Roma - Saylor Steven. Страница 37

“Imagine that, grandfather,” Titus had said afterward. “A female who can read and write! Such a woman might be a great helpmate to her husband.”

“Or a positive menace! A wife who could read her husband’s private papers? What a dreadful idea! But what are you saying, Titus? Do you want this girl for your wife?”

So had begun Titus’s courtship of Claudia. He was allowed to see her on a few more occasions, always with Claudia’s maidservant present to act as chaperone. His enchantment with her grew with each brief visit. The marriage negotiations had been conducted mostly by the patresfamilias of the two households; Titus’s grandfather sent inquiries to Appius Claudius, who responded with a positive reply. A marriage bond would offer advantages to both families. Claudius was immensely wealthy; his daughter would bring a considerable dowry, and the Potitii were in need of an infusion of wealth. They, in turn, were one of Roma’s oldest and most distinguished families; a marriage union with a Potitius would grant the Claudii instant legitimacy among the patricians of the city.

The marriage negotiations went very well, until the day Titus’s grandfather came home with unsettling news. Titus was not the only suitor interested in young Claudia.

“Who else?” demanded Titus. “Whoever he is, I shall…I shall…” He was not certain what he would do, but he felt a wave of aggression such as he had never experienced.

“It’s your friend Publius Pinarius,” said his grandfather. “Can you imagine that! Apparently, Publius saw the girl that first day before the Senate House, just as you did, and the Pinarii had the Claudii to dinner the very day after we did. Publius has been courting the girl ever since, just as assiduously as you have. This puts Appius Claudius in a bit of a spot. He argues—and I cannot deny it—that there is very little to distinguish the Potitii and the Pinarii when it comes to a good match for his household. Our bloodlines are equally ancient, equally distinguished in the history of the city.”

“Except that the Pinarii came late to the Feast of Hercules!”

His grandfather laughed. “Yes, there is that, but I don’t think a blunder made a few hundred years ago is enough to tip the scales in our favor. With all things being equal between you and Publius, Claudius says he shall leave the decision to the girl herself.”

“When will she decide?”

“My dear boy, as I’ve already told you, I have no idea. I didn’t give the man a deadline.”

“Perhaps you should have. I don’t think I can stand the waiting! This is worse than the first time I went into battle. At least then I felt it was all up to me, whether I made a good showing of myself or not. But this is terrible; I’ve done all I can, and now all I can do is wait. I’m totally at her mercy!”

Titus began to pace. They were in the small garden in the courtyard at the center of the house. Rose bushes stood at each corner of the garden. Titus paced from one to the other, taking no notice of the blooms or their scent. His grandfather shook his head and smiled, recalling, vaguely, what it had been like to feel the passionate longings of a young man not yet married.

“Fretting will accomplish nothing,” he said. “Perhaps you should—”

A slave approached and announced that a visitor was at the door.

The old man raised an eyebrow. “This could be our answer. Claudius said he would send a messenger as soon as the girl made her decision.”

“It’s not a messenger,” said the slave. “It’s the young lady who’s visited before.”

“Claudia?” Titus, suddenly short of breath, strode past the slave. A short hallway led to the vestibule at the front of the house. From the open skylight above, a beam of midday sunlight lit the impluvium, the little pool for catching rainwater. Flashes of reflected light danced across Claudia and her chaperone.

“You’ve come!” Titus said, striding past the maidservant and daring to take the girl’s hands in his own.

Claudia lowered her eyes. “Yes. I had to send my regrets…”

Titus’s heart sank.

“…to Publius Pinarius. My father’s messenger should be at his door now. But to you I wanted to come myself, so that I could say to you: Yes! I will be your wife, Titus Potitius.”

Titus threw back his head and laughed, then took her in his arms. The maidservant discreetly turned her face away, but Titus’s grandfather, from the shadows, watched the young couple’s first kiss with a smile of satisfaction at having conducted the marriage negotiations so successfully. He only hoped that young Publius Pinarius would not take his rejection too bitterly.

The marriage ceremonies of most Romans were simple family affairs, without religious rites. Many couples entered into matrimony with hardly any ceremony at all; a man and woman needed only to state that they were married and to live together for their union to be recognized.

The marriage of two patricians was another matter.

First, Titus’s grandfather took the auspices to determine a favorable day for the ceremony. Because the bride would need to perform certain religious rites in her new household on the day after her marriage, various days of the calendar with conflicting religious rites were immediately excluded from consideration. Likewise, from long tradition, the entire months of Februarius and Maius were thought to be inauspicious. Upon the Ara Maxima, Titus’s grandfather placed a parchment on which he had written five possible dates. One by one, he placed a stone upon each date, watched the flight of birds in the sky for signs of heaven’s favor, and determined the most auspicious day for the ceremony.

This was the first Roman wedding in the family of Appius Claudius, and he was determined to observe all the local traditions. When he inquired about the origins of each custom, the Romans could explain some but not others, which had been handed down from a time beyond memory.

On the appointed day, at sundown, the wedding party departed from the house of Appius Claudius. The procession was led by the youngest boy in the household—Claudia’s little brother—who carried a pine torch lit from the family’s hearthfire; its flame would be added to the hearthfire of the bridegroom when they arrived at the house of Titus Potitius.

Following the torchbearer was a Vestal virgin, wearing the linen vestments of her order, with a narrow headband of twined red and white wool tied around her closely shorn hair. She carried a cake made from consecrated grain and sprinkled with holy salt; a few bites would be taken by the couple during the ceremony, after which the cake would be shared with their guests.

Next came the bride. Claudia’s veil was bright yellow, as were her shoes. Her long white robe was cinched at the waist with a purple sash tied at the back in a special configuration called the Hercules knot; later, it would be the bridegroom’s privilege, and challenge, to untie the knot. In her hands she carried the implements of spinning, a distaff and a spindle with wool. Flanking her, making a show of offering support to her arms, were two of the bride’s cousins, little boys hardly older than the torchbearer. At first, these escorts took their duty very seriously and set out with somber expressions, but when the torchbearer stumbled, they broke into giggles so infectious that even the Vestal virgin began to laugh.

Following the bride were her mother and father and the rest of the bridal party, who sang a very old Roman wedding song called “Tallasius.” The foreign-born Claudii had to learn this song from scratch, but the words were charmingly appropriate considering the circumstances. When the Sabine women were taken by Romulus and his men, the most beautiful of the women was captured by the henchmen of a certain Tallasius, a loyal lieutenant of the king, who had observed and selected her in advance. As she was carried off, the Sabine woman begged to know where the men were taking her, and so the song went: