by Cass Morris
XLV
QUIRINAL HILL, CITY OF AVEN
When Dula Autroniae announced her intentions to throw a phenomenal celebration on the third day of the Saturnalia, Aula Vitellia promptly declared it the best thing she had heard in weeks.
Once the public rites of the holiday were over, and the traditional feasting of the slaves had passed, the noble and wealthy were free to feast and gamble and drink until the week was out. Thrilled at her son’s appointment to Sempronius’s staff for the Iberian campaign, Dula was feeling generous, and Gnaeus was of a mind to indulge her. Sempronius Tarren had claimed the Tenth Legion for Cantabria, and the Tenth already had an illustrious reputation. Felix’s career was on the rise, and with it, the honor of the Autroniae.
With all that new money of theirs, the Autroniae had bought an extensive plot on the Quirinal and built their domus in modern fashion to their own tastes. It boasted a sprawling footprint, with larger dining rooms and a grander garden than the older, more traditional homes on the Palatine or Aventine. Parties on the Quirinal were less dignified, more raucous, and if the company was not rarefied, it was young, energetic, and enthusiastic. Men and women shared couches that had no semblance of hierarchy, and the floor was piled with pillows and carpets, plush and inviting. Dula had hired a fascinating young poet known for his bawdy verses, and he stood atop a table, coming up with doggerel rhymes on the spot, teasing the guests, flattering the ladies, and skewering their political opponents.
The only mar on the evening, in Latona’s opinion, was her husband’s decision to join them. Their relations had been particularly strained since the fire, and they had hardly spoken in days. To Latona’s relief, however, soon after Dula welcomed the guests and performed the opening rites to the household gods, Herennius wandered off, aiming himself towards a knot of business-minded men who were standing near an impluvium pool. “Ah,” Aula said in Latona’s ear, as all three sisters settled onto a couch nearer the flute players than the poet. “Well, that explains it. He may not see the attraction of the party, but he sees great virtue in the mercantile company the Autroniae keep.”
Felix wasted no time dropping himself unceremoniously onto their couch. “Ladies!” he said, the flush on his cheeks indicating that he had likely been in a festive mood for some hours already. “Welcome! What a trio you make! Dressed to match and everything.” Aula and Latona had both donned their identical golden mantles, Latona over her vivid fuchsia gown, Aula with an azure blue. Alhena had chosen a milder yellow. “How can a simple lad like me possibly endure being in the presence of such ravishing beauty?”
Latona and Aula both greeted him with broad smiles, though Alhena blushed, ducked her head, and scurried off to join Appia on a couch in the corner. Latona said, “I daresay you’ll manage. Aren’t you meant to be drilling in Campania?” She was merely teasing, however, and she was actually pleased. It was nice to be complimented, even by so renowned a flirt as Felix. “Sempronius told me he’d sent you up ahead, since he can’t leave the city till after the investiture.”
“The boys of the Tenth can look to themselves for a bit,” Felix said. “It’ll be good practice for the centurions, to make sure they can keep a handle on things during a holiday.”
“Don’t disguise it as strategy.” Aula wagged a finger at him. “You just didn’t want to miss the Saturnalia parties down here.”
Felix favored them with the grin that had slain defenseless hearts on every hill in Aven. “Guilty. Sempronius Tarren had a few rather severe words for me on that count, but I believe I’d far prefer a chastisement coming from you, Lady Aula.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Aula said with a wink.
“What else am I for?” Felix laughed. “I hope you saw the spread my mother’s laid out. I think she had the kitchen girls dip anything they could get their hands on in honey.” He tweaked one of Aula’s curls. “Though I must say, you look quite good enough to take a nibble out of. Does your father know you’re out on such a terribly improper holiday, keeping company with ruffians like us?”
“Our father,” Latona answered, over Aula’s flattered tittering, “is in the country, overseeing some matters of the enrollment there. He couldn’t wait to set to work.” She lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. “We are entirely ungoverned.”
“Well, that sounds promising,” Felix said, with a grin.
“I intend,” Aula said, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she gratefully accepted a cup from one of the Autroniae slaves, “to drink deep and enjoy myself this evening.”
“And I sincerely hope you do,” Felix said. “The Saturnalia’s a waste if it can’t bring joy to beautiful creatures such as yourselves. Now—tell me what you think of this poet my mother’s hired.”
* * *
As the evening wore on, the effects of the barely watered wine began to show. The music grew louder and faster-paced, the dancing more provocative, the jokes bawdier, and the laughter riotous. Dula had the hypocaust blasting hot air to chase away the midwinter chill, and the resulting ambient warmth chased away her guests’ heavier layers of clothing as well. Ladies’ mantles and men’s togas were tossed over armrests or handed off to servants, and Latona found herself glad she had chosen a narrow-strapped linen tunic beneath her gown rather than a full-sleeved woolen one, even though she had been shivering in the litter on the ride over.
Alhena only made it an hour in the festive atmosphere before she begged off. “It’s just a bit much,” she said. “I wasn’t quite prepared for this.”
