Graveyard of the Hesperides

LIX

Rain!

Whoever thinks of weddings and imagines rain? I heard it first in the middle of the night, when a great storm cracked the skies apart. Rain poured down so heavily the whole house hummed with the pressure of water racing through its exterior gutterwork. It felt like some pointless engine in the workshop of Heron of Alexandria, the great inventor of mechanical curiosities. Rain must be filling the streets, cooling the air in a mighty gush, waking even me, a bride who had-let us be frank-drunk too many tiny tots of something strong with her mother that evening. Unless it stopped, I would be getting married in a thunderstorm.

This could be a disaster. Having enough to cope with, I went back to sleep.

Before dawn I was woken again. Urgent footsteps and whispers announced my bridesmaids, wanting to drag me out for my first task. A bride must rise in the dark to pick flowers from her parents’ garden. These she (not me, oh please!) had to weave into a garland to perch on her special hairstyle and hold down her veil. Garlands must be provided, too, for the bridegroom and any little flower girls who wanted to take part (many, I had been warned, mainly aged three, all famous for being sick with excitement). Also there had to be a bouquet of symbolic herbs: love, honor, joy, fidelity, devotion, long life, fertility and purity. Some powerful bouquets garnis! Quite a prescription for marriage.

Since the parents’ house had no garden, I was shoved out alone onto the roof terrace, where the usual pots of roses had been supplemented specially by new containers of herbs.

“We haven’t done her six ringlets!”

“She’ll get soaked out there. We’ll fix the hair when we let her back in.”

It was still raining steadily, so I had to go out with the snips and trug unaided. A gale howled across the terrace, water sheeting sandal-deep. The others just crowded in the doorway to the roof, urging me to hurry up because rain was blowing in on them. I hastily gathered slimy handfuls of what could be rosemary, marjoram, sage, lavender and myrtle-or any old twigs, since I, a city girl, was on my own with this job in the dark.

Fortunately custom says a bride should be pampered with a bath to ward off the evil eye and make her smell nice. I could live with the evil eye, which I viewed as a soul sister, but soaking in fragranced warm water now seemed urgently needed. My mother, sisters, husband’s old aunt, plus curious slave women, watched me, gossiping.

The hired beautician turned up in time. For the size of fee she was charging, that woman could not be deterred by driving rain. She dealt with me fast, since my needs were standard: six braided locks, formed with a comb like a spearhead, coiled up as if I were a Vestal Virgin, expertly tied with ribbons and pinned on top of my head. That part was painful. They had to stay in place all day. The pins were long and pushed in very firmly. Women who should know better told me tradition had to be suffered for. My reply was caustic.

The ornatrix was keen on little tendrils curled around the face. I quarreled with her about that, so she huffed off to tend my impatiently waiting sisters and Aunt Valeria, who were all having elaborate court curls-a stupid front headdress of many tiny pin curls on a frame.

Meanwhile I was dressed by my mother, who had quietly done her own hair. First, a long white tunic, supposedly woven seamlessly on an old-fashioned upright loom and unhemmed. Itchy, of course. Then Aunt Maia’s legendary flame-colored veil, with the droopy garland plonked on it. Moth holes dropped fabric dust like dandruff. The tunic reached the ground, so as Helena crouched to push on my saffron-dyed shoes, I was endlessly instructed to hold it up and not trip over. “Stop hunching; stand up straight. You’re not fourteen now.” Finally, a woolen sash, tied by my mother in a Hercules knot. Only my husband could untie it. Helena got the knot right; she didn’t need it, but Father had drawn a diagram.

The saffron veil is intended to be a symbol of submission to your husband. We all guffawed.

I was ordered to wear no jewelry. The only exception was supposed to be my engagement ring. Since my new husband had never supplied one, I wore the old wedding ring I had used as an informer to make me look like a respectable widow (Lentullus and I had never marked our marriage). I refused to go through a whole stressful day now uncheered by glitter.

