Chapter Three
The years passed. By this time I had settled into my role in the Palace, and life was relatively quiet save for Commodus' infrequent visits, likened to a sudden season of temperamental weather, tearing up everything in its' path, then disappearing as abruptly as it came, leaving everyone to pick up the pieces. The domestic staff was on tenterhooks from the day of his arrival to the day of his departure.
The notion of rising from my bed at the crack of dawn after an uncomfortable night spent tossing and turning on a lumpy mattress, washing and dressing quickly before taking a hasty breakfast of bread and preserved plums and running down to the kitchens to commence the day's work, slowly became routine. The Empire had been encountering difficulties from the barbarian tribes of Germainia for some time, and so the Emperor spent long periods away from the Palace with the legions, in an attempt to boost their ebbing morale. The pointlessness of it all was a favourite topic among the kitchen staff; Germania had always been a troublesome outpost, yielding little more than continuous antagonism from its inhabitants against the Empire that skirted its rugged borders. Some people suggested that it be best left alone. It wasn't exactly as if the barbarians were ever going to come streaming over the Palatine Hill, was it? But Roman "pride" was at stake; its clarion call, the taming of so-called "barbarism," quelled by the mighty hand of civilisation and "learnedness," was showing distinct cracks for perhaps the first time in its history.
Sadly, Lucilla's husband, Verus, passed away from a rare illness two-and-a-half years after I arrived at the Palace. Lucilla had always struck me as resourceful and strong, so after her mourning period she had resumed her official duties with determination, focussing her energies towards bringing up her boy, Lucius, in fine style. Her resilience provoked a wave of admiration from me, as did her kindness. She had recently made Hestia one of her personal dressers after noticing the way Commodus bullied her, thus ensuring the Gaul girl encountered him as little as possible whenever he was in residence at the Palace. Little Hestia wasn't the best of workers, being small, frail and quick to burst into tears at the slightest provocation; but she was diligent, a tryer, and Lucilla recognised this, taking her under her protective wing. The young Cypriot male servant, Cleandrus, also felt a great deal of affection for Hestia. Whenever she was distressed he would appear, smiling warmly, bearing two goblets of hot fruit cup, and would tell her amusing stories to help lift her spirits. As the pair of them grew to adulthood, I noticed the slowly burgeoning relationship between them. Cleandrus clearly adored her, and Hestia, in return, seemed shyly flattered by his interest. When I was sixteen years old, Cleandrus confided in me that he would like to marry Hestia one day, "when we are free," and take her back to his family's farm on the Greek island of Cyprus.
I hadn't given the possibility of imminent freedom much thought, immersed as I was in daily domestic enterprise; but after this inspiring conversation with the young Cypriot, I began to think seriously about my freedom and what I could do with my life having attained it. I could clean, cook and sew...I loved the feel of rich materials against my fingers as I made the Imperial beds or helped the Emperor, Commodus, or Lucilla to dress. I could read and write a little. My arithmetic was good. I prided myself on my organisational skills. I could open a clothing store! I could import fine silks and brocades from Syria, the Orient, Egypt and Thrace, darning everything by hand...after all, having worked in the Imperial Palace, I could profess, with all sincerity, experience at the highest conceivable level. Then reality would descend, gloomy and limiting, and I would realise that I would have to have money in order to embark realistically on such a project. Perhaps if I married...then again, there were no guarantees I would ever find a husband, let alone one with the requisite financial clout allowing me to open a shop. To begin with, I would have to work for somebody else. My dream, glittering with possibility, flared once more, albeit briefly.
Sometimes, however, the overwhelming drudgery of my everyday predicament made dreaming impossible. This was made uncomfortably clear to me on one midsummer afternoon in particular, a few days after my seventeenth birthday.
I was kneeling on the floor of Commodus' private chamber, darning one of his fine robes. He had inadvertently stepped on it returning from breakfast with his father, sister and nephew, tearing the hem, and I had been summoned swiftly to repair it. The Heir to the Empire was reclining behind his desk, idly leafing through scrolls, pausing to cast the occasional hostile look in my direction as I sewed. My eyes caught his, as I looked up, curious.
"Stop staring at me, slave. Get on with your work," he snapped. "Yes, Sire," I replied, keeping my voice neutral. I lowered my head and resumed stitching. In those days he was constantly trying to provoke a reaction from me, but I would not yield to his demands. I'll never let you see my cry, I thought. Never.
When I had finished, I held the robe before me, inspecting it. Commodus couldn't abide even the slightest imperfection, so for this reason I was extra careful in reviewing my handiwork. Satisfied, I stood, walking over to present the robe to him for approval. As I did so, he looked up once more, scowl intact.
"I didn't tell you to stand, slave! Get back on your knees until I say other wise!" As I did so, I noticed the unmistakable twitch of a self-satisfied smile settle over his features. You smug, arrogant bastard, I thought. Clearing his throat, the young buffoon turned his attentions back to his scrolls. He plucked an apple from the dish on his desk and took a hefty bite, obviously very pleased with himself. Seething inside, I consoled myself with thoughts of Commodus greeting his subjects clad in a robe which, unknown to him, had a dreadful stain on the back. The sound of sniggering Senators and Praetorians followed him as he haughtily paraded, blissfully unaware of his public humiliation. The thought brought a smile to my face, and, just my luck, he noticed. Slamming the apple down on the desk with resounding force, he stood, his face apoplectic with rage.
"How DARE you laugh at me, slave!" he screamed. Stalking over, he unleashed a further verbal torrent in my direction. "Stand up at once, you insolent wretch, or I swear I...I'll have you thrashed! That's right, thrashed to within an inch of your pathetic, worthless life!" He was trembling, but was obviously in no mood for further provocation, so I stood and bowed my head, as was the custom.
"Please accept my humble apologies, Sire. I was not smiling at you. Its just...somebody in the kitchens told a joke today, I recalled it just at that moment, it was very funny..."
"Silence!" he yelled, snatching the robe from my hands with such brute force I feared he would tear it. He cocked his head, inspecting it with narrowed eyes. Then he did the most peculiar thing. Moving over to his desk, he picked up a blade, then returned to stand before me, holding up the robe. With a single deft movement he cut the stitches I had made. He smiled, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"Oh, what a shame!" he sneered, his tone dripping sarcasm. "Your stitches are all undone! Do you really expect me to greet my public wearing this piece of rag? DO YOU?" I jumped inwardly at the sudden raised tone of his voice.
"No, Sire" I whispered, trying not to flinch, instead keeping my gaze level with his.
"Your work is shoddy, slave. Do it again." he muttered, thrusting the robe at me. I stared at him, defiant and self-contained. A muscle jumped in his cheek. His lips twitched. For some reason, I unnerved him!
"What's going on, Commodus?" enquired a female voice behind me, breaking the tension that had suddenly grown between us. I turned and there was Lucilla, emerging from behind a pillar. How long had she been there? I was curious to know, if a little fearful.
Commodus attempted a warm, appeasing smile. "Th-this impudent girl! I dared to criticise her stitching, so she tore this robe! Right in front of my very eyes! I honestly don't know where Father finds them, I mean..."
"Brother, I saw everything." Lucilla sighed, as though resigned to this situation. "Vinca did not tear the robe. You did, with your blade. I witnessed every second of your little exchange, so please do not try to insult my intelligence by suggesting otherwise." I couldn't believe my ears. The Emperor's daughter, speaking in my defence! Commodus visibly reeled, his expression defeated, struggling to harness his shattered pride before his sister. Unabated, Lucilla continued. "And another thing. Many times I have trusted Vinca with the repair and maintenance of my robes, and I have always found her handiwork to be most immaculate. I would say that she is one of the finest handmaidens this Palace has to offer. So excuse me Brother, if your accusations fail to convince me." She folded her arms and cocked a quizzical eyebrow, as if defying him to reply.
"B-but sister, she ...she laughed at me! Such.... insolence! It's obvious she hates me! Just wait till I tell Father. After all, he's more likely to believe the word of his heir than that of some barbarian ignoramus from some Gods-forsaken outpost! I'll..." Lucilla cut him off.
"Yes brother, I am aware that you are indeed heir to the throne, but you forget that I am the elder sibling, and am therefore confident that my word, not yours, will win the day. So go ahead Commodus, do your worst. We'll see whom Father believes. And if Vinca did "laugh" at you, which I sincerely doubt, then it was not without good reason." She turned to me. "Give me the robe, Vinca. I will give it to Hestia to stitch instead. She has relatively little to do this afternoon, and..."
"Oh, surely, sister, not that ham-fisted fool from Gaul!" He was whining now, his pride in tatters.
"It's your own fault Commodus. And while we are on the subject, I'd appreciate it if you refrained from bad-mouthing my personal staff in my presence. Hestia is a fine and loyal worker. Come, Vinca... I will send you on an errand to the Forum instead."
"Yes, my Lady," I replied, bowing my head and following her out of the room.
I couldn't resist sneaking a cursory look back at the heir to the throne as I left. He glared after me, but his expression was impossible to read. It was only years later that I recognised the look...the look acknowledging that he would never break me, despite his best efforts. It was a similar expression to the one he wore whenever he spoke of the mysterious, defiant gladiator and former General he despised with a passion, a couple of years later.
A week or so passed by. Commodus kept a low profile, staying in his quarters, occasionally venturing out into the courtyard for exercise. One morning I was carrying a breakfast tray to Lucilla's quarters when a hand shot out of nowhere, grabbing me roughly. It was Commodus. He leaned close, hissing in my ear; "you may have succeeded in making me look a fool in front of my sister last week, but next time you won't be so fortunate! So just remember this, Vinca. I'll be keeping close tabs on you..." I turned to look at him. He stared back with narrowed eyes, and then he suddenly lost interest. "Now be off with you!" he snarled, giving me a little push towards the corridor. Mercifully, I didn't drop the tray.
Commodus never got the chance to exact his idea of "revenge," as he no doubt thought of it. A couple of weeks later, he departed for a school of swordsmanship on the Caelian Hill. I didn't see him again for almost two years, until the day he returned, "triumphant," from Germania , this time wielding all the power in the world at his fingertips.