Aula fluffed up her sister’s hair. “No need to apologize, my honey. It was very good of you to come out at all.”
“We were very pleased to have you join us,” Latona said, kissing Alhena’s cheek. More pleased than they could say, in truth, considering how little Alhena had been willing to socialize all autumn. “Mus and Pacco will see you safe home.”
“I’ll send the litter back,” Alhena said.
Aula grinned. “No need to rush it on our account.”
Rubellia joined the Vitelliae on their couch and was soon persuaded into a bit of choice gossip. When the Domitiae started throwing dice at a nearby table, Aula abandoned her sister with alacrity. Gambling was technically illegal most of the year, yet not only permitted but encouraged during Saturnalia. “Don’t embarrass yourself!” Latona called after her.
“It’s not my fault I’m so appallingly good at it,” Aula replied, grinning.
“She really is, is the trouble,” Latona muttered to Rubellia. “It’s absolutely maddening.” She flopped back on the plump red cushions, feeling pleasantly hazy. Her mantle had come unpinned from her hair, but she could not trouble herself to rearrange it. Rubellia signaled for more wine, and they reclined with their heads sharing one rolled pillow, listening to the music and poetry which flowed as prolifically as the drink.
Felix joined the poet Urbanus on top of the table in the center of the room, and they began stomping out a rhythm together, trading verses back and forth. “What say we to the sacred past, to those who came before?” Felix challenged.
“We’ll march to Tartarus to ask,” Urbanus shot back. “They’ll meet us at the door!”
“What say we to the fighting men, who march on hob-nailed soles?”
“Tell them to rinse with vinegar, if they visit foreign holes.”
The military men in the room groaned and hissed, but laughed and pounded the tables in appreciation, too. Encouraged, Felix went on. “What say we to the lovely widows, to fair dames yet unconquered?” From her seat at the gaming table, Aula paused her throw long enough to raise her cup appreciatively.
“Bid them let us twixt their thighs, lest their youth be squandered.”
Felix winked at Crispinilla, whose cheeks turned a violent pink, and she was giggling, too. If Felix hadn’t charmed his way beneath her skirts yet, he might well do so by the end of the evening. At the moment, at least, he seemed to be enjoying
the attention of the room too much to abandon his poetical partner. “What say we to a virgin bride, to stop her trembling fear?”
Urbanus spun out to the crowd, casting an appraising glance on them all. “We need no words for that, my friend, you’ll never find one here!” The crowd hooted and applauded that sentiment.
By now the poet and his young host had most of the room clapping along with their beat. A wicked gleam entered Felix’s eyes as he assessed the crowd: young, Popularist, and inebriated. “What do we say of the Optimates,” he ventured, “those masters of oration?”
Urbanus’s expression echoed Felix’s; Latona could not imagine that he was a favorite among the conservative households. “They do excel, I must admit, in matters of defecation.”
“What do we say of Lucretius Rabirus, idol of righteous men?”
“He took it up-ass from a Dictator once, and yearns to do so again.”
“What do we say of our favorite buzzard, Arrius Buteo?”
“If his prick was the size of his nose, he’d have no cause for sorrow!”
And on it went, with Felix and Urbanus lambasting every Optimate of note in the city, and the partygoers lauding them for it. Latona was wiping hilarity-provoked tears from her eyes when Herennius suddenly appeared behind her couch. “I’m ready to leave,” he said, voice low and gruff.
“Herennius, it’s early yet.” Or it was by Saturnalian standards, at least. “I had thought—”
“I did not ask what you thought of it; I said that I am ready to depart.”
Latona’s chin set stubbornly. “I do not wish to go yet,” she said. “You may, if you like. I can share Aula’s litter.” She chose not to add that it had gone off with Alhena and would not be back for hours.
Herennius had a stubborn expression on his normally indifferent face. “It doesn’t look well,” he said, “my wife remaining behind while I go home. Particularly not at a party such as this.” He flicked his eyes meaningfully over to the tables where Felix and Urbanus were now cheerfully casting aspersions on the potency and stamina of Decimus Gratianus.
“It is Saturnalia,” Latona said. “Perhaps if you just tried to enjoy yourself a little—”
“I’ve no intention of behaving like some drunken libertine just because it’s the end of December.”
“Well, short of throwing me over your shoulder, you’ve no way to force me to go,” Latona pointed out, more tartly than she once might have, “so you may as well reconcile yourself. Dula has thrown a lovely party. I’m not tired. I am enjoying myself. I do not wish to go home.”
Her threat was not precisely true; if Herennius raised enough of a fuss, Latona would go rather than face the shame of a public row. But Herennius would not call her bluff. He chose, instead, the lesser of the two social evils. “Fine,” he snapped. “Stay. I’ll send someone back to guide you home at your leisure.” He spat the last word as though it besmirched him somehow.
