by Debra Diaz
Alysia returned with a tray prepared by the cook and passed it to the two women. She set the tray on a table and went to stand beside Selena, not knowing where to look, and finally focused her eyes on a painting of a woman covering the opposite wall. The woman’s almond-shaped black eyes stared blankly back at her.
The afternoon wore on. A trip to the theater was planned. There was a wedding to attend next week. The women discussed a chariot race to be held the following week—the chief attraction of which seemed to be one of the drivers, known for his handsome face and his skill on the track.
“I’m betting very heavily on him,” Selena said. “I swear he is a Hercules, Megara, and yet he handles those horses as if they were kittens!”
“I know, and he’s thoroughly conceited. I’ve met him.”
“Oh, Megara, do give a party and invite him! I’d give anything to meet him!”
“Dear, I wouldn’t have him at my table. Don’t you know his parents were slaves? Decius is having a banquet day after tomorrow. Tell him to invite your Hercules.”
“He wouldn’t either.” Selena frowned. “But I’ll find a way. Maybe Paulus can arrange it.”
“Do you think Paulus would introduce his precious sister to such a rascal? The man has a veritable stable of women.”
Selena was wide-eyed with curiosity and the conversation turned into a recital of names and places associated with the apparently tireless chariot-racer. Alysia was able to relax and listen with some interest, for her presence had been completely forgotten.
* * * *
A cool, if somewhat noisome breeze drifted in from the Tiber as the day arrived for Decius’ dinner party. He had had a profitable day collecting his rents and spent an enjoyable afternoon at the baths, and he was in a festive mood. Slaves had been cleaning and cooking since dawn. In the kitchen, waiting to be served course by course, were platters and silver trays of roasted pheasant, clams, mussels, assorted fruits and melons, baskets of smoking breads and dainty pastries, and pitchers of fragrant wine mixed with honey.
The Greek gardener had cut some of Antonia’s tall, vigorous roses, ranging in color from almost white to garnet, and they held various posts of honor throughout the dining room in delicate blue and white vases. In a darkened corner, three hired musicians plucked their instruments in a soothing cadence. Just outside the room, Selena gave instructions to Alysia, looking rather anxious. “There will be a steward overseeing things, and two boys serving the table. But Decius wants you to serve the wine.”
“Why?” Alysia asked, trying not to betray her own nervousness.
“Because you are beautiful, of course, and are a credit to his household. It’s a simple task, but you must be vigilant.”
“By that you mean that no one should have to ask for more—I should simply pour it.”
“Not only that, but before the pitchers are empty, send the boys back to get them filled. Don’t go into the kitchen yourself. It’s hot and you’d come back smelling of garlic and fish sauce.”
They entered the dining room and Alysia took her place beside the wine table. It was a long room, edged with marble pillars behind which were large square panels of varying colors. The floor was tiled in black and white, and the couches were covered in some heavily padded material the color of peaches. Bronze lamps hung in chains from the ceiling and burned with perfumed oil. The two serving boys were singing softly and moving nimbly about, setting out seasonings and little bowls of water and lemon.
Two senators were already present, with their wives. The men, Camillus and Laurentius, were elderly; their wives were considerably younger. Megara had arrived without her husband. Soon another man arrived, also a senator—middle-aged, overweight, his toga rumpled and his mostly bald pate edged with feathery wisps of gray hair.
Alysia began pouring wine; the fat man was drinking it as if it were water. Then Lucius arrived, with another man and two women who must be their wives. Lucius’ wife was attractive and plump with a quick, nervous air; the other woman was plain and hardly said a word. Alysia’s eyes widened when she looked again, for the second man was the very one she had kicked at the slave auction. Magnus apparently suffered from poor eyesight and failed to recognize her as he was seated, but Lucius was smirking in her direction and she felt certain he’d brought Magnus for some perverse reason of his own.
She tried to become part of the wall.
“Decius, when are you going to reveal the occasion?” demanded one of the guests, the drinking one, his huge girth pressed tight against the edge of his couch.
“No occasion, Eustacius! My genuine affection for you is the sole reason you are here tonight!”
The massive senator bellowed with laughter, as if that were quite a joke.
“Why, Father,” said Magnus. “I swear the only time I see you is at other people’s parties.”
“Seems so, my boy, seems so!” Eustacius yelled. He, apparently, suffered from poor hearing.
After a few more inanities, Decius turned the conversation to other topics … the dwindling water supply and whether or not the rains might be plentiful this winter, and did they think the Tiber might flood in the spring…Had they seen the repairs made to a basilica near the business district? An earthquake had damaged it years ago, surely the senators remembered…
“Megara,” said Senator Laurentius, when a brief silence fell, “I heard something about Paulus today that I hope you will speak with him about.”
“Indeed?” Megara asked cautiously.
“There are many who would like to see him elected consul. When we approached him about it he only said that consuls aren’t elected anymore—they’re selected, by Sejanus and Tiberius, in that order. You know how sarcastic he can be. But today there was some serious talk about it. I think that Tiberius would approve.”
Megara didn’t speak but her eyes were snapping with interest.
“My son is a little young for the consulship, isn’t he?” Antonia said, but she looked pleased. “He’s only thirty-one.”
“It might not happen for several years,” answered the senator. “We merely want him to start thinking along those lines. He needs to gain more political experience, though he does have some as city prefect. Besides, age is no longer a strict requirement. Things have changed somewhat, haven’t they? As his wife, Megara, perhaps you could convince him.”
Megara said slowly, “My husband loves the army. I fear he would never consider leaving it—at least voluntarily.”
“Of course, he could still command an army as consul. We like him in the Senate. We feel he could do a great service to Rome. Though there are those who would thwart us, Tiberius seems to hold him in favor.”
“Obviously you’ve forgotten how my stepbrother hates politics,” said Lucius boredly. “If he had his way he’d send the entire government into exile and start a new one. A republic, mind you. And would probably free all the slaves, too.”
The legate entered the room at that moment, and since he was looking at Lucius it seemed obvious he had heard the remarks. He still wore his uniform. He apologized for his tardiness, handed his mantle to one of the serving boys, and went to an ornate table in the corner to wash his hands.
“Isn’t that so, Paulus?” Lucius said, smiling coldly.
“Is it true that I hate politics? As much as I hate hypocrisy and pandering and unctuous speeches.”
“About the slaves, I mean.”
Paulus wiped his hands and eyed his stepbrother with mock gravity. “There are certain aspects of slavery I find objectionable, but a mass freeing of slaves would achieve nothing but chaos. Especially since they outnumber their owners twice over.”
Decius looked puzzled. “See here, Paulus, we couldn’t survive without—”
“Slaves,” muttered Magnus thickly, having partaken of the wine almost as liberally as his father. “And where is that vixen you bought the other day? Kicked me in the head, then before I could stand up straight she was gone.”
Paulus stood perfectly still, hav
ing just noticed Magnus, for that one had been slumping over his plate and was hidden by his father’s bulk. Everyone seemed to think they had misunderstood the remark. It was unfortunate that Eustacius chose that moment to demand more wine. Alysia had completely forgotten her task until he thumped his couch and bawled, “I say, more wine! Is your slave daft?”
The dining room steward, a stout Thracian who had remained almost invisible all evening, suddenly froze and looked terrified. Selena grew pale and gestured at Alysia, whispering, “More wine for everyone.”
Magnus giggled. “Father’s beastly drunk!”
Alysia moved forward, trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible. But Magnus was peering at her, his eyes squinted, his nose wrinkled and his mouth open, and she knew with a sinking heart what he was about to say.
“That’s her—by Jupiter! She kicked me in the face!”
“Alysia?” Antonia cried. “When?”
“At the sale!” Magnus hiccupped and continued, “I hope you gave her a wall—walloping Legate!”
Alysia paused, but Selena nervously waved her on, and she began to pour the wine. Her hands shook, and as she filled Magnus’ cup the wine splashed against the sides and onto Magnus’ bejeweled fingers. He swore and shook them, flinging droplets across the table, then rose unsteadily from his couch and whipped his hand across her cheek.
Burning tears rushed into her eyes. Without thinking she tossed the entire contents of the pitcher into Magnus’ face, amid a chorus of horrified gasps. Magnus dropped back into his seat, spluttered, and shook his head like a wet dog. He grabbed Alysia’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip until she cried out and fell across the table before him. She had a blurred glimpse of his face coming toward her, and to her disgusted amazement he pressed a wet, loathsome bite upon her throat. She clenched both her fists and was about to send them flying against his ears when he was yanked abruptly from his couch. When Magnus could focus his eyes, he saw the legate towering over him with a dark scowl on his face.
“This is my mother’s house,” Paulus said evenly. “It is a house of honor, and you have assaulted the property of my sister.”
It was too much for Magnus. His eyes rolled in his head and he slid slowly to the floor, where he sprawled amid a pool of wine. His father had preceded him in slumber, having dropped his head into his plate immediately after demanding the refilling of his cup. His snores punctuated the music, which—after an uncertain pause—played serenely on.
Everyone stared at Paulus, who said with a heavy inflection of mockery, “I’ll leave him now to the ministrations of those who love him.” His eyes found Alysia, who had risen to a sitting position on the table. “Come with me.”
Lucius began, “The slave will have to answer for—”
The legate didn’t wait to hear the rest, striding from the room with Alysia reluctantly following behind. They crossed the atrium and entered one of the reception rooms at the front of the house. Lamps set into the walls burned dimly. Paulus turned and she saw that he was angry, but she couldn’t tell if his wrath was directed toward her or Magnus.
“Slaves have been killed for lesser offenses,” he said. “Perhaps you have a death wish?”
“Did you think I should have stood there while that—that jackal beat me? He’s not even human, he’s an animal!”
“From the moment he struck you, you should have assumed complete submission. I would have stopped him from doing any further harm.”
“How was I to know that? Would you stoop to defend a slave?”
“You have complicated a situation that was already—complicated.”
“Through no fault of my own!”
“You should not have done what you did.”
Alysia caught her breath and tried to speak calmly. “So I am to remain still, and do absolutely nothing, and allow myself to be abused or even killed?”
“As long as there is someone to defend you, yes. As I said before, slaves have been killed for doing less. In this household abuse of slaves is not tolerated.”
Alysia turned away from him, overwhelmed with a feeling of despair. “You don’t understand how—” she began, but no more words would come. It didn’t matter. She was only a piece of property to him, and he must protect his property. She said more clearly, “Perhaps I do have a death wish.”
“I suppose I don’t understand,” he said quietly. “But I cannot spend the rest of my life interceding in your behalf. Why do you inflict this misery on yourself? Why not accept what has happened? As a slave you have great value, and will be treated well. If you were free, where would you go? I happen to know that you have no family left. Have you any means to support yourself?”
“Do you know what happened to my father?” she asked suddenly.
He looked into her eyes. “I only know that he’s dead,” he answered in a low voice. “Felix had it written in his records. I don’t know—how. He was accused of treason.”
“A false accusation! My father was a good man.”
“Good men often die these days. I can only say I’m sorry.”
She turned her back and felt his hand on her arm. “Alysia,” he said.
When she heard him speak her name it was almost as if he’d done something kind and intimate, and it was too much to bear. She would rather he stayed angry with her. She refused to look at him and felt his hand tighten on her arm.
“Paulus?” A voice from the doorway broke the silence.
He turned slowly. “Come in, Megara. Alysia, go to my sister. She probably thinks I’ve killed you by now.”
“My dear husband, you did not look as if you were going to kill her,” Megara said flatly, giving Alysia a cold stare as she hurried out.
Alysia paused outside the door. She was frightened now, as the folly of what she had done began to be clear to her. She could be stripped and flogged, or worse, as a lesson to all. Listening hard, she heard only a murmur of voices. Down the long hallway, she could hear Magnus’ wife crying and the rumble of Decius’ deep voice speaking in conciliatory tones. She couldn’t go back there; someone else could pour the wine, and Selena didn’t need her. She went upstairs to Selena’s room and entered her own tiny chamber.
She sat for a long time staring at the wall. At last she heard Selena come in, moving about and then getting into bed and growing quiet. The fact that she didn’t say anything seemed far more ominous than had she flown in with screams and remonstrations.
Alysia slowly undressed and lay down on the bed. The legate would protect her, she thought. He was of high rank; he was prefect of the city. He took care of his property, and that of his family. Only that comforting thought allowed her to finally drift off to sleep.
CHAPTER IV
Alysia sat up, awakened by a rough hand upon her arm. She recognized two of the yard slaves crouching in the predawn light.
“What do you want?” she demanded, half-asleep and more irritated than alarmed by their presence.
“You are to come with us, by order of the legate.”
“For what purpose?”
The men seemed nervous and apparently had no liking for the errand they had been set upon. “We don’t know,” said the older one, a small, wiry man with a dark, seamed face. “You are to make haste.”
She looked from one to the other and couldn’t see their expressions clearly. As her mind cleared from the fog of sleep, a vague feeling of trepidation stole over her.
“Shall I be allowed to dress?”
The slave shook his head. “The legate said to come at once.”
She threw back the linens and followed the two men from the room, wearing only a white, short-sleeved nightgown. They went quietly past Selena, who didn’t stir, and passed the garden room, a formal dining room with wall murals depicting various flowers and plants, and the smaller dining room where last night’s disastrous supper had been held. They went through the peristyle, with its colorfully painted colonnade, its graveled pathways and flower beds lined with box and other well-trimme
d shrubs. This connected with a larger version of the portico that stood at the front of the house, and outward from the portico spread a large court with benches and a fish pond, and a fountain in its center.
The slaves stopped. Alysia looked up; a low wall surrounded this back area of the house and beyond it the legate stood waiting. The sun had begun slanting over the distant hills, casting a golden glow upon his tall frame. Some distance away she could see his horse saddled and waiting. When she saw his expression, her sense of impending doom was complete. If they had been cast in stone his features couldn’t have been more cold and hard.
Wordlessly he handed a length of rope to the older slave, while the younger gently pushed her backward until she stood beneath two close-set columns of the portico. She looked at the men, puzzled, but they avoided her gaze. They took her arms and stretched them apart, tying them deftly to the slim columns on either side of her.
Alysia looked at Paulus and read her sentence in his eyes. He reached inside his tunic and withdrew a sheet of papyrus, through which a string had been drawn and tied with a knot. He walked closer to her and held it up for her to see. “Can you read this?”
The words were written in Greek: “Guilty of Disrespect”.
“I hate you,” she gritted through clenched teeth, her eyes filling with tears of rage and humiliation.
“You will stand here until sunset,” he said dispassionately. “Perhaps after today you will display more prudence.”
He placed the papyrus over her shoulders, causing it to hang down over her chest. She closed her eyes for a moment so she wouldn’t have to look at him. He was going to leave her here to swelter in the sun and suffer this indignity—she had been a fool to think he was different from any other Roman!
The other two slaves melted away into the shadows. The legate remained behind her. “Don’t move,” he said. She heard a sound like a knife slipping from its sheathe and felt him lift away the back of her nightgown. She couldn’t have moved; she was paralyzed with fear. The cloth of her gown ripped as he slit it with his dagger.