Arria (A Woman's Duty) - written fall 2008

[original_lavi]

OKAY, I don't completely hate this.

The one thing significantly different about this story, compared to my others, is that as I wrote it (in three periods, the first at a reasonable time and the second two in the evening/late at night, the two nights before it was due) I kept in mind that I was not turning this into a writing professor; instead it was for a history professor (I submitted it for our material culture project). I don't know if that's what made all the difference; perhaps.

Anyway, this was challenging. Again with the first person, along with a specific, likely rather pretentious style for the ancient setting. I took a Roman History course this semester (though the project was actually for a different history class, which also made it less stressful) and learned a lot from it (including Suetonius' lively details on emperors' reigns, and this awesome sourcebook for all kinds of nifty miniscule details) which I used in the story. It was actually fairly easy to write, until the end.

Arria's story is not fictional; one of Pliny's letters mentions her, her husband, and the story of how she dealt with her son's death during her father's illnes, and then the circumstances of her own death, along with her last words. The rest I filled in; for instance, we don't know the names of any of her children except her namesake. So emotional scenes are emotional, and the simple facts called for a lot, up to which I know I didn't quite meet. But I don't feel too bad about that, since they obviously were quite challenging. I did my best, hopefully they don't suck completely.

Oh, and it's obviously really long. Longest short story I've written yet.

Comments, feedback, please.

A Woman’s Duty

I cannot say for certain what my first memory was. It was probably a blur of my aunt’s smiling face, leaning in to kiss mine, or looking up at my grandmother’s regal form in a chair facing the window. But I know which memory I remember clearest, the one that has lingered with me the most and influenced my life until the last moment.

I must have been very young; I remember being held in my father’s arms outside, probably near the Forum. It was a beautiful, bright day in Rome. A procession for some event was going down the street, and my grandmother leaned close to me. She held the back of my head and neck in her strong grip, forcing my attention.

“Look, Arria. Look inside that litter. Do you see that woman? It is Livia, the wife of the great deified Augustus.”

I do not remember seeing Livia. The street was crowded with many people in front of us, and the glimpse into the litter was small and brief. But I remember the feeling of awe as my grandmother talked to me, both then and later, of the empress Livia: wife and beloved of our first emperor, who for all intents and purposes was the founder of Rome, and mother of our current emperor Tiberius. Livia was the greatest woman in the world and the epitome of womanhood.

You may never be an empress, my grandmother told me, but if you act in all things like one, you will be treated and remembered as one.

When I was still a baby, my mother died giving birth to my stillborn brother, and so I was raised by my grandmother Antonia and my aunt Julia. My grandmother was a wise, stern woman befitting her years and station in the family. My aunt loved me dearly, showering me with affection from my earliest memory. She could not bear to ever speak harshly to me or refuse me anything. Only when I was older did my grandmother tell me how Aunt Julia’s husband, a frugal man, had exposed her three daughters when they were born, keeping only her son. After her third daughter was taken away, my aunt was never the same; she developed a nervous temperament, often bursting into tears or even hysterics under the least amount of stress. This always frightened me and disgusted Grandmother, who would send her away until she was calm. Aunt Julia had two more miscarriages, but never again gave birth to a live child.

My father was an important man – not a senator, but an equestrian with many business dealings abroad in the provinces. He loved me, I believe; or rather, he had loved my mother more, and treated me gently for her memory’s sake, but he left my rearing to the women.

I grew up happily enough, running to Aunt Julia to wipe away the tears incurred by my grandmother, whom I nevertheless loved and respected, though a good deal of that respect was fear. I had friends among the other girls in our respectable neighborhood.

My first friend to be married was Veturia. I was close to my tenth birthday, and she was only three years older than me. We had grown up together. At first, when she received the news and told us, she was tremendously excited and proud. I was very envious of my friend, who did not seem that much older than me, who was going to become a woman while I had to continue being treated as a child. But two days before the wedding I went to visit her and she was nearly ill with fear, crying uncontrollably in her mother’s arms. Even at the wedding, in all her finery, I thought she looked terribly pale, almost green. Her husband seemed shockingly old, too; not at all like one of the youthful, well-shaped boys we had giggled over going down the street. He had gray in his hair and a belly, but he smiled at Veturia and took her hand gently enough.

