“You don’t want him,” I said. “He’s not a good man. He has come here on a destructive mission and I’ve followed him to prevent him. He doesn’t know I’m here.” Back to Livia: “He’s come to destroy something of your family’s.”
“My hymen?” Julia gasped. Hysterical giggling from the attendants.
“Quiet, sister,” said Livia, not taking her eyes from me. “This is a dramatic claim you’re making, Melia, if that is really your name. What does the villain—”
“The hot villain,” Arria corrected, as Julia said, “The sexy villain!”
“What does he intend to damage, and why, and how? And why and how do you plan to stop him?”
“I would be grateful to be clothed before answering.” My teeth were chattering now.
“Once you’ve answered, then you will be clothed,” said Livia in a gracious tone, as if she were offering me lunch.
“It will be easier for me to speak once I am warm and dry.”
“What do you think, Julia?” asked Livia, glancing over her shoulder.
“I want to know why her butt looks so good,” said Julia. She made a final adjustment to her sister’s headdress.
“I’m impressed with the thighs,” said Thalia. “And like I said, the belly.”
“Belly’s not feminine,” scoffed Julia. “It’s too flat.”
“I will dress you just to shut them up,” said Livia. “Arria, give her a towel and your extra tunic.”
I gratefully received a loose, undyed woolen tunic that fell well below my knees. Arria rummaged through a chest and found a belt; tying this on me, she bloused the tunic over it. I thanked her.
“Leave,” said Livia to the younger three.
Disappointed, they sauntered out into the courtyard.
“Out of earshot,” Livia called out. “No skulking about.” Then to me: “Talk.”
“There is a cart headed here,” I began, “from a nearby workshop—”
“Yes, in Sophiana—that’s where your supposed villain went.”
“What is my villain calling himself?”
“Quintus,” she said. (I know him from DODO, but not well. His real name is Arturo Quince, and I understood why the girls were giggling over him—he exudes a grumpy sort of smoldering charisma.) “He claimed to be a great artist from the Veneto who came here seeking Hanno Gisgon, our esteemed mosaicist, to discuss an exchange of grouting recipes or something. Hanno’s father designed most of our home, so Hanno is the natural choice to improve it. Quintus had somehow heard Hanno was designing a room for us, which was Quintus’s excuse for arriving here.” She made a face. “Grout recipes seemed a silly reason to be Sent so far from home. I should have been suspicious, but he was so gentlemanly and didn’t stay long before excusing himself to walk down to the village.”
“He did come here seeking Hanno Gisgon, but for a different reason,” I said. “He plans to overturn the cart carrying the new mosaic Hanno Gisgon made for you. The mosaic is already laid out, but not cemented or grouted, as I understand.”
“Yes,” she said. Given her youth, she’d been doing an admirable job of playing interrogator, but now she grinned girlishly at me; it was a disorienting shift. “That mosaic is for my bedchamber. This is the guest wing, I’m only staying here while they do the mosaic work. My real room is across the courtyard. It’s got a floor design like the servants’ quarters, just some tiresome geometric patterns. Hanno has designed me a marvelous new floor depicting the Nine Muses, and each of them shall have my face. It was fun to watch him sketch it, he spent hours staring at me. I liked that. The workers will begin to lay it in as soon as it arrives, hopefully tomorrow.” Her tone remained cheerfully self-possessed, without the adolescent intensity of the others. “Hanno normally lives all the way off in Marsala, of course. He has the largest workshop outside Carthage, he’s just inherited it from his father, and although he’s young, he’s rich and very famous. He’s staying in the village during installation, to oversee the work—he can’t stay here while Father is away, that would be indecorous. But he will surely be traveling up here with the wagon. You must meet him. He has the most wonderful smile, and his laugh is like a warm bath.” Her eyes, brilliant with her crush, narrowed suddenly. “If Quintus hurts him, I will torture Quintus to death with magic. I’ll peel the skin of his chest off in narrow strips and force them up his—”
“He won’t hurt Hanno, but when the cart overturns, the mosaic will be destroyed,” I said.
“Why would Quintus want to destroy my mosaic?”
