Perpetua: A Bride, A Martyr, A Passion

Hands had risen in surrender, “No one has to say it. I go where you lead,” and I’d pushed Selina back up the stairs ahead of me to repeat the morning cycle, this time guided by her capable hands. Saturninus stayed in the courtyard and watched us ascend, seeming suddenly too serious, I’d thought, when I glanced back.

“Yes,” Selina sighed now. “Venetiae seems a long way off.”

I had a delicious thought. “Let’s go out of the city! There’s a beautiful orange grove on the road south. It’s not Venetiae, but we could picnic and walk.” I was excited. “It won’t take but an hour to travel there.”

“But are we allowed?”

“I believe Aelius owns it. Julia will not mind.” I was unconcerned.

“Will Saturninus come?” she asked slowly.

“No. Only us,” I decided.

“Because if you want him to come, I could … help your mother this afternoon.” But she knew Mother had already left on her mission for the day.

“Selina, no! Is there a reason you want to stay in Carthage today?” I was ready to be disappointed.

“No. But if you wanted time with Saturninus …”

I laughed. “I’ve had plenty of time. I love him immensely, but I’ve had plenty of time.” My reaction brought her smile back. “I want to spend this afternoon with you. I’ve barely seen you, and,” this time I finished lamely, “there’s something we need to talk about.”

She sobered. “I’ll have the kitchen pack a light prandium.”

A half-hour later, we were on our way in the litter, the curtains closed against the late summer dust and heat.

“I really do want to go out to Venetiae for a while,” I returned to the subject of our earlier conversation. “But Saturninus will begin study at the university in a few weeks. I suppose we could go without him,” I mused. She didn’t answer. “Still, I’d hate to miss our group, now that I’ve met them.” I described the members and the meeting of the previous night. She laughed hard at my rendering of Tertius.

“I know him,” she gasped while I continued to mumble in her face.

“But Perpetua,” I said slowly, “Mmblulugumm negubummum?”

All I could see were her shoulders shaking and curls bobbing violently sideways as laughter doubled her over.

“Yes, I definitely know him! He’s part of our congregation. He does have a wonderful heart, though. He wants to be a deacon.”

“Really?” I was surprised out of my imitation. So they went to the same Dies Solis celebration.

“It serves the area of Carthage closer to your home. The location you’ve been attending, where Tertullian is presbyter, really serves the heart of the city. The forum and university portion.”

“Why would Tertullian send us to a group that belongs to a different congregation?”

“Perhaps because it is nearer to you?”

I wondered if he would mind us attending the congregation near our home.

“I don’t recall meeting anyone like you describe Felicitas. Perhaps because she is a slave, her schedule may not allow her Dies Solis.”

I hadn’t considered her position in that way. Was her master good to her? It had sounded last night as if her mistress wasn’t.

“I wish I knew who her master was,” I muttered.

“It probably is better for her that you don’t,” she sighed.

“But perhaps I could convince Father to buy her from him.”

“Or, you could get her in serious trouble, perhaps revealing that she is a Christian,” she countered.

“You may be right.” I grew silent for a while, staring blankly at my lap. Selina had chosen a new amictus for me, more appropriate for picnicking. It was heavier cotton, but still very finely woven, of deep navy blue. White embroidery lined its edges, and a matching parasol lay bulkily beside her, taking up half the seat with its permanently open construction.

The litter paused and lowered. Safely arrived at the orange grove, we left the bearers to set out our meal and walked, my parasol stoutly protecting my skin.

“What about you?”

“I’m made to be brown,” she extended her arms for my view. “I haven’t the social constraints you do.”

I wrinkled my nose at her jibe. We walked together easily, enjoying the pure air and full-leafed trees in their neat rows.

“Far more beautiful than Carthage!” I breathed deeply, touching tree-trunks and stretching fingers out into the sun.

“Under your parasol, young lady,” she reproved.

