waited for Tiberius Nero’s arrival, I sat on a couch beside my mother and father, accepting good wishes from guests. Meanwhile, I could not keep from hoping Tiberius Nero would trip on his way to me and break his neck. I pictured this vividly: his toe catching on a paving stone, his cry as he fell, his friends looking sadly down at him as he lay stretched out dead. More kindly, I wished for him to simply decide he did not want to marry me after all.
But there were boisterous shouts of “ Feliciter! ” at the entranceway, and Father rose to greet his future son-in-law.
Gazing at Tiberius Nero through the red film of my veil, I tried with all my heart to find something to like about the man. His toga was carefully draped. His black hair showed no strands of gray. He had the weathered skin soldiers often do, but I told myself that he looked the part of a high-ranking military officer, and that ought to please me.
I would have liked him to have a proud military bearing. But his manner was that of a happy shopkeeper who had negotiated a good deal.
A priest of Ceres carried forward a pig, which did not have the sense to struggle. However, when the priest put it on the floor, it gave a startled squeal. That was not a good sign—the sacrifice had come protesting. I glanced hopefully at Father. Might the wedding be postponed?
He looked away.
The priest bent down and swiftly cut the pig’s throat before it could squeal again. It weaved like a drunken man, then its legs buckled. The puddle of its blood that formed on the floor looked black to me as I peered through my veil. The priest cut the pig’s belly open with one practiced move. A sickening stench filled the air, as he bent over and studied the animal’s guts.
I hoped he would find some awful anomaly and temporarily call off the wedding. I clenched my fists, bit my lip, and inwardly prayed. But the priest straightened up and cried, “The signs are good!”
Slaves mopped up the blood and carried away the pig carcass. Father and Tiberius Nero exchanged copies of the wedding contract. I knew that it mainly concerned my dowry—land holdings outside Rome, worth a substantial sum.
I stood between the two men. Again, my eyes sought Father’s. Again, he refused to look at me. He took my hand and placed it in Tiberius Nero’s tight, warm grip. He had given me away.
A desperate voice in my mind told me I still had the power to escape. Do not say the words of consent. What can they do to you? Kill you? Only Father has the right to kill you, and he won’t.
“Where thou art Gaius, I am Gaia,” I said to Tiberius Nero, proclaiming we were one person. Everyone cried, “ Feliciter! ”
During the wedding feast, my bridegroom and I reclined together on a dining couch. I felt a tickling on my forearm, looked down, and saw Tiberius’s hand, a square hand with stubby fingers, lightly stroking me from my wrist to my elbow. He gave me a small smile. I quickly pulled my arm away, then wondered if I had offended him and glanced at his face to see. He looked approving. I was a well-brought-up virgin, exactly the kind of bride he wanted.
The wedding feast ended too quickly. I stood entwined in my mother’s arms, and Tiberius Nero made the traditional show of dragging me away. Then he led me outside. Children threw nuts that fell around us like a shower of hail. We watched as the wedding torch was lit. I was led to my new husband’s house by two little boys who each had two living parents—walking symbols of good fortune and fruitfulness. People in the roadway sang old songs with obscene lyrics as overhead the sky darkened and stars appeared. A smoke-colored cloud devoured the moon.
When we reached Tiberius Nero’s house, a maidservant came forward with a bowl of sheep fat. As I had been coached to do, I took a piece of it in my hands and rubbed it on each of the two doorposts. Two husky young men lifted me over the doorstep with great care. No one stumbled; there was no
But there were boisterous shouts of “ Feliciter! ” at the entranceway, and Father rose to greet his future son-in-law.
Gazing at Tiberius Nero through the red film of my veil, I tried with all my heart to find something to like about the man. His toga was carefully draped. His black hair showed no strands of gray. He had the weathered skin soldiers often do, but I told myself that he looked the part of a high-ranking military officer, and that ought to please me.
I would have liked him to have a proud military bearing. But his manner was that of a happy shopkeeper who had negotiated a good deal.
A priest of Ceres carried forward a pig, which did not have the sense to struggle. However, when the priest put it on the floor, it gave a startled squeal. That was not a good sign—the sacrifice had come protesting. I glanced hopefully at Father. Might the wedding be postponed?
He looked away.
The priest bent down and swiftly cut the pig’s throat before it could squeal again. It weaved like a drunken man, then its legs buckled. The puddle of its blood that formed on the floor looked black to me as I peered through my veil. The priest cut the pig’s belly open with one practiced move. A sickening stench filled the air, as he bent over and studied the animal’s guts.
I hoped he would find some awful anomaly and temporarily call off the wedding. I clenched my fists, bit my lip, and inwardly prayed. But the priest straightened up and cried, “The signs are good!”
Slaves mopped up the blood and carried away the pig carcass. Father and Tiberius Nero exchanged copies of the wedding contract. I knew that it mainly concerned my dowry—land holdings outside Rome, worth a substantial sum.
I stood between the two men. Again, my eyes sought Father’s. Again, he refused to look at me. He took my hand and placed it in Tiberius Nero’s tight, warm grip. He had given me away.
A desperate voice in my mind told me I still had the power to escape. Do not say the words of consent. What can they do to you? Kill you? Only Father has the right to kill you, and he won’t.
“Where thou art Gaius, I am Gaia,” I said to Tiberius Nero, proclaiming we were one person. Everyone cried, “ Feliciter! ”
During the wedding feast, my bridegroom and I reclined together on a dining couch. I felt a tickling on my forearm, looked down, and saw Tiberius’s hand, a square hand with stubby fingers, lightly stroking me from my wrist to my elbow. He gave me a small smile. I quickly pulled my arm away, then wondered if I had offended him and glanced at his face to see. He looked approving. I was a well-brought-up virgin, exactly the kind of bride he wanted.
The wedding feast ended too quickly. I stood entwined in my mother’s arms, and Tiberius Nero made the traditional show of dragging me away. Then he led me outside. Children threw nuts that fell around us like a shower of hail. We watched as the wedding torch was lit. I was led to my new husband’s house by two little boys who each had two living parents—walking symbols of good fortune and fruitfulness. People in the roadway sang old songs with obscene lyrics as overhead the sky darkened and stars appeared. A smoke-colored cloud devoured the moon.
When we reached Tiberius Nero’s house, a maidservant came forward with a bowl of sheep fat. As I had been coached to do, I took a piece of it in my hands and rubbed it on each of the two doorposts. Two husky young men lifted me over the doorstep with great care. No one stumbled; there was no
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