by Mira Zamin
Later, Calista emerged from the family’s bathhouse. Although it was small, with its formal columns and heated floors, it was as fine as any in Rome. Perfumed, oiled, and dressed, Calista had one of her maids bring out the mirror of polished silver in her room. She inspected the reflection. Her sunny hair had been artfully piled on her head—still simple enough for a maiden, of course—and braided with dainty white, yellow, and purple buds. The sky blue robe, which had taken the maids the better part of an hour to drape, was cinched with a worked gold belt. The rich color deepened her eyes to cornflower.
“Be sure not to ruin it, domina,” admonished her slave girls, both thin and dark-haired, in eerie unison.
Calista rubbed her hands over the faint spots left from the blemishes of her younger years, thanking Venus once again that they had gone, leaving only a vague mark of their presence that her mother promised would disappear with time. Now, they only erupted occasionally and could be very well contained with hair arranged just-so or careful application of a powder.
“Is the guest handsome?” Calista asked hopefully.
“Nay, domina,” one of her handmaidens laughed. “He is old enough to be your grandfather.”
“Then I suppose I must be on my best behavior, so he may carry my attributes back to Mother Rome,” she sighed. Her own mother often coined such phrases in her speeches about the meaning of decorum.
The maids tittered but Calista’s face grew darker with frustration. Several men had proposed to her before, or rather her father. Their overtures had in a fit on her part and a refusal to marry. However much Calista’s parents nominally (and unorthodoxly) accepted her decision not to marry quite yet, they were eager to see their eldest wed. Calista knew her unwillingness to marry worried her parents; her mother had been married at fourteen and Calista was two years beyond that age. “Damn it all,” she muttered to herself, refusing to be embarrassed by her vastly childish stubbornness. Louder, she said, “You are dismissed.”
They backed out, bowing in their short tunics.
Calista’s mother, the famed beauty, Olympia Tertia, entered the room as the stooped maids exited. Olympia smiled at her daughter’s classic pose: legs crossed, head tilted to one side as it rested upon her clasped hands. However, when her eyes fell on the cases of the great orator, Cicero, lying beside Calista on the white linen sheets of the bed, her eyebrows furrowed in frustration. Reading was all well and good but if prospective husbands discovered that Calista fancied herself an advocate, as evident by her argumentative stance on so many things, the marriage proposals would all but disappear. Beneath the cases of Cicero lay The Histories of Polybius, and Olympia recognized the well-worn copy as her husband’s own. “Well, at least it’s not Demosthenes,” she muttered. And erudition is certainly not a fault in a Roman woman although my daughter could use the virtue of silence from time to time!
“Bene salve, Mother,” grinned Calista, making a half-hearted effort to push Cicero out of sight.
Unlike Calista, Olympia’s hair was a night black that glittered red in the sunlight. The obsidian of her eyes was accentuated by her palla of purest white, lined with a thick strip of Tyrian purple. The only similarity between us, Calista decided for the umpteenth time, is our noses.
Absently stroking Calista’s hair, Olympia slid beside Calista on the bed, which was lofted high by gleaming wood columns. A few flowers tumbled to the floor. “Your aunt Laetitia has written from Rome and I must say what she has to say has left me quite surprised,” announced Olympia, brandishing a sheet of parchment.
“Do tell,” Calista said with a laugh.
“Well, she writes, Olympia, you may soon find yourself without a husband! Do not make that face, Sister but I write to tell you that one Caecina Severus (you know the one, who wrote those tirades against Caesar) has proposed that governors may not take their wives with them while they are performing their duties in the provinces.” Olympia looked at Calista with expectation. “What do you think of that?”
“It seems outrageous. Why would he ever recommend such a thing?” Calista, exclaimed, inflamed, immediately imagining this Caecina as an embittered man without a wife or mistress and therefore resentful of all those whose wives were willing to leave Rome to be with their husbands.
