followed her, Paulina came back and yanked me by the hair (in the absence of a leash).
“You are to stay with me unless I dismiss you! Is that quite clear?”
None of the other matrons seemed to think it strange that Paulina wanted me in the bath with them. In fact, some of them had their own pets—eunuchs, little boys, and a couple of other women like me. You could tell us apart by our silence and our downcast eyes. Later I would understand that smart slaves, while appearing deaf, dumb, and blind, listen to every word. That first day the words just flapped over my head like so many birds. No, birds I might have paid attention to.
By the time we returned for the midday banquet, which was attended by at least half of the people who had fawned on Claudius that morning, I was exhausted, ravenous, and snappish as a wild beast. Paulina ordered me to sit by her feet while she reclined and sampled appetizers brought round by slaves—olives, cheeses, tiny meat pastries—that were not offered to me. Now and then Paulina tossed me a tidbit, which I stubbornly refused to touch. If I was to be an animal, I decided, I would not be a tame animal. I would not take something from her hand unless I took with it a part of her hand, a well-manicured finger or two. Almost as if she sensed my mood, Paulina dangled a pastry just under my nose as if daring me to lunge.
Then suddenly her whole body stiffened. She stuffed the morsel into her own mouth and rose from her couch.
“Pater!” she called out, hiding her hands behind her back like a guilty child caught sneaking a treat.
I peered around Paulina and saw a spare silver-haired man crossing the dining room. He did not smile upon seeing his daughter but held his face and body rigid—it was a wonder he could move at all; he looked as though nothing in him would bend.
I recognized him, I realized, not his face but his rigidity. I had held it in my arms. It had been like fucking a marble column. No, he had been lighter than that, for he had never trusted his weight to me. He had kept his body stiff and still, barely allowing himself to breathe, while I did all the work. Before he came (it had taken forever) he grunted as if he were trying to pass a hard stool, his face strained and purple, all the veins on his brow alarmingly engorged. “Don’t worry,” Succula said when I described him to her later. “He’s not a regular; he only shows up once every couple of years.”
Now in full command of himself, Publius Paulus greeted his daughter gravely, pecking her on both cheeks and sniffing as he did so. The original breath test. Overindulgence in wine was considered unseemly in women—another thing for which a husband or father could strangle a woman if he saw fit. Paulina, I noticed, was trembling.
“Pater.” The word came out almost as a whimper. “I’m so glad you could come.”
“Thank you, filia,” he answered formally. “I rejoice to find you in good health.”
Then Pater got down to business. Without looking at me, he pointed in my direction. “What is that?”
Conversation had lulled. Only Appius Claudius was oblivious to the tension in the room as he brayed on and on recounting some tedious joke.
“She’s my new slave, Pater. I’m training her to be my pedisequa. You said I could have her.” Her flimsy attempt at defiance degenerated into wheedling almost instantly. “Remember? She’s the one who insulted me at domus Anecius. I’ve disciplined her myself, and Appius Claudius made a speech about how important it was for the safety of all Roman citizens—”
“Be that as it may, filia,” Pater firmly cut her off, “it is not seemly for a Roman Matron of an Old Republican Family to have a pedisequa. It is a modern degeneracy that encourages idleness and corruption among slaves. You must put her to work. Industry is what keeps a slave in order, what keeps a household in order, and what keeps a country in order. Send her to the kitchens at once. Let her scrub pots.”
During this pompous speech I had kept my eyes lowered, modestly I thought, while I examined my nails. The paint from my last manicure at the Vine and Fig Tree was already chipping. Suddenly my hair was yanked, and my head snapped back.
“You stand when my father speaks.”
I got to my feet and gave Publius Paulus a cool look. He did not return it, but Paulina caught it and slapped my face.
“Filia,” said Pater sharply. “A public display of temper is no way to discipline a slave. You must be in command of yourself before you can command others.”
“I’m sorry, Pater.” To me she hissed, “Go to the kitchens, Red.”
When I glanced back at her, she was almost crying.
“Sure thing, domina,” I said, giddy with relief.
As I walked away I heard her gasp, but it had nothing to do with me or with Pater. A man had just entered the room. No doubt it was her favorite equestrian, the one for whom she had leapt into her red dress. He had a head of short black curls, the tanned, wind-toughened complexion of a man who’s lived outdoors, an athlete’s body. I had to pass him on the way out. The testosterone was wafting off his skin in long rolling waves. Paulina better recline again before one of those waves hit her right in the knees.
No one had told me where the kitchens were, so I just followed the first slave who left the dining room with an empty platter through a maze of twists and turns to the inferno of the kitchens. A couple of dozen slaves performed a multitude of tasks in assembly line fashion from raw ingredients to artfully arranged platters. Other slaves, Boca among them, turned meat roasting on a spit. She nodded when she saw me, but did not leave her task. In a small adjoining room, several slaves appeared to be having a meal of bread and olive paste. I recognized some of them from the cubiculo and asked if I could join them. No one greeted me or offered me food or even acknowledged my presence until, driven by hunger and anger, I sat down and helped myself to a hunk of bread. Suddenly all conversation ceased.
“Who is this?” a squat, unpleasant looking man demanded.
I was sick of people talking about me instead of to me, but my mouth was full of tough chewy bread, and I could not speak for myself.
“It’s the domina’s new pedisequa.”
I recognized the speaker as the sarcastic chamber attendant—what was his name—Reginus? A strange name made of a word that did not exist—the masculine form for queen.
Everyone appraised me silently. The hostility was palpable.
“Hey,” I said when I swallowed my bread. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“Oh,” said one of the women, “was she the one who was—”
“—publicly beaten yesterday,” I finished for her, hoping to make it abundantly clear that my association with Paulina had nothing to do with any allegiance to her.
No one asked me what I had done. Everyone knew that no reason was necessary for a punishment. Now that they had me pegged, no one spoke to me further; they seemed utterly lacking not only in kindness but curiosity. I made a couple more fruitless attempts to join in the talk; then I gave up and left without a word.
I found my way through a back door into a cul de sac with a drain where the water from washing was dumped. At least I was alone for
