Perpetua: A Bride, A Martyr, A Passion

Peterson

I remember three years ago looking into the entrance pool of Julia’s stately domus¹ and finding I was beautiful. I hoped my hostess would think I was admiring her fish mosaic shimmering underneath the fountain waters if she came out to ask me to enter, and I told myself such an old patron of the door was certainly not interested in the number of times a senator’s daughter turned again to see her own face. Still, had they both been in arm’s reach and given me their full audience, I could not have kept myself from looking one last time. Certainly, I’d seen my face before. Although if you asked, Selina would laugh that back then I never looked in the mirror while she attended my hair. If she has the gift of heart reading, as I’ve so often accused her, she would also tell that my reticence was not modesty, but embarrassment: not only of a lady before a handmaid, but of an ugly woman before a pretty one. Girl, I guess I should say. To call myself a woman, even now, conjures up images that I am sure (and almost glad) I’ll never fulfill. But this image was a surprise, and I reviewed it again and again like a man admiring someone else’s art. Why had I never thought of myself as beautiful before? My father has been claiming it since my infancy, often enough to send me to the mirror looking and, like most girls in their adolescence, not finding.

But it was not always like that. I remember innocence, a body that existed as little as my awareness of it, except on days Nana’s nieces came. On those mornings I could barely sit still as the ornatrix² braided my hair, pinned and dressed me, for the whole delightful day was waiting for me. My favorite memory (or is it Nana’s?) is of our three curly heads bobbing around in the wildflower field beyond the back portico.³ That was, of course, at Venetiae. Imagine, wildflowers surviving in Carthage! The seeds would not only fail to root, they would be crushed underfoot the moment they fell. I wonder if I’ll always miss Venetiae, or if a better one is waiting for me. That old country villa of Father’s constantly beckoned me as a child.

Cold days were given to the library, but warm ones belonged to the patterned fields of wheat and their ancient secret, Oleatiae, as I named it. That whimsy was known only to the girls and me. Parents and servants staidly called it the old olive press. In any event, it was a lyrical place, and the stories I made up in my mind while I laid there could last for days. I worried then that Father might know from my eyes how caught I was in my far away life and be displeased. But I loved his books too, with their real mariners and soldiers and philosophers living lives more exciting than anything my imagination could produce. The exploits of Julius Caesar terrified me, and I thanked the gods every time I read them that I’d not been born a man. Perhaps that is why this beautiful reflection so pleased me. My stories when I was young usually centered around a lovely woman, in flowing soft draperies of white, who lived in ancient palaces, was captured and rescued countless times, and for whom men were given in battle against enemies and beasts. Reality never intruded until I grew old enough to see the mirror not reflect the beauty I felt. When it finally did, I was stunned. I’d taught myself in those few long years of adolescence that although I did not look like the heroine to others, although my playmates might not see the noble Penelope in my brow, I was the one true and beautiful soul among them. I had to be. To now indeed be, frightened and thrilled. This was possibly my first lesson taken consciously at God’s knee, although I didn’t know Him at the time. As I was finally able to turn my attention to enter my hostess’ domus, my mind retreated inward, and I observed the evening and my soul as if from a secret room in silence.

Selina! My amictus⁴ crumpled gently over the chair as I lifted my hands to press the white tunic underneath against my body. My eyes followed its curves in the mirror until Selina’s dark head appeared in the doorway to her chamber. Help me. She smiled as she silently removed the trinkets from my wrist and watched my eyes wander over the reflection of my own face. Aelius and his wife stage the most dramatic cenae⁵, I complained. We already know he is the wealthiest landowner in Carthage. They flaunt it like plebians⁶.

Was there something special for Mistress Aelius’ birthday?

Of course not, Selina! Aelius’ taste is far too fine to make a public spectacle of Julia’s age, I mocked. "We only had the normal seven courses of your average man’s evening cena. It was horrible! Drag me to the amphitheater’s floor if I ever become so ostentatious. You should have seen the second roast—a wild pig with little simnel cakes around in the shape of piglets nursing. And of course they had Marius perform scenes from his newest play between each course. I was planning to attend the theater next Dies Saturni⁷. I can stay home now. As my eyes rolled they caught Selina’s concerned frown. I babbled on, If they’re going to act like Nero’s court, they might as well go all the way and end with a full orgy. Her eyes flinched, so I added, I’m sure half the guests would have been willing enough. You should have seen the Spanish maidens dance. They were sailed across the middle sea solely for this evening, I’m sure."

My body wanted to move in imitation of their erotic dance and my heart caught the impulse with a surprised beat. Quickly I glanced in the mirror. She was intent on my pendant’s clasp. But she lifted her head then, and I covered my widened eyes with a yawn. Her silence as she watched me sped my introspection.

Perpetua …

I slipped a lighthearted voice over my thoughts and quickly assured, Silly Selina! Of course I wouldn’t have participated. I was exaggerating. Had the lack of opportunity been all that kept me from the debauched life so common in the empire’s great cities? Perhaps I was not so good as I’d thought. My first season out from the watchful eyes of Homer, Virgil, my father …

You made me beautiful tonight, Selina. Was this what had started it? I gave the credit to my dear ornatrix.

I cannot help but produce beauty when I am given beauty to work with, Perpetua, she teased, relieved.

Claudia’s eyes have never turned so green. I savored the image again—the way her jealousy flashed across the marbled room without causing a ripple in Lupus’ steady gaze toward me. Do I seem changed to you? She began to answer, but I cut her off. Do I look different from last week, or last month?