The experience unsettled me, however. Before, I had never given much thought to what sort of husband I would one day have. I had always imagined I would smile and wink at the young men who came to dinner, and they would ask my father for my hand; or else Father would come home one day and say, “Arria, I have been considering husbands for you,” and tell me about two or three, then invite them to dinner for me to see, and I could choose the one I liked best.

But Veturia had never been asked whether or not she liked her husband – how could she? Publius was a senator, and therefore an astonishingly good match for her family – even I knew that much. Most often fathers did not take into account their daughters’ wishes.

Before this, I had taken my father’s love for granted, but now I began worrying that in a few years, when my time came to marry, Father might just bring home some fat, smelly senator and announce, “Good news, Arria – I have found a husband for you.” Then I would have to endure everything that followed after marriage which I heard the boys and men shouting about at Veturia’s wedding, and wait for him to die so I might marry someone else. I would have a better chance of getting a say in it once I was a widow with some inheritance and my dowry.

I went to Grandmother to hesitantly ask what I should expect. She was, as always, blunt about it.

“In two or three years’ time, your father will give you a husband that will bring honor to the family – or accelerate his business dealings.” Her nostrils flared at the end of this. Grandmother did not approve of Father’s blatant concentration on such a common occupation. “You will thank him for his choice and go to your husband with a smile.”

My insides went cold, and I stood still with my hands wrapped tightly together.

Grandmother looked at me with pitiless gray eyes. “When I was your age, I was already betrothed to a political opponent of my father’s, a man three times my age. I had my first son at thirteen, whom I buried within a year, and then four more by my twentieth year. When my husband was killed, I remarried according to my father’s choice, even though I had been left with a large inheritance and had three living sons. My second husband died when I had gray in my hair and my sons wore togas virilis, and I married again according to the ambitions of my oldest son. Marriage is never about you, Arria.”

I did not bother asking Aunt Julia for her opinion. I knew all too well that her husband Clodius had never been moved by all her tears for her daughters. Instead, I went to ask her if there was any hope I could have some voice with my father.

She bit her lip, stroking my hand in her own. “You may try, it never hurts to try. Act sweetly to him when he’s home, write him letters when he’s away. Make him care about your happiness. He isn’t a cruel man; he always took your mother’s considerations to heart, even the little things. You are his only child and all his future is invested in.”

Grandmother had made sure I was taught to write and able to do simple household math – skills which significantly increased my worth as a wife, I now realized. But I put it to good use now by carefully writing a letter to my father away in Spain. I practiced many drafts before finishing one with my best handwriting and vocabulary. I merely wished him well, assured him of the family’s health, and expressed my hope that I would see him again soon. He did not answer – which I expected, as I knew he was a busy man – but when he returned at the end of the winter months, he stopped before giving me his customary kiss and passing on.

“Well now, here’s the little writer!” he exclaimed, and I tried not to blush too much, grinning broadly as I ducked my head. He waved toward his bags being brought in by a slave. “I kept your letter to show my friends. They wouldn’t believe that my little daughter knows her letters and grammar better than most of them.”

I could hardly contain my delight – not only because he had been so impressed, but by his language it seemed that he still thought of me as a child and not of marriageable age.

As it turned out, I had another three years to build my father’s love for me before he began considering giving me away. I wrote him letters often, even during days while he was only out on business within Rome. I would write little anecdotes about funny things I saw in the streets or the slaves’ conversations. He never wrote back, but sometimes took me aside after dinner to talk of things I had mentioned. For a long while, though, I carefully avoided mentioning anything of marriage. I was afraid to even bring it up in his mind.

Meanwhile my married friend Veturia returned to her family home, for her husband had lost favor with Tiberius and her paterfamilias was afraid her (and thus the family’s) name and reputation would be dragged down with him. So they had her divorced and brought home.

Another long friend of mine, Antistia, was married to the heir of a very rich equestrian. She was lucky; her husband Lucius was a man in his prime, not ten years older than her, and very good looking. She had not been married for half a year, but was already bearing a baby. Although I was still recognized as a child, she had let me into the privacy of her bedroom to show me the bulge of her stomach. It almost made me envious, but I knew marriage was too much of a gamble to really desire.