“I swear on the souls of my ancestors, mistress, I do not know. My paterfamilias has sent me to prevent the destruction. That is it,” I emphasized, to clarify. “That is the sole reason I am here: to prevent Quintus from destroying your mosaic.”
“That’s it?” she said. “That’s all we have to do? Protect the mosaic?”
“We?” I said.
“My father charged me that while he is away, nothing is done on the latifundium that I am not involved with. If you wish the freedom to pursue your task, you shall allow me to do it with you. Tell me everything.”
I decided to indulge her “patrician adventuress” yen for the moment, to keep her agreeable, and then find a workaround behind her back. “All I know about Quintus’s plan is that he will attempt the sabotage as the wagon is crossing a bridge. But he’s sure to have thought out the details carefully, with the help of strategists specializing in this kind of destruction,” I said. “So defeating him will take planning, and skill, and possibly luck, and—”
She gave me a look implying I was an idiot. “I’m a witch. I’ll just put a spell of protection on the mosaic.”
“Ah,” I said.
I can’t think of any occasion when a DEDE was accomplished via direct magical intervention. The witch ethos is usually to decline to participate in actual DEDEs. But then, it’s unusual for a witch to personally benefit from a successful DEDE, as was the case here. If Erzsébet ever held forth about why we shouldn’t accept magical help, I was blanking on it. Anyhow, as Tristan already stated in his DEDE report from 1606 London: out of necessity, our MO has changed. We are not trying to change anything; we’re trying to prevent Gráinne’s changes as efficiently as possible.
“That’s an excellent idea,” I said.
“I do not understand why somebody Sent you here to undertake a task that is difficult for you but nearly effortless for me.”
“My paterfamilias only became aware of the plot yesterday,” I said. “And we are from the Veneto too, so a message would not have gotten here in time.”
“Whatever witch Sent you could just as easily have Sent me a message,” she countered.
“Consider me that message, mistress,” I said. “However it happens, the goal is to protect the mosaic.”
She gave me a studying look. “You are not telling me something.”
“I’m telling you what I know, mistress. I will go to your family shrine and swear on my grandfather’s soul.”
After a beat, Livia cleared her throat. “Come back in, girls,” she called out.
Immediately the three of them were in the doorway. They had been skulking.
“I must compose a note to Father,” said Livia. She pointed to a leather stool beside a three-legged table. The table was just large enough for a box of writing implements: papyrus rolls, ink, three small wax tablets, and a cup of reed styluses. “Sister, write for me,” she said.
Julia pouted but seated herself on the stool. She pulled the skirt of her tunic taut across her lap, pinning it in place with the weight of her thighs upon it. Then she took a small piece of the papyrus and placed it on her lap, dipping the pen in a vase of ink that rested on the table.
“Begin, beloved sister,” she said loftily.
“Your adoring daughter Livia Saturnina, to my beloved father Marcus Livius Saturninus, greetings,” dictated Livia, standing in the center of the room. “I hope you will be pleased with the news that I have just employed money from yo
ur coffers to purchase a most marvelous new slave.” She paused to allow Julia to catch up. “Her name is Melia, and although she is not young [editorial note: I am thirty-two], she is the most perfectly healthy woman I have ever encountered—very strong, with excellent teeth and clear eyes. She speaks many languages, and can read and write—” An aside to me: “Can you read and write?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Are you a Christian?” she asked, one eyebrow cocked.
“Should I be?”
“Probably not. Father tortures Christians.” She turned back to Julia. She waited until her sister had finished scribbling. “Marcus will weld a fetter around her ankle later today, and I shall make sure Lucius marks the amount I have spent in the register. She is funny-looking, but I believe you will be pleased with the purchase. We await your return with tenderness and respect. Your adoring, devoted, loyal daughter. The end.” She nodded to her sister. “Thank you, Julia. Arria, bid Lucius add this letter to the correspondence in Father’s study. He’ll be home in a fortnight, no sense losing a messenger over it. So you see,” she said brightly, turning back to me, “you will cooperate and tell me everything, or spend the rest of your life as a slave here.”