You’ve grown some, and your skin … she mused. "Little details come together and—well, they harmonize. Like a fine mosaic when it’s finally edged. It was beautiful in its parts before, but now it’s one, and it stands out."

It’s a good feeling. Pleasure made me generous. I wondered when I was going to be as beautiful as my sweet maid.

Oh, Perpetua. I am not …

Andrew would definitely disagree, my dear, I teased. And plus, with an exaggerated drawl, how would us poor men folk feel without some pretty girls to beautify this here city? Her giggle was too spontaneous to silence.

You don’t make a very good Libyan peasant, ‘My Dear.’

Shh. Father might come. Our stifled laughs were probably audible across the courtyard anyway. The breeze was finally cooling my flushed cheeks, and I didn’t want to close the heavy shutters. I considered her in the mirror, patiently undoing what she had created only hours before. Her lips puckered in concentration, pushing together like plump rosy petals of a new bud.

Before you fell in love with Andrew, did you walk with other boys?

Of course.

Did they touch you? Did you let them?

No.

Didn’t you want to know …?

Yes.

You’re too one-syllabled. Marius and Apuleius wanted to see me home, but finally Father’s litter arrived and I was spared the decision.

Were they drunk?

"Of course. What respectable patrician⁸, besides Father, leaves a banquet sober?"

It wouldn’t have been wise.

With space to think, and Selina’s persuasive goodness silent behind me, all Father’s antiquated morals crowded around. She was right. Marius was a corrupt, licentious old actor, to whom I wouldn’t entrust a child. Apuleius, too handsome and strong and young to be expected to obey anything but his instincts. Wisdom was not a word I wanted to consider. The air was hot and my bearings hard to find. Selina spoke again.

Do you know them well?

"No, I know of them. Apuleius is slightly older than my set, and Marius is ancient."

Do you think they were interested in you because they knew you have a lovely soul inside this body? She smiled gently behind me in the mirror.

I suppose they weren’t. I countered with an argument I didn’t believe myself: But is that wrong? The gods made love.

Would it satisfy you? The purely physical?

I let the silence stay while she brought water for my hands and face. There was no way for me in one night to argue myself out of something I’d believed for years. I shuddered, thinking of the brief blindness my vanity had brought to the evening.

Why are you always right, Selina? It’s annoying. Fear mixed easily into anger. I fell quiet again. Aelius’ domus was magnificent—the sort where one found a novel luxury behind every curtain—his wife tantalizingly beautiful, his banquet worth the estates of three suffetes.⁹ The night air, flowing wine, attentive slaves and a host of senatorial men not less so, flickered back across my closed eyelids. I was shocked by the excitement the Spaniards had aroused in me—shocked at how open it had left me to Lupus’ advances. He was so bold. I suppose he thought that being Aelius’ son … The lingering feel of his hand tingled through my stomach.

I hate Lupus!

She was surprised as she turned my head toward her to remove my diadem. Ringlets were already cascading out where the night had loosened combs and ribbons. It was a look I enjoyed more than the perfection of early evening.

You hate him?

Selina, why can’t you do my hair like this at the first? I like natural; it’s wild.

He used to only bore you. Her strong fingers massaged my scalp as the tresses came down and hung heavy. The pain of wearing it up was always worth the pleasurable aching when it was finally freed.

I relaxed under her massage and responded, "… until his obsession with women expanded to include me tonight. He’s a pig. I’d like to see him be the second roast some day. Who’s ignored me for years, but now that he sees breasts and a waist can’t contain his great interest in my thoughts … my family …. I’m not simply being sarcastic. Ask Claudia. Oh, don’t stop, Selina, my head aches."

Why don’t you lie on your bed so you can fall asleep. She led me to the lectuli¹⁰ and helped me climb under its silky cover.

Who would want a man who doesn’t care about the real you at all? After he’d had you for a year he’d probably write a divorce and move on to the next pair of hips!

Perpetua, not all men are like that.

Yes, when he earns enough to buy a farm, your sweet Andrew will marry you, and then rejoice forevermore. But I’ve yet to meet a patrician like him. I sighed and snuggled deeper into the damask. Maybe I should I throw my birth to the wind and find some faithful slave to marry. Would I make a good slave’s wife? I smiled.

You wouldn’t like it, Selina laughed. "Go to sleep, Turtura-Tua¹¹."

"Turpificata-Tua¹²" would be more accurate, I thought to myself as she extinguished the lamps and returned to her chamber. Long after the open door brought her rhythmic breathing to my ears I laid awake, fighting the eagerness my body still felt for his touch. I hoped Nana was not a spirit by my bed that night.

Nana, I apologized, I am not like your niece. Images of Selina’s old-maiden auntie filled my mind from childhood Venetiae days. Selina, I moaned under my breath, I am not good. Odysseus, Penelope, I am not … and my body twisted as I tortured my soul with the knowledge of good and evil, until sleep suspended being and I had rest.

1. Domus. House, home, household.

2. Ornatrix. A personal lady’s maid.

3. Portico. A porch or covered walk consisting of a roof supported by columns. A colonnade.

4. Amictus. The outer garment.

5. Cena(e). Dinner/supper, principle Roman meal (evening).

6. Plebian. A member of the common people, the lower class.

7. Dies Saturni. Saturday.

8. Patrician. A member of the nobility.

9. Suffete. Native magistrate.

10. Lectuli. Bed or couch

11. Turtura-Tua. A nickname taken from the word for turtle-dove and the ending of Perpetua’s name, tua, which standing alone is a familiar form of you in Latin.

