My commander’s rule was light, however, and I was given free rein to wander about the city as I would—an opportunity I eagerly grasped. In those first heady days, I walked the streets of Rome in a continual state of wonder, gazing upon one extravagance of human endeavor after another: the Forum Romanum and the Forum Augustum—with their basilicas, markets, shops, stalls, and magisterial buildings—either of which could have served as capital city for any nation the world over; temples without number and monuments to gods whose names I had never heard before: Temple of Vesta, Temple of Concord, Temple of Saturn, Temple of Venus Genetrix, Temple of Mars Ultor, Temple of Caesar, Temple of Claudius, and many another I could not name.
Everywhere I went, I was met by a continual throng of people—most of them selling something: roast fowl on skewers, boiled eggs, cakes freshly baked on a griddle; live ducks, piglets, goats, puppies; shoes, belts, hats made of straw; bowls, cups, and plates made of olive wood, pottery, brass, copper; bracelets of leather, ivory, or silver; tiny bronze votive figures and candles in the shapes of arms, legs, eyes, heads, or entire human figures. These last were meant to be offered in the temples for the healing of particular ailments—a degenerate practice, according to Grandfather Potitus.
One day the vicarius took me to see the Colosseum and, near it, the Baths of Trajan. “There are no games just now,” he explained as we strolled in the cool shadow of the enormous curving wall, “and the last gladiator display was over twenty years ago—although, if you are lucky, we might be able to see a wild animal combat while you are here. We could go to one if you like.”
I thanked him but declined, saying I had seen enough of combat to last me the rest of my life.
He accepted this genially and asked, “Do you feel the same way about baths?”
“Indeed I do not. My father considered a good bath the very apex of civilization, and I agree.”
“Splendid! Then follow me, and I will show you the best bath in the entire world.”
For a nominal fee—a few small coins—we were treated to a most luxuriant and refreshing afternoon in the extraordinary baths constructed in honor of Emperor Trajan. The intricately connected domes, halls, and basilicas were covered floor to ceiling with so many murals that I could not take them in. There were shops and exercise halls, spectator galleries where men could relax and discuss business or the events of the day, and rooms where bathers could receive the ministrations of Greek slaves trained in the art of massage. In addition to the usual cold and hot pools, there were plunge pools, swimming pools, and numerous fountains with dolphin-riding nymphs sculpted in gold.
Mosaics adorned every floor and quavered beneath the surface of the enormous swimming pool, too. There was even a library where patrons could select books to read while they rested or refreshed themselves in one of the dining rooms.
“The senate will meet in three weeks’ time,” Columella told me as we basked in the warm water of the caldarium.
“We must prepare what we will say to them.”
“My Lord Vicarius—”
“Aulus—always, please—for the man who saved my life.”
“I will be more than happy to tell the senate anything—whatever you desire, tell me, and I will say it.”
“Your reply is most gratifying,” he answered, then paused for a long moment to ponder. “First, I think I would have you speak of your life in Britain before the raid in which you lost your parents, then the raid itself, of course, and your time as a slave in Hibernia.”
“Very well,” I agreed, “if you believe that it will help.”
“Oh, it will. It will,” he assured me. “Once you have pricked the senators’ interest, then I would like you to tell of the battle.” He fell silent, considering how to proceed. “Yes,” he said at last. “I would have you tell them what it was like to fight as a soldier on that dire day—what it is like to stand on the line with sword in hand as shrieking barbarians thunder down upon you, to fight and kill, to see friends and comrades slaughtered by your side, and to escape with your life. I would have them hear from the lips of a soldier what unnecessary distress their perpetual vacillation and miserly ways have brought to our fighting men.”
“Then that is what they will hear,” I told him.
Lady Columella decided that I should take meals at the family table; my initial reluctance melted before her insistence. She also saw to it that my clothes were appropriate for the higher society in which I found myself. Indeed she seemed determined that my sojourn in Rome should be as a member of the ruling aristocracy. She took me under her wing to polish my long-corroded speech and manners so that I might blend more easily among the refined Roman populace. “It is very important,” she told me, “not to be thought a rustic from the provinces.”
“I am a rustic from the provinces,” I pointed out.
“Of course, but you need not publish the fact in word and deed to everyone you meet. Let them find out after they have had a chance to meet you and assess your character and abilities.”
To please her I undertook my tutelage in all seriousness—with the result that very soon I not only looked like a genuine Roman, but I could act like one, too. I moved more easily among the city’s elite, and my confidence soared accordingly. This in turn produced a curious change in Oriana. She grew less flighty and capricious and, so it seemed, more charitable in her opinion of me.
She often sought me out either just before or immediately after the evening meal. We would talk, and she would ask my opinions of inconsequential things: whether I preferred a town house or a villa, what was the best time of the year, the way my father governed our estate, how my mother used to make bread, whether I considered soldiering a noble profession…and many other such topics. Trivial they might have been, but Oriana took them seriously and listened carefully to all I said—though of course she argued with most of it on principle.
“What possible difference can it make to you how my mother made bread?”
Oriana shrugged. “None at all. I only want to know.”
“Why? Are you going to make bread for me?”
“Would that be so terrible?”
I paused, sensing a change in her voice. “Well, I can think of worse things, perhaps.”
“You think me a poor cook?” she challenged.
“Lady, I have no opinion whatever on the matter,” I declared.
“No?” She regarded me from under arched brows.
“How could I? You know I have never eaten anything you prepared. Anyway, why is it so important what I think?”
She made no reply.
“Well?”
“I know,” she said brightly. “I shall prepare a meal for you, and then you can judge.”
“If you like,” I allowed cautiously. “But I still do not see why it matters even the smallest scrap what I think about y—”
“Tomorrow evening,” she decided. “I will make Numidian chicken.”
“If it pleases you to make it,” I acquiesced, “I will eat it.”
The next day I did not see Oriana before I left the house on yet one more excursion into the city. I walked the meandering streets of the older section below the Palatine Hill, an area of small dwellings for people of more humble means. Around midday I found a shady spot under a tree in the extremely modest Forum of Nerva. There was a small fountain, which no longer worked, but I whiled away the day watching children frolic in the dry basin and listening to a boy play a lyre. On my way back to the house, I strolled through a cuppedinis, or dainties market, where all sorts of trifles and sweetmeats were sold. On a whimsy I bought Oriana a length of blue silk ribbon from an old woman who wove the stuff herself.
Upon returning to the house, I discovered the place deserted save for one elderly servant and, in the kitchen, Oriana herself. She forbade me entrance, pushing me from the room before I entered, saying, “You’re too early. Go wash yourself and change your clothes.”
“And then?”
“Find someplace to wait.
Just go!” she cried, rushing back to the raised hearth, where a pot was splattering its contents into the fire, creating a black smoke pall which gathered on the ceiling.
I went to my room, poured water into the basin, undressed, and washed away the dust of the city. Then I put on a fresh tunic, covering it with a clean white linen pallium. My shoes were dusty, so I went out into the courtyard to rinse them in the water splashing from the swan’s head. As I finished tying up the laces, I heard a light step on the stones and raised my head to see Oriana coming toward me with a fully laden tray in her hands.
Her face was flushed with the heat of the kitchen; there was a fine mist of sweat on her brow, and her tunic was stained with oil spatters and splotches of dark sauce, but she smiled triumphantly as she laid the tray on a low table beneath the pine tree. “Here,” she said, summoning me, “I thought you might be thirsty from your day in the city.”
“Lady, I could drink the Tiber in a gulp.”
She poured pale yellow liquid into one of the bowls. “This will quench your thirst,” she said, passing me the bowl, “and taste better, too.”
I drank and tasted anise and honey on my tongue. “It is very good,” I said. “Did you make it?”
