Brides of Rome

by Debra May Macleod

  She had seen countless women endure the rigors and risks of pregnancy only to have Pluto drag them to the underworld in the midst of their fear and screaming agony, with or without the child inside them. And as often as not, the grieving husband had a new wife in his bed before his old wife’s ashes had even cooled.

  Talk about a thankless job.

  Pomponia arranged her stola and glanced at Fabiana. The high priestess was resting her head against the cushioned side of the lectica, her eyelids already struggling to stay open.

  “Sleep, Fabiana,” said Pomponia.

  Quietly, she instructed the lecticarii to not lift the lectica just yet. She wanted the high priestess to rest. There was plenty of time to make it home and freshen up before the reception. Judging by how freely the wine and conversation were flowing, it would be a while before the wedding guests all made their way to Caesar’s house anyway. She sighed contentedly, sat back, and watched it all from the comfort of the lectica.

  With a raucous laugh, Antony extinguished one of the wedding torches and passed it to Octavia, who jovially tossed it high into the air. Male and female guests scrambled at once to retrieve it. It was good luck to catch the wedding torch. And for those who were still single, it portended imminent marriage.

  Pomponia wrinkled her nose. Hercules couldn’t force that wretched thing into my hands, she thought, even if it does burn with Vesta’s flame.

  * * *

  The first thing that always stood out to Pomponia about Octavian’s estate was the fact that nothing stood out about it.

  Located on the Palatine Hill, Caesar’s private domus was strategically close to the ancient hut of Romulus, Rome’s legendary founder. The hut had been damaged and restored more times than anyone could remember, but still it stood, as it had for centuries: a small, round, single-room peasant house that Romulus himself had once called home.

  While Caesar’s palatial home was definitely an improvement on the rough walls and thatched roof of the domus that belonged to Romulus, it was nonetheless far more modest than many of the homes owned by senators and families of patrician or even equestrian rank. His comparatively simple living arrangements reflected his personal desire for purity in all things.

  Yet Pomponia knew that Octavian’s penchant for modesty was as much about propaganda as it was personal preference. He led by example, promising the Roman people that his rule would usher in a return of Rome’s most honored virtues such as pietas—the sacred loyalty to one’s family, past and present, and to the gods—and gravitas, the development of a dignified, thoughtful, and strong character.

  After the violent uncertainty that had infected Rome following the assassination of Julius Caesar and during the bloody years of the proscriptions—for a while, it had been every man for himself—Romans of all classes were once again aspiring to these traditions and holding them up as the virtues that first brought glory to the Eternal City. Rome had come out of the darkness and back into the light.

  And Octavian was carrying the torch. He wore the traditional toga and insisted that all male citizens do the same. He required the female members of his family, especially his sister Octavia, to dress in the traditional stola and encouraged all Roman women to have more children. More Romans!

  He sang the praises of the traditional Roman matron while simultaneously proposing laws and policies that advanced the rights of respectable women, finding precedent in the old Republic and citing Cato the Elder, Cato the Wise, who said that a man who struck his wife profaned the holiest of holy things.

  To Octavian, Rome was a mixture of piety, tradition, virtue, and family. And by the gods, he was determined to make sure his vision of Rome was realized. Not that anyone was offering a contrary vision. It had been a long time since Rome had been so united and hopeful. Octavian had been a merciless butcher during his rise to power. Once established as Caesar, however, he had become remarkably benevolent, even good-humored.

  Like the two-faced god Janus, thought Pomponia. Let’s just hope his benign face isn’t a mask.

  No doubt others had similar hopes. Despite the unified front and political alliance between Octavian and Antony, Octavian was clearly becoming the lead wolf in the pack. Pomponia had always known that was inevitable. The name Caesar had a king-like ring to it. And most kings shared a similar character trait: a strong preference to rule alone.

  Perhaps Octavia could temper that trait. Perhaps her devotion to Antony would moderate Caesar’s ambition. Perhaps she would be the one to finally leash Antony and break the spell that senators and gossips alike believed Queen Cleopatra had put on him.