“I am cooperating,” I said. “It benefits me nothing to keep secrets from you. And we both know that if you distrust me, you can just use magic to get more information out of me.”
“I’ll do that if I feel the need to. Meanwhile, I look forward to our adventure together, protecting the mosaic.”
“But tell me, mistress. If you’re going to use magic, what is my role?”
“You’ll be my escort to the bridge. It’s unwise to attempt magic too remotely—that would be like shooting an arrow without seeing your target. We should be in proximity to the mosaic when I cast the spell of protection.” I nodded; she smiled, a happy teenager again. “I’ll keep you near me until it’s time to head down there. Arria, when do our lessons begin?”
“In an hour,” Arria said.
“Excellent, that is enough time for my new slave to share her special knowledge with us.”
“What knowledge, mistress?” I asked. “I’ve already told you everything I know—”
“Not that. I mean about your having been an athlete. You have legs like a statue’s. I want my legs to look like that,” said Livia (yes, the one who had shut down her underlings’ similar comments). “Because then Hanno Gisgon will look at me more.”
“Sorry?”
“When he was staying here designing the mosaic, I wore the shortest tunics decency allowed, but he never noticed, he only ever looked at my face. I must make my legs look more like art, and then he will admire them. This means exercise.”
“And Quintus will look at my legs!” crowed Arria.
“No, mine,” hissed Julia.
Thalia made a pff sound. “I’m satisfied with looking at my own legs, if they look good,” she said.
“So show us what you do,” commanded Livia. “Before today’s lessons begin, show us your exercises.”
In my five years as a DOer, this was one of the quirkier orders ever I’d fielded. They were all staring at me, and I wanted to keep them happy to ensure this would go smoothly and quickly. Wearing a tunic that fell to below my knees, I didn’t have many options.
“All right, then,” I said, and sat on the floor. I did some crunches and some push-ups, but the girls made disappointed noises.
“We already know those,” said Livia. “Your body looks unusual, so you must be doing something else.”
“If the tunics weren’t so long we could go for a run,” I said.
“You mean . . . outside?” said Livia, startled. I should have anticipated this. The compound was enormous, covering acres of ground, and throughout most of it, the girls could trod with impunity, upon mosaics of demigods, emperors, wild tigers. But unless they were traveling with their father, there was no reason for them to go beyond its walls.
“It doesn’t matter, since the tunics are too long.”
“Oh, that’s no problem,” said Livia. “I was expecting we’d change anyhow.”
Five minutes later we’d exchanged our tunics for mammalare and subligar Roman underwear. The girls wore these for their morning exercises (push-ups, sit-ups) in the bedroom.
Mammalare (think mammary) is a long strip of colored fabric. Romans didn’t go in for big breasts, so binding them was common. Subligar is a catch-all term for britches or underpants, fastened at the waist. These generally came to about the knees, but could be trimmed shorter to wear under other layers. The young women’s covered about as much as Victorian swimming trunks might, but much baggier. For jogging purposes, they were hardly better than the tunics.
“Excellent,” I said. “If we aren’t leaving the estate walls, shall we run around the perimeter of the courtyard?”
All of them exchanged looks, scandalized. “We can’t show our knees to the servants,” said Livia. “Vilicus would tell Father, and we’d be in dreadful trouble.”
“Maybe the ambulatory?” said Thalia. “That’s three stadia long if it’s a cubit, and with your father away, there’s no government business, so nobody’s in there.”
“Vilicus will protest, he’ll say it’s disrespectful,” Livia predicted.
“The palaestra?” I suggested, remembering the compound’s map. All four of them gasped.
“That’s only for men!” said Julia.
The palaestra was a long oval room near the baths, where men built up a sweat by wrestling or boxing before bathing. All four of them were more shocked by this suggestion than the notion of going outside the walls. But it did not take them long—labeling me their corruptor—to decide to break the gender taboo.
They led me by a back passage, through one of the kitchens, to the palaestra, so I could teach them how to run. Seriously. They rarely did anything aerobic and believed running for more than a few meters was a skill they had to be taught. Since that made me useful to them, I didn’t disabuse them.
