Graveyard of the Hesperides

LXII

When my first husband died in an accident, I was alone at home. At least at your wedding your whole family is there to swoop in and hold you. “Don’t worry, pet. Father and Petro are going. No, Albia, stay here.” No use. I was running, running to him.

My father raised an arm. One of the prone bodies moved. Tiberius was still alive. He was being stood up, bolstered, sent back to lead the procession. Despite their differences, his uncle Tullius was there, one arm around him, virtually dragging him along. Marius ran to help. Tiberius looked completely confused, unaware of his surroundings, unsure what was happening.

Uncle Petro stopped me. “Later. People are with the lad. Don’t look at these, don’t upset yourself.” The culprits were already dead. Petro was conducting checks, but his head kept shaking. Their knives drew the heat, Father told me afterward; they died of burns.

I congratulated my uncle quickly: “You can be proud. Those men killed the missing Egyptians you were asked to trace in the year of the Amphitheater. Your scroll provided names.”

He was thrilled. “Go on now. Enjoy your procession. You’re a good girl, Falco’s eldest, and your fellow is not bad at all. He’s just a bit singed. You and he deserve a decent bash. Only you could arrange one with three people going up in smoke…” Agreed. Only me. Three dead. Bridegroom struck by lightning. We would never live it down.

“You go on, girl.”

So, under my canopy, I set off once more for my new home.

When we reached Lesser Laurel Street, I saw that our porch, once propped up on scaffold poles, had been reinstated and handsomely painted in shades of cream and dark red, with wonderful paneling and trellised woodwork, beautiful mock-marble pillars. I had been warned that indoors still had bare plaster, but the elegant front doors were an indication of the lifestyle Tiberius was intending for us. I was now desperate to see him.

The doors were flung open to greet me. Bemused and in shock, held upright between his uncle and my cousin, Tiberius anxiously tried to welcome me. I shushed him as I wound the smart doorposts with bands of wool, a supposed symbol of my future household occupation. I quickly anointed the door with oil and fat, emblems of plenty, wincing at the mess on the new paint. Petro and Father turned up in time to carry me in carefully, using a vigiles’ lift, while Julia and Favonia grabbed my feet to make sure I did not accidentally kick a doorpost; we had to avoid any bad omen such as a slip of the foot.

In the atrium, Tiberius was helped to offer me fire and water, tokens of the life we were to have together. “Blazing rows and tears!” muttered a female guest satirically.

I handed another coin to Tiberius as an emblem of my supposed dowry. I was almost afraid to touch him in case he crackled.

I laid the third coin as an offering to his Lares, which appeared to be the crooked ones from my parents’ house; someone must have whizzed them up here. I tried to kindle the hearth with the sodden marriage torch; male cousins got a flint to spark, then lit the hearth for me. I tossed the dead torch among the guests, who fought for it as a lucky charm-more fool them.

We exchanged gifts. Uncle Tullius spoke for Tiberius, saying that his gift to me was our new house, though he also gave me pearl earrings, from which I shall never be parted. I had bought him Pliny’s Natural History-but only one scroll.

“I have to explain, love. This first scroll is an enormous table of contents-from which you will discover, I am sad to say, that the book you want most, on precious stones and marbles, is the last but one. My plan is: I give you the first book now at our wedding, then every year on our anniversary, you shall have one more scroll. When we have been happy together for thirty-seven years, your collection will be complete. You can either choose another book, or you can leave me.”

Tiberius was smiling as he managed to croak, “If we divorce, can I keep the library?”

“Argue when we get that far.”

He would own the entire encyclopedia one day. I was sure of it.

Our ordeal was almost over. I recited a prayer-“Heaven help me!”-and was led by my matron of honor to the wedding chamber. Our bed, our comfortable bed from Fountain Court, would be waiting for us.

I let Claudia Rufina come only as far as the bedroom door, which I closed very firmly. Only then could I take charge of my stricken lad. I put him to bed, trying not to weep over him too much. So many brides have to cope with new husbands who are too drunk to move. Half-paralyzed, mine could barely groan, but he was blameless. “Tiberius Manlius, you are favored of the gods. Jupiter Best and Greatest struck you with his thunderbolt, yet allowed you to live.”

I undid the damned Hercules knot myself, but afterward he always said that was only what he would have expected of me in any case.

We lay still and quiet together, listening as our guests, drenched and exhausted, prepared to depart. Tomorrow they would all be back and we must give a dinner (Julia and Favonia had booked Genius again); on following nights, other festivities. Being married is no holiday. But the point was to make a big public statement and our wedding had surpassed all hopes. Aedile bridegroom struck by lightning would even make it to the Daily Gazette.

I heard the last guests milling about. There were tired women’s voices as they collected up young children. Men sounded less in evidence. I had glimpsed Father and Uncle Petro, heads together, dumping their women while the women deplored them. If I knew them, it was prearranged, though I had lip-read the classic mutter of, “Let’s get to a bar; I need a drink!”

The bar crawl would be decorous, because they were taking my young brother Postumus and Marius, who was very refined, a philosopher. They excluded the loathsome Antistius, though as a gesture to new unity, Uncle Tullius was discreetly invited.

Some landlord would do well tonight. It would probably be at the Stargazer. But wherever they went, I knew it would be a better bar than the Garden of the Hesperides.