She merely smiled and reached for another of the bowls instead. “Here are roasted pinenuts,” she said, offering me the bowl. “And there are olives stuffed with almonds, and rolled anchovies as well. That should keep you busy for a while.”
Replacing the bowl, she turned on her heel.
“Where are you going?” I asked. “Stay. Eat with me.”
“Dinner is nearly ready,” she called, hurrying away. “I must change.”
I settled beside the table and dutifully tasted morsels from each of the bowls. The anchovies were soft and salty, the olives firm and dry, and the pinenuts crunchy. Without meaning to, I had nearly emptied the bowls by the time Oriana returned. Her hair was brushed and clasped in tiny golden combs, and her light green linen mantle was spotless. Her long arms and shoulders were bare, and she wore golden bracelets on her upper arms and wrists. Her slender waist was bound in a beaded girdle that glistened like water as she walked.
“You look beautiful,” I said, offering her a bowl of the anise drink.
“Thank you,” she said knowingly. She accepted the bowl and we drank. For the first time I saw her not as the spoiled, fickle daughter of the vicarius but as Oriana, herself, as she wished to be.
“Where is your family?” I asked. “Will they join us?”
“No,” she said casually. “They have gone to the villa. Tonight it is just us.”
The villa, I had learned, was the Columella ancestral home; it was a farming estate located on the island of Aenaria in the Tyrrhenian Sea off the coast.
“I see.”
An awkward silence descended as I began to grasp the implications of the situation. It was more than a meal she had in mind, then. How much more?
“I hope you are hungry,” Oriana said at last.
“I am always hungry, as you well know.”
“The evening will be warm. We could eat here in the courtyard if you like.” Before I could reply, she jumped up. “I will have Opidus lay the table out here.”
This was done, and soon we were reclining on couches before a low table beneath leafy laurel branches. We began with small sardines fried in olive oil and salted; these we ate whole. Next came a clear fish soup with chunks of white fish, tiny whole clams, shredded carrots, fennel, and other herbs.
After that it was time for the Numidian chicken. “This was the favorite of one of the emperors,” she informed me as Opidus placed the platter on the table. “I cannot remember which emperor. But everyone likes it.”
The piquant aroma rising from the heavily sauced fowl brought the water to my mouth. “I am certain I will like it, too.”
Taking up a knife, she carved a juicy slice from the roast chicken and put it on a plate, adding a healthy dollop of mashed chestnuts along with some white beans boiled with coriander and buttered. She passed the plate to me, her expression grave and solemn; I took the plate and set it on the table before me. “It smells superb,” I told her. Taking a bit of it between thumb and forefinger, I pulled off a morsel and put it in my mouth, rolling the succulent flesh on my tongue. “Oh, yes, it is a dish fit for the emperor himself,” I told her. “But tonight he must weep with envy into his thin gruel.”
She laughed, her voice soft and low. “If he were here, you would not speak with such impudence.”
“Let him get his own chicken—and his own Numidian to prepare it.”
Oriana laughed again, and the sound so delighted me that I tried to think of something else I might say just to hear it once more. I poured more wine into the bowls, and we drank.
The roast chicken was sumptuous in every way, and the other dishes as fine as any I had ever tasted—overlooking the black flecks of charred herbs floating in the pungent sauce, which Oriana had left on the boil too long. Still, in all it was a triumph; Oriana had every right to be justly proud. I ate everything that was given me, and more besides.
After the chicken, Opidus brought new plates containing bowls of fresh greens smothered in oil and vinegar, into which the green tops of onions had been chopped very fine. The sharp vinegar cut the taste of the roast and restored vigor to the appetite wonderfully well.
Next came ripe figs boiled in sweet almond milk and doused in spiced wine. The luscious figs had a creamy texture, and the wine filled the mouth with the delectable sweetness of a kiss. Oriana, eager for my approval, watched me, eyes wide and luminous with anticipation, her breath caught and held between curved lips. In the soft, rose-colored light of the courtyard, she took on a warm glow of expectation. I filled my gaze with her radiant features and wondered what it would be like to dine with her this way always.
