Lindsey Davis - Graveyard of the Hesperides

This could be a disaster. Having enough to cope with, I went back to sleep.

Before dawn I was woken again. Urgent footsteps and whispers announced my bridesmaids, wanting to drag me out for my first task. A bride must rise in the dark to pick flowers from her parents’ garden. These she (not me, oh please!) had to weave into a garland to perch on her special hairstyle and hold down her veil. Garlands must be provided, too, for the bridegroom and any little flower girls who wanted to take part (many, I had been warned, mainly aged three, all famous for being sick with excitement). Also there had to be a bouquet of symbolic herbs: love, honor, joy, fidelity, devotion, long life, fertility and purity. Some powerful bouquets garnis! Quite a prescription for marriage.

Since the parents’ house had no garden, I was shoved out alone onto the roof terrace, where the usual pots of roses had been supplemented specially by new containers of herbs.

“We haven’t done her six ringlets!”

“She’ll get soaked out there. We’ll fix the hair when we let her back in.”

It was still raining steadily, so I had to go out with the snips and trug unaided. A gale howled across the terrace, water sheeting sandal-deep. The others just crowded in the doorway to the roof, urging me to hurry up because rain was blowing in on them. I hastily gathered slimy handfuls of what could be rosemary, marjoram, sage, lavender and myrtle-or any old twigs, since I, a city girl, was on my own with this job in the dark.

Fortunately custom says a bride should be pampered with a bath to ward off the evil eye and make her smell nice. I could live with the evil eye, which I viewed as a soul sister, but soaking in fragranced warm water now seemed urgently needed. My mother, sisters, husband’s old aunt, plus curious slave women, watched me, gossiping.

The hired beautician turned up in time. For the size of fee she was charging, that woman could not be deterred by driving rain. She dealt with me fast, since my needs were standard: six braided locks, formed with a comb like a spearhead, coiled up as if I were a Vestal Virgin, expertly tied with ribbons and pinned on top of my head. That part was painful. They had to stay in place all day. The pins were long and pushed in very firmly. Women who should know better told me tradition had to be suffered for. My reply was caustic.

The ornatrix was keen on little tendrils curled around the face. I quarreled with her about that, so she huffed off to tend my impatiently waiting sisters and Aunt Valeria, who were all having elaborate court curls-a stupid front headdress of many tiny pin curls on a frame.

Meanwhile I was dressed by my mother, who had quietly done her own hair. First, a long white tunic, supposedly woven seamlessly on an old-fashioned upright loom and unhemmed. Itchy, of course. Then Aunt Maia’s legendary flame-colored veil, with the droopy garland plonked on it. Moth holes dropped fabric dust like dandruff. The tunic reached the ground, so as Helena crouched to push on my saffron-dyed shoes, I was endlessly instructed to hold it up and not trip over. “Stop hunching; stand up straight. You’re not fourteen now.” Finally, a woolen sash, tied by my mother in a Hercules knot. Only my husband could untie it. Helena got the knot right; she didn’t need it, but Father had drawn a diagram.

The saffron veil is intended to be a symbol of submission to your husband. We all guffawed.

I was ordered to wear no jewelry. The only exception was supposed to be my engagement ring. Since my new husband had never supplied one, I wore the old wedding ring I had used as an informer to make me look like a respectable widow (Lentullus and I had never marked our marriage). I refused to go through a whole stressful day now uncheered by glitter.

They poked my wet bouquet into my hands. I was taken downstairs, where my sisters had spent hours decorating the entrance with Oriental carpets from the antiques warehouse, tree boughs, ivy and strands of wool. A slave boy was catching insects that crawled out of the ivy. Julia and Favonia both had an artistic touch. You could tell either this was the home of a madman or it was hosting a wedding.

Tiberius arrived. Togated and barbered, he did look like a man worth marrying. Rather strained, but after a night trying to survive his family, he probably had a hangover. He turned up alone; everyone else thought they could skip the augury and would follow later. I gave him his garland, which he nervously put on. We shared a private glance. His aunt Valeria appeared from our kitchen with her gruel bowl.

We had to seek approval from the gods, and the omens confirming divine favor must be taken before sunrise. What idiot invented that? It isn’t always done, but I had traditional planners.

Now came an unfortunate clash. Nobody had told my uncle, the elderly master of pompousness Gaius Baebius, that he could not conduct the sacrifice. “So thoughtless!” muttered Aunt Valeria, finding fault with relish. “The poor man has even brought his own pig.” The runty thing had a weird look in its eye.

Gaius Baebius decided to conduct a sacrifice anyway. His wife, Father’s starchy sister Junia, and their son Junillus had tagged along to supervise, so they had to watch as he placed a veil over his bald head and advanced on his animal, knife aloft, while trying to stop the veil falling off. His pig took one look and made a break for freedom just as other guests arrived; they pushed in through the front door in streaming wet cloaks, allowing the frantic porker to dash out.

Next moment, Gaius Baebius was running after the escapee, scampering along the Marble Embankment, wielding his unused sacrificial cleaver and weeping with frustration. Even if he caught his pig, it was now defiled by its unwillingness. He would have to start all over again with another animal. The meat market was not open yet.

Junia pretended Gaius Baebius was not her husband. Sweet Junillus hesitated, then obligingly ran out into the storm and chased down the road after his father.

Everybody else stood in the hall and tried not to mention out loud how the escaping pig was a bad omen. Fortunately my professional victimarii turned up, tenderly leading Snowy, the sheep I had ordered. In a wreath and gold ribbons, she let herself be led in, very obediently, then gave us a cute bleat. They had brought their own portable altar upon which to send her to the gods.

Tiberius and I slipped into a side room, prior to our official entry. Favonia put her head into the room. “Oh, shitty shit, Albia! You brilliant sister-they are so-o-o gorgeous!”

The three gorgeous experts, barefoot, in long kilts wrapped with wide cummerbunds, and flashing their heavenly pectorals, carried out their duties without fault. I peeked to make sure I got value for money, while Tiberius loftily surveyed a shelf of Greek vases.

They all looked perfect. Passus, my handsome victimarius, gently led the sheep, murmuring to keep it happy. Victor, my muscle-bound popa, whipped out his mallet and stunned it. Erastus, my cultrarius, had been in a brawl, as I remembered the Brown Toad transvestites telling me, but the damage must be cleverly covered up and didn’t show. He slit Snowy’s throat with one strong slash, enjoying his work; he deftly caught the blood in a special bronze bowl so none splashed on the hall’s mosaic, then opened the stomach for inspection.

An old man who looked like a tramp had come with the hunks. I could see people thinking, That clown Falco is being kind-hearted again, taking in down-and-outs for a square meal at his daughter’s wedding . However, it was the augur. Staberius was a bunioned old has-been who smelled. He peered at the sheep’s bits intently, then quavered: “The gods approve this union. I see happiness in the home and the marriage bed!”