her consciousness. The men circled five, six, seven laps. Circled until Calista lost count, and one by one they dropped into rank behind each other—or were derailed by competitors. To her disheartenment, the crimson chariot also fell behind in the race. Finally, one was left, and the crowd bellowed with their approval of the champion, who had driven a chariot of white and gold led by four matched black horses.
Coming forward, the man ducked a dark, perspiring head, and Calista placed the wreath of laurels about his head. “Congratulations, sir, on a race well-ridden. I declare you, the winner,” she said formally. Her eyes squinted against the bright sun. He grinned back at her, full of pride in his victory.
He bowed, and once again, the crowd cheered. They were boisterous—and clearly drunk. While their revelry continued and the champion was thoroughly toasted, Calista proceeded to the temple.
The litter swayed to the temple where statues of the gods loomed beneath the arching dome.
It will all be legal now. There will be no way for me to get out of this, Calista thought faintly. She was squished between her father and mother on a cushioned bench. Avaritus was alone. Curious that none of his family have come to observe. Likely, they’re all dead, she mused venomously. Slowly, their patrician guests trickled in and began looking expectantly at the family who was hosting the function.
“Hail!” called out Lucretius, raising his wineglass.
“Hail!” The voices of their guests, men and women alike, resounded through the temple.
“We have all been assembled for the sponsalla of my dear daughter Domina Calista Lucretia Volusus and our guest of honor, her betrothed, Gracchus Avaritus Flavius.”
“Avaritus has asked to marry our daughter, and now I, her paterfamilias give consent for the marriage.” Lucretius nudged Calista to stand up in front of Avaritus. He placed the traditional kiss on her lips to seal the betrothal. Calista tried not to cringe. He grasped her hand and slipped an iron ring on her ring finger.
“Mine,” he murmured so softly that Calista was not even sure that she had heard him properly or whether her imagination had bled into reality. When she lifted her hand from his, the iron ring on the third finger was as heavy as any set of manacles and chains but this she knew for sure to be imagination. The eyes of their guests tingling over her body, she signed the engagement papers and Avaritus followed suit. Her fingers trembled with foreboding.
After congratulations all around, they proceeded to the tents. The bustling slaves laid out flaky honey fish, on the immense tables. As soon as Calista faded from general attention (which was soon enough once the food and entertainment—acrobats, musicians, and dancers—arrived) she slipped away from the scene stealthily as she could. Her sandals reached the rough sand, cueing tears to begin pouring silently down her cheeks so that, try as she might, the flow could not be staunched. For fear of ruining the robe she did not crumple to the ground—she retained that much control at least.
“Are you well?”
Calista recognized his voice. It was the merchant from the ship.
Calista steadied her breaths, and then turned to face him. “Of course. It is my sponsalla, you know,” she said, falsely bright. “What girl would not be overjoyed at the occasion? And, what are you still doing here?”
He frowned. “And, it is your sponsalla. Plenty of new customers have flooded in. Why go elsewhere when the people come to you? My ship is docked over there.” He gestured to a line of boats bobbing in the waves. “If you still want your chain?”
“I’ll wait here,” she said after a pause.
With a knowing grin, he made for the ship and in a few moments reappeared, chain in hand.
She grasped the fine chain eagerly. It was so thin that it could have been a thread for embroidery. Her spirits leavened. “Oh, it is perfect! How much?”
“A gift on this very happy occasion of your sponsalla,” he offered generously. Calista thought she heard something sarcastic in his inflection.
“I am not at liberty to accept gifts.”
“It is a gift of friendship. Can you accept that?” A disarming smile played around the sailor’s mouth and Calista decided she was willing to trust him.
What Nuala would say, Calista could only imagine but Calista was of her own mind now. “Of course. Gladly.” Beaming at him winningly, she asked, “Who are you? Will your master not be displeased that you are offering wares so freely?”
He stuck out his hand in an unassuming gesture. “I am Claudius. I am working on board the Orpheus at the moment. And I know who you are, as, I am fairly certain, the province would know. You are quite recognizable, Domina Calista.”
She grimaced in response. “Tell me, what is it like being able to do what you want, whenever you want? To be safe in your anonymity?”
“Much less glamorous than it sounds, I can assure you. Tell me, what is it like never having to work for a meal, to be certain in the security of your home and family?” At her stricken face, Claudius remorsefully patted her arm. She felt fire where he touched her. “When is your wedding?”
“I do not know. I hope that it will not be too early. The longer I have to wait the better it will be.”
The wind blew faintly through her hair, carrying with it sounds of festivities: music and laughter, roasted fish and wine.
“Domina Calista!” a shrill voice called.