12. Turpificata-Tua. Perpetua has changed the initial word of her nickname to mean corrupted.

Morning brushed through my windows with a sweet breeze, and I awoke much sooner than my late night suggested. How easy it is for me to believe my own goodness. The agony of the last evening was replaced by confidence. It’s a wonder that I managed to tie my resolution of a morning’s sacrifice to Isis together with the known irrationality of night thoughts, and come out with a bundle resembling such a perfectly righteous Perpetua. But it happened, and by the time my quiet feet slipped out of the courtyard gate into the back way, I was convinced only the very good practiced such introspective concern for the soul. Isis, in fact, would surely honor one of such devotion. Gone was the pleading supplicant, fasting to obtain mercy of the virtuous goddess. Why did I go, then? Someone had told me that a decision once made should not be changed except by the severest reasons, or one would become like a leaf, fluttering to and fro with no purpose but pleasure. Although I adored pleasure, I desired honor more, and my pains were spent on appearing never less than intelligent and rational.

Hindsight laughs at a girl whom rationality led down a road ending in the maze of nebulous gods and goddesses to whom I then gave homage. The temple of Isis, modest compared to those surrounding the city forum, was situated partially up the hill whose summit was crowned by the stunning Villa Charites. My robed steps retraced last evening’s ride home, and as I drew nearer, my security vanished. The intersection of Via Nova and Via Roma, which last night had been occupied by an amorous couple taking refuge outside from the host of sub-tenants in their cenaculum¹, reminded me of my desires last evening. Surely I was better than Claudia, or Paulina, who never acted but always suggested, or all the Roman aristocrats bent only on the delights of life. Didn’t I value the virtuous, the honorable? I tried to distract myself. I should not be out alone, I reasoned, Father would be angry. I knew, however, that Selina would not advertise my absence to him, and I continued dodging the endless flow of pedestrians as the world ’round waked.

My mother and father never approved of walking alone—except down certain paths at Venetiae. This morning was a new experience. My delicate sandals were no match for the rough cobblestones and loose gravel that dug through the soles and between my toes. What had seemed like a quiet morning in my family courtyard was the busy beginning of another day of life and market for the general populace. I felt like a theater acrobat, twisting every inch of my body this way and that to avoid the hundred obstacles stacked against me … a reveler who didn’t know morning had come, a tonsor² cutting hair in the street, a baker chasing the latest thieving pupil who had craved fresh bread before lessons. When I’d skirted the third chamber pot of my journey, I realized that if I wasn’t wearing a robe, my pretty blue silk amictus might have been brown by Isis’ temple, and splattered, too, with the grease from at least eight cook shop owners waving their hot sausages in my face. By the time the last beggar between home and Rome had accosted me, only my pride in breeding stayed my impulse to call him foul and run from his breath. The hope of sanctuary was finally realized when I drew near the porticoed court of Isis’ temple. The intonation of morning prayers drew and repelled me both.

I slipped thankfully inside to the quiet stone court. The interior was already scattered with worshipers, most of them the wealthy widows typical of Isis’ followers. I suppose in reality they simply wanted to escape remarriage in a manner understandable to society. Although not all old women, most seemed at least middle-aged, and I pulled my cloak closer about me. What would they think of a virgin who sacrificed here? They would suppose she was not. So would I. I hurriedly opened my libation, bought from the Spanish wine merchant across the via³ and paid for more by the endurance of a too familiar bushy-eyed wink than by my coin, and moved to wait for a place before the ornate statue. In spite of my early morning, I had arrived far too late for the priestesses’ ritual prayers. Individuals now personally approached with supplications, though none dared reach out to touch the inhabited stone. I soon forgot my thoughts, however, as the woman before the goddess became fascinating to watch. The recitation that had begun with a simple side-to-side movement became an exaggerated sweeping arc of hands and body waving through the air. The prayer ended slowly, as she gyrated her way to a kneeling position and kissed the base of the altar. I was surprised at my own irreverence, for there had seemed something comical in the whole affair. A quick glance around stifled any laughter, though, for every other dark robed woman in the court wore as solemn an expression as the goddess herself. They nodded, sympathizing with the supplicant. She rose to descend the short steps.

Lady Julia! I choked.

Arms outstretched, her hands fluttered till they grasped my own.

My little beauty! How delightful to see you so soon. The morning breeze stirred her dark robe to reveal a scarlet embroidered amictus draped underneath. Come, come, let’s retreat. Her voice carried across the court, and we received furious glances from the still meditants scattered on their benches.

But I haven’t … shock still claimed my wits, and I helplessly raised the libation in my hand.

Well then, approach the dear goddess. I’ll wait for you back there. She nodded toward the gate and pushed me playfully forward. I was only too glad to turn from the now hostile court and kneel at Isis’ feet. My recitation was perhaps longer than usual, but the goddess received less of my attention than any has before or since. Julia’s drunken dance last night with Marius was not out of the norm, neither had her husband seemed to mind, probably because he had at least an amphora⁴ in him and several Spanish maidens on him. I never would have assumed she felt scruples when it came to her actions.

My dear, what a surprise to see you here! she exclaimed in a conspiratorial whisper as soon as I drew near the gate. Taking my hand again she insisted, Come, tell your man to bring you up to Charites, and we shall have a great little gossip together.

I have no slaves with me.

What? No escort? You came with no litter? But my girl, surely you didn’t walk?

I did, Lady Julia. Her eyebrows rose at my words, and she tisked. But I must confess, it was probably a mistake.

But of course it was a mistake.

I am worn out—not by the walk, I am strong enough for that—but by all the jostling. I think I have bruises. I glanced down sadly at the state of my cloak.

