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Against Rome |
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Back to section ii of this chapter III. Aemilia Tertia, Rome, 218 B.C. iii When
Tata went away to be an ambassador to Carthage, Aemilia Tertia’s life became
only half as complicated. She could at least sleep nights, wonderful,
uninterrupted nights. The first night he was gone, she lay in the tainted bed
while Nemain tucked her in and said good night. When Nemain had gone, she looked
up at the dim ceiling and smiled. “Oh,
it’s so quiet,” she told Quarta and Quinta. “Yes,
and Tata won’t be throwing us out of bed, will he, Quinta?” Quarta
asked. “All
night,” Quinta said. “We can stay with Tertia all night.” She sighed. “Maybe
Tata won’t come back from Carthage,” Quarta said slyly. Someone
appeared at the door, a shape in the half light. No!
Not Secunda. She almost never came to Aemilia Tertia’s room at night. She
peered at the form, trembling. Oh, she had thought things would be so wonderful
without Tata. But
it was not Secunda. “Did
I hear voices, Dominilla?” Nemain asked. Now
Aemilia Tertia could make out the freckled face, the long braids of blonde hair. “Talking
with my dolls,” Aemilia Tertia said. “And
how are Quarta and Quinta this evening, Dominilla?” “Very
well, thank you,” Aemilia Tertia said in Quarta’s voice. “Good
night, all,” Nemain said, and slipped out again. Tata
would probably be gone at least four or five nundinae, perhaps as much as
two whole, wonderful months. She lay back and hugged the dolls to her. Only
Nemain. All was well, and she could sleep. But
while Tata was gone, Secunda did begin to sneak into Aemilia Tertia’s
room at odd times of the night. The first time, Aemilia Tertia was dreaming that
Mama had bought her a beautiful silver box to keep her necklaces and bracelets
in. A
hand clamping down on her mouth woke her. “What?”
But she knew instantly who it was. Secunda
said not a word but began to pinch Aemilia Tertia, who whimpered quietly and lay
as still as she could. After a bit of this, Secunda pulled Aemilia Tertia’s
arm up to her face and bit her. “Ow,
that hurts.” Aemilia Tertia had already begun to weep. Now the weeping turned
into low wails. Secunda
slapped her. “Good
night, Little Bug. Don’t forget me in your dreams.” *
* * When
Tata returned from being an ambassador to Carthage, Aemilia Tertia was
gloomy. Even despite Secunda, she’d had some good nights, but all of that was
over now. Things got back to normal. Or not quite, for with Tata also
came the alarming news that there would be a war. Rome was always fighting
somebody, but for some reason this war had people in a much greater turmoil.
Probably because this war would be against Hannibal and Carthage. Two
dreadful specters came home from Carthage and into Aemilia Tertia’s little
bower of temporary peace: Hannibal and Tata. *
* * Aemilia
Tertia worked at her needlework, lips screwed tight in concentration, her little
tongue protruding just a bit. She was making a delicate floral design on a small
skirt, almost her favorite one, sweet lavender wool that Mama had bought from
the best merchant in Rome (Mama’s weaving being wretched). She’d managed to
sit at some distance from Secunda. “Tertia,”
Mama said. Mama
was nearby at her dressing table, where a slave applied cosmetics as she watched
critically in her hand mirror. They’d been at it for what seemed hours to
Aemilia Tertia. Mama had already tried on a dozen dresses, fussing that she had
nothing to wear. “Yes,
Mama?” “Don’t
make that awful face, child. You’ll grow up ugly. No man will want you.” Aemilia
Tertia tried to remove all traces of whatever it was that Mama had seen on her
face. No man would want her? Well, Tata had already promised to see to
that. Back to the needlework. They
were in Mama’s sitting room, an antechamber to her bedroom. Aemilia Tertia and
her sisters were seated on straight-backed chairs. Mama sat before an array of
combs, brushes, hairpins, and cosmetics laid out on a linen cloth that covered a
cedar table whose elegant legs, tipped with bronze, curved to the white marble
floor. “Mama,”
Secunda said, “did Tata mean what he said about marrying me to Publius
Cornelius?” “Of
course he did, Secunda. Your father is many things, but a liar he is not.” “Humph,”
Secunda said. “I’ve got a match,” she said in Prima’s direction.
Prima did not yet have a match. Prima
shot her a withering look and stuck out her tongue. “Prima!”
Mama admonished. There had been many such admonitions of late, for Prima’s
lack of a match when her younger sister had one had sparked many a
battle. Doing
needlework gave Aemilia Tertia time to think. Was there nothing she could do?