I whisked my fingers back into the shade, but stretched them out again, knowing she watched from the corner of her eye.

“What did you want to talk to me of?”

Playfulness left, and I let the parasol rest quietly on my shoulder while I considered her question. My answer was slow to come.

“Of Tumi.” Although I waited for her to respond, she didn’t. “We’ve never spoken of him, or of what I witnessed. You’ve never asked, and,” I was forcing the words out, “and I’ve never told anyone. Not even Saturninus. Until last night.”

“They asked for my testimony.” I said it almost apologetically, and rushed on. “But then Saturninus thought I should talk to you about it, since I’m able to now, and I,” barely pausing, “thought later that I should have never shared it with others before telling you, and,” I finished up breathlessly, “oh, I’m not making much sense!”

When soft tones finally fell from her mouth, the question cut right through my babble. “Why are you ready to talk about it?”

We rounded the end of a row and began to walk back along the next aisle. As I told her of Tumi in Jesus’ arms, she absently reached out and caressed the thick green leaves of low branches crisscrossing our path, letting them slip silently through her fingers and spring back to their hanging glory with a rustle. When I’d finished, her silence only became deeper, and my agitation more apparent.

“Selina, I can’t interpret you today. You’ve been so feisty and terse. And so silent. You have to tell me how…” I began to beg. Please lead this conversation. I don’t know what you want.

She turned her face toward me then. To my surprise tears streaked it, gathering on her black lashes in glistening drops that caught the sunlight. We halted and waited for her voice to come. Skin creases, casting her age as decades beyond what it was, stood out in the filtered light of the grove. I began to wilt as I watched her pain become deeper instead of dissipate.

“You’ve never mourned, have you?” I asked softly, touching her arm. Her simple, dark head shook in response. “Oh, why have you been so strong?” My whisper was a reproof. Through all the years we’d known one another, something had kept us, even in childhood, from touch. Perhaps an underlying consciousness of the great gulf between our status in life. The sweet kiss of peace the brethren exchanged as greeting was beginning to fill up that chasm, and though I never had before, I knew I couldn’t let her stand there weeping and unheld. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, letting the characteristic restraint slip off. She rested into the embrace, a heart broken. If only I could pull the pain into me, instead. So there we stood, between rows of swaying orange trees, embracing in the silence of the sun and bees, a parasol fallen, forgotten at our feet. When our sobs subsided I slipped my arm down to circle her waist, and we began walking back along the aisle. She let me lead her like a mother.

“Will you please tell me? I do want to know.”

As delicately as I could, I described the events of that night, forcing myself to leave nothing out, knowing she had a right, perhaps a need, to hear each detail. When we neared the blanket spread under the trees, I waved the slaves off from a distance. It was as we sat that I reached the moment of his death and my horror. She withdrew her hand from mine and covered her face, twisted again in sobs. They receded as I described my revelation of those false gods’ identity, the truth with which I had renounced them, and the ensuing dreadful chase, and were finally calmed in full by the time Andrew had brought me to the basilica where she waited.

“But, Selina, I am so guilty,” I hung my head, afraid to find the condemnation I knew I should in her face. “I saw Lespia earlier that day, and if I hadn’t been so involved in my own, my own vanity, I could have known.”

“No.” She laid her hand back on mine. “Nothing you could have said would have stopped Jocundus, or Lespia for that matter. They are both so proud.”

“Selina, don’t be so harsh on her. She didn’t want to do it. I saw it in her eyes. She fainted when Tumi fell into the fire.” But Selina’s face was set grimly.

“She consciously chose after Nana’s death, perhaps even before it, to turn away from God. You know the tension between us,” I nodded a response. “It was because I remained a Christian. She thought it restricting. Restricting! Now her baby is dead.”

Nothing remained to be voiced. I prayed quietly for God’s presence to comfort us. Spent, she laid down and stretched out, protected from the sky by low canopies of branches pregnant with promised fruit.