The palaestra was half a football field in length, with brightly painted walls and a mosaic covering the entire floor. The mosaics were not embellishments: every surface that was walked upon—even in the latrines and the slaves’ quarters—was a piece of art. I knew this was common for the time, but I’d never heard of anything on this scale; Hanno Gisgon’s father must have had hundreds of tile-setters to complete it in one lifetime. Imagine acres of tiles smaller than a fingernail. I’m mentioning this because it’s worth doing a deep dive into Hanno Gisgon’s family. Hard to believe all they ever did of note was one villa in a remote part of Sicily.
Back to the palaestra. The mosaic on the floor in here was a time-lapse(!) depiction of a four-team chariot race inside the Colosseum. We collected ourselves by the image of the emperor handing a laurel branch to the winner. Then on my call, we began a gentle sprint down one side of the room, following the course of the chariot race. I ran slowly enough to keep pace with them, but all four were out of puff by the time we’d reached the far end. Livia—laughing at her own breathlessness—ordered us to stop.
“That was wonderful!” she declared, shutting us down before I’d finished warming us up. “Every morning, we’ll come here and run like that. I like that fiery feeling in my lungs.” She tapped her upper chest almost in wonder. “But, Melia, you are cheating!” (I was pulling up my subligar without realizing it.) “That gives me an idea: I’ll have all the subligar shortened, and tomorrow we will all keep up with you. Arria, see to it this afternoon after lessons.” She turned to me. “You will have to attend lessons with us, new slave of mine, else Vilicus and Teacher will grow suspicious of your identity.”
“As the mistress wishes,” I said. (Was she serious about the slave threat? I’d been banking on that being a formality.)
We changed back into tunics in Livia’s rooms. From a bronze chest, the sisters retrieved a jug of wine and a lump of incense. Leaving me behind with Thalia and Arria, they went out to the courtyard shrine, where th
ey would prostrate themselves before the family gods, asking for good fortune for the day.
(I’m not clear how religion squares with witchcraft. Livia—like Goody Fitch in 1640 Cambridge and others in other DTAPs—seemed to matter-of-factly follow the expected rituals of her culture, indifferent to how “real” the gods and ancestral spirits were.)
While the sisters were doing this, Arria and Thalia piled their arms with wax-coated tablets, papyrus scrolls, several codex-style books, and a box containing writing implements. They nodded me across the courtyard to a large room, where the sisters joined us. The scantily clad man in the floor mosaic here was playing his lyre and surrounded by gorgeous, exotic mammals that nobody here would ever see in real life. (In other words, Orpheus.)
The girls had a Greek slave as a tutor, elderly enough to have been with the family for several generations. He must have been tall and broad-shouldered once, but now was gaunt and stooped. As is normal for Roman schooling, he didn’t conduct class per se, but gave each girl assignments to do on her own—oratory and literary analysis (in both Greek and Latin), mathematics, philosophy, and music. Livia cheerfully told him I was her new slave, and despite my being far beyond the years for formal education, she wished me to receive schooling today with the rest of them (the slaves were educated too).
Once I’d demonstrated fluency with Greek and Latin, the teacher sat me down with a papyrus scroll on which was a handwritten tract from Virgil’s travel epic, the Aeneid, in which Aeneas nearly lands in (wait for it) Sicily. He handed me a wooden board, about the size of an iPad, over which was spread a thin layer of wax. Using a rosewood stylus, I was to copy the poem by etching it into the wax and then show it to him for corrections.
I began this tedious undertaking as Julia began to read aloud excerpts from the Odyssey to the teacher (they only ever called or referred to him as Teacher, as if that were his actual name). I already knew the passage I was copying—it’s a text I studied when I taught myself Latin as a kid. So once I got a handle on writing in wax, I could work nearly on automatic pilot, which freed me up to contemplate how best to stage a private convo with Livia. It concerned me that she thought herself prepared for an eight-mile mountainous slog to Sophiana even though the mere notion of walking out the gates had flustered her.
Master of the Revels Page 24