Well it’s a wonder your father let you come like that. I should have thought … Her raised eyebrows suddenly lowered with a new idea. Oh my dear, it was a secret, wasn’t it? And I have ruined it all by bumping into you! Well! Now you shall have to tell it to me, of course. Here, come with me.

She ushered me out of the gate and into her waiting litter. I sank back into the splendid silk pillows and relaxed. How I had dreaded to leave that quiet courtyard and make my way home.

What a fright it is to walk about in the streets!

It’s the nature of the masses, my dear; there’s no civility. We don’t even have the benefits of Rome and a common language, she sighed. You hear that mish-mash out there? Latin, Punic, Libyan, and everything in between, I’m sure. Oh, how I long for the countryside and an end to these reeking streets. The humanity is disgusting. I suppose Rome would be even worse in that respect. I hear they’ve over a million inhabitants, compared to our 100,000, and we’re the second greatest in the empire. Imagine that. Aelius won’t take me, of course, she pouted.

Aelius won’t take you … I repeated slowly.

To the countryside, my dear, to Charites’ sister.

My mind was filled with one million inhabitants, swarming through the endless streets of a far-away city. I did not care when Julia carelessly instructed a slave with a message for my father. She had seen me on a short walk near my home and insisted I come with her for a noon repast.

There, you see how easily it is taken care of? Your father won’t mind a bit, and I have you to myself for the whole morning. Well, perhaps not to myself, but I will help you run whatever secret errand brought you to this part of the city.

Of course my father would mind. Of course my father would say nothing, being but a university scholar whose daughter was sought by the acting proconsul’s wife.

Where are you, Perpetua? Off in someone’s arms?

Oh, Lady Julia, I’m sorry!

Dear me, you’re probably dazed from that walk. The horrible smells on these streets! Next time you have a secret errand, send for me and I will carry you there in style. I am the image of discretion, you know. Your purpose is safe with me. Her jeweled hand patted mine sympathetically. I was asking, just what is this errand I’m to help you with, my dear? I’m up to anything. The litter came to rest in her courtyard, and I was happily spared the necessity of a reply. As the curtains were drawn back I found myself once more beside the enchanting fountain of last night. I was beautiful. Without looking in the reflection again, a strange confidence caught me. I did belong in Julia’s intimates. Why not? Two slave girls took our robes, and a third stayed with us as we walked through the luxurious rooms toward a side portico. The view was tremendous. Across the water I could see Bou Cornine itself. From the summit of this hill the busy streets between the shore and me had become muted, gray. How easy it was to feel benevolence toward the masses from a distance. The strange thought hit me that though I might be worthy of Julia’s friendship, I was not of Selina’s.

The lady came towards me with a cool cup of water. I know now, Perpetua. Hush! I must be allowed to guess. You came here, hoping to see Lupus! She exclaimed with triumph. At his name, the same twinge of guilt passed through my chest that had hurt me last night. But it was only a second’s pause before I responded lightheartedly.

Oh no, Julia. It was nothing of that kind. Why, I thought you knew when you met me there. I was simply going to Isis’ temple.

My dear, surely not! I know your mother is a devotee. I assumed you did it to honor her. Come, you must have some other reason. Won’t you tell me? she pleaded and motioned for me to recline. I didn’t want to leave the view, but obeyed to please her.

I assure you, Julia, I laughed, you have uncovered my deepest secret to have found me there. I have none other to interest you with.

The inquisitive twist of her features merely deepened.

"Now this I am interested by, Perpetua. Do you intend to marry?"

Of course! I stuttered.

Then you are not sworn off sex. What might bring you, in that case, to Isis’ door, seeing as you are the purest maid to ever breathe the good goddess’ air? Her eyebrows rose, At least as far as my son Lupus could ascertain last night. I flushed and looked away, letting my eyes gaze past the open portico and attentive slave girl, searching for something solid to catch on. Perhaps I did not want to be one of the lady’s intimates after all. Julia misunderstood my distress. That slave is quite ignorant. Only speaks Libyan. They’re best that way, you know. Her sharp word to the girl who still attended us dismissed her, and she quietly slipped out of sight. To please you. Now do tell, what can you possibly have done?

I’ve done nothing Julia. I would have, I find, I perhaps need, I stumbled around for words neither insulting nor revealing, I need some perspective, I should say.

I can give you perspective, child.

I think you could, I stammered.

Ah, my little beauty, since my first glimpse of you last night I’ve wanted to take you under my wing. She sighed as if mourning. Your crazy father has raised you ignorant. It’s just what one would expect from such an old-fashioned fool, she muttered. My dear, listen to me. If you’ve done nothing Venus could commend you for, then you’ve certainly done nothing Isis could condemn you for. You have to use the gods to your advantage. You must be intelligent. She leaned forward in a whisper. If you end up on Isis’ bad side, you must know Venus will adore you! And when it comes down to it, which life is more fun?

But why do you sacrifice to Isis then?

She laughed.

I keep my doors and windows open, not one or the other. Please Venus at night, Isis in the morning.

Do you think then, that there is not one that is right, or better?

Now calm yourself, Perpetua, and listen. Did she really know everything, as she sounded? I remember after my first tryst with a man—I was a bit younger than you—the same question occurred to me. And so I prayed to Venus that she would not put any other opportunities in my path if I was not supposed to take them. Well, the very next evening Aelius cornered me after the theater, and I had my answer. We cannot expect to please each god all the time. Aelius himself does not mind when I feel I need a new experience every now and then. Why, we would be boring ourselves to have no variety.

I nodded dumbly and stared at her eyes. They were swollen from last night’s variety. She finished her cup with a flourish and stretched out luxuriously.

It keeps both of us healthy. Of course, I attend Isis some mornings after such an experience, she winked conspiratorially, for what is the use of alienating a god when one could easily placate them? As I said my dear, doors and windows.

Truly Julia, you are a stronger woman than I am.

My dear, you are but a girl. I venture to guess you are still a little virgin.

Yes. My heart pounded disturbingly.

Your mother has left such a lack in your education, she lamented. I am very, very glad we are having this talk. You see, Perpetua, you must remember, she resettled her amictus over her body, your father, whose mind is as old as his books, may tell you of the virtuous Roman matrons of our young Republic, but truly, in ancient times, such experience as the empire enjoys now was not only endorsed, but required by the gods. Don’t you know Dido’s story?

I thought I did, yes.

Well then, you remember how she and her sailors landed on Cyprus, and took away with them eighty maidens who had been about to offer their virginity at Astarte’s temple in Paphos. This was a normal practice, my dear. In fact, at one time it was law. Every woman, rich or poor, had once in her life to sit in the temple and give herself to a strange man.

I was repulsed.

Sounds like that was a law made by those strange men themselves.

Perpetua! I’d managed to shock her. It was a very old Phoenician custom, and we in Carthage are of the Phoenicians. There is still a temple to Venus—Astarte, to your sensitive Greek-trained ears—in Sicca, if I remember right, where they keep to that tradition. If not still, then at least in the very recent past.

Are you sure? Now it was I, shocked. These old practices, I’d assumed, had long ago been thought the better of.

Of course I’m sure! Oh, Perpetua, you must embrace your roots to be a true Carthaginian. The entire Roman aristocracy in the province had recently discovered their Carthaginian roots. She rose and flounced importantly over to the vista I had admired minutes ago. I am not saying that I hold to all the old ways, I am much more progressive than that. Why, Dido believed that intercourse with a man was as binding as a marriage vow—how ridiculous. But my dear, the masses are not as educated and liberal minded as we, and to rule them benevolently we must not despise their roots. My family was from Rome, originally, as I’m sure yours was, but still I must consider myself a Carthaginian. And as such I have a duty … She trailed off tragically, as if her duty were leading her places she didn’t want to go, instead of giving license for all her pleasures.

Julia, I have heard of these practices, but thought they were dead long ago.

Many things you think are dead, are really not. She lifted her eyebrows mysteriously.

I will not be easily convinced to act on them. At least not as easily as Claudia, or you. My resistance was due more to a stiff-necked pride, than any adherence to Father’s ancient code.

She returned to my side and patted my cheek.

I am not advocating you act on them, child, she sighed. Simply that you understand the freedom there is for you to take as you wish. It’s not wrong; bless my soul, it’s older than Dido. She reclined. And that, my dear, is the reason I dance at night and pray in the morning.

I don’t even dance at night, yet I pray in the morning, I mused.

"Now you will loosen up a little and enjoy yourself, Perpetua darling, won’t you? In fact, a sly smile accompanied her urgings, I suggest the next time you are here for the evening and Lupus begs a dance, remember the goddess Venus and give it to him!"

Julia! I blushed. I wondered what it was like to sit at the temple and wait to be chosen. What if the man had been ugly or smelly? I was a bit disgusted. Still, there was something about Julia’s free babble that titillated me, and I considered the possibility that Father’s books, that the glorious Penelope and Odysseus, had infused me with a false ideal, one not meant to be taken and lived by. The gods asked such conflicting things of us, it would seem there were no absolute rights or wrongs. If that were the case, where does our very concept of absolute come from? piped up my father’s faithful lessons on Plato. But here, in Julia’s domus, I would be pleasant and not raise issues she had neither the intelligence nor education to debate. She must have thought me dull as I reclined to her meal with a restrained tongue. Her chatter melted into other subjects, and I longed to be gone and given time to think over her comments.

Have you been listening at all, my dear? She sounded perplexed.

What? Why, yes, Julia.

Well I’m surprised you have nothing to say about it.

About which?

Molchomor, of course!

Julia, you don’t seriously think that happens anymore? I spoke too sharply, correctively. She responded in the same manner.

Of course it does. You can’t put the gods under lock and key, you know. I’ve just been telling you, these things do happen. And why should they not? It is hard to break a tradition.

She was right; it is hard. Since the re-founding of Carthage, the Romans have instituted laws against the traditional child sacrifice Ba’al Hammon required in times of trouble, but a practice that extends back to ancient times cannot be so quickly extinguished. Carthaginians were raised on a mythology of self-sacrifice. And if Dido, and Hamilcar, and Hasdrubal’s noble wife were willing to give themselves, then why would we not be willing to give the lesser—our children? At least, this was the memory running through the common man’s veins. I hated it.

I do not believe Ba’al Hammon would still require such a thing, Julia. This is a far different age than Dido’s or even Hamilcar’s.

But this is just what I’ve been explaining, Perpetua. He doesn’t require it, per se, but a traditional people offer it. Why should he or Tanit refuse? I would never call the gods ‘progressive’. We may have changed their names to Saturn and Caelestis, but not their essence.

But Julia, molchomor? I protested.

Forgive me, Perpetua, but Rome has happily practiced its own form of that very deed since its inception, and still does. A quite haughty tone had crept in.

The Roman gods never ritualized human sacrifice.

Perhaps not, but our society has practiced it. You know as well as I that ancient Roman fathers had authority over their child’s life. Until the age of twelve, I believe. And they weren’t afraid to exert it. Even now, yes, laws prohibit it, but the cesspools in Rome are the best place for a barren wife to find an heir for her husband. In Carthage too, I’m sure.