They poked my wet bouquet into my hands. I was taken downstairs, where my sisters had spent hours decorating the entrance with Oriental carpets from the antiques warehouse, tree boughs, ivy and strands of wool. A slave boy was catching insects that crawled out of the ivy. Julia and Favonia both had an artistic touch. You could tell either this was the home of a madman or it was hosting a wedding.

Tiberius arrived. Togated and barbered, he did look like a man worth marrying. Rather strained, but after a night trying to survive his family, he probably had a hangover. He turned up alone; everyone else thought they could skip the augury and would follow later. I gave him his garland, which he nervously put on. We shared a private glance. His aunt Valeria appeared from our kitchen with her gruel bowl.

We had to seek approval from the gods, and the omens confirming divine favor must be taken before sunrise. What idiot invented that? It isn’t always done, but I had traditional planners.

Now came an unfortunate clash. Nobody had told my uncle, the elderly master of pompousness Gaius Baebius, that he could not conduct the sacrifice. “So thoughtless!” muttered Aunt Valeria, finding fault with relish. “The poor man has even brought his own pig.” The runty thing had a weird look in its eye.

Gaius Baebius decided to conduct a sacrifice anyway. His wife, Father’s starchy sister Junia, and their son Junillus had tagged along to supervise, so they had to watch as he placed a veil over his bald head and advanced on his animal, knife aloft, while trying to stop the veil falling off. His pig took one look and made a break for freedom just as other guests arrived; they pushed in through the front door in streaming wet cloaks, allowing the frantic porker to dash out.

Next moment, Gaius Baebius was running after the escapee, scampering along the Marble Embankment, wielding his unused sacrificial cleaver and weeping with frustration. Even if he caught his pig, it was now defiled by its unwillingness. He would have to start all over again with another animal. The meat market was not open yet.

Junia pretended Gaius Baebius was not her husband. Sweet Junillus hesitated, then obligingly ran out into the storm and chased down the road after his father.

Everybody else stood in the hall and tried not to mention out loud how the escaping pig was a bad omen. Fortunately my professional victimarii turned up, tenderly leading Snowy, the sheep I had ordered. In a wreath and gold ribbons, she let herself be led in, very obediently, then gave us a cute bleat. They had brought their own portable altar upon which to send her to the gods.

Tiberius and I slipped into a side room, prior to our official entry. Favonia put her head into the room. “Oh, shitty shit, Albia! You brilliant sister-they are so-o-o gorgeous!”

The three gorgeous experts, barefoot, in long kilts wrapped with wide cummerbunds, and flashing their heavenly pectorals, carried out their duties without fault. I peeked to make sure I got value for money, while Tiberius loftily surveyed a shelf of Greek vases.

They all looked perfect. Passus, my handsome victimarius, gently led the sheep, murmuring to keep it happy. Victor, my muscle-bound popa, whipped out his mallet and stunned it. Erastus, my cultrarius, had been in a brawl, as I remembered the Brown Toad transvestites telling me, but the damage must be cleverly covered up and didn’t show. He slit Snowy’s throat with one strong slash, enjoying his work; he deftly caught the blood in a special bronze bowl so none splashed on the hall’s mosaic, then opened the stomach for inspection.

An old man who looked like a tramp had come with the hunks. I could see people thinking, That clown Falco is being kind-hearted again, taking in down-and-outs for a square meal at his daughter’s wedding. However, it was the augur. Staberius was a bunioned old has-been who smelled. He peered at the sheep’s bits intently, then quavered: “The gods approve this union. I see happiness in the home and the marriage bed!”

Tiberius strode up behind me, moved me aside, stuck his head out: “And no cheek!” The old man nervously added the requested prophecy. We made our formal appearance to polite clapping.

Julia Junilla was mistress of ceremonies, reading out from a list. “We call upon the gods to be present: Janus, for thresholds, openings and closings, Juno Pronuba for matrimony, Jupiter, the father god, Tellus, the earth mother, and Hymen Hymenaeus, god of marriage.” My mother quipped oh dear, we hadn’t bought in enough food for so many. “Our bride will now be handed over by a matron who has only been married once and her husband is still living.”

