Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Villa Lunae,

Province of Pannonia Superior

September 25th, 166 CE

Josephus smiled broadly.

“This is the first time I’ve seen a wedding combined with a real-estate transaction on the same day and as part of the ceremony,” he said quietly, in the atrium of the Villa Lunae.

Josephus had been delighted when Artorius informed him of the American custom of the best man, and agreed readily once it was clear it didn’t mean he had to take part personally in any pagan rites. He wasn’t bothered by witnessing them as a nearby nonparticipant, though Mark had told him that was a relaxed attitude by contemporary Jewish standards.

“It occurred to me when you described Roman wedding rituals for me,” Artorius said.

I’m happy. Nervous, but happy . . . was the first time too, if I remember rightly. Maybe a bit less nervous this time?

He had that sense of Mary watching again, and smiling.

I wanted the ceremony here, but by God it turns out to be convenient all ’round, he thought.

The Latin language had several terms for a wedding. Nubere viro was from the woman’s point of view, which meant “to put on a veil for a husband.” From the groom’s, it was ducere uxorem, “to lead a wife home.”

For strictly legal purposes, Roman wedding ceremonies were more a marker than what made you husband and wife: you were married though a public declaration of intent and making a wedding contract before witnesses, followed by cohabitation. Witnesses usually signed the contract, if it was written. The ceremony was customary, and leaving it off would be shocking, but in law the witnessed public declaration was what counted.

Especially for the commonest form of marriage, sine manu, which this would be.

So the wedding ceremony itself started in the bride’s house, with the paterfamilias—that would be Sextus here, since their father was dead and he was head of the Trogi—bringing the bride out. Then there was a procession to the groom’s house. In this case . . . 

The Villa Lunae is technically still Sextus’ until he hands me the deed of transfer. Once he does, it’s mine. So—

“Time to go,” Josephus said, taking a glance over his shoulder.

“How do I look?” Artorius asked—not for the first time.

“As if you were going to a very important party,” Josephus said. “Distinguished . . . dashing . . . handsome . . . any woman’s dream.”

In fact, Artorius was in a white tunic with equestrian purple stripes, and a good white toga with another narrow purple stripe on its edge. He had a flower crown of roses and some yellow wildflower . . . 

And I’m not embarrassed by it. Well, not much.

 . . . and moderately fancy sandals. Basically what he’d have worn to a classy dinner party, just as his friend said. Traditional Roman clothing in general was extremely simple though it could look quite splendid. And very comfortable in good weather, once you were used to it.

Except for the toga.

They walked out together into the inner courtyard in the bright sunlight of a fall morning, with a few golden leaves from the trees fallen since the final sweeping. Then across its flower-and-statue splendor, through the building and the second courtyard and out into the walled enclosure of the formal entrance garden. As with Sextus’ arrival—

Just about a year ago! Artorius thought, a little dazed. How time flies!

—the whole familia rustica had turned out for this, besides quite a few guests, both neighbors and from the Imperial entourage.

He thought the cheering from the familia rustica was more wholehearted than it had been then. Paula told him that Julia was popular with the staff, and that he was too—nearly everyone liked the changes he’d made here. Work had gotten a bit lighter and a bit less tedious, and there had been a spate of manumissions covering about a tenth of the whole slave population of the estate.

The projected village of cottages so that each family could have its own hearth and yard was regarded as too good to be true . . . but possibly true because he was a divinely aided miracle worker.

Plus the staff were all getting a three-day blowout and barbeque with only essential work done and those doing that getting a hefty bonus, which meant they’d all be getting a big party before and after the vintage. This year there was plenty of BBQ sauce and salsa, too, and a fair try at pizza which had also turned out to be wildly popular; the tomatoes and chilies and peppers and whatnot were doing very well. The French fries were generally well received too.

Right now I seem to want everyone in the world to be happy. Humbug perhaps, but it’s a happy humbug.

His recently acquired status reflected on them, too, and there were rumors that there would be still more manumissions. True ones, in that the vilicus, his wife and children, and Julia’s maid Tertia had all been emancipated as a kickoff for the celebrations and a sprinkling would be done afterward. The others would follow later, gradually, to avoid shocking the neighboring landowners and big farmers excessively.

The cheering was accompanied by a few thrown flowers from children, followed by scolding from their elders; that was supposed to come in the next stage. Artorius grinned and waved to signal that no bottom swats were necessary. Romans had about the same attitude to that that his grandparents did when he was growing up, and casual smacks were common as dirt. His own background made him considerably less upset with that than the other Americans, or at least Mark, Paula and Filipa.