The three of us met one day to travel along one of the less busy streets of Rome, in the company of our attendants. Given Antistia’s condition, her husband had provided a litter for her use. The three of us fit inside easily, and our weight was no problem for the strong Ligurian bearers.

I leaned over to Veturia. “What was your marriage like?”

Her mouth twisted. “Awful, quite awful. He was nice, or tried to be. But it was boring and – suffocating, at night.”

Antistia snickered. She looked very smug, one hand laid lightly across her belly.

Veturia glared at her. “Be quiet, slut. Your Lucius could be snatched away just as easily.”

“Not so,” Antistia said cheerfully. “My Lucius is quite neutral politically. He keeps out of the Forum entirely. Business too, in fact. His father does everything.”

“That’s because your Lucius is as empty-headed as a goat.” Veturia could have quite a barb on her tongue when she was in a bad mood. “I will mourn your fortune when your father-in-law dies.”

Antistia remained unperturbed, reclining back on the pillows to let the sunlight fall on her face. “Not so. Lucius is very intelligent and studies business with his father. Cheer up, Veturia, you are free of Publius and your whole future is open again. Perhaps I can match one of Lucius’ friends up with you.”

“I don’t need your help. Besides, I’m in no hurry to be married again.”

Antistia turned her head to smile at me. “What about you, little Arria? Any suitors visiting your father?”

“I’m not so little. Nearly the same age as Veturia when she married.”

“Have you begun bleeding yet?”

I bit my lip, but nodded. It had only started two months ago, and I had covered it up and run straight to Aunt Julia for help. We were keeping it a secret from Grandmother, though I knew that couldn’t last long – the slaves were too much in fear of her to keep any secrets which would get them beaten when discovered. And once Grandmother knew, she would tell Father at once I was a woman and ready to be married.

“Well, congratulations,” Antistia said. “May Isis bring you much luck and a good, handsome husband.”

My very next cycle, Grandmother found out. At least she seemed to think it was my first time, so she was not angry. Instead she took me to the peristyle for a serious conversation.

“You are a woman now,” she said, stopping to look me in the eye. “Your father will marry you at any time, as soon as he finds a suitable husband. I will begin preparing your dowry. You should also prepare yourself to be a wife and in charge of a new household. I have taught you many things, but soon you will be practicing them. But above all, remember this: your husband will be your master. Obey him in all things, and you will honor yourself and your family.”

But though I knew she had told my father, he did not act any differently towards me nor utter a word about a husband in the following months. After years of dreading marriage, my fear had worn off, and now I felt mostly simple curiosity. If it was someone hideous and old, I would endure and wait for him to die; and if the gods favored me, it would be someone handsome who grew to love me.

As it turned out, it was someone in between.

A few months after my fourteenth birthday, my father sent everyone else away after dinner, leaving the two of us.

“Arria, I know you are a woman now. I have been considering how you should be married.”

I smiled, a well-disciplined smile instilled by my grandmother. This was the moment for which I had been waiting for years, and I felt neither fear nor happiness, just a tremor in my stomach. “I am ready, Father, to go with whomever you choose.”

He sighed, seeming strangely discontent with my words. Shifting on his couch, he folded his hands before him and stared across the room. “It is difficult for me, Arria. I want you to know that. I love you as my daughter, my only child, my only successor” (that was a strange word to use, I thought) “but there are also many considerations which must be met in marriage.”

He reached out and took a long drink from his silver cup. I waited, trying my hardest to keep still and not fidget.

“I believe – I have found someone for you. He is a good man. Mature” – I knew right then he was decrepitly old – “and even-tempered. A good man. I believe he will make you happy.”

Detachedly, I wondered (not that I minded, it was perfectly expected) what part of Father’s business my husband-to-be also helped accelerate. But the main part of my energies was focused on envisioning and preparing myself for the most revoltingly old man I could imagine. At least I wouldn’t be married to him for very long, surely. Then perhaps the gods would decide I could have someone more favorable.

Father, however, was not through. He looked straight at me, intent. “He will be coming to dinner for the next few weeks. You will talk, and – I want you to tell me if you cannot stand him.”