Oh Julia, I’ll be ill. This was just a game to her.

Don’t feign innocence now. You yourself have participated, she cried triumphantly.

What?

I saw you last Dies Saturni at the arena, cheering with all the other ladies over the gladiator Flamma.

But, he had won a hard victory, I protested.

Yes, but Aelius told me the gladiator games began originally as a ritual sacrifice at funerals. She reached out and popped a sweet honey pastry past her well-reddened lips. I don’t know how I remember these things, she exclaimed with a full mouth. Isn’t it wonderful? I merely nodded. They might be in her head, but were certainly not in her heart. "Anyway, mysterious happenings do go on here, more than you’d know. My second kitchen maid told my ornatrix, and she told me, that after Tanit’s festival next week quite a few new stele⁵ would be in evidence at the tophet⁶ if you were to pass by." I could be nonchalant no longer.

"It cannot be true! These so-called traditions must have been created by humans. I cannot see a god enjoying them." Images of the pillar-shaped stele rose through my mind. It was horrible enough to see the poor convinced by greedy rogue priests to spend their little sums on carved stone offerings, but to think that those expensive stele had become but grave markers of a far more precious loss, sickened me.

My dear, I am shocked. How can you speak against the gods like that? You act as if you know better than they. For a moment her eyes tightened. The face I was accustomed to seeing as simply spoiled and careless somehow did not look wholly untrue to itself when venom was added.

The change lasted only a moment, then careless Julia was back, instructing me like I was a child, and she my play-nurse.

When truly horrible things are done, Perpetua, godless people do them. You know of that illegal cult, those Christ-followers. They deny all the gods of Rome. Those people commit the most unspeakable atrocities. It is terrible even to think of them. She lowered her voice. Her fists clenched. Incest, Perpetua, and, oh horrible, cannibalism! They pretend to be good and take in abandoned children. Those very children from the cesspools. No one else wants them. But what do they do with them afterward? They eat their flesh and drink their blood! After enjoying my horrified silence for a moment, she unbent her body and leaned back. At ease, her voice came louder. Say what you might, I personally would much rather be a useful child whose life was offered for the material good of my mother and father and brothers, even the whole community, than to have been snatched and eaten by atheists. I remembered seeing people called Christians executed in the arena, but had not known what terrible crimes they were accused of. Although they were no doubt evil and atheists, Julia’s story sounded a bit far-fetched. Still, one never knew what really took place in the secret rites of a mystery cult. I obligingly looked shocked and waited for her to continue. People who have no gods are terribly vicious, she shivered. We should be happy there are gods and let them do as they please. And what they please is not ‘wrong’ as you imply, child, she shrugged and raised her penciled eyebrows, as if pronouncing the final judgment. We are the ‘progressive’ ones who balk at actions that are simply part of the natural cycle of life.

I must have looked troubled still. She thought to comfort and amuse me, and gaily proclaimed, We live, we make love, we die. If some die sooner than others, it’s the gods’ doing, not ours.

We live … I repeated.

We make love, she prompted with a chortle.

We die.

How I managed to remain civil from then until she sent me home in her litter, I don’t recall. Perhaps I distracted my heart by actually listening to her silly gossip over last night’s festivities. Although it did not interest me in the least, we laughed over Marius’ attempts to learn the Spaniard’s newest dances. My mind, however, was not filled with his flying hair and red cheek, but with the ornatrix’s morning statement to Julia. A recent disease among winter wheat had caused panic in the farmlands. My father himself had lost a whole quarter at Venetiae. While it was no small loss, it was not that important to us. But I hoped that Julia was wrong, because Tanit’s festival would bring many farmers pouring into Carthage, and only among such an uneducated population could I imagine molchomor being practiced in earnest. And who should I pray to against it? To Ba’al and Tanit, the very god and goddess into whose happy arms those fiery children would be placed? I had to quit thinking about it. There were some walls I recognized as insurmountable by logic and incomprehensible by the heart. I could not back away from this new knowledge, but I could not move it either. I chose to close my eyes.

1. Cenaculum. An upper apartment or garret let as lodging.

2. Tonsor. Barber.

3. Via. Road, street.

4. Amphora. A pitcher; a two handled earthenware jar.

5. Stele. An upright stone slab or pillar engraved with an inscription and used as a monument or grave marker.

6. Tophet. Burial place for the remains of sacrifices to the gods.

When I returned home, our domus was a riot of confusion. Traveling trunks were scattered about the inner courtyard, and every slave in the place seemed to be scurrying here and there busily Father liked a small household, so we kept just less than a hundred of our slaves in the urbs¹ with us. But even that small contingent could seem like an army at war when roused. Cleo, who had kept the gate since I could remember, was easily silenced at my entrance by a warning finger against my lips. He seemed relieved to see me. There was something added today to the stiff old age that made him move even slower than usual. I stopped by the small fountain in the center of the atrium to get my bearings and rinse my hands. A very young slave girl, one of the steward’s granddaughters I believed, curtsied as she passed me, carrying a gaudy purple amictus to be cleaned and aired. Who else would wear such a thing but my own mother? A deep voice carried through an upper chamber window, shuttered and long-silent this morning, and sounded in the courtyard, confirming my sudden thought. Saturninus was here. My mother and brother were home!