Though she had emerged the victor, the dispute had robbed her of her pleasantly hazy feeling. “My dear?” Rubellia said, laying a hand atop Latona’s. “Do you need—”
Latona’s cheeks burned with the indignity of it. She rose swiftly. “I think I’ll take a turn in the garden.”
“Would you like company?” Rubellia asked, starting to rise as well, but Latona waved her off.
“No, no. I think just a moment or two alone with my thoughts . . .” She put on a false smile and the glamour of a golden glow, though she had little expectation they would fool Rubellia. “And then I’ll be back in perfectly good spirits, I’m sure.”
As Latona strode off to the peristyle, Rubellia made eye contact across the room with Aula. Aula followed her gaze, first towards Herennius’s retreating figure, then at Latona. Aula never could stand to see her sister discomfited, and so she plucked Sempronius by the sleeve. “Sempronius,” she cooed lightly. “My sister looks troubled. I think she’s gone to take a turn in the garden. Would you do me the grand favor of checking on her?” She moved her shoulders in an innocent shrug. “If I leave the table now, Maia here’s going to make off with everything.”
Sempronius regarded Aula’s wholly innocent expression. “Lady Aula,” he said, dropping his voice low, “you are not half so empty-headed as you like people to think.”
Her eyes, so like her sister’s, flashed with sudden shrewdness—just briefly, and then she was back to batting innocent lashes up at him. “I care only for my sister’s happiness, sir,” she said, and though her tone was flippant, the words nonetheless rang with truth.
He rose and gave her a slight bow. “I live to serve, my lady. Perhaps I can ease her troubles and your concern in a single stroke.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” Aula said, with another knowing little smile before she turned back to the Domitiae.
XLVI
The garden was large and as ornate as everything in the Autroniae domus. Several other partygoers lingered under the portico near the doors, but Latona brushed past them with murmured acknowledgments and made her way down onto the lower garden. Few, if any, of the other guests would venture there, far as it was from the light and warmth of the house. The air had a biting chill, but Latona welcomed it, thinking perhaps it would cool her temper.
The perimeter of the garden had wall sconces with torches standing in them, and these provided just enough light, flickering and filtering through the leaves, that Latona could find her way in the lower garden. Dula had decorated with myrtle and juniper, green even in December, and several trellises bore entwining ivy at this time of year, though they would teem over with flowers in the spring. Latona slipped behind one of these and closed her eyes. She breathed deep and tried to follow Rubellia’s advice, focusing on the beat of her own heart, the draw of her own breath. Once her rhythms began to slow, she let herself find comfort in the unaccustomed stillness around her. The back of the garden was far enough from the house to mute the noise of the party. Here there were only faint strains of music, the burbling of the fountain, the soft cooing of doves in their ivory cages.
A noise startled her out of her contemplation. She whirled around, ready to put on a good face and turn on the charm until she could be alone again. When she saw that it was Sempronius, however, her intentions for falsity deflated. “Oh,” was all she could manage to say.
“Lady Latona,” he said, stepping closer to her, within the shadowed seclusion she had found. “Your sister was concerned for your welfare.”
Latona nodded, unsure of what to say. She had seen Sempronius often since the fire, but always in the company of others. It had taken the best of her art to conceal her tangle of emotions every time she remembered that night and what it had ignited in her heart, and if Sempronius ever guessed at her flustered state, he was at least good enough to pretend to ignore it.
“You look cold,” he said. “Would you like me to fetch your—”
“No,” Latona said, too swiftly. “No. Stay, please. I had thought to be alone, but . . .” Her pique was too high to let her prevaricate, and so the truth came out in a sigh. “Your company is better.”
* * *
It had never been Sempronius’s way to probe, as he generally found that silence encouraged greater confidences than provocative questions, and so he stood near her, waiting. She did look cold, and Sempronius wished he had a cloak to offer her, but he had been so eager to follow Aula’s suggestion that he didn’t pause to take one. He could think of other ways to warm her, too, and certainly better ones, in his own estimation.
“I do believe I’m coming to hate that man.” She spoke so softly that Sempronius might not have heard her, had his focus on her been less than absolute.
“I assume we speak of your husband.”
“He wasn’t always this way,” Latona sighed, her gaze drifting off towards the glowing torchlight. “Or if he was, I didn’t notice, or I didn’t mind. I was perfectly content with him when we w
ere first married.” Her fingers fidgeted at her side. “He’s been particularly cross with me ever since the fire. And he only knows I went to help down at the emporium. Not . . . anything else.”
“Men often react with anger when presented with something they fear.”
“That,” Latona murmured, “could rather neatly sum up my entire marriage.”
“I don’t say that by way of excuse,” Sempronius went on, “just explanation.”
“I knew what I was doing,” Latona said.
“Did you?” Sempronius asked. Latona looked at him sharply. Despite the events of the evening, they had never actually talked about why she had been there in the emporium—but he had an inkling, and one he wanted to hear her admit. “I had the story from a fire-forger, one of the Aventine men. He said you looked startled at your own actions, so I did wonder if you fully knew the danger you walked into.”