I stared at him, all thoughts of nose and ear hair banished. Of all lines – I had never expected that.

Father took another quick drink of his wine, adding more sharply, “There is no point in spending all that money on a wedding if you cannot bring yourself to touch him.”

I smiled again, this time involuntarily. “Yes, Father. I’m sure whoever you picked will be wonderful, though. But – if I may ask – what is his name?”

“Ah, of course. His name is Paetus – Caecina Paetus Fortunatus.”

He was not decrepitly old. He did not even have gray hair or excessive wrinkles, and he seemed unafflicted by any wasting disease that would make him bent or shuffle his feet.

I estimated he was in his early thirties. His smiles flickered at me across the dinner table, but he never kept his eyes on me for long. I could not figure out if this were due to a lack of interest, some absurd masculine shyness, or something else I couldn’t fathom. Perhaps there were some other girl he wanted to marry and his paterfamilias wouldn’t let him. Perhaps he hated my looks. I could think of a thousand reasons.

My father seemed very uncomfortable all through that first dinner. He drank an impressive amount of wine. Grandmother maintained her regal air on her couch, betraying nothing.

She gave me no opinion afterwards; there was no opinion from any female to be had, according to her. I wondered if she knew that Father had wanted mine.

At the end of the first week of dinners – including one at Paetus’ house, from which I gathered our families were about equally wealthy – Father took me alone into the peristyle.

Honestly, I had no definite opinion of Paetus, aside from a deep thankfulness that there was no visible nose hair. He seemed like a very unobjectionable man – he had displayed no sign of the obnoxious traits many stupid, self-obsessed men had. I realized that he was, in many ways, much more than I had ever dared to hope for.

I told Father so, and he nodded. The next day he came home with a pair of gold and silver earrings to add to my dowry.

The period of engagement, even the wedding, were periods I always had trouble remembering in detail in later years. It all passed in a blur, one event after another prescribed by tradition. I did everything expected of me and never had a second to speak alone with my future husband. When we did speak, all our words were formulaic, and I couldn’t tell if his smile was as dutiful as mine. The days carried me along without active effort, and I moved in a curious state of neither excitement nor dread. There was no cause for either; I would hold my head high, smile, and do everything duty called for, the sweet and bitter alike.

It was only when the laughing, drunk crowd deposited me inside his house, and all the doors were shut, leaving us alone in a room for the first time, that I took a slow breath and felt very, very aware of myself.

A row of candles lined a table against one wall, and some of them had blown out with the last slam of the door. Paetus hurried to relight them.

I sat down on the edge of his bed, feeling queerly light, like all my organs had been scooped out. Another duty, whether sweet or bitter….

At last Paetus finished fiddling with the candles and turned back to me. He stood for a moment facing me, then sat down with a little space between us. I wondered if I should do something – I had been told in detail, by friends and Grandmother and shrieking strangers, of what would happen next, but what I couldn’t remember anyone mentioning was what started it all. Was that my task or his?

Paetus reached up, slowly and hesitating often (he was such an odd man), to touch my hair by my temple. I closed my eyes without thinking.

The next thing I felt, though, was his hand over mine in my lap. I opened my eyes, surprised. Yes, he had dropped his hand to take mine. It was warm and heavy, and he rubbed his thumb along the side of my hand. This was more comforting than I had thought anything could be at that moment.

I couldn’t see his face very well in the half light, but I didn’t need to. I lifted his hand to my lips, and the kiss I pressed to it was a promise of loyalty, service, and piety.

I learned much about Paetus in the first years of my marriage. My father was right: he was a good man. Not brilliant with rhetoric, yet intelligent enough that few could trick him. He listened much of the time, and one should not underestimate his listening. He might withhold his opinion for a long time, but that caution was a highly important survival skill in those years.

Life with him was surprisingly easy. My grandmother had well-equipped me for my duties as a wife. I spun wool, though that was more of a ceremonial activity than anything, kept an eye on Paetus’ handful of slaves and their spending in the market, and tried to please his mother. She was much less demanding than Grandmother and loved her daughter-in-law as she brought the prospect of grandchildren. Overall, I found I had a surprising amount of freedom: I was finally a woman, an adult in the eyes of society.

