She was obviously long past the first flush of youth, as I had calculated earlier — perhaps as much as twenty-five or — six — but there was nothing remotely matronly about her. She still had the awkward, eager air of a woman half her age. She was slim and muscular — none of your graceful Roman curves — and though she had done her best to make herself look fashionable by the application of powders and unguents, no amount of white lead and lupin powder on the face, red wine lees on the cheeks, or even grease and lamp-black round the eyes, could quite disguise that big nose and determined chin. She held herself casually, too, like a child, with no attempt at grace or elegance.
She reminded me of a young colt I used to have — in the days when I was young and free and had my choice of horses: it was healthy and lively and from first-class stock, but rather a trial to possess, being rather too inclined to nip unwitting passers-by and a little too spirited to take kindly to the reins.
‘I am Aurelia Honoria,’ she said, coming across the room towards me. She galloped over, I noticed (still thinking of the horse), rather than gliding in the approved feminine manner, and instead of modestly shunning private company with her male visitor she waved her page impatiently away.
I found myself staring at her in surprise.
I must have passed her sometimes in the town — Glevum is not a large colonia and, as a dignitary’s wife, no doubt she went out visiting her peers. Perhaps — being de facto High Priestess of Jupiter — she even performed private domestic rituals for them. Possibly she even sometimes attended the baths, although naturally a woman of her class would not frequent the market, since she had slaves to make her purchases. But I did not remember ever seeing her. Of course, like any well-born Roman wife, doubtless she always wore a veil in public places, and travelled in a covered litter or a private chair — but all the same it was surprising. Even when I had disturbed her reading in the garden (I was sure at once that this was the same person) she had instantly covered her features.
This was the first time I’d seen her face to face.
If I had seen her before, I would have noticed her. She seemed such an unlikely wife for the withered old Priest of Jupiter — not only in her coltish manners, but in her dress. Her stola was of the finest woven stuff, dyed amber and embroidered with silver, and worn over a tunic of the deepest green. Her hair was dramatically dressed, thick black locks coiled up in the latest style, and her make-up must have cost her handmaids many hours. But her neck, ears and hands were bare of any jewellery. That was unusual enough for a wealthy Roman wife, but what made her look particularly odd was a small apologetic wreath of wilting leaves tucked in among her hair. Given her lack of any other adornment it looked extraordinarily out of place. Altogether she was a strange assortment, with her graceless movements and fashionable dress.
My surprise was making me forget my manners. I bowed one knee to greet her. ‘I am the Citizen Longinus Flavius, lady,’ I began. ‘They call me-’
She cut me off with a gesture. ‘Oh, I know who you are, Libertus. My husband was expecting you.’ She had a surprisingly pleasant voice, girlish and humorous, and I found myself unexpectedly warming towards her. No one could ever call her beautiful but there was a frankness in her manner which gave her a certain fresh attractiveness. ‘He will be here to greet you presently, when he has finished fussing with his incense.’ She spoke with such feeling that I was moved to smile.
Tactless! I suppressed the grin at once, but I realised she had noticed it. I tried to cover my embarrassment. ‘No doubt the rituals are tedious, lady, when one is forced to live with them all day.’
Her response astonished me. ‘Tedious? It is a form of torment. And so unnecessary too! If my husband had been appointed flamen, as he hoped, perhaps all these restrictions would be acceptable, but he does not even have the post! And yet he insists on these petty regulations — not only on his own life, but on mine! Preparation for the role, he calls it. Preparation for the netherworld, more like! And it’s not one thing, or two, it’s everything! Look at this room!’ She gestured to the mural I had noticed earlier.
I muttered something about ‘impressive painting’.
‘Impressive?’ She almost snorted. ‘What woman wants to spend her life with that? And only bulls depicted, you notice! No “inauspicious” goats or horses, only bulls. And that frieze! We can’t have graceful vines or ivy patterns, like anybody else, because they trail and that would be unlucky, wouldn’t it, given the flamen’s intolerance of bonds and knots? Only, of course, he is not the flamen, yet! Or ever will be now, as far as I can see. In the meantime, I have to live with that. Isn’t it the ugliest thing you ever saw?’
I was embarrassed. It was indiscreet and inappropriate, talking like this to a stranger. No wonder her family had found her ‘wayward’! All the same I found myself increasingly liking this extraordinary creature, who had at least the rudiments of artistic sensibility. I remembered what Gwellia had said about the circumstances of this marriage: how Aurelia had been dragged into it against her will, and how the pontifex was afraid to come near her in case she died in childbirth. It was impossible not to feel sympathy for her — a woman trapped into a childish role, caught in a kind of permanent immaturity.
I could see why the old pontifex indulged her — more as a daughter than a wife — permitting her extravagances in the market and allowing her to have a garden if she wished. I only hoped it was enough. This young lady was no shrinking flower — if she were too far from satisfied I could envisage her walking out, and causing a sensation in the forum by publicly demanding to be sent back home!
What I could not imagine was that discreet liaison with Optimus which my wife had hinted at. This Aurelia seemed quite the least likely person to attract that elderly, quadrans-pinching man, and the least likely to keep it quiet if she did. Surely her love of spending money (which I found myself mentally justifying, as a trapped girl’s appreciation of fine things) would offend his frugal miser’s ways? Of course, she had powerful family connections; perhaps that was what attracted Optimus. Status mattered to him very much. But whatever did she see in him? I began to wonder if the gossip might be wrong. It sometimes was — as I had cause to realise today!
Perhaps she was simply grateful for a friend, I told myself, and the whole relationship was wholly innocent. On the whole I rather hoped it was. Even if Aurelia escaped exile and the disgrace of a divorce, surely consorting with Optimus was merely exchanging one misery for another? However, it was none of my business, and Aurelia was still chattering about the frieze.
‘My husband paid a fortune to have it done,’ she was saying. ‘And look at it! A simple stencilled pattern would have looked far better.’
I heartily agreed, though I could hardly say so. ‘You have a good eye, lady,’ I said tactfully.
She smiled, actually colouring with pleasure. It transformed her face. ‘Why, thank you, citizen. It is not often anyone pays me a compliment. I take it doubly kindly from an artist like yourself. I hear Optimus’s pavement is quite spectacular. If only my husband had asked for your advice! But there! I am neglecting my duties. You have eaten nothing in our house. Can I send for something a little more to your taste? We only have unleavened bread, I fear. A flamen cannot touch or come into contact with yeast — so, naturally. .!’ She gave me a wry smile. ‘But we could find some fruits, perhaps, or cheese? My slave is waiting, just outside the door.’