He suspected that Jeremey’s parents had been over-enthusiastic corporalists, though.

They halted by the fountain and statue of Neptune outside the gates, amid a scent of flowers and water. And that wonderful smell of old leaves and cut grass and mellowness he associated with fall, which was his favorite time of year, what he privately thought of as the golden season.

The leaves turning here were pretty but not as spectacular as it could be in parts of North America—New England, for example. Not as far as trees were concerned at least, but the vineyards had turned into a massive carpet of gold, crimson and orange; enough had been plucked to make wreaths for most of the estate’s spectators. There were plenty of them here. And not far away a century of Praetorians was at parade rest.

“Now all we have to do for a while is wait,” he said quietly.

“In fear and trembling, my friend, as before the Lord,” Josephus said with a smile. “I remember how I felt that the earth might open and swallow me . . . very vividly. At least you and your bride have met before the day, which Deineira and I had not! But I have a small flask of superwine beneath my toga, fully a year old in the oak—there is none better! Call if you need it to avoid a fainting spell. Your reputation as a mighty warrior is at stake!”

Artorius nodded; the badinage was relaxing, though his gut kept trying to clench again. He could see what was happening in the house vividly, with his mind’s eye—there had been enough rehearsals over the last week. Her mother and aunts and the attendants would be decking Julia out in ways that ministered to the Roman love of tradition. Her hair—

That beautiful russet-brown color, he thought. So soft . . . 

—would be parted ritually into six braids by a tiny ceremonial spear called the hasta caelibaris, then fastened by wooden bands. The piled hair would be topped by a crown of flowers—roses and marjoram—and covered with a ceremonial yellow-silk veil. Her long embroidered tunic would be white silk, cinched with an intricately knotted belt, and she’d wear special yellow shoes.

They’d be taking auspices—they had a professional in from town for that who could be relied on to find no bad omens—making a sacrifice to Venus and to Juno of incense and sprinkled wine, and to Vesta of the Hearth and the Lares and Penates of the household . . . 

And technically I sacrificed the oxen and pigs and sheep and lambs for the feast over the past couple of days, to Ceres and Jupiter.

Though that mostly consisted of being present and making certain gestures and speaking the ritual words. He’d been present at plenty of nonreligious stock slaughter as a youngster, of course. That part of it was quite familiar, even nostalgic.

Come on, come on, he thought. I’m going to start dithering and dithering in a toga is very undignified.

Then he heard the rising cheers again. Sextus came first, also in his best and wearing a wreath, with Julia behind him in a more elaborate floral crown, her face a suggestion behind the yellow veil. The elder Trogus moved a step ahead.

“I hereby deliver this deed,” he said formally. “As those here may witness.”

“I receive it,” Artorius said, and held it up so that it could be seen . . . before handing it off to Josephus, who tucked it into his toga.

That capacious garment had many uses.

“As those here may witness.”

Now the house was no longer that of Julia’s family. Having left her house, the wedding procession would now go to his.

Julia’s mother and aunts and nieces and nephews were there behind her, along with some respectable neighboring matrons; even little Claudia was. Among the troop of guests behind them were the Emperor and the provincial governor, and some of their higher-ranking hangers-on; the elder Claudia was positively glowing at the rain of status her family was receiving.

Julia was serene, ignoring it all as her elder brother took her hand and deposited it in Artorius’.

He thought he saw her mouth twitch very slightly behind the veil as everyone roared out:

Talassio! Talassio! Talassio!”

Which was a really obscure cry, probably referring to the abduction of the Sabine women by Romulus and crew. There were times you could tell the Trogi had been equestrians since Pompey, two hundred years ago, even if this particular branch of the family were big fish only in a small provincial pond.

And I’m lucky that there’s always been room in Rome for a novus homo, apart from some sneers. Hell, I’m just damned lucky. So far. Be careful. The dice have no memory.

The couple who were the center of the ritual turned and walked back toward the entrance of—now—the bridegroom’s house. Half a dozen torches were lit, and put in the hands of children old enough to be trusted with them—mostly of Julia’s aunts, but including little Claudia. Now the cheers were deafening, from the familia rustica, the free tenants, and assorted guests. Flowers flew toward the pair, and nuts as well—a symbol of fertility.

Artorius ignored them, which was easier than ignoring the bawdy words of encouragement and risqué songs, the Fescennines. Some of those were in a very archaic dialect of Latin—evidently trotted out for weddings, and they went back a long way, to ancient rustic rituals . . . judging by the one that called him a garlanded man-bull or a ewe-tupping ram rampant, or behold the eques—what a stallion!