As daylight dwindled, Opidus brought out several candelabra, each containing a dozen or more tiny lamps, which he lit, casting the table and surrounding courtyard in a gently shimmering glow. With the deepening of the twilight shadows, the sounds of the busy city faded away and crickets began to chirp in unseen corners of the courtyard. I poured more wine, and we ate and drank and talked, and the warm night gathered close around.
“Tell me about Hibernia,” she said.
“Why do you want to know about Hibernia?”
“I want to know all about the places you’ve been. So tell me.”
“What can I tell you that you do not already know? Hibernia—or Éire, as it is known—is a cold, rocky lump of land surrounded by a freezing sea on the edge of the world. It rains without ceasing, and you never see the sun from one day to the next. It is a dark land full of barbarians so fierce even the wolves fear them. The women plait their hair with firebrands, and the men paint themselves blue; they drink rough beer until they are drunk, and then they throw off their clothes and everyone dances naked beneath the light of the moon.”
Oriana arched a smooth eyebrow. “Now you are making fun of me. I know it is not like that at all—in fact, it is not so different from the place where you were born. Pylades told me.”
“Then he lied,” I said bluntly. “Hibernia is nothing like Britain.”
She held her head to one side. “Now you are angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You sound angry.”
“I am not angry.” I shoved my plate from me. “I find this constant raking up the past tedious beyond words, that’s all.”
“Then we will talk of something else.” Her smile was hopeful, and her eyes pleaded with me not to ruin the splendid evening we had enjoyed to now.
I felt chastened, so I relented. “Yes. Let us talk of something else. Tell me about the villa.”
Glad for a chance to restore the mood, she told me about the estate and the island it occupied. “The villa has been in our family for a very long time,” she confided. “It was built by a wealthy nobleman in the time of Nero—a dangerous time to be found with money, I’m told. He wa
s accused of treason, and the property was confiscated.”
“Was he executed?”
“No, he was lucky. Nero died, and the nobleman was released from prison. He was destitute, so he sold the villa to my grandfather’s great-great-great-grandfather.” She shrugged. “We have had it ever since.” She looked at me. “I know you lost your estate in the barbarian raid. Julian told me.”
“Julian talks entirely too much.”
“There is no shame in it,” she said, lowering her head. “Such things happen. It cannot be helped. I don’t see wh—”
Reaching out, I lifted her chin, put my hand to her cheek, and turned her head toward me. I leaned forward and kissed her. Oriana’s response was quick and ardent. She seized my head between her hands and grasped me tight, as if she feared I might flee.
Emboldened, I put my arm around her shoulders and drew her close. She came willingly to my embrace, and we shared a long, searching kiss. Instantly the image of Sionan arose in my mind; it was she who had first kissed me like that, and I could not help but think of her now. I pushed the thought firmly away. It was Oriana, not Sionan, before me, and it had been a long time since I had been with anyone so loving and beautiful. All my pent-up yearning flowed into that moment. Oriana took it all and returned it with undiminished force.
When we broke off to catch our breath, I rose from the couch and stood. “Oriana, forgive me,” I said, my heart in my throat.
She looked up at me with wide, dark eyes and shook her head gently. “No,” she whispered, patting the place beside her.
As much as I wanted her just then, all I could think of was what Vicarius Columella would say. “I am sorry.” I made a clumsy excuse, thanked her for the meal, and retreated to my room.
It was there she found me a short time later. “Lady—” I began as she slipped in, closing the door softly behind her. “I cannot. I am a guest in your father’s house.”
“It is my house, too,” she said. Although her gaze was direct, I thought I could sense a slight hesitation in her manner—as if, having come this far, she did not trust herself to go any further. Or perhaps now that she was here, she was just a little frightened of what was to come.
Patrick: Son of Ireland Page 45