  But even if she did, how long would the proud general be content to play second man to the upstart Octavian, who, brother-in-law or not, was twenty years his junior and had few battle scars? How long before one wolf lunged at the throat of the other and Rome once again convulsed like a beast with its head cut off ?

  The Vestal litter approached the portico of Caesar’s house and stopped before the colonnade that adorned the entrance. Pomponia heard the buoyant festivities of the wedding party within. The mouthwatering smells of the banquet and the happy sounds of music wafted out of the open windows.

  She instructed the lecticarii to go a little further and set down closer to the portico than would normally be proper. The high priestess, just now rousing from her nap, was easily winded.

  Pomponia stepped out of the lectica to greet Medousa, who had gone ahead and was duteously waiting for them at Caesar’s house. Her long auburn hair was blowing in the breeze and she was trying to brush it off her face.

  “Salve, Domina,” said Medousa. “Was the wedding ceremony a tearjerker? Or was it only the bride who wept?”

  “The bride didn’t have time to weep,” said Pomponia. “She was too busy mopping her drunken husband’s wine off her sandals.” She stepped out of the lectica and then held back the curtains for the high priestess, who also slipped out.

  “You should beat your slave for that mouth of hers,” said Fabiana, knowing that Pomponia would never do it. “Now mind yourselves. Here comes Lady Octavia.”

  Octavia glided out of the house to greet the Vestalis Maxima with all the grace expected of Caesar’s sister. She had changed out of her wedding dress and now wore a light-orange stola made of linen rather than the more luxurious silk, widely belted around her waist, her only jewelry an understated set of gold earrings and a bracelet. Her makeup was equally subdued, with the shades of color that had brightened her cheeks and lips during the wedding ceremony largely wiped away.

  “High Priestess Fabiana,” said Octavia, bowing deeply to the chief Vestal. “I prayed to the goddess that you would be well enough to attend.” Her words were utterly sincere. “I am so happy to see you.”

  “I am sorry we are late, my dear,” Fabiana replied. “I would like to say it is out of fashion, but alas, I fell asleep in the lectica and Pomponia wouldn’t wake me.”

  “She cares for you as a mother,” said Octavia.

  “And fusses over me as a child,” Fabiana replied. She took Octavia’s hands in her own. “Congratulations on your marriage and the success of your family, Lady Octavia. You have married one of Rome’s great men, and your brother is Caesar. Fortuna smiles on you.”

  “May she continue to do so,” said Octavia. “The gods can be fickle. Now let’s go inside. It’s a hot day for October, nay? And Priestess Fabiana, I know there is someone special here who will be delighted to see you.”

  They strolled past the columns of the portico, through the vestibule, and into the atrium of the house, enjoying the coolness given off by the rainwater in the impluvium—the sunken pool in the marble floor—and the lush greenery that surrounded it.

  A pair of sparrows quarreled noisily over some seeds that lay scattered under a rosebush until one of them flew up and out of the opening in the ceiling through which sunlight filtered into the home and rain fell i
nto the impluvium below.

  The lararium—the household shrine that graced every Roman home no matter how prosperous or poor—stood just inside the atrium as a symbol of pietas. Located here, near the entrance to the home, it served to bless the comings and goings of family members.

  On top of the lararium stood statues of the household gods and Vesta, and beside those a white earthenware oil lamp burned with the sacred flame from the temple. Mementos of family members living and dead also adorned the shrine, as did a guardian snake made of ivory. The diamonds that lined the serpent’s long back twinkled as they reflected the flame from the oil lamp.

  On the scarlet wall behind the lararium hung several death masks of Octavian’s great ancestors. Naturally, the most prominent of these was of Octavian’s adopted father, Divus Julius, the divine Julius Caesar.

  Although Caesar’s face had suffered stab wounds during his assassination, the mask-maker had done a remarkable job of capturing the dictator’s solemn facial characteristics in wax and then overlaying it with gold. His slender face with its sharp nose and strong chin, his piercing eyes and receding hairline—it was all there, no different in death than it was in life.

  The effect was masterful. Visitors were greeted by the omnipotent, godlike face of the revered Julius Caesar, a man whose name had taken on an almost mythical quality in the few short years since his death. His great presence was palpable and sent an unmistakable message to all who entered the new Caesar’s home: You are now within the walls of the most important house in Rome.

  And those walls were something to see. As Pomponia and Medousa trailed respectfully behind Octavia and the Vestalis Maxima to join the wedding guests already mingling in the boisterous atmosphere of the triclinium, Pomponia gazed at the colorful frescoes that animated every wall and ceiling in Octavian’s home with theater scenes, garden landscapes, exotic animals, birds, flowers, and dazzling geometric designs.

  What Octavian’s house lacked in size or marble statuary, it made up for in the grandeur of its frescoes. With every step, the eye was treated to a rich feast of blue, red, yellow, and turquoise images framed by ornate painted columns and brought to moving life by the flickering oil lamps that illuminated them and the lively sound of music that washed over them.

  Octavian was a vocal patron of the arts and often boasted that he had hired the best artists in the Roman world. For a man who rarely boasted, that meant something. His love of art and his willingness to invest in it wasn’t limited to his own property either. From temples and fountains to basilicas and bathhouses, Rome was slowly enjoying a much-needed facelift. And all of it on Octavian’s denarius.

  The new Caesar had already gifted a monumental sum to update and expand the House of the Vestals, adding new rooms, painting frescoes in both the triclinium and tablinum, and having elaborate mosaics laid on the floor of the atrium, all of which had been done at the speed of Mercury.

  Once that was finished, he had privately commissioned five more marble statues of Vestal priestesses for the peristyle that surrounded the central courtyard and personally hired contractors to restore the temple itself with white marble from the mountains of Carrara. He had even proposed motions in the Senate that markedly increased the already generous pensions and land that Vestal priestesses received for their service to the goddess.

  His generosity had its reasons. Partly, it was gratitude for the safety the House of the Vestals had offered Octavia when he and Antony were outside of Rome hunting down Julius Caesar’s assassins. There had been rumors that supporters of the assassins had targeted his sister, so he had sent her to live with the Vestals as a precaution. But Pomponia suspected there was more to it, something beyond gratitude and religious piety. Someday, he would need something from her. She knew it. And despite their friendship, she dreaded it.

  As she accepted a ruby-rimmed gold cup of red wine from a slave, Pomponia had a sudden flashback to a conversation she had had with Octavian years ago—a conversation in the black, dank depths of a stone prison. My divine father had great respect for the Vestal order. As Caesar, I intend to build upon that friendship.

  She sipped the sweet wine and took inventory of the wedding celebrants in the dining room. As with all Octavian’s functions, the guest list was a social register of Rome’s most influential people, all of whom were well known to her. Octavian’s closest friends and colleagues, Agrippa and Maecenas, as well as his ally Lepidus, who currently served as Pontifex Maximus, were in a heated discussion about a treasury matter.

  Close by, three prominent senators, the Rex Sacrorum, and the chief priests of the Mars and Jupiter collegia were laughing and draining their wine as Marc Antony lifted the tunica of a very pretty slave woman, pointing between her legs and nodding in approval. Pomponia could hear Medousa’s low groan of sympathy.

  In the center of the dining room, lavishly dressed Roman matrons mixed, mingled, and gossiped their way to a good time. To Pomponia, they looked like a moving rainbow in their elegant gowns of blue, green, saffron, gold, and violet. Even through their chatter, which increased with each cup of wine consumed, she could hear the soft clinks and chimes of the gold jewelry that hung like ornaments from their limbs and swayed with every motion they made.

  “Ah, here comes your special friend, Priestess Fabiana,” said Octavia. “He has missed you terribly.”