That was a bawdy pun on the relationship between the Roman knights and the beasts they rode. Originally equites had been meant literally—it was the class who came to the war levy on horseback, when Rome was a glorified village squabbling with neighbors a mile or two away.

Things got more anatomically specific from there; the songs and chants were supposed to embarrass the bride and groom.

At the doorway he paused. One of Julia’s attendants—her unacknowledged half-sister, now a freedwoman with the Hirrius cognomen, but still her personal maid—handed her a vial, and she solemnly anointed the doorposts of the entrance between the green garlands that decked them.

“What is that?” he muttered.

“Rendered fat from a she-wolf,” she said, as quietly. “A lot of people just use lard or olive oil, but this is a family tradition. To remember the Capitoline she-wolf who suckled the twins.”

“Smells like dead dog,” Artorius said.

Josephus heard that, and smothered a snort as he stepped past to throw open the tall doors, while Artorius accepted a coin from Julia and in turn gave her the key to the door.

“Now I have something to do,” Artorius said, and swept her up in his arms to avoid the remote chance of an unlucky stumble.

“Very pleasant armful,” he said into her ear; she was. “Pity we have to waste time on a feast.”

“Oh, you ram-pant stallion of an ewe-tupping garlanded man-bull,” she whispered back, and giggled. “Remember to water your wine, or your boasts will be as slack as the wineskin!”

When he put her down the courtyard was crowded; free guests were in the forefront, but everyone was here.

Being public was the point of the procession. More nuts flew. Josephus stepped forward, taking a diptych from one of the Emperor’s clerks—although what was inside it was paper now, not wax.

He ceremoniously presented it to Marcus Aurelius with a bow. Even then, Artorius noticed how the two hard-faced Praetorians behind him—in civil garb—tensed ever so slightly and slid their hands into the folds of their plain plebian togas.

Marcus Aurelius noticed him noticing, with a very slight wry twist of the lips. Their eyes met, and shared a thought:

And yet men actually strive for this position!

Another clerk offered a pen and held an ink bottle. The Emperor of Rome signed his name at the head of the list of witnesses with a firm flourish: legally there had to be ten, but there would be considerably more before the diptych was closed, bound with cords and sealed. Putting your autograph on the same page as Caesar Augustus gave you boasting rights.

When it was done a few moments later, Josephus took a symbolic step back as they exchanged fire and water, Julia lit a symbolic torch, and they made a joint sacrifice of incense before the statues of the family Lares set in a niche, with the usual serpent to embody the genius of the household below their feet done in bronze inlay. A scrap of food in the form of a breadcrust went into the fire as an offering to the Penates of the house; they had originally been guardians of the pantry and storeroom. Many families did that before every meal, an equivalent of saying grace.

“Now this house is yours,” Artorius said formally, as he’d been coached. “Be a stranger here no more; here you are materfamilias.”

“And here I thought the house looked remarkably familiar from my last few years, oh paterfamilias,” Julia said gravely.

The Emperor laughed aloud, which startled some of his followers, adjusted his purple toga picta and said:

“This marriage is now legally binding, Tribune. I suggest you kiss your new wife.”

Antonius did; it was decorous, but enthusiastic. There were more shouts of bawdy advice, and this time the chant was:

Feliciter! Feliciter! Feliciter!

Josephus joined in that, then stepped back again when the crowd broke into a hymn to Hymenaeus. When the song subsided, the newlyweds faced each other with clasped right hands.

Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” Julia said: Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia.

Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius,” Artorius replied.

More torches were waved as they crossed the courtyard; tables were being set up there, for the guests who would overflow the usual banquet room. The crowd grew less formal; many garlands were sported, and Marcus Aurelius quietly switched his Imperial diadem for one.

Walking on Artorius’ arm while the torch-bearing youngsters danced around them, Julia inclined her head to him. “My thanks, sir . . . you have made my mother very happy.”

“Which ain’t easy,” Artorius muttered . . . in English.

But it was true; Lady Claudia was virtually—for her—beaming amid her coterie of sisters and nieces and nephews.

The Emperor grinned, which earned a few double takes from his entourage.

“Thank you, Tribune, Lady Julia. This is as close as a man in my position may come to being just a man, enjoying a festive occasion with his friends. Much joy to you both!”

Julia chuckled. “And you have given our cook a reason to boast for the rest of his life.”

Galen was there, a spare man in his thirties and inconspicuous as usual, though in a Greek chiton rather than the toga which his Roman citizenship entitled him to.

“I advised the cook on which dishes suit your humors, Caesar Augustus.”

“You are a true friend, Galenos!” the Emperor said, with a trace of fervor.

And how! Artorius thought.

The physician would impose a certain degree of simplicity, in the name of the Emperor’s delicate stomach.

I like Roman cooking, except when they try for ultimate haute cuisine. Then it gets deeply weird. I even like garum a bit, sometimes. It’s not much stronger than kimchee, and granddad always trotted that out on special occasions, in memory of his mother the war bride from Seoul.

“Though after your new treatment, Galenos, I find my stomach pains have abated somewhat, and now I look forward to dinner!” Marcus Aurelius said happily.

The physician exchanged a look with Artorius.

That treatment is newer than you think, the American mused. Long life to you, Emperor of Rome!

* * *

The feast was winding down several hours later—the bride’s friends and attendants had taken her away to prepare her for the bridal chamber, amid much hilarity—and Artorius was preparing for the rather more raucous and physical male version.

And we Harvard alumni are proving where we come from, in more senses than one, he thought, standing in a corner and sipping his—well-watered—wine amid the shadows cast by the flickering oil lamps.

While listening to the four ex-grad students discussing the rituals of the wedding, and comparing them to twenty-first-century historical reconstructions.

Mark stopped in midsentence, frowned and said: “Y’know, speaking of religious rituals, there are Jews here in the Pannonian ass-end of Roman nowheredom. Not many, only Sirmium around here even has a minyan, but enough so you notice ’em. Still, I haven’t met a Christian yet? People hardly even mention them.”

The other three stopped and looked at him; by now they were used to his grasshopper leaps and non sequiturs.

Jeremey shrugged. “Christianity’s illegal—enforcement’s spotty, but they keep out of sight, I hear. Why would anyone invite trouble and the roving eye of the Frumentarii by ’fessing up to someone like us? Since we’re people with official connections?”

“True enough. There are probably a few in Carnuntum and a few more than that in Sirmium,” Artorius said judiciously. “Christianity’s an urban phenomenon at this date, and it’s just moving away from being a Jewish heresy . . . mostly spreading among people attracted to Jewish monotheism but not the ritual entanglements. But that’s mainly in eastern cities—Alexandria, Antioch . . . and there probably aren’t more than, oh, a hundred thousand or so in the whole Empire. Give or take fifty percent! As opposed to a million or more Jews.”

Filipa looked thoughtful. “As opposed to five, six million Christians when Constantine comes to the throne a hundred and forty years from now.”

“That’s not certain,” Mark said, his eyes lighting at the taste of a scholarly ding-dong. “Peter Heather made a convincing argument it was a lot less than that in Christendom: The Triumph of a Religion, back a decade ago . . . well, a decade before we left . . . and I say the research supports him—”

Artorius cleared his throat. “Either way, the third century was the period they really took off, especially after Alexander Severus is assassinated in 235. Will be . . . would have . . . time-travel tenses again.”

“When the third-century disaster really hits the edge of the cliff and topples over it and windmills down screaming to the jagged rocks,” Paula said thoughtfully. “Though . . . if we succeed in what we’re trying, the next century won’t be a disaster, right? We’re aiming for a Golden Age. Peace, prosperity, progress in medicine and science, reform. Think that’ll affect things religion-wise if we pull it off?”

Artorius spread his hands. “I have no idea,” he said. “I’m a historian, not a prophet!”

Then he switched to Latin:

“Ah, is it time, sir?”

“Nearly,” Marcus Aurelius said. “By the way, I admit those forks you use make dinner . . . tidier. I may have a set made up for my own table! But the next part of the wedding festivities is a trifle . . . undignified.”

Artorius shrugged. “We have a saying, sir: When in the Imperium Romanum, do as the Romans do.”

The Emperor chuckled quietly at another example of the Artorian wit.

“Very wise!”

“We were discussing details of the religious rites here,” Artorius went on.

“True scholars!” the Roman replied. “What are your American rites like in comparison?”

Artorius chose his words carefully; he didn’t want to actually lie.

“Fundamentally not much different. We have many religions. Some worship your Gods—those of Greece and Rome—with very similar rites. Some follow Gallic or German cults.”

“My family followed the Way of the Buddha, sir,” Filipa observed.

The Roman frowned for an instant as he searched his well-stocked memory, then nodded:

“Yes, that Indian belief that has some parallels with Pythagorean teachings!” he said.

“Our policy was to tolerate all forms of worship that did not do violence to public order; the founders of our Republic laid that down. And we have . . . had . . . Jews and Christians.”

All of which is, well, gospel true, in a way, Artorius thought. Perhaps with problems of emphasis.

“Sound policy!” Marcus Aurelius said; Josephus was at his elbow and looked as if he was biting his tongue a bit. “Though Christians . . . they can be troublesome. Did you have no difficulties with them?”

Mark choked into his wine cup, and Jeremey hid a grin by thumping him on the back. Paula rolled her eyes very slightly.

“Occasionally,” Artorius said gravely. “But extending our policy of toleration to them proved to be practical, sir. I recommend it, in fact—they would be less troublesome if you did so, I believe.”

Marcus Aurelius shook his head dubiously. “Yet they unreasonably refuse participation in harmless symbols of public allegiance—sacrifices to the guiding genius of the Emperor and the Goddess Roma.”

“Sir, that could be dealt with, as it has with those of the Jewish religion,” Artorius said. “For example, if they were permitted to pray for the spirit of the Emperor, publicly imploring their God and His Son to favor the ruler and uphold Rome, and to send him inspiration that will help him act with wisdom and justice? And those who did so were then allowed to practice their rites in public rather than in secret? Without secrecy, there would be far fewer unfortunate rumors.”

Marcus Aurelius frowned. “The ones concerning cannibalistic feasts?” he said. “Many believe that.”

“Well, sir, I know little . . . nothing . . . of the way Christians worship here. But if they resemble the ones in my former homeland, they have a feast in which they drink wine and break bread together, both blessed by their priests, which blessing makes the two substances symbolically represent the blood and flesh of their prophet which were sacrificed for them. Sanctified by his suffering and resurrection from Hades, which prefigures everlasting life for his followers at the end of time and their entry into an eternal paradise.”

The frown cleared. “Truly? Why, that makes sense . . . in fact, it reminds me of some Orphic beliefs, or those of the Eleusinian Mysteries, of which I am an Initiate!”

“Truly, sir, and is it surprising that men seeking to grasp the Infinite will find common aspects of it? You can see how garbled rumors, combined with malice, would lead to . . . unfortunate misunderstandings.”

“Yes, yes, that makes good sense. As you usually do, Tribune . . . we should speak more of this later!”

Well, Mary, I’m doing my best, Artorius thought, and imagined her smile.

Persecution of Christians was occasionally deadly, but very sporadic up until now. Possibly it could be avoided completely from here on . . . 

An uproar followed, as Sextus Hirrius Trogus and others headed in their direction, waving wine cups in the air and wreaths askew on their heads.

Though a couple of them are waving pieces of pizza in their other hands, which is probably a first. As I told the Emperor, what’s accomplished without change?

Paula and Filipa ducked away—they’d be part of the bride’s party in a little while.

Artorius sighed as Mark and Jeremey and Josephus stepped forward and helped the others grab him, strip off the toga, and hoist him overhead like a star surfing the mosh pit.

Marcus Aurelius stepped back with a smile; it wouldn’t do for him to participate in this, though his benevolent-spectator role would be noted.

* * *

When in Rome, Artorius thought fifteen minutes later, as his friends—still including Mark and Jeremey, this was an all-male part of the ceremony—stripped him naked, heaved him into the bed and retired with detailed good wishes, some of which would have confounded a sixteen-year-old’s capacities.

He’d had an American-style king-sized bed made up, albeit with what he considered the rather gaudy standard Roman decorations, gilded bronze heads of cats and satyrs at the corners and wood inlay. But there was a fair facsimile of a box spring under the mattress; brass did well enough for the coil springs, though it was expensive.

The lamps are just enough. No, don’t have another drink, fool, he told himself, snatching a nervous hand away from the blue-glass decanter. You’re just elevated enough, you don’t want to go to sleep, for God’s sake!

Then there was a chorus of women’s voices singing outside the door, and laughter, and then it was opened. The female part of the party—including Paula and Filipa—didn’t carry Julia in bodily, but they did launch her in, so that she staggered laughing as the door thudded shut behind her.

Then she removed the veil and started toward the bed, dropping one item after another behind her until she was close enough for him to untie the ceremonial nodus in the band around her waist . . . 

Considerably later, Julia’s eyes fluttered closed. He only heard her last sleepy murmur because her lips were near his ear:

“Dear husband, you are the most considerate man . . . ”


Back | Next
Framed