The first night with Paetus was not something I cared to recall. He had overdone his attempts to be gentle, and in the end I was too seized up with fear and nervousness to make anything the least bit easier for him or myself. But after that it got better.

There was never any great love or passion between us, not as they tell there was between Mark Antony and Cleopatra. But I grew to like and be very fond of him, and I believe he returned the sentiments. I would discover the first great love of my life much later.

A year after our marriage, I thought I began experiencing some of the signs of pregnancy with which my mother-in-law had well acquainted me. But I held off from announcing it, uncertain – until one afternoon when terrible cramps seized my stomach. I ran to the chamberpot, and for a while was certain I was dying. I had to call my mother-in-law, Terteria, for help, and it was she who told me I had just had a miscarriage. Her deep grief made me feel unbearably guilty, as though I had willfully killed my child. I begged her for forgiveness and gave my life into her hands, so she as the more experienced woman could monitor everything for signs of my next pregnancy.

We decided not to tell Paetus. There was no point in giving him such sad news when it was already finished.

He came home that night to tell us Livia, the wife of Augustus and mother of Emperor Tiberius, had died.

On my eighteenth birthday, Paetus gave me the best gift of my life: my daughter.

He insisted on naming her Arria. How could I say a word in protest – I was too overwhelmed with relief at being able to keep her: my child, my firstborn, my daughter. Aunt Julia’s experiences had always haunted me, though I supposed I had known from the beginning of our marriage that Paetus was not the type of man to discard of his children, whichever the sex.

Needless to say, my life changed from that day forward. Not only my life as far as my daily concerns and activity went; it was an entire revolution of perspective, my outlook on the world. It was a drastic change, from woman to mother, as my transition from girl to wife was not. Before I had confined my interests to the house, markets, my few friends, and those few areas of Rome which I ever set foot on. What went on in the Forum, even who lived in the imperial palace and held the fasces, did not matter to me. Paetus kept out of dangerous politics, especially as after Livia’s death, Tiberius in Capri had let Sejanus have free reign, and he had targeted men in the highest classes and even many of Paetus’ and my own father’s colleagues. Many of those closest to me had barely avoided losing their lives and property; as it was, I had heard my father had had to make some heavy concessions and bribes to escape.

And now, with a daughter in my arms, I was not just looking at my world but the world in which she would grow up and live. I cared about making her world safe. So the reports of Tiberius’ massacres – turned against Sejanus and all even remotely connected to him, just in this past year – filled me with dread. I wished we could seal ourselves in our house, or better yet move away to one of the provinces, out of sight of the greedy, powerful, and paranoid. But Paetus could not; all of his dealings and livelihood were in Rome.

So we endured, and I wrapped myself up in a bubble with my daughter’s life, milestones set by her teeth and first steps and words. The bubble was only broken three years later, when I gave Paetus a son. Now I had my revenge, and suggested with sweet and inflexible smiles that he be named Caecina, after his father. Paetus did not refuse.

After my son’s birth, I saw the same transformation in my husband that I had experienced after Arria’s birth. He brooded with knit brow over the dangers and instability around us, and I knew he was thinking as I was of what traps our son might one day fall into, pulled one way or another by the political forces which could so easily lead to his death.

I never gave up the idea of leaving Rome, and sought auspicious moments to murmur to Paetus about the beauties and opportunities of Spain, North Africa, even Egypt. They were prosperous, growing places and would be easy with his expertise to build a business there. But he never seemed to hear me.

Then, in one grand year, Tiberius died and I gave birth to another girl, whom we named Julia. The son of a heroic general, our new emperor Gaius was hailed by every voice in Rome, including ours. The terror had surely ended; everyone talked of a return to Augustus’ age.

For a while, it did seem as though everything had turned around. Gaius – or, as the army called him and the people soon picked up, Caligula – righted many of Tiberius’ lingering injustices and showed great piety in his efforts to return and honor his mother’s and brothers’ ashes. Everything he did, the people loved.

Then he disappeared from the public eye, and word spread he was gravely ill. Even I joined Paetus at the temples to offer sacrifices for his recovery. Some men – a few reckless, silly plebians, others equestrians with prestige – publicly offered their lives if our emperor recovered.