“Won’t you eat? Flatunus chose these himself.” A delicate spread of small, and to me, tempting, creations lay ready beside us. Her shaken head was rueful, apologetic.

“I can’t eat anything. Don’t tell Flatunus,” the barest of smiles whispered around her lips. She knew the secret joy he took in preparing meals like this for us, knowing one of his own—or, if not one of his own, at least a peregrinus, closer to a slave than a noble—would be enjoying the labor’s result. I don’t think she slept, but her eyes closed and her body stilled until it seemed she did. I leaned against the trunk behind me, imagining the orange scent drifting down into my lap. Perhaps I’m the one who slept, I don’t know. Sometime later I became aware of footsteps. They stopped beside me. I expected a litter-bearer, but a girlish giggle brought my eyes open in an instant to find my blue parasol twirled before them. I jumped up. Lupus was standing in front of me, laughing.

“Did you lose this, my Lady?” He bowed exaggeratedly. Beside him was Claudia, Scipio’s daughter, and coming down the aisle toward us were several other of our set. They must not bother Selina, I thought, and quickly put a finger to my mouth.

“Shh, my maid is asleep.”

“Oh, is she? Well, she ought to be awake, oughtn’t she?” he teased and moved to poke her with the parasol’s tip, but I caught it out of his hands.

“Come now,” I held it over me and reached out an open palm, “let us walk.”

He had no choice but to proffer his arm, and we retreated toward the coming group, Claudia on his other side. When we reached them, he cried jovially, “The maid is asleep. Turn around, turn around!”

Paulina recognized me immediately and latched onto my arm. I released Lupus.

“Perpetua! Where have you hidden yourself for the summer? And to find you here, in my orange grove!”

“Oh, is it yours? I simply had to get out of Carthage, and this was the most beautiful place I could think of. Now I understand why.” The compliment was not lost on her ready ears. My arm was squeezed a little tighter, my companion nestled a little closer.

“Well, others had the same idea,” she looked teasingly at Lupus and Claudia, “and invited themselves to our villa, so you might as well have done the same.”

“Do you have a villa here?” It was so close to Carthage. The nearest second home for most of the aristocracy was Cap Bon.

“Yes, for when Father cannot afford the time to travel to the country.”

Claudia and Lupus were faster than we, and drew up to our side.

“What have you been doing these months? Venetiae?” Claudia’s tone was always sour, even when she took pains to be gracious. It matched her angular form well.

“No. Carthage. Studying, you know.” My lightness was calculated.

“Your father still has you studying?” she exclaimed, brushing a speck of dust off her créme and peach silk. “I thought you’d have finished with that long ago.”

“I haven’t. Some people do enjoy such things, Claudia, although I admit,” I stretched, “I was ready for a break.” I turned my attention back to Paulina. “Who is the girl ahead of us, with Marius and Apuleius?”

“Oh, that is Cornelia.” She leaned closer to me and whispered confidentially, “her father is a Punic aristocrat, so proud,” her disapproval was barely hidden. “He’s just made a merchant’s fortune, and is Scipio’s newest protégé. She’s been trailing around after Claudia for ages! Word is his post will be quite important. Wants to ‘serve’ the people now that he’s made a coin off last year’s harvest problems.” Her tone left no need for me to interpret the raised eyebrows and tossed head. I watched Cornelia between the two men ahead of us. Her dress was flamboyant. It screamed “new money,” and the turn of her hips as she walked bothered me already. Paulina must have read my expression. “Daddy made me invite her,” she continued. “Some land deal with her father. But it is such a chore, Perpetua,” a sigh accentuated her problem, “she’s a terrible flirt.” A mischievous grin broke over her face. “I’ll be right back!” and she ran ahead, catching Apuleius’ arm and dragging him back to us. “Here, Perpetua,” she cried triumphantly, “I’ve caught one, and none less than the illustrious Apuleius.”

“A pleasure to be ‘caught,’” he bowed, “but I am just named after that Apuleius, not the illustrious man himself.”

I took his other arm, and we three continued treading the tall grass that laid its blanket between the steady rows of trees. We turned at the end of the aisle to follow Cornelia and Marius, who were walking along the grove’s inner edge.

“Do you write at all, Apuleius?” I asked, assessing him for any resemblance to his namesake, whose statue graced our city’s forum.

“Unfortunately, the gift is not passed on with the name. But you, are you to be found in your father’s footsteps? Is that why you have been snubbing us for months?”

I would have rathered the subject stay on his intellectual pursuits, but covered my irritation with a laugh pointedly feminine. “Would the university endure a female rhetorician?”

“But it’s his writing I’m referring to, of course. I’ve been very impressed with his latest treatise. I’m at the university at the moment, you know,” he explained proudly. Father hadn’t mentioned any recent articles.

“Which one?” I asked lightly.

“Why, the only great one in Carthage,” he sounded hurt. I was confused for a split-second myself before correcting him.

“Which treatise?”

“Oh,” he exaggerated a Lybian’s long drawl. “The one against Christians, naturally.”

“That one. Naturally.” I walked on blindly, letting Paulina attempt to get Apuleius’ eyes off Cornelia ahead. She was surely repenting drawing him back with us. Cornelia’s figure looked best from behind, she told me later.

“But now that you’ve seen her from the front, what is your opinion?”

“She looks sad underneath all that paint,” I decided.

“Because she knows her features would frighten a goat!” Paulina spit out. We were reclining in her chamber together, resting, as were the others, from the late day heat. Our walk to the villa had become oppressive. “But you have to watch out,” she leaned toward me, “those kind are the ones who trap the boys with their swaying hips.” A mournful flop back against the curve of the arched couch pronounced despair. “Have you ever noticed that all the ugly women have beautiful bodies?” Her own rather pear-shaped form was a disappointment to her. “Except you, Perpetua, you’ve got both,” she eyed me, “although you might be a tad thin for Apuleius’ taste.” I preferred to think of myself as slender. “But you don’t flirt with it, that’s the only reason I like you.”

“The only reason?” I laughed easily, remembering a friendship that traced back to infancy—pre, actually, if one counted our mothers. Out of our generation of young aristocrats, Paulina was the only one with whom my relationship could validly be called friendship. But her prattling was endless, and I worried about Selina.

“Won’t you stay the night? You’re not planning on going back to Carthage are you, and leaving me with Claudia the Sour and Cornelia the Slut?” she cried, the prospect becoming increasingly distasteful to her.

“Well, my maid …” I began.

“Oh, posh!” Her hand waved. “You sent a slave to bring them here, right?” I nodded. “We’ll send the litter back to your father with a message, and I’ll deliver you myself tomorrow. Everyone is only staying this last night, then we’re all returning to Carthage. Apuleius claims he has to study, but I don’t believe he really does any studying at all. Except, of course, of certain forms wagging in front of him,” another dejected collapse onto the pillows ensued. “At least you’re here to distract me now.” I didn’t know what her glum stare found to focus on in the wood-beamed ceiling above us.

“I’m not all that entertaining,” I protested.

“Oh yes you are. If nothing else, I’ll be able to watch Claudia turn green while Lupus flirts with you,” she giggled and I groaned.

“And you too,” her eyes were studying me now. “Your father raised you so classically. You’re fun to tease. One of these days we’ll have to lock you in a room with Lupus, just to hear your screams,” her giggling anticipation grew.

“In that case, I’d better leave while I have a chance,” I threatened.

“Oh, lie down,” another waved dismissal. “I’ll not do anything cruel to you, if you’ll stay.”

“How can I say ‘no’?”

“Ooo!” She clapped her hands, and a slave appeared. “Have a room prepared for Vivia Perpetua and her maid.” He left immediately. I was surprised.

“You have a male chambermaid.”

“He’s a eunuch. Lord Republic bought him to keep me in line,” she confided with a wink.

Her poor father’s nickname was not used fondly. He had definite ideas regarding the evils of modern culture, and ceaselessly harped on the virtues of the early Republic. Although I agreed with him in most aspects, as did my own father, the little bit of time I’d spent at their family table had left me in sympathy with Paulina. But I couldn’t return her wink tonight.

“You can’t keep yourself‘in line’?” My alarm was evident. Paulina’s mouth wandered, but she really was the most virginal of our set, besides me, or at least she had been.

“You ask too many questions. Someday you’ll probably need him yourself.” She turned over and pretended to fall asleep.

Selina dressed me for dinner in a borrowed amictus. Paulina had a wardrobe’s worth stored away as unusable because they were a season or two old, but there were several gorgeous gowns from which to choose. We settled on a pure white silk whose lines were elegantly simple. It had no adornments, not even embroidery along the border, and neither had I. All the usual accessories for cena with friends were home, resting in their little boxes. My arms felt naked and free without the weight of the bangles and rings that usually set off a beautiful amictus.

“We could ask Paulina if she has any jewelry you might wear.”

“No. I don’t want to borrow anything else. Plus, she has such elaborate taste. I know I wouldn’t like any of it, but I’d be bound to wear some.” I turned to view the drape of white silk in the mirror. It fit perfectly. “I’m surprised she had something like this in her wardrobe. It’s so simple; her father must have brought it to her,” I chuckled. “She said it was never worn. I love it.”

“Let me do your hair differently then, if we’re to have no jewelry.” She led me to a seat. Soon my hair had been loosed from its height and tumbled down around my shoulders.

“Tertullian would like this,” I mused. Her raised eyebrows inquired. “The simplicity. He’s been hinting for months that very devout Christian women don’t wear jewels or bright colors.” It made me sigh. Mother embraced it, and Father despised Tertullian all the more.

“They also walk around with long faces, as if sadness is holy!” She snorted. “Do they think Jesus is still dead?”

The women in Tertullian’s congregation filed in muted rows of browns and blacks across the room, and I was always at the end in the thick gray cloak I’d purchased for Dies Solis celebrations.

“There are several,” I measured, “who would rather be gone and living with Jesus.”

“But most,” her voice was staccatoed, pebbles hitting a huge wall, “are bound to legalism.” I wished we were positioned in front of a mirror so I could match an expression to the sound.

“He says we shouldn’t try to look like the world when we’re not ‘of’ it.”

“But we are ‘in’ it, aren’t we? And trying to be ‘all things to all men.’ Jesus is not dead, and the Scripture says to rejoice, not barely exist—old mournful souls.” She was gathering my curls at the back of my head, loosely. “We all know that to die is gain, but,” her head bent down and she whispered, “to live is Christ!” Quick hands, patting and tucking here and there, finished my hair almost immediately and led me to the room’s mirror once again. “You look like an angel.”

I smiled at my own reflection. The amictus draped perfectly, and there were no jewels or gold to distract from its purity. My hair gently framed my face instead of being pulled tightly up into the high diadems in style. Several tendrils had been left free to hang down my cheeks and neck, and rest lightly on my shoulders, dark against white.

“Thank you, Selina. I don’t care whether anyone else likes it. It’s perfect.”

She considered me in the mirror apologetically. A short silence elapsed. “I spoke harshly. Of women who are your friends. I’m sorry.”

“They are acquaintances yet, not friends. And twenty years older than me at least. Mother’s age.”

She smiled wanly. I turned and rested my hand on her arm, the barrier of touch having been broken between us.

“I tend toward rote, legalism … yours is a good reminder.”

Selina read my pause. “Your mother dresses quietly out of a changed heart, not because Tertullian tells her to.”

“I know,” I nodded slowly. “I wonder, though, if she is one of those who would rather be with Jesus.”

Her demeanor quickened; she pressed both my cheeks.

“You think about martyrdom too much! To live is Christ! Enjoy Him, Tua. And go eat your cena.” The glow was back in her almond eyes.

As I walked through the magnificent halls to join the rest, I felt terrible at leaving her behind for the second time that day. How different our lives were. I was at home here among beautiful muraled walls and mosaic floors. My greatest hardship in life was missing a summer at Venetiae, not missing meals as five-sixths of the population of Africa Proconsularis occasionally did. I was from the top one hundred families: noble, wealthy, of senatorial rank. My peers formed less than one percent of the one-sixth of the colony’s population who were not poverty stricken. It was normal for slaves to bathe and dress me. At cenae such as tonight’s, a slave would wait at my feet all evening, ready to satisfy my slightest want. I imagined Felicitas and Revocatus, completing their duties of the day. They were the cooks who would tempt my palate, the slaves who would empty my chamberpot, the waiters who would catch my merest glance toward an emptying cup. They knew what suffering was, and I had no place to stand. My wealth had left me without a foundation in the house of the Lord, or so I imagined when I entered the triclinium.

Only Lupus and Marius were in the room. They talked together, their backs to me, watching the running fountain in the courtyard opposite where I stood. Although the same height, Marius’ shoulders were thick compared to the aristocratic Lupus. The comparison held when stretched further. Where Lupus was the future proconsul’s son, Marius boasted only a childhood in Leptis Magna and friendship with the emperor’s niece. His father’s acquired senatorial wealth likely owed much to shady business dealings, and in spite of his very Roman nose—his pride and joy—Marius was still trying to break into the lucrative political circles of Carthage. At least I had nothing to fear from him. I hesitated between the pillars, sorry that I was earlier than any of the other three women. I had forgotten the noble woman’s traditionally late arrival, calculated to provide a splendid entrance and perfect showcase for the dinner gown.

“Vivia Perpetua.” The door attendant announced me while I paused. Lupus and Marius turned and looked. I nodded, but they did not turn away. When the eon of short seconds made me too uncomfortable to move, Lupus crossed the floor and drew me in.

“Vivia … Venus,” he whispered as he folded my hand around his arm and walked with me toward Marius. “Why are you so shy? You look like a goddess.”

“Come join us,” Marius beckoned with his hand, heavy with the weighty gold rings of a patrician. “We are enjoying the pretty little view.” He laughed, and raised eyebrows spoke between them. I knew the double meaning, but exclaimed delightedly over the fountain when we reached Marius’ vantage point.

“Oh, it is pretty! Look how the water flows from Cupid’s arrow.”

“That arrow looks slightly dangerous to me,” Lupus murmured.

“Only to those who place themselves within its range,” I countered, slipping my arm from under his.

“Or who are found there unwittingly,” he moved to recapture it.

“Unwitted indeed is one who could be pierced by the liquid weapon of a stone god.” My gesture toward the frozen creature effectually evaded his attempt, but my scorn only induced a grave determination about his eyes that silenced me. When Claudia joined us she quickly realized I had preempted her entrance. If she had known how unintentional it was, she would not have felt more kindly toward me.

In spite of my glares, Paulina seated Lupus between Claudia and I. Marius and Cornelia were paired on the second side, and herself with Apuleius on the third. Lupus, although well bred and initially attending each of us equally, did not manage to satisfy Claudia. I attempted to converse with her, but found my friendly note was returned with sour answers. She was still in the process of learning her father’s political power did not necessarily translate into the feminine influence she desired. Apuleius became the unexpected savior of the evening. He may not write, but his humorous stories kept us all in good spirits throughout the five courses. He and I were the only ones whose glasses were not consistently refilled by the waiting slaves. In fact, I felt him measuring his sips by mine, a feeling I immediately discarded as ridiculous.