“There will be appropriate words of advice,” added Favonia, deceptively satirical.

Helena approached me. Suddenly her brother, my uncle Camillus Justinus, cried loudly, “You’re ignoring the rules, Sis!” Well, that was Mother. “Stop the wedding! Helena Justina has been married twice! Doesn’t anyone remember-before Falco, she had that ass who plotted.”

Mother glared at Justinus but stepped back. Someone hissed, “Don’t mention the plots!” Too late. Everyone who didn’t know was now asking.

In our family we do not lack independent women. Claudia Rufina beat off all comers, volunteering herself as substitute. She was wife to Justinus, though their marriage was rocky; Claudia loved weddings, where she tended to lock herself in a room, weeping copiously, while Uncle Quintus pleaded in whispers at the door. “I am a one-man woman,” she declared. “We foreign brides must stick together, Albia!”

Claudia Rufina then gave me away with such practiced panache I wondered whether she and my uncle had conspired. She seized us and joined our right hands, which the augur tied together with wool. This is how I know Staberius smelled. At least Claudia was shedding a fine mist of something aromatic, no doubt a gift after some furious quarrel with Justinus.

Julia announced: “Tiberius Manlius and Flavia Albia have elected to give their promises in the ancient way of silence.” It was news to us, but had worked for my parents, so I gazed into his gray eyes, making certain secret promises, while he gazed back, seeming more serious, though I knew how to take that.

Tiberius then said steadily: “By Jupiter, Juno and all the gods, I, Tiberius Manlius Faustus, declare that I do willingly consent to take this woman to be my wife.”

I pretended to have second thoughts, before I quietly agreed: “By Jupiter, Juno and all the gods and goddesses, I, Flavia Albia, swear that I willingly give my consent to take this man to be my husband.”

We exchanged rings. We kissed. My mother, Claudia and the bridesmaids kissed me. And him. I dragged them off him.

We could not escape gobbledygook. Staberius produced a set of scales with a small weight in one pan; Tiberius placed coins in the other pan until he tipped the scales. I said I hoped that was to show he would be a just husband. My father presented him with one copper coin as a token dowry. Like many fathers at this point, Falco took huge delight in the low-value singleton coin, as if we had better not hope for any more. Instructed by Julia, Pa nevertheless handed me one further coin to hold in my hand, a second in a purse, and placed a third into my right shoe, making sure he tickled me. I remarked that this was like what he used to give us, his daughters, if we were going out to an evening party-a rather mean fare home.

Joking that this time I’d better not come home, Falco then made an offering on the altar in front of some household gods, placing a sample toy alongside. I had never seen that toy before; I noticed a small nephew starting to cry. Mother dramatically produced a spindle and distaff, which she handed to me (emblems of domestic life-though not in Mother’s house, or mine). Again, borrowed. Ditto the slightly disreputable household gods. This Lar and his mismatched Penates, dancing with their cornucopiae, looked as if they had been bent in a violent robbery.

Claudia’s words of advice were: “Your dowry belongs to you, don’t let him start ‘administering’ it; when children come, always insist he is home every day for their bathtime; be a center of calm in the whirlwind of the home.”

Someone asked what wise words would be offered to the bridegroom, so my pa ordered Tiberius to treat me well or he would have his head knocked off. This was Falco’s first formal wedding of a daughter; he was very emotional.

Next came the dinner.

Tiberius and I were bullied into our seats of honor, two chairs covered by a single sheepskin; skins being smelly, Julia and Favonia had provided a woolly rug. More guests arrived, lured through the storm by the promise of a banquet. Bearing gifts, some not even secondhand, they came up and greeted us. There were more aunts and uncles than I could place on our family tree, some with offspring I had never seen before. If a baby cried, crowds of women vied at jiggling it to sleep.

Tiberius’ sister and family had arrived, with Uncle Tullius behaving well; he had decided to treat this like a business meeting where he needed to be pragmatic and clever to secure some tricky deal. Soon the three nephews had found branches from the decorations to use as spears and were running around, hunting down the three-year-old flower girls. After rather too much screaming, the little girls were sick down themselves, so the boys were scolded, which ended in bitter tears. For unconnected reasons, Fania and Antistius took no part in that though they could be heard having a violent row; then they disappeared separately, until Fania reappeared sobbing to Tiberius that she was desperately unhappy and wanted to leave her husband. Women swooped to drag her off for consolation. Only Aunt Maia ordered, “If you want to leave him, just get on with it, woman-don’t spoil your brother’s day!”

Men sensibly discussed with each other how to pace themselves with food and drink-before they began sampling amphorae much too fast. The little flower girls were now scampering about naked while their clothes were washed and dried. Aunt Valeria announced three times that she was going for a lie-down, failing to interest anyone.

I had an unexpected encounter with Camillus Aelianus, Mother’s other brother. Years before, I had had a severe crush on Aulus, which had ended in heartbreak; we had rarely spoken since. He and Hosidia Meline had divorced, each since marrying other people, yet it was Meline he brought along today.

I could see now that Aulus Camillus was a difficult, truculent, broody man; life with him would have been a disaster, not to mention that since he was my uncle, it was illegal. He had behaved like a bastard to a very young girl who needed security, but since this was my wedding, I unbent. Every bride wants other women to suffer her fate. “Aulus Camillus, you and Meline are better and closer than ever before. Her interfering father’s dead-” The booze-fueled Minas of Karystos had failed to drown himself in drink, but fell off a ladder one Saturnalia. We all reckoned he lost his balance being sober for the first time ever. “Why don’t you and Meline remarry?”

Aulus was one of the cleverest lawyers to grace the basilica, yet had not thought of that. I left him pondering. Mother would be proud of me.

The food, which was delectable, kept coming. We had to make this feast last all day, so the wedding procession would be after dark. Since the fashionable cook, Genius, did not exert himself in the kitchen, he wandered out looking important, surveying how much all the guests were enjoying his under-chefs’ wondrous achievements. I went up to thank him for his expertise. Supervising is hard work.

“Can I ask you a food question, Genius?”

“You are the bride, ask anything.”

“Egyptian lentils-best in the world?”

“Highly regarded. Much sought after.”

“And highly priced? But might few people in Rome want to cough up? Could lentil-suppliers make a killing, or would they need to supplement their income?”

“You are right, Flavia Albia. Upmarket lentils have a limited take-up. Suppliers would need to diversify. Either into other pulses, or some quite different business.”

“Thank you. Genius, you are a genius.”

“So people frequently tell me,” he answered modestly.

Before I placed myself back beside my husband, I inspected the buffet tables. Some of the feast dishes did not come from the sophisticated skills of fashionable foodistas, but were brought by guests. Aunt Junia had given us her famous meatballs, inedible spheres that belonged in a military arsenal. However, one better cauldron was being scraped by eager people fighting to get at what I thought I recognized as one of Prisca’s peasant hot pots. There was such a queue, Genius came and requested the recipe.

Katutis, Father’s secretary, who was still sober enough to look at his list, said this cauldron had been delivered to me as a wedding present. He retrieved a note from a bundle he was diligently saving, ready for my thank-yous.

The note wished us long life and happiness. When I turned it over, there was intriguing news. Gavius is dead. He opened the door because it was his cousin. I can’t have that but mustn’t say who. From a heartbroken Gran. PS Rufia will meet you at Temple of the Flavians an hour after midday. Told her about wedding, but she’s going home today.

What?

That was no use to me. Obviously I could not attend this meeting. Rufia was on the Viminal and I was on the Aventine. It is all very well to be professional, as I always was-but this was the one day in my informing life when work had to stop. I must remain on my woolly-rugged chair, beside my adoring new husband, smiling …

No. I did it. The appointed time was long past but I took a chance. I, Flavia Albia, the bride, left a message that no one would discover for a while, then I abandoned my own wedding.