She’d tried begging Tata to leave her alone, but he only gripped her
tightly and told her to shut up. She’d tried telling Mama what Tata was
doing to her, but Mama had ignored her. She’d begged Secunda, too, but that
only got her more slaps and pinches. Aemilia Tertia almost believed Secunda’s
threats to kill her. When
Secunda made those threats, they frightened Aemilia Tertia more than anything,
except being thrown into the street. To think that one little girl could kill
another. It seemed unbelievable—yet, when she really considered, she honestly
had to believe Secunda could. “Hurry
up,” Mama told the slave. “My physicians are due any minute, and I must be
ready.” The
girl redoubled her efforts, first applying red plant dye to Mama’s lips,
heightening the contrast between lips and pale skin, made paler with white lead,
then combing her long hair with a beautiful ivory comb. The
steward, Eumaeus, entered. His jowls drooped, and he slouched. “Domina?”
he said. “Yes,
what is it?” Mama said without turning. The girl was fastening her hair up
into a bun on the back of her head. “Your
physicians are here.” “Have
them wait in the atrium a little longer, Eumaeus.” “Yes,
Domina.” Eumaeus turned and left the room. “Mama,
what’s the matter today?” Prima asked from where she, too, was doing
needlework. “I
ache all over, especially my head, and feel feverish. Oh, the light still hurts
my eyes,” she said. This
was a good description of Mama’s health on any given day. Mama
raised her arms and shooed the slave girl away. She had spent most of the
morning abed with the room as dark as possible, then finally risen to do her
toilet. “Enough!
Prima, how do I look?” “You
look wonderful, Mama.” “I
look terrible, but it will have to do.” She
rose and shouted for Eumaeus, who entered so quickly he must have been lurking
outside the door. “Domina?” “Show
them in.” “Right
away, Domina.” In
a moment, two physicians entered. Chrysador, a fat Sicilian with oily pores, and
Staphylus, an ancient Roman with sallow skin and lifeless gray hair. Mama
made a little face on seeing them. Aemilia
Tertia stopped what she was doing, as did her sisters. Secunda sneered at the
physicians, then went on with her needlework, jabbing the needle into the cloth
viciously. Her long plain face was filled with disdain. “I
have a dreadful headache,” Mama said. “Domina,
Domina,” Chrysador said, hurrying to her side. He began patting at her
temples with his chubby fingers. “Perhaps some fennel and lemon balm—” “Have
you sacrificed to Aesculapius for these headaches?” Staphylus asked, still
creeping across the floor towards Mama, favoring his old knees. “Of
course I have!” Mama snapped. “I went yesterday. It was hot and muggy. I
came home worse than before I went.” “Domina,
never mind this quack!” Chrysador said. “What you need are exercise and
fresh air. Healing has nothing to do with the gods.” “Pah!”
Staphylus said. “Hippocrates indeed!” The
Aemilias, all three, laughed. “Hippocrates
indeed!” Secunda mocked. Not
daring to glare, Staphylus shot one pained look at the girls. There
was a tremendous clang from the hallway. Someone must have knocked over the
large bronze vase there. It bounced and clanged until it came to rest. But
long before it subsided, all eyes in the room were on the man leaning in the
doorway. “Tata!”
Prima cried, dropping her needlework. Her face flushed, and she immediately
lowered her eyes. Her confusion wasn’t lost on Aemilia Tertia, though she had
no idea what it meant. Tata
looked first at Aemilia Tertia with squinting eyes, then at Prima, and frowned
even deeper. A dribble of wine had stained his tunic and he obviously hadn’t
been to the barber this morning; his jaws were dark with yesterday’s stubble. “What’s
going on here?” he said, blinking. His words were slurred. “My
physicians are here, husband,” Mama said. If her face had been pale before, it
was absolutely colorless now. She shrank back. The two physicians crept behind
her. “Get
these butchers out of here,” Tata shouted. “Out! Out!” He
lurched into the room and fell, sprawling face-down on the marble floor. Mama
screeched, a delicate little screech, hands to her mouth. “Tata!”
Prima cried again. She ran to where he lay and knelt beside him, trying to turn
him over. “Leave
me alone,” he muttered. Meanwhile,
the two physicians were making their way towards the door, one far to each side
of the room, as far from Tata as they could get, frightened eyes never
leaving him. Mama
fluttered, gasping, but did not approach her husband. In
the doorway, the physicians nearly ran young Lucius Aemilius down. He dodged,
then looked after their fleeing forms as they clattered through the atrium. One
of them tripped on the fallen vase, generating another round of noise as he
fell, then retrieved himself and ran, feet slapping the tiles. The front door
squeaked open, then slammed shut. Tata
was levering himself up on his hands, peering around him as though the room were
smothered in darkness. Prima hovered beside him. He sat up, carefully drawing
his legs under his body. Prima plucked at his tunic, and he swatted her. “G’way.” Prima
pulled back, mouth tight and eyes wide. She flushed again. Tata
was looking up at Mama. “Out,” he said. Mama
still fluttered, terrified. “Still
here?” he said. “Out, out, all of you.” Aemilia
Tertia dropped her needlework and scurried to Lucius Aemilius in the doorway.
The two stood watching as Mama finally moved. “Oh,
husband,” she said. “Are you—” “Shut
up.” She
fled, weeping, almost running down Aemilia Tertia and Lucius Aemilius in the
doorway. Tata was trying to regain his feet, but he swayed alarmingly. Prima
still hovered nearby. Seeing her, Tata whirled, struck her a terrible
blow with his closed fist, and fell again, losing his precarious balance. Prima
staggered, really hurt, her cheek red where Tata’s fist had struck, a
little blood on her lip. She cried out, gave Tata a long, reproachful
look, and ran for the door, finally abandoning her efforts to help poor Tata. Just
before Aemilia Tertia turned to leave the room behind Lucius Aemilius, she saw
Secunda still sitting in her chair, calmly doing her needlework. She was
smiling. Next section of III. Aemilia Tertia, Rome, 218 B.C. Back to Top
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