“Apparently we are much too interfering in affairs of the state,” said Olympia dryly but Calista privately recognized that perhaps Caecina had a point—her mother held her own when it came to the business of Portus Tarrus. “Doubtlessly this issue was struck down by the Senate soon after the absurd fellow proposed the idea. Now, dear Calista, I beg of you, please, be on your best behavior tonight for our guest, Avaritus.”
“So he can carry my attributes back to Mother Rome?” Calista asked, unsurprised by the swift turn of conversation. Her mother had a habit of lulling her with gossip and then, quick as a viper, striking her with a command.
Olympia shifted uncomfortably for a moment before finally nodding briefly. “So keep a proper tongue in your head.”
Taking Calista’s hand, Olympia led her steadily to the dining hall, the triclinium from which musicians’ strumming floated. A vast, rectangular, room, the triclinium was inlaid with mosaics of Ceres and her helpers harvesting fields, each touch gilding the wheat stalks and turned the leaves scarlet. On the opposite wall was a bawdy and gaudy mosaic of Bacchus and some nymphs at a clearly wine-sodden feast.
Olympia sat down on a plush green sofa next to her reclining husband, Lucretius Tertillius Volusus, who was garbed in a toga of plain but fine wool. Calista took her seat next to Pyp, who leaned on the couch as casual as any emperor.
“Move over,” Calista commanded, gently shoving him aside. “You have conquered this whole seat, Caesar.”
With a small laugh, Pyp scooted to the edge. “There are two other couches open: take those,” he suggested. At this statement, Calista leveled him a deliberate look. After several moments, Pyp exclaimed, “You know, I have really big news!”
“What Pyp?” she whispered, elbowing him to lower his voice as Lucretius and Olympia simultaneously glanced at them sharply.
Pyp suddenly shook his head and Calista turned around to see the grey-haired man.
“Good afternoon, Proconsul Lucretius, Dominae Olympia, Calista and young Pyp,” he said, bowing slightly in the direction of his hosts. Despite his age, he walked straight-backed. His hair was shorn short, in the fashion of the Caesars, and his cloudy grey beard, which gathered into the pale, oddly delicate, crags of his skin, was cropped as well. His beard flouted fashion: men were supposed to be clean-shaven. Avaritus’ eyes though, were black, and where Olympia’s eyes conveyed the warmth of smoldering coal and security of the night, his eyes reflected…and perhaps Calista was imagining it but his eyes reflected the fear night produced.
Lucretius rose and greeted the guest warmly. “Bonum vesperum, Avaritus. How was your journey? Portus Tarrus is quite a long ways from Rome; I hope it was comfortable.”
“Quite,” replied Avaritus tersely, his eyes ranging covetously across the furniture and property, electing to recline near her parents.
Not noticing anything peculiar, Lucretius chuckled. “I never imagined, when I met you at Drusillius’ soirée and described my home and family to you and you vowed that you would come and visit that you would make good on your word. And in less than a year since the meeting! Delighted, absolutely delighted, I am to have you here. It’s just a quiet dinner tonight with the family, but we shall fête you properly tomorrow night!”
Lounging on the couch, Avaritus held Calista’s eyes for a moment. “I must confess it was the description of your lovely daughter which intrigued me the most. That and the account of your fine wine!” he added with a chuckle.
Olympia and Lucretius laughed politely while Calista and Pyp rolled their eyes. Obligingly, Olympia gestured for a slave standing at the fringes of the room to pour wine into Avaritus’ goblet.
The first course of the cena had begun and their slaves scurried about, presenting a large
plate of fish in the center of the table. Calista dipped a bite of fish into mulsum, a wine sauce sweetened with honey. The light strums of the kithara did not sit well with the foreboding tickling her spine.
“Calistaaaaa,” Pyp sang out again.
“Yes, oh dear brother?” she answered with a grin.