On a day which I would never forget, Paetus came home, and I knew from his expression that something had happened.

“The emperor? Has he –“

“Emperor Gaius is recovering.”

“Jupiter be praised,” I said at once, even as I recognized from his tone and face that there was something else. I hesitated, waiting for him to say it himself.

Paetus’ face was heavy, his shoulders slumped. “Atanius Secundus…has been killed.”

My lips parted, the question of how rising. I recognized the name as a close colleague of Paetus’, someone we had entertained at dinner more than once. He had sent us an expensive gift at my son’s birth. Secundus had been in the best of health, still proud of his strength.

Paetus answered the unspoken question with words that made no sense: “In the gladiatorial ring.”

I stared. That was impossible; it was as though he had told me Caligula had decided to divorce his wife to marry our baby daughter.

But my husband continued, his speech choppy, the words forced out. “The fool – swore he would fight – if the emperor recovered. Some plebian – likewise, offered his life. They are both dead now.”

I still did not understand. Even when such silly vows are taken, someone as noble as an emperor is expected to release them from it and even grant them rewards for their devotion.

Seeing my face, Paetus offered the final words of explanation, the words that foretold what was coming: “They were held accountable. Caligula held them accountable.”

And that was the day of change. In the ensuing months, then years, I knew everyone in Rome bitterly rued ever praying for Caligula’s life, though no one dared say so aloud. Caligula emerged worse than Tiberius had ever been. His reign lasted only four years, but those years seemed much longer than all of Tiberius’ had been.

As the fortunes of Rome declined, so did our personal family fortunes. My sweet, darling baby Julia grew weaker as the year waned; and by spring, she was no more. All the women around me attempted to console me, telling me how lucky I had been that my first two children had already lived so long, and infant deaths were only to be expected.

But there are no words to contain a mother’s grief, or the black period I went through after her death, when even the presence of my two living children could not comfort me. Nevertheless, I could not neglect them nor my husband; I was still wife and mother. And after a month, the time allotted to mourn a child under six years had ended. It was my duty to stop my tears and smile again for my husband and children. I was, as ever, a pious Roman woman who would always do what was demanded of her. This was my first lesson.

During this time after our daughter’s death and the same fear and suspicion under Tiberius returned, I saw my husband change. I do not know if it was solely because of his awareness of our children’s futures, or because of the friends he lost to Caligula’s madness, but for the first time he took an interest in the Senate and the driving forces behind politics. He was still too cautious to create any allegiances, but he took steps to stay informed.

Not a year after my daughter died, Paetus woke up coughing after spending an afternoon at the baths. It seemed like a little thing at first; but it persisted, and then my children began coughing as well, and I did not know what to do. I had heard terrible stories about a doctor who lived nearby, how his medicines made his patients vomit blood and die within an hour. I went instead to my mother-in-law, and even my grandmother, whom I had not seen in years. She had gone blind, but nevertheless held her dignity – and a stick to hit the slave who guided her, in case he caused her to stumble.

I applied their recommended treatments with minute care, and soon my daughter Arria recovered. But my husband and little Caecina did not. I sat over them night and day, sent sacrifices to the temples for their sakes, and there was no improvement. Paetus had always been a solid man, and the illness seemed to hold him caught in a halfway stage between life and death. But my little boy was too young, and nothing I did stopped him from wasting away, little by little, until soon there would be nothing left.

They finally forced me, almost physically pulling me out of the room, to retire to my own bedroom to sleep. I lay down, closed my eyes, and cannot say whether I slept or not. All I know for sure is when I opened my eyes, it was just moments before the first low moan sounded from the other room, and I knew.

It seemed like I had not closed my eyes in weeks, not since my children had fallen ill. In that strange state of utter exhaustion, hearing that moan and knowing what it meant – I did not know what came over me or what I felt then. But I rose and went directly to my son’s room, where the slaves had their faces in their hands and my mother-in-law knelt beside his bed, rocking back and forth.

“Stop,” I said, and the slaves turned to look at me. Terteria paid no attention. It was she who was making that low, guttural moan. I did not raise my voice, but repeated, “Stop making that noise.”

Finally Terteria turned, her whole face screwed up and shining, indistinguishable.