  Fabiana cried out in delight and Pomponia swallowed her irritation as a small, white, fluffy dog came bounding around a column to scramble gracelessly toward the high priestess, its nails scratching the floor, and its tongue lolling out of its mouth. It shoved its pointed nose into the folds of Fabiana’s stola and whimpered with joy as she reached down to tug gently on its ears.

  “Perseus!” exclaimed Fabiana. “Oh, my little friend! Octavia, I have not seen him since your mother died.”

  “I know, Lady Fabiana. He was my mother’s favorite, but she knew his heart belonged to you.”

  Fabiana laughed, and the sound of it dissolved Pomponia’s annoyance at the little dog’s ceaseless hopping and the sharp, high-strung whining that pierced her ears. She turned to Medousa. “Perseus, hey? The hero who slew the Gorgon Medusa. Better keep your distance.”

  “How clever, Domina,” Medousa muttered, only loud enough for Pomponia to hear.

  The wife of the high priest of Mars, a dignified woman by the name of Cornelia, noticed the arrival of the Vestalis Maxima, and before Pomponia knew it, Fabiana was surrounded by a throng of matrons asking about her health and giggling at the antics of the little dog.

  Hungrily eyeing the several dining tables stacked end to end with cooked meat, cheese, dormice, and other delicacies—she had missed lunch thanks to Fabiana’s extended nap in the litter—Pomponia discreetly excused herself to stack a plate with what she knew was more food than was becoming a lady, never mind a Vestal.

  Medousa stood a few paces behind her. Pomponia would have liked to offer her something as well, but it was bad enough she was stuffing her face with all the decorum of a toothless peasant. She couldn’t be seen letting her slave eat off Caesar’s table on top of that.

  “You can gorge yourself like the Cyclops when we get home,” she whispered to Medousa, who raised her eyebrows as if to say, Oh, I will.

  Pomponia had just pushed a piece of oil-soaked bread into her mouth—the whole thing at once—when she suddenly felt an uneasy presence beside her. Holding a cloth to her lips and praying that her cheeks didn’t look stuffed, she turned around to find herself looking into the lovely young face of Lady Valeria. Quintus’s wife.

  She wore a pink sleeveless dress, richly embroidered with tiny flowers, and a long violet veil that was fastened to the back of her head to hang down her back. Gold bracelets wound around her bare upper arms and long gold earrings brushed her shoulders. Small pink flowers peeked out from between the black locks of her hair, and black kohl lined her eyes in the almond-shaped style that immediately reminde
d Pomponia of Queen Cleopatra.

  Valeria caressed the soft mound of her belly in the exaggerated manner that too many pregnant women seemed to display when in the company of those believed to be barren.

  “Priestess Pomponia,” she said pleasantly. She raised her eyebrows at the oil on Pomponia’s lips. “My, you’re looking healthy.”

  Pomponia wiped the oil off her mouth, taken aback by Valeria’s thinly veiled cattiness. Quintus’s wife had clearly indulged in too much wine. Before she could think of what to say in response, Valeria let out a furtive sigh and rubbed her fruitful belly again.

  “Oh, I wish I could eat like that,” she said. “But I always lose my appetite in early pregnancy. I don’t know what it is about Quintus’s children. They are as hard on my body as their father is.” She smiled widely, goadingly, at the Vestal.

  Pomponia sensed Medousa’s body tense in anger behind her.

  The priestess smiled back. “Congratulations on being with child yet again,” she said. “Perhaps this time Juno will bless your belly with the son your husband is no doubt praying for. Third time’s a charm, nay?”

  The smile melted off Valeria’s face. She bowed to the Vestal. “I am feeling unwell. With your permission, Priestess, I shall take my leave of you and find some fresh air in the courtyard.”

  “Why, of course,” Pomponia replied. “You always have my permission to leave, Lady Valeria.”

  Medousa watched Valeria slink away into the gardens and then turned to her mistress. “What a meager little trollop,” she said through clenched teeth. “You could have her thrown off the Tarpeian Rock, Domina.”

  “Medousa, I can hear your teeth grinding in your skull. It is no matter.”

  “I could launch her off the edge with my own foot.”