Saturninus, Saturninus! I cried, and flew up the stairs toward his room. He met me in his doorway with an enveloping hug. You’re home! Oh, I’ve missed you! I could scarcely see all of him, he’d grown so much in the past year. You’re huge! Why are you home? What happened? A month from now, I thought! My brother of a year ago would have been annoyed by such excited babbling and the surprised tears that were slipping along the lines of my smiles by now, but he seemed pleased. I was so consumed by the sight of him, his short explanation didn’t even register. He was changed. I watched him stretch out and recline again on the simple couch, sipping cool cistern water. A year in my uncle’s olive groves had made him grow. This little brother was now bigger than me and tanned from exposure to the hot sun. His manner, too, was altered. The schoolboy who had once petulantly ordered slaves around like cattle, now handled his valet with a voice accustomed to the slave’s obedience, but to something more as well. To his respect, perhaps.

She’s well, he answered to my inquiry after our cousin.

Saturninus, I growled in mock annoyance, tell me like a rhetorician, not a mathematician.

You mean ‘tell me like a woman, not a man.’ He grinned. I can’t. A man I am. If you want to know what she’s wearing and how long her hair is, you’ll have to ask Mother. But, he peacefully began pulling a folded parchment from his tunic, if you want to know all the secrets about Diana’s new betrothed, you’ll have to read her letter to you. He laughed as I fell on it with a cry.

Saturninus, you’re terrible!

A well-designed pout answered me. I thought you might not be so interested in my stories if I gave it to you right away.

You’re my big little long-lost brother, I teasingly protested. I want to know every detail of every day. What time you woke up, what you ate for breakfast, how many men were on your crew, how you felt when you picked your first olive, who you kissed. As I began playfully ticking the items off on my fingers, he roared and attacked me with the bed covering, the closest thing at hand that could smother my laughing screams. I gave up soon enough and emerged gasping, realizing that the days of supremacy were over. Somehow over the year we’d switched places. He was too big for me to beat, and too experienced for me to instruct.

I’ve never directed two hundred workers at once, I thought, remembering his letter of several months ago. He’s one year younger than I, and so much older.

I expect you whipped those olive crews into shape!

"Perpetua, I would say they whipped me into shape."

But you were the crew leader, weren’t you?

Officially yes, but I found I wasn’t much of a leader when I valued that rank above their experience. You’ve got men out there who’ve been doing this for thirty years. What kind of an idiot would I be if I didn’t see pretty quickly that I’d better listen to their advice?

Then what was the purpose of your position, if they knew everything already? I curled my legs underneath me and sat straight as a judge.

You hit hard.

I’m not hitting; I’m asking. I protested.

People need to be led. Why have senatorial and equestrian orders, or emperors for that matter, if people didn’t need to be led?

Doesn’t it matter who’s leading, and to where? To frown was simply the stance of debate. Or is all we need some figurehead who doesn’t really know anything?

Is my own sister calling me stupid and useless? he cried, and playfully shook my shoulders.

Not you, Saturninus! Look at you. You’re the definition of useful. Apologies. I ate today with Julia. You remember Aelius’ wife? He nodded.

They’re one of the leading families in the city—Jupiter! he’s the Procurator—and … and, I shrugged my shoulders, unable to find the right words. He raised his eyebrows and supplied,

Insipid?

And ignorant and proud and heartless, and terrible!

You must have had a pretty nasty conversation with her.

Not at all. I smiled and nodded and agreed.

And now you’re hating her behind her back. Why don’t you just out with it and be spared her company?

And the company of every other decent family in Carthage. If you are not welcomed at the Villa Charites, my dear. I intoned.

So you call them a decent family?

No. I answered slowly.

You said ‘every other decent family’, he reminded. That implies …

Well, I didn’t mean … it only, that’s simply the way to say …

To distinguish between noble and not.

I suppose.

Well, I’d rather be ‘not’ than be found in company as disgusting and debauched. He really did seem offended. Perpetua, I hope you haven’t been going to dinners and entertainments with those people.

Saturninus, you know me. I skirted the question with an easy reference to my own innocence, I’d rather read a book, and smiled. Oddly, he began to look very serious and stumble uncharacteristically for words.

Because, you know, even the things that sometimes, or, that we even consider harmless, are pretty, pretty bad when you think about it. He glanced my way inquiringly. A shot of surprise ran through me. This was not the brother of one year ago. I don’t know why I felt immediately defensive, but I tried to regain position in the discussion.

So, I patted his knee condescendingly, has my little brother given up kissing all the girls in the quarter? Down to just the ones on the same via? Or perhaps only in the next domus?

Perpetua, don’t be stupid. I’m talking about things that Julia, and those like her, do. A few that even Father wouldn’t object to.

In that case, I should be instructing you. I’m your older sister, not one among your crew of slaves. He was rubbing too close to my soul. Instead of returning anger, he eased my tension with a playful back-bite:

Yes, Your Worship. But I can still tell you a thing or two about the world of men.

I think I’d rather not know that thing or two! I laughed and jumped up.

Then I’ll have to keep close tabs on you. Someone has to have some sense around here.

I’ve got plenty of sense, I claimed with mock hurt in my voice. Secretly, though, I enjoyed every moment as he playfully imprisoned me in his arms and forced our steps down the staircase.

Time to go see your mother, little girl.

This switch from big sister to little sister was easy. Give us a true discussion, and I would definitely consider myself his elder and wiser. But physically, it pleased me to be smaller, weaker, and looked after. I thought his new concern arose out of the new beauty he saw in me. The Perpetua of a year ago was not so pretty and delicate. Her clothing did not fit so winningly or her hair curl just right around the temples. It did not occur to me that Saturninus himself was the changed one.