“He is dead,” I said, hardly aware of how strangely steady my voice was. “He is my son and he is dead. His father is very ill, but may recover – but no one is to tell him of his son’s death.”

I cannot imagine how I looked in that moment, standing in the doorway calm and tearless at the moment of my son’s death. But they did as I said. I sent Arria and Terteria away to a relative’s home and continued caring for Paetus myself. I told him, even when he did not seem conscious, of how much better Caecina was doing. How he was smiling, speaking coherently, asking for food and after his father’s health. I watched my husband rally, and told him I was taking our son out for a walk along the Tigris when I was going to attend his funeral.

I do not know at what point something had changed within me; if it was after Julia’s death or at my son’s death, or at some point in between. But I found all my tasks, after Coecina died and Paetus recuperated through my lies, very easy and straightforward. All the terrible emotion had burned away, leaving nothing but the clear path of duty. There was no question about it; I did exactly what I saw that I should.

Until the day when Paetus was well enough to move about, and feeling certain that he could not infect the boy again, he asked for his son to be brought to him.

I had known this hour would come, though I had avoided thinking about it, occupying myself with all the little tasks of duty. But now the hour had arrived, and the right words surfaced easily.

I dropped to my knees, bowing my head, a remote part of me glad I did not have to look him in the face. “Husband, I beg you for forgiveness. I have lied to you. Our son, Caecina…” – dear Caecina, little Caecina, your only son, the joy of your heart and mine – “…is dead. He died of the sickness two weeks ago, and I could not tell you until you yourself were well. I beg you to forgive me for deceiving you, but I am prepared to accept any punishment you think is appropriate.”

I waited, kneeling with bowed head, for several long minutes. There was not a word or sound from Paetus. Finally, I looked up.

Paetus sat with his hands covering his face. He was motionless. Instinctively, I began to reach out my hand to him, then stopped. There was no comfort I could offer him. I had burned my grief out weeks ago, and I had nothing left inside me.

I stood and left the room.

Nothing needs to be said about the following months or even years. They said Caligula’s reign was terrible, worse than Tiberius’, worse than anything Rome had ever seen. I knew nothing of it. No horror could touch me.

I went on with life and all it required: handling wool, keeping the slaves in hand, and teaching my daughter how to be a Roman woman. She had been well named, I realized; I could see myself in her.

I do not know how Paetus recovered from his grief or what he sought in life afterward. I was still a dutiful wife, ready to do anything her husband asked; but Paetus had never been an empty-headed brute, and he could find no pleasure in a shell of a woman. We were cut off from each other after Caecina’s death, and there was no mending.

This is why it came as a surprise to me when I learned my husband was involved in a conspiracy against Caligula’s successor, Claudius.

Caligula had been murdered by his own guards – though I rarely felt surprised by anything, I did not think I was alone in being unsurprised by this news – and in his place, the guards declared Claudius imperator. I no longer listened to rumors of an emperor’s deeds, especially when first succeeding, for I knew how little they would indicate of the rest of a reign. But Claudius had only been in power for a year.

I was not curious as to why my husband had finally compromised himself and become an active part of a plot against the emperor; we had driven so far apart from each other that it no longer seemed possible that he could do anything that would affect me. Yet that seemed to be the case now, when the Praetorian guards arrived at our house to inform us that both Caecina Paetus and his wife were summoned to the imperial palace.

Before we left, I went to see my daughter in the peristyle. I did not wish to frighten or alarm her, so I merely stroked her cheek and kissed the top of her head, as I often did, and told her to obey her grandmother.

As Paetus and I left in the company of the guards, I found myself wishing Terteria was more like my own grandmother. As cruel as I had thought her when I was a child, I had never dreamed how essential her training would be for life.

At the palace, I was invited into the atrium, and Paetus proceeded forward with the guards. Only after he had gone did I realize I had never looked at his face.

Minutes stretched on in silence. No one came to speak to me. I wondered if Paetus would be killed inside, and then they would come out to kill me where I was, or if they would put us in prison first. Trials had become quite gratuitous through the last reigns.

Finally, I could wait no longer and stood up. Whatever my husband had done, my interrupting them could hardly make it worse.

