tell-tale
stripe on it that marked a citizen who had
given her husband (or husbands, considering the divorce rate) at
least three living children was the same golden umber as her
tunica.
“I need to have Akila help my seamstress make
me a new stola for the Matralia in June. Maybe two new ones, since
I’ve got to go to at least three weddings that month.” Aemilia
said.
“Of course Akila will help,” Octavia assured
her friend. “She brought home a gorgeous bolt of deep grey wool
that she suggested I give to you as a present, because it would be
such a good color on you. We could use that to start.”
“Grey?” Aemilia looked skeptical. “I don’t
know if I want grey.”
“Have you ever known Akila to be wrong about
a color?” Octavia asked.
“You have a point. Did she do the instita on
your gown, or hire it out?”
“She did the decorative stitching at the
neck, but let Fulvia and Miriam do the instita around the hem. She
says they are almost as good as she is now.”
“Do you think …” Aemilia began, but was
suddenly cut off by the blast of horns signaling that the first
fight was going to commence. She promptly forgot what she was
saying and became engrossed in the activities beginning in the
arena.
Octavia smiled at her friend’s eagerness. She
didn’t understand the love Aemilia had for watching combat, but she
joined the cheering throng in solidarity with her.
“Run, you shit-eating rat! Run!” Aemilia
bellowed, completely caught up in the struggle taking place on the
sand below her in the ring. A wiry little man, one who looked like
he came from one of the Roman territories in the far west, had
ducked under a massive club that had been swung by a gigantic
Nubian whose huge muscles bunched under his shining ebony skin.
Although most spectators sat in the shade of a large canvas awning
that stretched over most of the Colosseum, the gladiators were
fighting in the bright sun. The white sands of the ring seemed
incandescent, and the pale background served to make the Nubian
look even more sublime.
The smaller fighter was now fleeing toward
one of the small fortifications that dotted the mock battlefield.
If he could outrace his larger opponent then he could clamber to
the top of one of the free-standing walls. There he would get some
breathing room to figure out how to recover some of the weaponry he
had lost in the scuffle. If he couldn’t, then the Nubian would
quickly trounce him and be declared the winner, thus ending the
bout. Most people were screaming encouragement for the scrawny
gladiator, in the selfish hope of extending the fight.
Aemilia leaned over and asked Octavia, as
quietly as she possibly could considering the noise level of the
crowd around them, if she thought the Nubian was a gladiator she
would like to know better.
“No,” Octavia declined,
after some thought. “He doesn’t move me that way.” It was true that
the man was beautiful, both in his face and in his proportions, and
had the same predatory grace as a lion, but she was untempted. She
had seen several other men of outstanding good looks in the arena
today, and so far there were none who
ignited even the smallest flame or drop of moisture in her cold and
arid privates.
The larger gladiator had caught his smaller
foe just short of a fortification and was now holding the man aloft
by one ankle while his captive struggled rather comically. The
crowd roared with delight and broke out in a cacophonous clamor of
appreciation when the Nubian celebrated his win by spinning his
defeated opponent over his head and letting him fly face first into
the dirt.
“I need to go to the lavatorium,” Octavia
told Aemilia, “but I’ll be back before the start of the next
match.” She set off toward the toilets, which were long marble
benches with holes cut in them that opened over a sewer. There was
absolutely no privacy, and she would have to do her business while
almost pressed against the person beside her. The water
stripe on it that marked a citizen who had
given her husband (or husbands, considering the divorce rate) at
least three living children was the same golden umber as her
tunica.
“I need to have Akila help my seamstress make
me a new stola for the Matralia in June. Maybe two new ones, since
I’ve got to go to at least three weddings that month.” Aemilia
said.
“Of course Akila will help,” Octavia assured
her friend. “She brought home a gorgeous bolt of deep grey wool
that she suggested I give to you as a present, because it would be
such a good color on you. We could use that to start.”
“Grey?” Aemilia looked skeptical. “I don’t
know if I want grey.”
“Have you ever known Akila to be wrong about
a color?” Octavia asked.
“You have a point. Did she do the instita on
your gown, or hire it out?”
“She did the decorative stitching at the
neck, but let Fulvia and Miriam do the instita around the hem. She
says they are almost as good as she is now.”
“Do you think …” Aemilia began, but was
suddenly cut off by the blast of horns signaling that the first
fight was going to commence. She promptly forgot what she was
saying and became engrossed in the activities beginning in the
arena.
Octavia smiled at her friend’s eagerness. She
didn’t understand the love Aemilia had for watching combat, but she
joined the cheering throng in solidarity with her.
“Run, you shit-eating rat! Run!” Aemilia
bellowed, completely caught up in the struggle taking place on the
sand below her in the ring. A wiry little man, one who looked like
he came from one of the Roman territories in the far west, had
ducked under a massive club that had been swung by a gigantic
Nubian whose huge muscles bunched under his shining ebony skin.
Although most spectators sat in the shade of a large canvas awning
that stretched over most of the Colosseum, the gladiators were
fighting in the bright sun. The white sands of the ring seemed
incandescent, and the pale background served to make the Nubian
look even more sublime.
The smaller fighter was now fleeing toward
one of the small fortifications that dotted the mock battlefield.
If he could outrace his larger opponent then he could clamber to
the top of one of the free-standing walls. There he would get some
breathing room to figure out how to recover some of the weaponry he
had lost in the scuffle. If he couldn’t, then the Nubian would
quickly trounce him and be declared the winner, thus ending the
bout. Most people were screaming encouragement for the scrawny
gladiator, in the selfish hope of extending the fight.
Aemilia leaned over and asked Octavia, as
quietly as she possibly could considering the noise level of the
crowd around them, if she thought the Nubian was a gladiator she
would like to know better.
“No,” Octavia declined,
after some thought. “He doesn’t move me that way.” It was true that
the man was beautiful, both in his face and in his proportions, and
had the same predatory grace as a lion, but she was untempted. She
had seen several other men of outstanding good looks in the arena
today, and so far there were none who
ignited even the smallest flame or drop of moisture in her cold and
arid privates.
The larger gladiator had caught his smaller
foe just short of a fortification and was now holding the man aloft
by one ankle while his captive struggled rather comically. The
crowd roared with delight and broke out in a cacophonous clamor of
appreciation when the Nubian celebrated his win by spinning his
defeated opponent over his head and letting him fly face first into
the dirt.
“I need to go to the lavatorium,” Octavia
told Aemilia, “but I’ll be back before the start of the next
match.” She set off toward the toilets, which were long marble
benches with holes cut in them that opened over a sewer. There was
absolutely no privacy, and she would have to do her business while
almost pressed against the person beside her. The water
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