QUONIAM TU CAIUS, EGO CAIA!
At the earliest rays of dawn the auguries were taken, not as of old by the
flight of birds, but by inspection of the liver and heart of a sheep, that
was slaughtered for the purpose by the Aruspices, and this done they came
to the palace of Duilia, bearing the skin of the sheep, to announce that
the portents were favorable, in fact, were of extraordinarily good
promise.
“That is as I hoped,” said Longa Duilia, “and that will counteract and
bring to naught the disastrous tokens of the wreath. Why, by Venus’s
girdle, the girl has not been able to get her hands white yet. The stain
of that nefast herb is on them still. But—ah! here she comes in her
flame-colored veil. By the Body of Bacchus! after all it means no ill, for
do not her hands agree in hue with her head-gear?”(6)
Domitia had laid aside her maidenly dress, the _toga prætextata_ woven
with horizontal stripes, for the dress of a married woman, the _toga
recta_, with vertical stripes. About her waist was a woollen girdle
fastened in a peculiar manner, with the so-called knot of Hercules, that
was regarded as a charm against the evil eye, and was also employed in
binding up wounds and fractured bones. The girl’s dress, as well as a net
of red silk threads in which her hair had been tied up on the previous
day, had been offered on the altars of the ancestral deities worshipped in
the house.
Her hair had been divided that morning, not by a comb, but by the head of
a lance, into six tresses that were plaited with colored ribbons. And
about her head, beneath the veil, was the virgin’s wreath woven out of the
flowers she had herself picked—but the ill-omened cypress and the blood
distilling _androsœmum_ had been omitted.
And now with pipes and cymbals came the bridegroom attended by all his
friends, to fetch the bride home. The house door was decorated with
laurels, and incense smoked on the domestic altars, in the vestibule, and
in the atrium. The boxes that contained the ancestral wax masks were open,
and each face was wreathed about with flowers. Green lines connecting the
boxes united all to one trunk forming a family tree. The household gods
were not ignored, lamps burned before them, flowers adorned their heads,
and cakes and wine were placed on shelves below them.
Slaves ran to and fro, and ran against each other. Ten witnesses, kinsmen
of the bride and bridegroom, assembled to take cognizance of the marriage
contract. Two seats were introduced into the hall, and the legs bound
together, and over both was spread the skin of the sheep slaughtered that
morning for the auspices.
Then bride and bridegroom were seated on these stools, the marriage
contract was read aloud, and they received the salutations of their
friends. The _pronuba_, a married female relative united their hands, and
that accomplished, the bridegroom rose, and attended by the friends and
kinsfolk of both parties, departed for the Temple of Jupiter, where the
flamen Dialis offered sacrifice to the gods of marriage, to Jupiter, Juno,
Tellus, and the old Latin half-forgotten deities of Picumnus and Pilumnus.
Whilst the sacred sacrifice was being performed, in the house of the bride
all was being made ready for the wedding or meal after midday.
The bride was now esteemed to have passed out of the family of her father
into that of her husband, his gods would be her gods, his house her house,
his name hers. In signification of this the formula was used by her,
“Since thou art Caius, I am Caia.” At a remote period it would have been
“Since thou art Lucius I am Lucia,” and she would have lost her name of
Domitia. But this was no longer customary, only the liturgical form of
surrender was employed.
It was past noon when the procession returned, swelled by more friends and
by all well-wishers, and as it entered the house, with a shiver Domitia
observed the glowing face and water-blue eyes of the young prince,
attended by his lictors. She caught his glance, but he dropped his eyes
the moment they encountered hers, and she saw his cheeks pucker, as though
with laughter. But she had no time to give thought to him; she was
required to acknowledge the felicitations of the visitors, and to entreat
them to partake of the hospitality of the hour, and to offer a pinch of
incense and a libation to her happiness.
The supper was lengthy—many partook and came in relays, so that the entire
afternoon was consumed by it. To the relief of Domitia, the prince
Domitian had withdrawn. As each left the table he saluted the bride with
the exclamation, _Feliciter_.
For this long and tedious ceremonial feast, she was allowed to rest on a
couch, next to her husband, at the table, in the place of honor.
The meal lasted till evening, and then there ensued a movement.
The household goods of the bride, her spindle and distaff, her chest
containing robes, were brought forth, and placed on biers to be conveyed
to the new house.
Then Domitia rose, with tears in her eyes, and went to the several
chambers she had occupied, to say farewell to the kitchen, to salute the
hearth, to the shelf that served as chapel, to bid farewell to the
ancestral gods, to the wax forefathers in the hall, then to kiss her
mother, finally to turn, kneel and embrace the doorposts of the paternal
dwelling, and kiss the threshold from which she parted.
Without, the procession waited. She was gently disengaged from her
mother’s arms, and to the cries of _Talasse!_ amidst a shower of walnuts
thrown among the boys by the bridegroom, the procession started.
Domitia was attended by three lads, one went before carrying a torch, the
other two walked, one on each side, carrying spindle and distaff. The
torch, according to rule, was of whitethorn wood, and on arrival at the
house of the bridegroom would be scrambled for and ripped to pieces by the
guests, as every shred was esteemed to carry good luck.
Now rose a burst of song, the so-called Fescennian lays, some old and some
new, accompanied by the flutes of musicians and the clash of castanets and
cymbals of dancing girls.
The procession descended the hill to the Forum, crowds lining the way and
shouting _Feliciter_!
At a corner there was a little clearing, for there lay a pallet, and on it
a sick woman, who had been brought from her dwelling to see the sight. She
extended and waved her hand, holding something as Domitia approached, and
the bride through her tears noticed her, halted, went towards her, and
said:—
“Glyceria! you here to wish me happiness!”
“And to give thee, dear lady, a little present.”
She extended to her a small amulet, that Domitia accepted gratefully, and
stooping kissed the paralyzed woman on the brow.
An unheard-of thing! unparalleled! A thing she would not have done, had
she been in full control over herself—a thing she would not have done, had
not her heart brimmed with love for all, at that moment. She, a noble
lady, belonging to one of the greatest houses in Rome, kissed a poor
actor’s wife, an enfranchised slave—and that before all eyes.
About Glyceria was a dense throng of men and women and children, the
occupants of the “Island” in which she lived. It was they, who, pitying
her sufferings, desirous that she should see the procession, had opened a
space before her, and held it open, that none might impede a full view of
the marriage train.
And this throng of rude artisans, shoemakers, cordwainers,
leather-sellers, hawkers and their wives and children saw this act of
Domitia. For a moment they were silent, and then they broke into a roar of
“Feliciter! feliciter! the Gods be with thee, dear lady! The Gods protect
thee! The Gods shower blessings on thee!”
But Domitia might not tarry; confused, half ashamed of what she had done,
half carried off her feet by the thrill of joy that went from the crowd to
her, she advanced.
The train descended by the lake of Nero, now occupied by the Colosseum,
then ascended the Celian Hill to the house of Lamia.
On reaching his door, the procession spread out, and gave space for the
bride to advance.
Modestly, trembling with love, timidity, hope in her heart, she anointed
the doorposts with oil and then passed woollen strings round them.
This accomplished, two young men started forward, caught her up, made a
seat for her of their hands, and bore her over the threshold, which she
might not touch with her feet, lest by accident or nervousness she should
stumble, and so her entry into the new house be ill-omened. On being
admitted into the habitation of her husband, it was her duty to go to the
hearth and make up the fire, then to the fountain and draw water; next to
worship the household gods.
The house was pretty. It had been fresh painted, and was bright with
color, and sweet with flowers, for every pillar was wreathed and each door
garlanded. Numerous lamps illumined the chambers, and in the atrium were
reflected in the water tank. The air was vibrating with music, as choirs
sang Fescennian songs, and timbrels tinkled and pipes twittered.
Domitia was received by the wife of L. Ælius Lamia, who had adopted
Domitia’s husband. He was a quiet man, who had no ambition, had taken no
offices, and had passed his time in taming birds. He was the son of a
better known man, who had been a friend of Horace.
The old woman, gentle in manner, took Domitia by the hand and led her into
the tablinum, where was old Lamia, a cripple through gout, and he kissed
the girl, patted her hands and spoke an affectionate welcome.
“Claudia and I,” said he, “were childless and so we adopted Lucius. He has
been a good son to us, and this is a happy day to all three,—to him who
has secured the sweetest flower of Rome, and to Claudia and me who obtain
so good a daughter. But, ah! we are old and have our humors, I, with my
gout, am liable to be peevish. You must bear with our infirmities. You
will have a worthy husband, one cut out of the old rock of which were the
ancient Romans, and not of the Tiberine mud of which the present
generation are moulded.”
“Come now,” said the old woman, “the guests are about to depart, bid them
farewell.”
Then she led the young girl back into the atrium.
There stood the Chaldæan, dark, stern, ominous.
Domitia in exuberant joy smiled at him, and said:
“Elymas! You see my happiness. Isis has for once been in error—we, my
Lamia and I, are united, and there have been no hands thrust forth to part
us.”
“My lady,” said the astrologer, “the day is not yet over.”
“And the auguries were all propitious.”
“The promise of the augurs may not jump with thy desire,” he replied.
She had no time for more words, as her hand was caught by L. Ælius Lamia,
who drew her aside into the _lararium_ or chapel.
“My dearest,” he said, “this is a day of trial to thee—but we shall be
left undisturbed shortly. The guests depart and the riot will cease.”
She looked at him, with eyes that brimmed with tears, and a sob relieved
her heart, as she cast herself on his breast and said:—
“Quoniam tu Caius, ego Caia.”