Here you are, Mother. I’ve brought you the delinquent. We stood in the doorway of Father’s private library. The only openings into the room, a window and the door, both facing the inner courtyard, were usually kept closed, but today the sun streamed through them. I could see particles of dust floating about in the beams, glinting like the tiny fairies of our northern provinces, all clad in sheer gold. The room must have just been opened, for the twelfth hour sun had not yet vanquished the cool, preserved smell of the books, sitting tucked away in their wooden plutei.² Mother was perched on one of these, a habit Father had recently given up rebuking. My child’s mind could still hear his restrained voice: If you weaken the chests by propping yourself on them, Claudia, how do you suppose they will resist the insects and dampness as they are built to? Volumina³ are rare … This room was not so extensive as the library at Venetiae; one glance took in the whole of it. One glance also told me that an argument had been abruptly paused when Saturninus and I appeared. Mother’s back was straight, and Father’s hands were unconsciously tapping the top of two new volumes that lay on his desk.

Perpetua! she cried and jumped up to embrace me. Are you well?

Yes, very. She seemed somehow softer in spirit, in spite of the obvious tension in the room. Why are you and Saturninus back so early? I thought you planned to stay at least three months with Auntie before you returned.

Oh, I wanted a rest, but Saturninus was eager for Carthage after his year away, weren’t you darling? she addressed him. After a moment’s pause she began again: And I also …

Now, Perpetua, my father broke in, tell me what you were doing with Lady Julia.

Stand forth, O soul, quipped Saturninus. I gave him a quizzical look, not recognizing the reference. Tertullian, he smiled. Father, however, threw him a surprised stare, and glared accusingly at Mother before fastening his attention on me.

Your Selina had no idea where you’d gone until Julia sent her message. Ridiculous. Why do I keep a personal servant for you if she can’t even keep track of where you are?

I didn’t tell her. I quickly protested.

I don’t care. It’s her job. You begged me for her instead of the slaves you ought to have; she might have to learn a thing or two about being a slave before she’s fit to be a decent citizen. His anger was infrequent, but I knew enough to realize that there was no arguing with it. He was the rhetorician among us. Only time would remind him that I was his favorite, his only daughter. I bit my tongue for Saturninus’ sake. How horrible, I thought, to idealize your family from a distance only to be confronted by its temperamental realities just hours after arriving home.

I’m sorry, Father. I thought I’d honor Mother and sacrifice to Isis this morning, and Julia met me on the way. His eyebrows shot up, and Mother made a small squirming sound. It was stupid. I should not have walked out by myself, I hastened to add. I won’t do it again. I just wanted some exercise.

I am very glad Julia found you before you went too far. You certainly will not do it again. That was very foolish, Perpetua. I knew his harshness came then from fear for me, and that was somehow comforting. You may frequent the Antonine Baths if you feel a need to exercise in public.

I won’t do it again, Father.

Oh, Perpetua, Mother began with a sad face, I don’t sacrifice to Isis anymore.

Claudia! Father cut her off quickly, though she looked pleadingly at him. Obey me. I was shocked. Ever since my little brother Dinocrates’ death over eight years ago, she had paid special honor to Isis. She was one of the initiated. She knew the secrets of the goddess, and kept them. As often as I’d asked, she’d as often promised me that I would one day experience the rites she did, perhaps even the ecstasies and prophesies I’d heard came to the truly devoted.

Go prepare for cena. Father’s words gave me no clue to this change, except to display his displeasure. Odd, for he had always been against the emotional attachment she felt for a goddess he viewed as simply another universal Ideal, and not a creature to be personally revered. I followed Mother out of the room, but she remained silent as we climbed the stairs, and parted from me at her chamber with only a promise to relay my cousin’s news over cena. I continued to my cubiculum⁴, determined to enjoy Saturninus’ return regardless of what kind of fight Mother and Father were in. I would ignore them.

Father quickly returned to mind, though, when I entered my room and found Selina sitting stiffly in its only chair.

Perpetua! she sprang up. Did you just arrive home?

No. I turned my back to her and began removing my amictus. I want to wear my green silk. No, perhaps my gray one with embroidered willows. She silently pulled out my suggestions for review I reclined, waiting for her to bring water to wash my feet. They were dirty from my morning walk, and Julia had not thought to provide a slave to wash them before her noon prandium⁵.

Did you have a pleasant day with Lady Julia? she inquired as she laid the choices out before me. There was no reason I could see, however, why my private thoughts should all be spilled to her. I had just been reminded she was indeed simply a paid servant.

Yes. It wasn’t until she had finished draping my amictus and washing my feet that I remembered she was not normally in my rooms at this hour. Perhaps she’d been sulking because of my father.

Father is in a bad mood today. Ignore whatever he said to you.

She replaced the last pin in my hair. I would, but he has confined me to these chambers until evening tomorrow. Her voice probed imploringly, and finally her almond brown eyes looked straight at me. But tomorrow, you know, is my day off, and I have already promised my sister to care for her baby in their cenaculum.

My mind flashed. Perhaps Father’s anger also accounted for Cleo’s stiffness of the evening. If Selina knew of anything, she held it from me.

Well, he’s in no mood to be argued with. She’ll have to make other arrangements. Her eyes fell, and she busied herself with replacing my sandals. I was annoyed, however, to detect tears pooling unshed, though she said nothing. "Perhaps you should pay better attention to me. Then things like this won’t happen." I sounded cruel, even to myself, but who was she to expect pity, after all I’d been through that day? I left the room without another word, and wished all down the stairs that Selina had been in a better mood.

Our main triclinium⁶ was not normally used, except when guests were invited, but the majordomo had ordered cena set there tonight, and slaves had decorated for the special occasion. It opened off the courtyard. Even though it wasn’t surrounded on three