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Against Rome |
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Back to section i of this chapter III. Aemilia Tertia, Rome, 218 B.C. ii With
the door closed and a tall ladder-backed chair shoved up against it, Aemilia
Tertia began
to feel reasonably safe. She sat in a corner on the floor with two of her
favorite dolls, the ones she called Aemilia Quarta and Aemilia Quinta, or simply
Quarta and Quinta, and played quietly until Mama called her to supper. Tata
had taken his dinner at the home of friends, as he often did, so only Mama,
Aemilia Tertia’s sisters, and her little brother Lucius Aemilius ate supper.
As was proper, Mama and the girls sat on straight-backed chairs to eat, while
young Lucius Aemilius reclined on a couch—king of the house in his father’s
absence though he was only ten. Secunda
sat next to Aemilia Tertia—nothing new in that—and when Mama looked away,
Secunda reached over and pinched Aemilia Tertia on the leg—hard. It hurt, but
Aemilia Tertia said nothing. Mama
prattled on about the new necklace she had bought that day, a long strand of
very fine pearls. “I’ll
be sure to wear it the next time your Tata brings home dinner guests—at
least when he gives me notice, that is.” “It’s
beautiful, Mama. I’d love to have one like it myself,” Prima said. “It’s
unsuitable for a young girl,” Secunda said. “No,
it’s not.” “He
seldom does. He just comes sweeping in with half a dozen men in tow, half of
whom I don’t know, and I’m expected to have prophesied it and had the staff
prepare.” “Could
I at least have a new bracelet? Pretty please?” “Mama?”
Aemilia Tertia asked. “Will Hannibal kill us?” She’d heard the adults
talking about Hannibal coming—she gathered he was a man who hated Rome for
some reason not apparent to her—and she’d heard concern in their voices.
Fear in her mother’s. Yes, she was sure of that. She knew when Mama was
afraid. Mama
hesitated, until Aemilia Tertia began to think she’d not been heard. “Yes,
he may come, Tertia. But you’re not to worry. We have legions to stop him.
Besides, he’s far away in Spain.” “Where’s
that?” “Far
away across the sea. Don’t worry.” “Are
you worried, Mama?” “No,
Tertia.” But
Aemilia Tertia could tell she was. In
an interval between pinches, when she’d forgotten Hannibal again, Aemilia
Tertia admired Mama’s necklace, too. She loved pretty things, though her
collection of pretty jewels was much smaller than Mama’s. Mama had lots of
pretty things. She bought something new for herself nearly every day. There
was a noise from the hall. Mama started and cast a fearful look in that
direction. “It’s
not him,” Secunda said. Her look added that Mama was a dreadful mouse for
jumping at every sound, as if Tata were behind every thump and clatter. “Oh,
thank Minerva Medica,” Mama said. She fanned her face. “Is it too hot in
here? Eumaeus!” she shouted. Then to her children: “I’ve been feeling so
weak all day.” The
steward she had summoned appeared. “Domina?” “It’s
hot in here. Bring two boys with fans, at once.” “Yes,
Domina.” Soon two boys about Lucius Aemilius’s age from Dalmatia came
in with tall feathery fans and began to swish them behind Mama. Aemilia
Tertia tried to eat some of the pork meatballs and the fava beans, but she could
barely manage a mouthful between torments. Secunda had not stopped pinching. She
stood it as long as possible, but the pinches grew more painful until at last
she let out a little screech. “Tertia!”
Mama said. “Secunda
pinched me, Mama.” “Impossible.
I’ve been here beside the two of you all along.” “But
she did,” Aemilia Tertia said through tears that now began to flood her face. “Is
that true, Secunda?” “No,
Mama.” Secunda showed her hands in her lap. No one in the history of little
girls had ever been so innocent. “Tertia,
go to your room.” “I
haven’t finished—” It was true, she’d hardly eaten a bite for all the
pinching. There was hardly any grease on her fingers, though a little smeared
the red spots on her arm and leg from Secunda’s fingers. “You
have finished. Go.” Aemilia
Tertia went, sobbing. As there were no windows, and no one had lit any lamps,
her room was dim. She blocked the door with a chair, then sank down in her
corner and cuddled the two dolls to her. It
was not long until the door opened, pushing the chair aside. Aemilia
Tertia shrank back, eyes fixed on the door. But
it was only Nemain. “Are
you all right, Dominilla? Do you need anything?” “No,
I’m fine, Nemain.” “Why
did you have the door blocked?” “I
didn’t mean anything, Nemain. Just playing.” “Not
Secunda this time?” “No,
everything’s fine.” Nemain
smiled. “All right.” She
produced two small honey cakes wrapped in linen and gave them to Aemilia Tertia. “I
know you didn’t get much supper.” She
departed, closing the door. Aemilia
Tertia sank back and began to relax. Only Nemain. She’d become so afraid of
Secunda she was jumping at every whisper of sound. She got up and replaced the
chair—best not to take chances. She
returned to her corner, put the honey cakes into her pocket for later, and
picked up Aemilia Quarta, who said in her own small voice, “We’re safe
here.” Someone
knocked at the door, a quiet little knock, almost timid. “Who’s
there?” Aemilia Tertia called. “Is that you, Nemain?” “I’ll
show you who,” Secunda said, poking her head into the room. “No,
Secunda. I’ll scream.” “Go
ahead. Mama won’t protect you.” Aemilia
Tertia did try to scream. But she was so frightened that nothing came out. She
cowered deeper into her corner, the two dolls held protectively across her chest
and face. Secunda
advanced and squatted beside Aemilia Tertia. She reached out and stroked Aemilia
Tertia’s hair, bewildering her. Secunda was never nice to her. Sure
enough, the caress changed to a painful grip on Aemilia Tertia’s hair as
Secunda jerked it upward and twisted. “Ow!”
And then she did scream, a high despairing shriek full of sobs. Secunda
slapped her, and Aemilia Tertia stopped screaming. Long moments passed, during
which Secunda continued to slap and pinch. Secunda
felt the honey cakes in Aemilia Tertia’s pocket. She dug them out. “Hah!
What are you doing with these, you horrid child? Mama sent you to bed with no
supper.” Secunda tucked the cakes into her own pocket and resumed her
pinching. Aemilia
Tertia listened as best she could through pain and Secunda’s whispered
threats. But she heard no approaching footsteps, no outcries of alarm. Then it
was true—as she had known already—Mama would not come to her aid. Nor
could Nemain come, for as a slave she had no power against Secunda. Nobody would
come. “If
you ever tattle to Mama again—or to anyone else—I’ll kill you. Do you
understand me?” Secunda twisted her hair even harder. “Yes.”
Her voice was small, miserable. Kill me? She’d seen a dead bird in the street
a few days ago, lying there unmoving, bedraggled, already covered with ants. She
could see herself lying in the street where the bird had been, her form still,
eyes vacant, dress and hair dirty and disarrayed. Or smashed, like the spider in
the storeroom. The ants crawled over her, the most frightening part. People had
given the dead bird a wide berth, and she could see them stepping well to one
side to pass her own small corpse. Secunda
pulled up the skirt of Aemilia Tertia’s tunic. She took hold of the tender
skin of Aemilia Tertia’s thigh, high up and inside, where it wouldn’t show
much, and pinched so hard that Aemilia Tertia gasped and whimpered. She was too
frightened to make much noise, but it hurt! Then
Secunda slapped her hard across the face, rose, and left the room. Aemilia
Tertia lay sobbing, rubbing her cheek and the pinched place on her thigh. It was
already a blood blister. When the sobbing subsided, she lay crooning to Quarta
and Quinta. “It will be all right, Quarta. Don’t cry, little Quinta.” “The
gods hate us,” Quarta said. “Oh,
surely they don’t,” Quinta said. “We’re good girls, aren’t we?” *
* * Aemilia
Tertia was only beginning to become aware of Hannibal or Carthage. She was so
cocooned in her little world of pain that, although the names were on every
tongue in Rome, they floated over her head most of the time. When the names did
glide to the top of her mind, they frightened her, though she was not sure
why—nevertheless, the dread in all those adult voices uttering the names must
have insinuated itself into her being, for the name Hannibal—and to a lesser
extent, Carthage—did become synonymous with an anonymous dread that grew day
by day. After
Secunda had gone Aemilia Tertia lay expectant in that same narrow bed suitable
for a child, unable to sleep, partly because far-away but frightening Hannibal
had again floated into her thoughts, and partly because of Tata close at
hand. When
Tata slipped into bed with her late at night while the house was still,
the bed was cramped. He
got into her bed quietly, very quietly. She had been asleep and was startled; he
touched her lips with his rough fingertips and told her to shush. Her heart
hammered. Then, pulling the blankets carefully over both of them, he lay next to
her for a while in the dimness, naked, his penis hot against her leg even
through her nightdress, her burning face turned into his bare chest. When
her breathing calmed a little, he slowly moved his hand over her chest and
stomach. He moved his hand down to touch her there, still through her
nightdress, and then further down to the hem. Again saying “shh,” he moved
his hand up her leg until it touched her there again, only this time without the
nightdress between them. His
rough hand also lay against the sore spot where Secunda had pinched her, chafing
it so she flinched. What
frightened Aemilia Tertia most was the possibility that Tata might think
she was so bad that he would make her leave the house. What would she do then?
Where could she go? She knew she must be a terribly bad girl. She was young, but
she knew that tatas don’t do these things to good girls. At
first she had been so frightened that she told Tata she would tell Mama.
But Tata had hurt her and told her she mustn’t tell anyone. And when
she thought about it, she knew it would do no good anyway. Mama wouldn’t
listen to her. Mama was too frightened of Tata—they all were, really,
the whole family: her brother Lucius Aemilius, her sisters, the slaves. Mama
would never be able to tell Tata he must stop. She
lay as still as she could, tense for long minutes as he poked and caressed her
there, his fingers clumsy and blunt. Sometimes it hurt; sometimes a kind of
sweet, warm shivery sensation passed through her, though she knew it was very
bad for her to feel this way. Mostly it seemed ugly, and she felt as if she
needed to bathe Soon—she
could tell when it would happen, she always knew how long he would touch
her—he did the other thing. He searched for her hand, which she had hidden as
best she could, pulled up behind her head. But of course he found it. He always
did. He
pulled against her slight resistance, bringing her hand down, where he placed it
on his penis. He pushed insistently against her fingers, showing her what to do.
When she did nothing, he pushed again, then grabbed her hand in his hard grip
and moved it himself. She gave in and began moving her fingers back and forth.
In a moment, they were wet and sticky. She wanted to die. After
a quiet time, he said softly, “I’ve been asked to make a match for you.” “A
match?” she asked amid her sniffles. “With
the son of Publius Cornelius Scipio,” he replied. “Is
he very old?” she asked. She pictured a doddering ancient with drool on his
chin, like her grandfather. Or a hard, cruel man like her father. “No,
only a little older than you. But I turned down the match,” Tata said.
“He can’t have you.” Next section of III. Aemilia Tertia, Rome, 218 B.C. Back to Top
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