“Oh no,” Calista groaned, her smile falling. “I must go now, Master Claudius. Which house are you staying at? Perhaps I can contact you through your captain. I cannot accept the chain without some compensation.”
“Calista!” The sound was closer this time. Calista suddenly feared discovery and the inevitable punishment for being caught with an unknown plebeian.
“Well, then, meet me near that rock tomorrow afternoon.” She gestured towards a large boulder which stuck out from the beach a ways away. “Over there
.”
“As you wish.” He turned away with a bow.
Calista watched him disappear towards the ship. A shuffling gait ground on the gravel behind her and goose bumps rose on the nape of her neck. “Well, Nuala, what did you want?”
“Your parents want you back at the party,” said the old woman, her hands on her knees as she huffed. It had not always been so. She had been young and spry enough once to chase after the two children from dawn until dusk.
Calista went cold. Of course it had been too much to hope that her disappearance would go unremarked at her own sponsalla. Her parents would be furious that she had fled. And if anyone had seen her chatting with Claudius, it was very possible that she would be married to Avaritus before she could say “Non.”
“What sort of mood are my parents in, Nuala?” Calista asked anxiously.
Nuala’s eyes narrowed. “The party was in your honor, and you haven’t been seen since the very beginning. The guests are utterly scandalized and your parents ashamed.”
“Oh gods,” she muttered under her breath. Feeling drained, she leaned against Nuala’s aged body and rest her head on her nurse’s shoulder. Nuala, despite her efforts at maintaining an appropriate sternness, stroked the girl’s hair.
“Who was the young man you were talking to?” Nuala asked suspiciously, her misgiving undiminished by sympathy.
“One of the merchants.” A faint blush stood out on her cheeks. Again, it had been too much to hope that Nuala’s eyes had missed that gaping detail.
Nuala snorted incredulously. “Remember that you’re engaged and that that man you were talking to is a pleb. Remember your position and your family’s honor. Don’t be a witless ninny. What’s his name?”
“Claudius,” she breathed. “And it was nothing of that sort,” she continued primly. “I shall have you know it was strictly business.”
Nuala looked displeased. “‘Strictly business,’ bah!” What will your lord Avaritus think if he knows you to be dallying with young men?”
“To Tartarus with Avaritus!” Calista declared. “Besides, I wasn’t dallying: we were talking.”
Nuala shook her head. She was not one to gainsay her masters, but the betrothal of Calista to Avaritus did not set well with her either. “Well, put on a pretty smile for your parents, and put that mind of yours to use, so when your parents ask you where you were, they won’t find out that you were dallying.”
“I was not dallying,” Calista muttered mutinously. “But thank you for not telling them,” she added begrudgingly.
“I haven’t promised that yet, have I?” she blustered.
They had arrived at the lawn in front of the villa where her parents were awaiting her. The spurting fountain obscured their faces so that Calista could not read their emotions. The manor had never looked more striking than it did then. Venerable enough to have acquired the air of dignity that befitted a great house, the marble still flushed youthfully with the pink and orange sunset.
“The guests were startled at your rudeness—to disappear like that without greeting a one!” chided Olympia. “Where were you?”
A flash of anger burst from Calista. “With someone closer to my own age; not with a man old enough to be dangling great-grandchildren off his knee,” Calista lashed out, completely ignoring Nuala’s counsel in the heat of the moment.
Olympia pursed her lips and whispered something to Lucretius. Briefly, they studied Calista. She shifted nervously under their scrutiny as if she could entirely scoot away from the room and their discerning gazes.
Lucretius’ lips thinned. “Your behavior has been reprehensible. You have been immature and impolite and disobedient. This behavior will not be tolerated and I command that you comport yourself with dignity and mingle amongst the guests who have traveled far to partake in your joy.”
In our food, you mean, Calista thought spitefully, but remained silent under her father’s unusually grim stare.
Suddenly, her mother smiled and said, “Now, Caly, be a good girl. Put a smile on, brush that sand off your robe, and socialize. It will do you good.”
Following her mother’s command, she sweetly greeted the attendees and accepted their blessings gracefully. She joined a group of young ladies with whom she was faintly acquainted and bore their squealing with the best humor she could muster.
The sponsalla ended late that night, and even then, some men, who had imbibed freely, tottered about the grounds. Heartily yawning guests retired to their chambers, all the while whispering about what a great success the party had been and that the marriage would surely follow suit—even if a few shadowy doubts were whispered about the bridegroom’s character. The hosts and the guest of honor stayed until the very last drunk had left, cordially thanking them for their presence. Calista’s eyes wandered to the shoreline, fruitlessly searching for a tall figure outlined against the precariously dipping sun.
CHAPTER IV
