“Vicarius Columella, you put words in my mouth. I think our esteemed peers will agree that I suggest no such thing.”
“You do, Senator. You most certainly do suggest it when you imply that the cause of this disaster can be found in some source other than our own culpability.” He turned to address those looking on. “Noble Senators, I do agree with our esteemed friend in this: There is a simple solution to our present difficulty—to vote an immediate increase in the military allowance to be used for the recruitment and training of the northern legions. Needless to say, those garrisons are all that stand between the barbarians and Rome.”
“Hear him!” shouted a senator from the back bench. “Hear him!” Others quickly took up the chant.
Senator Graccus rose to his feet. Holding up his hands, he waited until order reclaimed the curia. “I want to thank Vicarius Columella for bringing this matter to our attention. Woeful though it undoubtedly is, our duty is clear. As guardians of the public safety, we must move to vote that the treasury release the necessary funds to restore the northern garrisons to full fighting strength.”
This view was instantly ratified by shouts of acclaim, as one senator after another leaped to his feet to add his voice to the call for a vote. Vicarius Columella moved to where I was standing and whispered, “We have carried the day. Your reward is secure.”
“I did not do it for a reward,” I replied.
“I know.” He gripped my shoulder. “That makes the settlement all the more satisfying.”
The discussion over the funding for the legions lasted three days. I did not attend the other sessions, and I was content. To have to listen to the senators wrangling over the price of soldiers’ lives—for that is what it amounted to—was not to my liking. I would have done it for the sake of Quintus and my friends if it would have helped, but the vicarius did not think it necessary. He came home on the evening of the third day singing to himself. “We have done it!” he crowed loudly. “We have won a mighty victory. The senate has approved the disbursement and has drawn up a petition to present to the emperor. All that remains is for the emperor to give his assent, and the money will begin flowing.”
“That is good to hear.”
“And you, my friend, have secured your place in the senate.”
“I’m to be a senator?”
“Eventually,” he said. “All in good time. There is much to be done first, of course. The proper groundwork must be laid. I will introduce you to those who can advance your career. We will start there.”
“After the wedding,” put in Oriana, entering the room with her mother just then.
“There is plenty of time for all that later,” intoned Lady Columella, “as your father well knows.”
“What did I say? Of course after the wedding, my dear,” he added quickly. “I was just saying that we have entered the race and the prize is within sight.”
“Senator Succat,” said Oriana airily. “I like the sound of that.”
She stepped close to kiss me, but her father pulled her from my grasp, saying, “Now, there is plenty of time for that later as well. Come,” he said, taking each woman by the arm and leading them away, “we are all invited to dine with Senator Graccus tonight at his villa. We will celebrate the glorious victory we have won today and discuss Succat’s future.”
PART IV
PATRICIUS
FIFTY
ORIANA AND I were married according to the traditions of Roman aristocracy. On the day of the wedding, I rose in the house where we would live; I washed, ate a small meal of bread and wine, and dressed in new clothes—a white tunic, belt of fine red cloth, and a pallium of light gray. I was aided in these preparations by Columella’s son, Gaius, who helpfully neglected to do anything I asked of him and refused to wash or comb his hair until I threatened heaving him bodily over the wall into the kennel of the house down the street.
We then made our way to the bride’s family residence, where the wedding ceremonies would take place. Ordinarily I would have been accompanied by crowds of friends and well-wishers, but of these I had none, so I made do with moody little Gaius and two musicians—a piper and a lute player—hired for the occasion.
Upon our arrival I was seized by the hands and conducted through the house to the courtyard by four of Oriana’s female friends, who then stood around me to prevent my escape. The courtyard was decorated with garlands of pink and yellow flowers; a long table bearing wine and sweetmeats stood in one corner, and around this was gathered a small crowd of wedding guests, none of whom I recognized. “Am I allowed to have some wine?” I asked one of my winsome guards.
“Shh,” came the reply. “Later.”
“What are we doing?” I asked.
“Waiting for the bride.”
We waited for a considerable time, as it happened. And then, all at once, there came a trill of trumpets from somewhere inside the house, and Oriana appeared between the columns on the courtyard steps. She was dazzling. Dressed in a long tunic of white, with a jeweled girdle around her slender waist, she glittered in the sunlight. On her shoulder was folded the saffron-colored palla, and affixed to a jeweled crown she wore the flammeum, or traditional orange veil, which covered her face.
She seemed a very goddess, descended into our midst from on high. The courtyard fell silent as she stood and gazed upon the gathering she favored with her presence. The trumpets sounded again, and Vicarius and Lady Columella appeared, followed by more guests and relatives, and everyone swept down the steps and into the courtyard.
While the guests took their places around us, two of Oriana’s maids ran to greet her and brought her to stand beside me. One of them took Oriana’s hand and placed it in mine, whereupon the venerable, elderly Archbishop of Rome shuffled out from the crowd; attended by two younger priests—one to carry a cross on a pole, the other to carry his crosier—he smiled and nodded and offered up a small speech in formal Latin. He called upon all present, and God above, to witness the marriage and then blessed the union with a lengthy prayer which ended with the solemn reminder that marriage was meant chiefly for the procreation of children.
And that was that. Senator Graccus approached bearing a parchment scroll which both Oriana and I signed; it was a legal contract stating our intent to form a lasting union. This concluded the formal rites, and then the celebration began: music, dancing, and a prodigious feast. The vicarius had arranged for roving teams of musicians to play and three lambs and a whole pig to be roasted in the hall. Oriana and I spent the rest of the day wandering among the guests receiving their good wishes and small gifts of food and coins with which to begin our household.
The celebration lasted long into the night, but as soon as the sun went down, we departed the bride’s home and led a procession down the street to our own modest, unassuming house at the foot of Palatine Hill, within hailing distance of her parents’ palatial residence. A young boy held Oriana’s left hand, another her right, and, going before her, Gaius carried a torch that had been lit from her mother’s hearth. At the door of our dwelling, the procession stopped. Gaius turned and lofted the torch into the crowd; it was caught by a friend of Oriana’s, who thus obtained the promise of a long life.
Meanwhile Oriana took tufts of combed wool and placed them over the door; she then smeared a little olive oil and lamb fat on each doorpost. This ritual completed, all that remained was for me to carry her across the threshold and into the house, where she placed her hand on the hearth and on the water basin. I set her on her feet then, and the procession swarmed into the house and carried her into the bedchamber. I waited outside while Oriana was prepared for bed by her female friends. When all was ready, the door opened, and I was pushed inside.
“Now what?” I asked as the last of her departing friends closed the door.
“What do you think?” said Oriana, wrapping her arms around me.
I thought for a moment. “With everyone out there?”
She kissed me on the mouth. “Does it matter?”
Oriana whispered, her breath hot on my neck.
“Well…”
She kissed me again. “If you’re too timid…” she said, taking a small vial of blood she had got from the kitchen before leaving the feast. She emptied the vial on a corner of the clean, new bedcovering, rubbed it in a little, gave the covering to me, and pushed me toward the door, saying, “Here, wave it outside.”
This I did, to a tremendous shout of raucous acclaim mixed with hooting, whistles, and catcalls. The musicians began playing again, and everyone sang as the procession returned to the feast, leaving the exhausted wedding couple alone at last.
Thus began our life together.
The first two years I worked hard at earning my senatorial seat. It was, I knew, my best—no doubt my only—chance to make a life for myself and now, of course, Oriana. Armed with Vicarius Columella’s generous recommendation, I entered the swarming ranks of ambitious young noblemen anxious for a prestigious appointment. Thanks to Senator Graccus—a word here and there, dropped into the appropriate ear—I sped to the top of the heap; within a year I gained my quaestorship and proceeded on my way to becoming a praetor, the first rungs on the long ladder.
The wily senator wangled me a position on the directorate which was overseeing the restoration of those parts of Rome that had suffered the worst of the Vandal destruction. Even after five years there were still ruins to be demolished and rubble to be removed; architects to cajole, flatter, and threaten; building plans to be approved; and continual site inspections to be made. Builders were notorious for using inferior substitutes in place of the more expensive materials specified. They also hired fewer laborers than appeared on their salary rolls.
The directorate was employed to keep the building work running smoothly, with as few setbacks, delays, and bribes as possible. Under the tutelage of a seasoned official, a curator, charged with the task of making certain that all the various costs were kept to a minimum and that the money designated arrived at its proper destination, I roamed the precinct inspecting the various sites and keeping a tight rein on the builders. I enjoyed the work, and my duties were far from demanding; I had plenty of time to cultivate a deeper acquaintance with the great city and its life. I also had time to spend at home developing a more intimate appreciation of the complex delights of Oriana. She was a perplexing array of contradictions—bewildering, mystifying, baffling, paradoxical, and astonishing by turns.
Ardent and passionate one moment, Oriana could be coolly indifferent the next; expressing both zeal and lethargy in the space of a single sentence; content and happy as we sat down to eat, then seething with frustration and disappointment by meal’s end. I rarely knew where or when the next outburst of either joy, sorrow, rage, or exuberance would erupt, or what would set it off. Life with Oriana was exhilarating and never less than surprising. The gods are fickle and inconstant, the poets say, but Oriana could have taught even flighty Venus herself a lesson or two in caprice and whimsy.
“You shivered, my love,” I’d say. “Are you cold? Shall I get you a palla?”
“Cold? Why should I be cold? It is a very oven in this house.”
“Then let us go out into the courtyard and cool off,” I would suggest in all pleasance.
Out we’d go and no more than sit down on the stone bench when up Oriana would leap. “Now, look,” she would complain, rubbing her bare arms, “I’ve caught a chill. Let’s go in, and you make a nice fire in the hearth.”
One day, a few months after we had settled into our home, I discovered the reason for Oriana’s chimerical behavior. I was at Domus Columella, talking to her mother, who had asked me how we were getting on with the task of finding a suitable cook and housekeeper. “Not well at all,” I confessed. “The servants we attract are either too old and decrepit, or too haughty, or they do not speak enough Latin to make themselves understood.”
Lady Columella smiled knowingly. “They are always like that. But keep looking—you will find someone.”
“It would be easier, I suppose, if we could ever agree.”
“On what you wanted in a servant? That should be obvious.”
“On anything at all,” I told her. “If I say the sky is blue, Oriana says pink. If I say the soup is hot, she says far too cold. Black is white, and day is night. And if I so much as mention her contrary attitude, she dissolves in a heap of tears and vows never to speak to me again so long as she lives.”
Helena pursed her lips and regarded me curiously. “Is she better in the morning? No stomach trouble?”
“A little,” I allowed. “But it is only because she has developed a taste for green figs soaked in vinegar. I told her she would make herself sick on such a dish, but she eats them anyway and pays the price next day.”
“I see,” she said, nodding to herself. “Well, I will go and see her today.”
“She would be cross to learn I confided in you,” I said quickly.
“A mother has a right to visit her daughter, no?” She smiled and patted me on the arm. “I will be discreet.”
I went about my business for the day and arrived home in the evening to find Oriana up to her elbows in flour, humming to herself as she kneaded a heap of dough on the board. Seeing that she was in a receptive mood, I went to her and embraced her from behind. “Oh,” she said brightly, “it’s you.” She let her weight sag against me, and I stood for a moment holding her with my arms around her waist, feeling her splendid warmth seep into me.
“Expecting someone else?” I kissed her neck.
“There have been people in and out all day.”
“People?”
“Two servants—both formidable crones and neither one suitable in the least—then my mother and her midwife, and the man selling lemons and pomegranates—”
“What was that?”
“A little man selling pomegranates. You know, the one who—”
“Not him, the one before that. Your mother…and her midwife?”
“Yes. They came to see me.”
“Why would your mother and her midwife wish to see you?”
Oriana turned in my arms. Taking my face between her sticky, flour-covered hands, she said, “Because when someone is going to have a baby, it is best to engage the services of a good midwife as soon as possible. And my mother’s midwife is the best in Rome.”
“Your mother’s midwife,” I repeated as the truth broke on my dull head. “You mean your midwife.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Oriana, you are going to have a baby!”
“I am,” she said. “I mean, I think so. Probably.”
I threw my arms around her and pulled her close. “My dear, sweet, beautiful girl. I love you.” I kissed her and then held her at arm’s length. “This is tremendous!” I cried. “Does your father know?”
“Not unless mother has told him. She promised not to.”
“We must tell him.” I took her hands and pulled her with me. “Come! We will go at once and give him the news.”
Oriana held back. “Could it be our secret for a little while? Just for a few days—until I’m certain.”
“Well,” I replied, feeling the excitement leak away, “if that is what you want. But why not tell everyone?”
“We will,” she said. “Soon. But not now.”
The moment the vicarius found out, he became a fountain of largesse. He brought presents for Oriana and the child and gave gifts of money—little stacks of coins he left lying around without telling anyone—and took it upon himself to engage a servant for us. Within a few days a tidy, competent, quiet, unassuming Greek woman of tiny stature and limited speech appeared in our doorway. Her name was Agatha, and she instantly folded herself into the rough fabric of our lives and smoothed it effortlessly. She knew that Oriana was with child without being told, and she determined to make the months before the birth as easy for Oriana as possible.
There followed the happiest time I could recall since leaving Ireland. Thanks to Vicarius Columella, my life
had taken a turn I could never have imagined. I found myself looking forward to the birth of our first child with almost feverish anticipation. “I am going to have a son,” I told everyone who would listen. “He will be called Potitus, after my grandfather.”
“No, my sweet,” Oriana would correct, “he will be called Quintillus, after my grandfather.”
“Have you forgotten, light of my life, you promised I could name him? And I think Potitus a fine name.”
“I made no such promise, my dear confused man. If you were not so selfish and forgetful, you would know this. Quintillus it is.”
“I might sooner have forgotten my own name, my pumpkin. He shall be Potitus Quintillus then, and that is that. I have spoken.”
In the end we need not have argued. The babe was born in due course: as plump and healthy a baby girl as ever drew breath to wail. And wail she did: every waking moment, it seemed to me. To all appearances she had inherited her mother’s quick, uncompromising temper, but I loved her for it. The first time I held her, a pang of longing pierced my heart, and I wished my mother were alive to see her wonderful, beautiful granddaughter. “Concessa,” I murmured.
“What did you say, my love?” asked Oriana.
“It was my mother’s name—Concessa Lavinia,” I replied.
“A fine name,” she agreed sleepily. “Let her be Concessa Helena.”
“Concessa Helena Oriana,” I amended, placing the infant on her mother’s breast. “Grow into those names, little one, and let the world beware.”
During the first month or so, Agatha and Helena contrived to keep the house, allowing Oriana and myself to get what rest we could and spend any spare moments with the child. We grew close, and I reveled in creating for my daughter the kind of home my parents had created for me. I wondered what they would have thought of their Succat now—so far away from stormy Britain, living in Rome with a wife and child, a house on Palatine Hill, and, one day, a seat in the senate? I wished they could have seen me.
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