“I have a secret,” he whispered around a mouthful of fish with an air of great importance. Calista was rewarded with the sight of half-masticated flesh floundering in his mouth.
She waggled her eyebrows at him outrageously. “Oh really? Do tell.”
“I heard father say that Avaritus means to marry you,” Pyp spilled eagerly, and then covered his mouth, aghast. Not shocking himself for too long, Pyp took a long draught of water and then waited for Calista to respond to his investigative findings.
“And you also heard the traders were coming from Punic,” Calista commented blandly, not believing her younger brother, not wanting to believe him.
Pyp twisted his face.
Despite Calista’s doubt, she frequently glanced at the old man. More often than not, his eyes met her own. He was…aged. He cannot ask for me to marry him, he simply cannot. He was much too old, and even if he did, her parents would not make her marry him. With that final argument she convinced herself; she was not marrying him—although a voice did tell her that if her parents so desired, they were perfectly within their rights to coerce her. Pyp just had to go and get his ears checked by a physician. Never mind the fact, a voice whispered to her, that girls younger than you have married men older than them—and have been happy to do so!
Surreptitiously, Calista observed the adults discuss something with avid interest. Olympia’s face was drawn, and she kept sending looks of askance towards the two men. Avaritus was speaking softly and earnestly. When the conversation shifted away from him for a moment, he looked covetously around the dining hall. When his eyes lighted on Calista, his expression slipped into a sly smirk that might have passed for a smile had Calista not already been floating in suspicion.
The slaves took away their knives and empty plates and replaced them with the larger plates of the second course, the prima mensa. The libation bearers refilled the men’s goblets with wine and with water for the women and Pyp. Calista bit into the main course of chicken cooked with cabbage, parsnips and garlic presented with soft bread fresh from the ovens. Ignoring the nightingale’s tongues, she added honeyed dormice, oysters, and mussels to her plate.
The adults seemed as engrossed in their hushed conversation as they had during the gustatio. Now, not only Avaritus but Lucretius and Olympia would glance at her quickly in the middle of the conversation. Heat rising to her face, Calista tried to ignore them and enjoy the meal and lilting music but she found herself wishing that the secunda mensa would come soon so that the dinner might be over. Perhaps there had been some truth in Pyp’s hearsay but surely her parents would have asked her to join in the conversation if they were truly discussing her marriage?
Calista thought she heard someone call her name, and her heart leapt out of its pocket. Oh, Juno...please say it is not true. She studied them closely, trying to read gestures and lips but to no avail. She attempted to turn her attention to the meal but her stomach had gone to ash. She found herself sneaking glances at Avaritus. He smiled at occasional comments her father had made and then frowned thoughtfully. As if feeling her gaze, he flashed a glance at her and she dropped her eyes reflexively.
When the slaves came with the pastries of the secunda mensa Calista found her appetite aroused by the sight of the dessert and promptly devoured two honeyed cakes without waiting for the others to serve themselves.
Finally, with the dinner done, Olympia, Lucretius, and Avaritus rose. “There is a delightful view of the ocean from the balcony,” hinted Olympia softly. “We should be able to catch the last of the sun’s rays. Come Calista. No, not you Pyp,” Olympia added when Pyp leapt up to join the group. Her mother and father had left the room and Calista gave Pyp a bewildered look. “Nicetius, go to your chambers. Nuala will see you to bed.” Olympia’s voice carried from outside.
“I believe that I too shall retire for the night like young Master Pyp. Gratias vobis ago. The dinner was lovely. Valé. Good night.” Avaritus followed Pyp from the room.
Apprehensive, Calista realized that they had forgotten to give the traditional portion of the meal to the fire in honor of the lar: an omen of ill fortune for sure.
Calista followed her parents to the balcony, and there was indeed a breathtaking view. The sea shimmered blood red, and then whimsically turned ice blue. The sun, which had finally emerged from behind the swathe of clouds, still clung with a final tenacity to the world.