“…and he died laughing,” the story finished triumphantly. A cheer rose from us all, for his delivery had been quite invigorating. Lupus raised his glass, crying:

“Bravo, Apuleius! Bravo! To you!” and drained the cup dry.

“Yes,” giggled Paulina, “but that was just a fable. No one actually finds humor,” she looked woosily around the group for support, “in their own death.” She was the sort who giggled. Especially now.

“Yesh! Our hoshtess ish right.” It was Marius who challenged him, although I later wondered who had actually led us into the narrative that followed. “Tell ush a shtory where it wash true. Then I will cry ‘Bravo, Bravo, dear Apuleiush’!” He drained his glass in demonstration. Apuleius laughed.

“I do know one,” he said thoughtfully, “but I am taking all the limelight.” His eyes alighted on Cornelia. “My Lady, your ancestry is rich with traditions we know nothing of. Have you not a story such as this to amuse us?”

“No, Apuleius,” Paulina butted in. “She doesn’t. You must amuse us.”

He caught my concerned glance toward Cornelia. I hoped she was already drunk enough to miss the insult. She wasn’t, although it looked as though she immediately made up her mind to become so.

“Apuleius,” Paulina whined, “I insist.”

He bowed a courtly bow and began.

“There was, about sixty years ago, a man named Polycarp. Now, he was old, venerable, and gray-bearded, and had lived for eighty-six years in peace. He was, however, and had been since his birth, one of that horrible sect,” he leaned forward, voice lowering fearfully, “Christians!”

“Oooh,” everyone shivered, as if they were little girls after dark, listening to Lespia tell tales of magic gone wrong and curses and torments. I was stunned.

“The Christians are atheists, you see. They believe in only one god,” he held up a finger, his sing-songy voice full of the art of storytelling. At least he was getting that fact right. “The amazing thing is, of course, they accuse the empire of being atheists, because we honor all the gods. But what decent Roman would empty the Pantheon to exalt one egotistical deity?” He laughed, easing the tense mood of the story. Getting up, he paced back and forth before the table, hands clasped behind. “But this man, Polycarp, had been good, you see.” The eyebrows were raised, informing us. “Well, perhaps he did, I concede, share the flesh and blood of his children with others at their ‘love feasts’ and,” he nodded again scornfully when the girls gasped, “share, shall we say, for the sake of the ladies present, an ‘Oedipal’ intimacy with his mother, or a sister here or there.”

If only I could scream. He had paused for effect, letting Lupus smirk and ‘t’sk’ and me hear the laborious pulse of my thickening blood.

“Yet, he was on the whole a good man, disregarding these oddities of his cult.” He told on, painting a picture of Polycarp, captured after a young servant betrayed him, brought back to the city by Irenarch Herod, and interviewed by Nicetes and Herod himself on the way to the stadium. “But he refused their offer of safety if he would just sacrifice to Caesar, saying, ‘I shall not do as you advise me’, and they kicked him from the chariot.” Apuleius imitated a kicking action and the girls giggled. My body, I realized, was tense, each muscle coiled in horror at the position I found myself. The lies about my faith were disgusting, physically revolting. But I became caught in the story. There had been a Polycarp. I remembered the name from Tertullian. What was his death like? His leg dislocated, Apuleius imitated how the ‘old fool’ limped into the stadium, still convinced of his own right.

“Have respect to thy old age! Swear by the fortune of Caesar! Repent! Say, ‘Away with the atheists!’” the crowd and Apuleius urged him. “‘Polycarp,’ cried the proconsul, ‘Say, ‘Away with the atheists’ and you shall be freed!’ But Polycarp stood, and looked,” Apuleius’ eyes narrowed as he considered the imaginary masses, “then raised himself straight and tall.” I held my breath. Would he or not? “Looking up into the heavens and boldly motioning toward the multitude of spectators, he cried, ‘Away with the atheists!’” At Apuleius’ clear shout, all my tension erupted into laughter. He held his final pose, arm in the air, and rolled out chuckles, glancing quizzically at me. I tried to control my giggles, for I realized the rest of the group was stupidly gaping at us.

