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‘This is so undignified!’ gasps Pompeia Camilla, holding up the hem of her stola the better to run. ‘I’m a forty-year-old Roman matron in mourning. What if somebody sees me?’ ‘We don’t have to do this now, domina,’ says Amarantus, slowing down so he can jog beside her. ‘Yes, we do!’ she puffs. ‘Elections are next week, and I want you to receive your formal manumission.’ Nine days after her son’s funeral, when the time of purification was over, Pompeia declared Amarantus free in the presence of friends and relatives, but until he is touched by a rod called a vindicta in the presence of a magistrate from the city of Rome, he will not enjoy the formal privileges of citizenship, including the right to vote. If they can catch this magistrate before he leaves town, she can ensure that Amarantus is officially freed. Pompeia strains to keep up with Scumnicolus, Papilio and Mestrius, who are all running ahead of her. Leading the way is street urchin Sophe. She’s the one who told them that the rich magistrate from Rome was passing through Pompeii on the way to a friend’s Stabian villa. ‘Do we have everything we need?’ calls out Pompeia, pressing her hand to her ribs to ease a stitch. ‘Yes!’ puffs Amarantus. ‘I have the rod!’ Mestrius calls over his shoulder. ‘I have a stylus and a three-leaved wax tablet!’ shouts Papilio. ‘And I sent Grata out to find another witness,’yells Scumnicolus. ‘I hope Grata brings someone who is a citizen,’ gasps Pompeia as they turn left onto the Stabian Way. Now it’s downhill and at last Pompeia finds her stride. When she was a little girl, she loved to run but her father always told her it was an unseemly activity for freeborn girls. On this beautiful spring morning she almost feels she can outrun her grief. She lost her son, but she still has her daughter and faithful Amarantus. She is now the sole owner of the bar and house with its rooms to let. She is no longer under any man’s power. She can make any decision she likes. If only she can keep receiving income from her lodgers, she feels confident they will survive. Running downhill is almost like flying. Shopkeepers greet her with cheerful jokes and waves of the hand. ‘I’m so out of shape!’ laughs Papilio. For the past three weeks he has been plastering and repainting the cracked frescoes in the house and bar and has become like another member of the family. He’s always cheerful and joking. ‘I’m not out of shape,’ says Mestrius, breathing deeply. ‘I’m superbly fit.’ Pompeia can’t help smiling. Mestrius is still as vain as ever, but since his short eulogy for her son, she has warmed to him too. Just as well, for it seems he might soon marry Fabia, who has been going to the Temple of Venus almost daily. Pompeia suspects she is secretly being courted by Mestrius. ‘There he is!’ shouts Amarantus. Pompeia looks in the direction of his pointing finger. Sure enough, she sees a fine double-curtained litter with six bearers. They have almost reached the town gate. Before the litter can pass through the arch, Sophe streaks ahead of the litter-bearers and then flings out her arms to block their way. Pompeia laughs and Mestrius cries, ‘I’ll keep him talking until you arrive.’ He sprints ahead. When the rest of them come panting up a few heartbeats later, Pompeia sees pink-cheeked Mestrius chatting and laughing with someone inside the litter, which is now resting like a curtained couch on the paving stones just inside the town gate. The six big litter-bearers stand to attention in a row behind it. As she gets closer, she sees the double curtains of linen and cowhide pulled back to reveal a plump bald man. Mestrius is holding out a little glass phial of unguent. ‘I’m telling you,’ Mestrius is saying. ‘Rub a little on your scalp every day and by the festival of Jupiter you’ll have a full head of hair.’ ‘How much?’ The plump man is reclining on his elbow as if on a dining couch. ‘No cost,’ says Mestrius. ‘All we ask is that you quickly witness the manumission of a slave.’ ‘I really must be getting on to my friend’s villa,’ says the man. But Pompeia notes that he can’t take his eyes off the bottle. ‘Please, sir!’ she gasps. ‘My slave Amarantus saved our lives in the earthquake last month. I dearly want him to become my freedman. Can you not spare a quarter of an hour?’ He glances at her, then back at the bottle, then at Amarantus. Then, quick as a cobra, he snatches the unguent from Mestrius and drops it down the front of his tunic. ‘I suppose I can officiate …’ He swings his legs out of the litter so that he is sitting and facing them. ‘You need at least three citizens to serve as witnesses.’ He wrinkles his nose at Scumnicolus. ‘I only see two.’ ‘We’ve sent someone to fetch one more,’ says Scumnicolus with a scowl. ‘I’m sorry,’ says the magistrate. ‘I can’t wait. |
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‘Don’t go!’ cries Pompeia. She has just spotted someone coming through the gate: a young man with big ears and a toga, accompanied by a woman and two slaves. ‘I know that man. He’s a citizen.’ She flaps her palla and calls out, ‘Lucius!’ ‘Pompeia,’ he says, coming over. ‘How are you? I was sorry to hear you lost your son in the earthquake.’ ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘It would have been worse but my slave Amarantus saved our lives by making the rest of us stay in the open. I’ve asked this kind magistrate to witness his manumission, but we need one more witness. Can you spare a few moments?’ ‘Of course,’ he says, and to his wife, ‘Metella, my dear, wait by that fountain? I’ll only be a few moments.’ ‘Oh, you have a wife and a baby!’ cries Pompeia. ‘Yes,’ says Metella, coming closer and proudly showing the baby in her arms. ‘His name is Quintus.’ ‘No time for that now,’ huffs the plump magistrate. Pompeia gives Metella a warm smile. ‘Come to my house for a cup of mulsum one afternoon and we’ll catch up on news.’ Then she turns her attention to the magistrate. There is just enough room inside the town gate for Pompeia and the men to stand in a semi-circle around the litter. At this moment Grata arrives, obviously near tears. Pompeia gives her a reassuring smile and points at the big-eared young man as if to say ‘We found a witness!’ |
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Then Pompeia nods at Mestrius. They have rehearsed this several times. The blond perfume dealer steps forward and gives Amarantus a smart tap on the head with his birch rod. ‘I claim,’ he says dramatically, ‘that this man is free and not a slave!’ The magistrate nods and looks at Pompeia. ‘Do you offer any defence?’ ‘No. What he says is true.’ ‘Then I award to the plaintiff,’ says the magistrate. ‘What is your name?’ ‘Sextus Pompeius Amarantus!’ says Amarantus proudly. ‘Tablet?’ The magistrate snaps his fingers and Papilio hands him the bronze stylus and three-leaved tablet. ‘Good, good,’ says the magistrate, looking it over. ‘Yes, this is all in order.’ He presses his ring into the soft red wax, signs his name and then gives it back to Papilio. ‘Now each of you must sign your name and press your seal, too.’ The three men inscribe their names with Papilio’s stylus and then add the imprint of their signet rings. ‘Take this tablet to the proper place and register it,’ the magistrate says to Amarantus. ‘You are now a free man and a Roman citizen. Use your vote and responsibilities wisely.’ They all watch his litter bearers carry him through the gate. As the others turn to go home, Pompeia reaches down the front of her stola and pulls out a soft cap of pine green felt. ‘This is no longer just for the Saturnalia,’ she says as she places it on her former slave’s head, ‘but for whenever you like. Sextus Pompeius Amarantus, I pronounce that you are free!’ |