All the same, I moved quietly through the dark halls of the palace, wondering where all the slaves were. I heard voices up ahead and saw the red flickering light on the walls from torches. I stopped there, out of sight, to listen.

“…You do realize this could be a spectacle. The possibilities are endless, but just to name one: there is a great gladiatorial show planned for just a few days from now. All of Rome will attend. Many wild animals will be featured in the ring, and certain criminals will find out how well the animals like human flesh.

“You made your choice and have forfeited all your rights as a citizen. I hope you understand that I am offering you a favor, a kindness, which many would not bother with. If you do it yourself here and now, there will be no public scandal. Just a small, quiet tragedy for your friends to remember. Well?”

Silence followed.

Once again, I saw the path of duty lying before me without emotion to obscure it, clear as a straight line to the horizon after a forest has burned down to black ash over a flat land. I stepped away from the wall and walked into the room.

Paetus stood in the middle, though again I did not look at his face. I saw a few man grouped near the back wall and another, who must have been the speaker, standing before Paetus in a rich toga. I did not look at his face either.

On a table, several paces from Paetus and closer to me, lay a short sword.

No one spoke as I entered. It was as though they weren’t surprised to see me.

I went directly to the table and picked up the sword, feeling its weight. I had never handled weapons before, nothing more than a small knife used to cut meat at dinner. The sword was heavy, and the blade gleamed white.

It was an easy thing, to turn it against my breast. I did not fear any pain, because I knew it wouldn't hurt; I had learned long ago that nothing hurt anymore.

I knew it would need a quick, strong thrust, so I positioned the point of the blade carefully under where my heart used to be, and drove it through.

One of the men – I don’t know if it was my husband or a stranger – cried out, and there was the clatter of a dropped cup. I paid no attention. The next step had to be done quickly, while I still had strength. Moving my hands down from where they had folded around the end of the hilt, I grasped it tightly and pulled out. That was harder.

I held out the sword, the tip pointing at my husband. The once-white blade was dipped in red, dripping my blood without a sound, and with my last effort I willed my hand not to shake. I managed a smile, and finally looked him in the face. "See, Paetus, it does not hurt." It's what I've been telling you all along.

Paetus did not take the sword. Looking at his face now, I saw he was staring at me with horror and something like fright, but why would a Roman man ever be frightened of his wife who did nothing but her duty?

No matter. I had done my last duty for him. I closed my eyes, the ground less firm under my feet. The sword fell from my fingers without my intending it to – oh, such a clangor, it was terribly indecent – and, like a signal, it brought me to my knees. With dignity, I remembered with an effort. I should not embarrass my husband in this last thing. I would simply lie down now...the cool ground meeting me like an open embrace as I stretched out on it...I would close my eyes, and they would let me sleep. My duty was finished.

 

Comments

[http://users.livejournal.com/romancandle_/]

Definitely the best of the three, as you said so yourself. Admittedly, I was worried that it might come off a bit too factual, but you handled it very, very well. It was interesting, read quickly, and was very well-written! I think this longer style suits you.

My only complain is this:

He came home that night to tell us Livia, the wife of Augustus and mother of Emperor Tiberius, had died.

On my eighteenth birthday, Paetus gave me the best gift of my life: my daughter.

I just seems too quick - like there needs to be a break, or another sentence or two, at least. But, again, I really enjoyed this! As a former history major and someone who did a few independent studies in Roman history and culture (although that was a long time ago, now), I didn't miss much; but, I don't think someone less versed in history would struggle. It's well-written, and I think that would overtake any possibility of incomprehension.

[original-lavi.livejournal.com]

GAH, so sorry it took me so long to reply to your comment. These comments got buried underneath all the other holiday stuff.

But THANK YOU so much for writing these comments; I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. You tell me what's good and what's not good and that's exactly what I wanted. ♥

As for what you pointed out - actually, that's supposed to have a space break between it, like I had a few others throughout. Which is a cheap transition, I know, but better than the abrupt way it seemed to you (which I certainly didn't intend - I just missed it when I was fixing everything else when I copy/pasted from Word).

Thank you again. *hugs* This semester really got me even more down about me vs. writing, but you reaffirmed I wrote something worthwhile, that I'm still capable of it, and that means everything.