I did, however, know many of the men lining up to flatter, deal, or receive their private dole. Some of them stopped by to greet the lovely, virtuous young matron, but, to my initial surprise, none of them gave any indication that he remembered me. Considering that I’d given most of them blow jobs, you’d think the top of my fiery head alone would jog their memory. How could I be so forgettable? For a while I tried to tell myself that I was simply out of context for them, but there was no point in hiding from the truth. Unless they wanted something from me, I was just a brand x slave girl.
“Stop gaping at your betters,” Paulina reprimanded me. “By Hestia, your thread is even more uneven than mine.”
It wasn’t true, but there was no point in arguing. Hestia help me, I might as well turn my attention to the spinning, get good enough at it so that I could lose myself in the rhythm of it, disappear into mindlessness.
As the clients thinned out, various slaves reported to Paulina. The social secretary, the courier, the chef, among others. They all pretended deference to her. And although Paulina was rude and capricious, she only played at giving orders. She wasn’t really interested in the workings of her household, and her slaves had no intention of taking direction from her. Paulina, I realized, had no more power or responsibility than a child.
After some mid-morning refreshment, which she did not share with me, Paulina perked up. It was her favorite part of the day: shopping. She rode in a litter to the markets followed by six slaves, including me. When she alighted to bargain and haggle and pick over merchandise, we were there to carry her purchases: costly fabrics—so much for weaving her own cloth—make-up, exotic beauty treatments like asses’ milk and Nile River mud packs, absurd hair ornaments, perfumes, and when we came to that part of the market, food delicacies such as pickled larks’ tongues and jellied eels.
At the end of the morning, we headed for the women’s baths where the leading matrons held the first century equivalent of a coffee klatch before resuming their duties as hostesses at the midday banquet. They all had half a dozen slaves with them, who waited in the foyer till they were needed to redo their mistress’s hair and makeup. I hung back with the others, relieved to have a break from Paulina. But when she discovered I hadn’t 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