It could be anything, Calista tried to convince herself as her stomach rebelled.
“Calista,” Lucretius began without preamble, “you have grown up into a lovely young lady, and we have had many offers for you.” He circled Calista. “I, and your mother, have decided that it is time for you to wed and settle.” Heading off her objections, he exclaimed, “Look at your friends! Cordelia-Cornelia-whomever! All married.” He smiled lovingly at Calista, stroking her silk-soft hair. “We want what is best for our daughter. On that note, and forgive me for my bluntness we have had a marriage offer for you, from Avaritus.”
“And you refused, correct?” Calista said nervously, wishing with all her heart that Pyp’s prediction would prove false, praying to Venus, to Diana the protector of maidens, to Minerva, to Juno, Vesta, Ceres, Proserpine, to all the female goddesses who might better sympathize with her predicament.
“No, dear, we accepted.” her mother said, her face impassive.
The world suddenly whirled around Calista. “How…why…I thought we had an understanding. Father?” Against her will, tears bubbled in her eyes at the betrayal. “Who is he even, Father? Why him? Why?”
At the sight of his eldest child, his only daughter, on the verge of weeping, some of Lucretius’ reserve crumbled but he swiftly reminded himself that he must stand firm for the better of his daughter. He enveloped her in a hug, which Calista furiously clawed out of. Unfolding his arms, Lucretius murmured, “He is rich and well-placed. You will never want for anything. I wish to see your future secured.”
Tripping to Olympia, Calista buried her head in Olympia’s shoulder. “Mama,” she wailed. “Do not do this to me. Please.”
Olympia shot Lucretius a despairing look, stroking Calista’s head. “Understand darling, we do this because we love you. We are not doing wrong by you, never think that.”
Through watery hiccoughs, Calista crumbled to the side of the balcony, hiding her face behind her knees. Once the first wave had passed, Calista raised her head to her parents, who watched her with concern. “If you felt this way, why did you not betroth me before? Why affiance me now, to that?” She spat the last word.
Lucretius crouched beside her, rubbing her shoulder concernedly. “Would you wish to live in Portus Tarrus forever? This offer came to us at an opportune moment. Lord Avaritus speaks of his expansive holdings near Rome and familiarity with the Emperor himself. Surely you recognize what a great opportunity the Parcae have awarded us?
“You will accept our decision as your own,” Lucretius finally commanded, raking fingers through his hair, realizing that their imploring and wheedling was having no affect on Calista. “You will go to your room and you will sleep. Let us hope that tomorrow, after a night of rest, you will understand our decision better. We love you.”
Calista stood up, head as high as her color. “Please do not feign care. You have proven just how little regard you have for me.” She whirled into the corridor and slammed the door behind her. The resounding crash was even louder than she had expected. She flinched—but she did not look back.
Leaning on Lucretius, Olympia said, “One day she will thank us. She is young and impetuous and every girl dreams of a handsome young patrician to come and take her away.” Olympia snorted. “She does have a flair for the dramatic
.”
“One day she will find out we do all we can for her; she is our daughter, no matter what,” Lucretius agreed, draping a warm arm around his wife.
“A night to cool down and Calista should begin to see the reason of our actions.” The steady sound of his heart calmed her, its tattoo her own ambrosia, one of the few things that could wrap her in warmth and at the same time, place her feet firmly on the ground.
Again, Lucretius ran his fingers though his hair, as black as the ocean before him, except where it was lit by moon-grey. “It is a good chance for her.” What Lucretius did not add was that if they had not capitulated to Calista’s whining before, she could have made a better one.
“There is so much to do now; the engagement party, then the wedding so soon after. It seems that the gods have aided in this endeavor.” She laughed lightly. “After she ran off so many eligible bachelors, one of the wealthiest comes to take her away.” Olympia bit her lip, realizing that something sounded strange, but with a look at Lucretius’ placid face, she kept her peace.