“But,” Marius waved his cup, confused, “did they kill him?”

“Yes, Marius. They burned him.” The storyteller was still enjoying Polycarp’s final words. The old man must have found as much humor in it as I did, for he was the one to turn such a delightful pun on the heads of his executors only a moment before death. For what was death to him but the start of a life?

“Hooray!” cried Marius. The news excited him, his goblet lifted in the air, suspended there by shouts of, “Bravo, Apuleius, Bravo!” Lupus joined in, while Claudia and Cornelia drank a deep draught in support. Paulina was asleep on her couch, an unattended cup spilling a black spot of red wine onto her gown.

“And Apuleius,” called out Claudia, “did the gods send him to Hades for his insolence?”

“Ask the goddess herself.” Lupus turned and moved close to me where I reclined beside him, drunkenly throwing an arm over my waist. His breath was hot and fumy, sending shivers down my spine. “Did you send hi-, him, to H-Hades, little white goddess?”

I flung his arm off me and stood up, nonchalantly moving toward Paulina and pretending to wake her. Lupus stumbled up after me, not to be so easily avoided. Claudia’s eyes burned, and as he tottered toward me calling for his “goddess,” she stomped from the room. He was a small-boned man, larger than I, yes, but I was sure I could escape him in this state. Still, I didn’t want Paulina to hear the next morning of a scene having occurred at her table. Slaves watched unabashed from their posts around the room, used to the point of boredom by the typical ending to an evening of drink. But I was not used to it anymore, and not able to view those who observed as nonentities. I blushed, ignoring his call.

“Lupus.” Just as he neared me, Apuleius stepped between us. His frame was tall and broad-shouldered, easily hiding my own behind it. Lupus was confused for a moment, before he recognized his friend’s face.

“Oh, hi, Apuleiush,” he grinned, weaving slightly.

“Your goddess is gone.” Apuleius spoke gently, to a child. “Go to your bed. You may find her,” he insinuated.

“Ah!” Aelius’ son nodded appreciatively. “Shanksh, Apuleiush,” and he turned away toward the door. Apuleius’ snapped fingers brought a slave scurrying to support Lupus and guide him chamber-ward. Marius on his couch was murmuring to Cornelia.

“My goddessh ish not gone.” And she was not running as I had. I glanced quickly away when his hands began to grope her. Apuleius noted it immediately.

“Come. The servants will care for Paulina. They’re used to it by now.” He smirked and took my arm familiarly. We walked out into the open courtyard, pursued by the sounds of Marius and Cornelia. Content simply to leave the scene behind me, it was a moment before I recalled that man’s blasphemous story and shivered, but he held my arm tightly and walked until all was silent around us, finally stopping in an unfamiliar courtyard, smaller, with chamber doors leading off it.

“Ah,” he said, “we have come to my chamber, not yours. Did you lead me here?” he laughed in the darkness around us. I tensed.

“I do not know where we are,” I insisted.

“But I do, remember?” He moved behind me and slipped his right hand around my free arm. Slowly he turned us, until we were facing the nearest door. “At my chamber.”

“Apuleius,” I pulled my arms forward gently, but he did not release them. “It is dark here. Take me back.” Although my heart was beating wildly, for I’d suddenly realized he was very strong, my words remained forcibly measured, light.

“You can provide light, Perpetua. Lupus calls you a goddess,” he breathed behind me, tightening his grip.

“I believe Lupus is drunk.” I was sarcastic, sharp. He moved suddenly, releasing my arms, only to wrap his own roughly around my body, pulling my back tightly against his chest. My head came barely to his shoulders, and I was easily pinned. I gasped, straining futilely away from his bulk, struggling until his mouth lowered slowly to my ear and a deep-throated whisper accused: