The hot late summer evening had drawn to dusk, and low dark clouds were streaming over the sky, threatening storm. Marcus and his mother entered Terentia’s house in that steaming gloom. They were informed by the overseer of the atrium that the Lady Terentia was in the garden with the sacred Vestal, Fabia, her sister, who was visiting her. The Lady Terentia had ordered that her guests be conducted to the gardens, where a breeze was arising. Marcus was impressed favorably by the austerity and taste of the house. He went into the gardens with his mother.
The sweltering gloom was thickening rapidly. The visitors walked over grass that even now smelled bruised before a coming storm. Shadows rushed over the earth. Two ladies rose from a marble bench on which they had been sitting close together. At that moment a flash of brilliant lightning lit the air furiously, and Marcus saw Fabia glowing in it like a dream of Astarte. He forgot her sister. He could only gaze on Fabia.
He had never seen so lovely a woman. She was very young and tall and graceful, clothed in white linen that flowed about her like marble. Her blue veil only partially concealed the web of soft and shining golden hair that fell to her shoulders, frail as butterfly wings, and the shape of them. Her face was oval and tender, flushed with coral shades on smooth cheek and full lip, and her eyes, almost as golden as her hair, beamed sweetly and were large and shadowed by thick dark lashes. Marcus could only guess at her figure, swathed in the garments of the Vestals, but by her pliant motions he could surmise that it was heroically young and rounded. Her expression was childlike, trusting and pure, and, in its purity, unbearably enticing yet inspiring the awed reverence of the beholder. She seemed less girl than Artemis. Her brow resembled the brow of Athene. The shyness of her smile revealed small teeth like iridescent pearls. She stood meekly, her hands clasped before her, hands as white as snow even against the whiteness of her garments. She was untouchable, divine.
“Terentia,” said Helvia, pinching her son’s arm, “my son, Marcus Tullius Cicero.”
Marcus, the bemused and enthralled, started and turned to his hostess, his face becoming heated in his confusion and embarrassment, for he had been staring at Fabia like one possessed. He remembered to bow.
Terentia was not so tall as Fabia nor so slender. The crimson linen of her long robe showed a figure matronly in its outlines. Her face was somewhat narrow and her complexion pale. Her hair, dressed severely, was of a medium brown in color and rippled with waves which were not of the art of the hairdresser. She had a nose somewhat too large and strong, and a mouth, though pink, somewhat too tight. Her eyes, however, were a clear and steadfast brown, and her best feature. They revealed great character and intelligence, despite what Julius had said of her. Her chin, very long, expressed firmness or obstinacy. She wore no jewels and her hands were big.
My wife, thought Marcus with conviction, and felt depressed.
Terentia’s voice was low and quiet but not hesitant. Fabia’s shy voice was a flute. Terentia behaved toward her sister as a cherishing mother. Fabia blushed constantly. A sister Vestal Virgin arrived for her almost immediately and bore her away to those secret quarters reserved for the servants of Vesta. Terentia said with extreme affection, “My dear Fabia wished to look upon you, noble Cicero, for we are like one flesh.” Her reserved voice trembled and now her brown eyes were truly lovely.
“One knows how dear Fabia is to you, Terentia,” said Helvia.
“It was a great honor to the family when Fabia became a Vestal,” Terentia said with gratitude. “Nevertheless, there is not a man of the noblest family in Rome who did not desire to marry her after puberty. But her heart has always been so singular, so chaste, so devout, that she could not conceive of a fate better than this which she has chosen.”
“She is a very Europa,” said Marcus, still bemused by the vision he had seen. He became conscious that Helvia was regarding him with reproof and that Terentia was coloring. “Without the bull,” he added hastily, thus making matters much worse. “I should have said Leda,” he blundered on. Helvia took Terentia’s arm in a maternal fashion and led the girl toward the house. Their robes swept the grass. The clouds swelled with storm and turned livid and a sharp wind rose. “You will observe, my dearest Terentia,” said Helvia in too audible a tone, “that my son is awkward with women. That is because he is a great scholar, a Stoic.”
“Do I not hear the applause for him in the city?” said Terentia. She leaned on Helvia’s arm like a daughter. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Marcus and all at once her big brown eyes were kind and warm. It was all settled. It seemed he had no choice in the matter.
The first drops from the clouds were falling when they reached the portico. The lightning was nearer. Suddenly Marcus thought of Livia and could have wept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The betrothal was very sensible and without illusions. Marcus was to write later to a friend, “It set the tempo of my marriage.”* He gave Terentia many gifts, according to custom. He should have preferred to give her jewels and lengths of silk, in a last sad effort to infuse some romanticism into the situation, but Terentia told him, though with modesty, that she would like gifts to be “useful in our new home on the Palatine.” She had visited that home in its last stages of building with Helvia during Marcus’ absence abroad, and her definite mind had not entirely approved. She gazed at the many treasures Marcus had brought home and though she smiled amiably enough it was evident that she thought them somewhat decadent. Just as she concealed her capacity for ruthless and even violent temper from Marcus now so she concealed her aversion for lavishness and too exotic beauty.
Marcus, who was so perceptive, guessed at much she kept hidden, but Terentia had so many virtues that he hastily decided that those virtues must overwhelm any faults. However, he discovered a dismaying lack of humor in the young woman. When he tried wit, she smiled pleasantly. When he made an epigram of his own invention, she would look artlessly at him. All her learning was practical and pragmatic. She liked to discuss the cargoes of the ships in which she was invested. She was composed and somewhat complacent, but the discussion of money made her face sharpen. She was never tired of hearing of Marcus’ influential friends in the city, and a gleam of calculation brightened her eyes. She had an attitude of confiding affection toward him, almost sisterly. Once he took her hand and then kissed the bend in her plump arm. She started and turned very red and gave him an outraged look, and drew her sleeve over the offended member. Am I repugnant to her? he asked himself dismally. He bluntly put the question to his mother who arched her thick black brows at him.
“Did you expect sophistication in these things in Terentia?” she asked him reproachfully. “She will come to your bed a virgin. That is not to be despised.”
“Am I marrying a bookkeeper or a woman?” he returned.
Helvia said, “She will be the good keeper of your purse and the keeper of your hearth. The lares and penates of your household will never be dishonored by her. What more can a man expect of a woman?”
The marriage was old Roman. On the wedding day Terentia arrayed herself, with the help of female relatives and slaves in her robe of white linen, a long tunic without a hem. It was fastened about her short waist with a woolen girdle knotted in two knots, the cingulum herculeum. Over this she wore a palla of pale yellow with sandals of the same hue. Her hair had been dressed in the old manner, covered by pads of artificial hair bound to her head in a crimson net. Upon all this was placed a veil of bright orange, which flowed over her face. And still over this she wore a wreath of marjoram and verbena. She displayed no jewelry but a collar of finely spun silver which Marcus had persuaded her to accept and wear. (She would have preferred the traditional iron or copper collar.)
This garb was not designed to make a bridegroom wait impatiently for the bridal chamber. Marcus thought that Terentia appeared hideous, for all the weddings he had attended in his life had been gay and beautiful and the bride had arrayed herself more in the modern fashion and her hair was scented and free an
d her lips were tinted with red and she glistened with the jewels of both her family and her bridegroom’s family.
Terentia stood in her house with her relatives and received Marcus and his relatives. Quintus was struck with consternation at the sight of Terentia. His own young wife, Pomponia, was a veritable nymph in comparison. He thought Marcus to be greatly pitied and he was so desperate that sweat broke out over his face, though the early autumn day was cool. Tullius, who had displayed much indifference about his son’s wedding, vaguely believing that something would intervene from Olympus to save Marcus from such a dire fate, felt wretched. Now, as he glimpsed her strong and uncompromising features through the meshes of the flammeum he was more than apprehensive, more than dismayed. The girl was a stranger; her manner was formal. She was not the shy bride of fable and men’s pathetic hopes. Competence radiated from her like hard light. Tullius wanted to cry to his son, “Fly, while you have time!” He saw Marcus’ pale and sober face and shook his head desperately, and with amazement. Of all the women in Rome had it been necessary for his son to marry such a one, excellent in all ways surely, but with such large and ugly hands and such a severe countenance?
The wedding party adjourned to the atrium where a sacrifice was offered to the gods. It was a tender ewe. All partook of it with their fingers. After this was consumed the witnesses affixed their seal to the wedding contract. The auspex, though he possessed no priestly office, declared that all the omens were auspicious, and that the entrails of the unfortunate ewe had indicated a long and happy married life for the principals. Then the couple exchanged their vows before him, “Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.” (There thou goest, Gaius, there go I, Gaia.) The witnesses, friends, relatives, members of the bridal party, then raised a hearty cheer and showered blessings and congratulations on the couple.
Fabia was not present at the wedding of her only sister, for the Vestals, as yet, took no part in festivities or open feasts. But she had sent her prayers and an affecting and touching letter which Terentia now proceeded to read as she stood regally among them all. For the first time her face softened; her cheeks flowed with tender tears. Suddenly, she was charming and young, and not a woman full of certitude. She turned to Marcus and laid her head on his shoulder in order to gain control of herself, and he involuntarily took her in his arms and felt affection for her. She was, after all, still young, and she was his wife and he vowed that he would love and cherish her and hold her dear, even if her conversation was hardly stimulating and her manner hardly seductive.
The feast lasted until long after night fell. It was not a remarkable feast nor inspiring. Marcus drank the wine until his ears rang and his mind grew dull. Now it was time to take the bride from her home and carry her to her husband’s house. Musicians, led by torchbearers, marched before the newly wedded couple, and sang discreet songs and not the naughty and lascivious ditties of modern weddings. They sang of home and hearth and the virtue of the bride and the nobility of the husband and of the heroic children who would be born to Rome and to the worship of the tribal gods. Passersby halted to watch this procession of the littered couple and friends and relatives, and they thought it a plebeian wedding for there were no pretty dancers and fauns rioting in the procession, and there were no sweetmeats or coins tossed to eager hands. No one in the procession laughed or showed signs of drunkenness. The litter’s curtains were closed. It was all very solemn and decorous, in spite of the leaping young boys who waved twisted hawthorn twigs as an augury for unborn children.
Marcus’ fine new house was lighted throughout with many lamps, and all the servants were lined along the blooming path to the door, whose threshold had been spread with a white cloth, signifying that a virgin bride was to pass over it. Marcus descended from the litter and gave his hand to his wife, and she emerged with the orange veil still partly hiding her face. Now it was his moment to carry Terentia over the threshold. The company beamed on him and waited. He put his arms about Terentia and lifted her. And staggered. She was unexpectedly heavy and solid. To assist him, and to prevent impropriety, Terentia wound her arms about his neck tightly. His gait was not very steady, and he was sweating in an unseemly manner, when he finally delivered Terentia over the threshold. Then the bridesmaids followed, carrying Terentia’s distaff and spindles, and they sang a song of the matron’s virtues.
Marcus offered his wife fire and water. It was noted that he was very pale indeed and that his eyes were glazed. Tullius watched him mournfully at a distance; Quintus was obviously in misery. Helvia watched her son and then fixed her gaze determinedly on the eminently suitable young bride and hoped the girl would display a little fire of her own later. Marcus, she thought, had the soul of a tender lamb. But, she reflected, men were of a fragile nature, easily hurt, easily wounded, for all their swagger and their deep voices and their mastery of affairs. Women were made of iron in comparison.
It was customary for some older female to whisper to the bridegroom, if he was of her blood, “Be gentle! Be patient!” But Helvia went to the composed young wife and whispered, “Be kind, my dear one, for he loves kindness above all things.” Terentia turned and stared at her, not in confusion, but with blankness. Even newly arrived in her husband’s house she was not displaying any blushes or shynesses or sweet alarms. She was already mistress of this house; surety shone from her brow.
The chief bridesmaid then took Terentia by the hand in the very center of the company, and led the exceedingly calm and confident bride to the nuptial chamber. The curtains had no sooner fallen over the door than the guests and the wedding party abruptly left Marcus to the delights of his bed. Where there had been singing and voices there was now silence, and the ruins of a last libation and pastries and sundry cakes. Marcus heard the overseer close and bolt the bronze doors of the atrium, doors which he had imported from Rhodes. Even the voices of tired slaves had become silent. The lamps glimmered palely and the scent of their oil became sickening and cloying. The overseer returned from the atrium and bowed and said, “Master, is there aught else?”
He was a middle-aged man of immense dignity. Marcus said in a desperate voice, “Aulus, drink a cup of wine with me!” Aulus smiled and respectfully, filled Marcus’ wreathed goblet and filled a goblet for himself. They drank in a profound quiet.
The overseer dropped his eyes. “May the gods bless your marriage, noble lord, and preserve your happiness.” He began to fill trays with plates and goblets. The lamps flickered. Soon it would be morning. And Marcus’ wife awaited him in the bridal chamber.
Aulus left the room and Marcus was totally alone. Never, surely, had there existed so reluctant a bridegroom, he thought. He was steeped in anxiety and was fully frightened. He contemplated his state. What madness had webbed his brain that he had married? He was tired and more than a trifle dazed and he had drunk too much wine. If I close my eyes, he thought childishly, I will then open them and discover I have had a nightmare. He could not recall Terentia’s face or form. A strange woman awaited him, whom he had never seen before. She had gone with steady serenity to the nuptial chamber, as no doubt she went to her banks. Why had he ever thought that she resembled his mother, Helvia? Helvia had humor and her strength was warm like the earth. The strength of Terentia—and who in the name of Hades wished for a strong wife?—was the strength of concrete.
Then Marcus threw back his slender shoulders. Am I a man or a youth previous to puberty? he asked himself with sternness. I am years older than that poor girl who is probably quaking in my bed and staining my pillows with her virginal tears. He strode manfully out of the room and went to the curtains of the bridal chamber. He swung them aside with a virile gesture.
The chamber was large but snug. It was finely furnished and the mosaic floor was covered with a carpet of many radiant Persian colors. The bed was of ebony and mahogany, inlaid with ivory and highly gilded, and had been brought from the East. The chairs were of lemonwood and so were the delicate tables. A fragrant lamp burned dimly near the bed. Terentia was fast asleep. T
he blue and yellow blankets were drawn up almost to her chin. It was evident that she wore a modest shift of white linen, for one arm had been thrown without the coverlets and the sleeve reached to the large wrist. She slept deeply and soundly as a child sleeps, her braided brown hair spread on the pillows.
Marcus stood and contemplated his wife. Tears? Eheu! Quakings? Eheu! A bride, and she was asleep and had not waited for her bridegroom! A virgin, and she had no tremors, no fears. Her profile was quiet; it was evident that she was enjoying her slumber. The lamp shone on the mild pallor of her smooth cheek, the shadow of her pretty lashes. And, unfortunately, on her redoubtable nose and her long, determined chin and her short neck.
I should be grateful she did not blow out the lamp, thought Marcus. Was it possible that this girl had not the slightest knowledge of the marital act? The idea stimulated Marcus. He removed his clothing, lifted the blankets, lay down beside his wife after blowing out the lamp.
He could hear late revelers singing and talking and laughing as they climbed the Palatine Hill to their homes. He caught breaths of spicy autumn air and wind through the open window. He put his hand on the shoulder of Terentia, then bent over her in the darkness and sought her lips. She came murmurously awake, not with anticipation and love, but with vexation, as a child is vexed. It was most evident that she understood completely where she was and who was searching her body.
She caught his hand in a very competent grasp. “It is late,” she said with firmness, “and I am weary, Marcus.”
He wanted to strike her. He had discovered that she had warm full breasts and this had excited him. He sought them again. And again she caught his hand.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
“No!”
“Yes. Now let me sleep for I have much to do in the morning.”