Otacilia Severa: An Imperial Portrait and Two Roman Encounters

Terentia had decided to leave Rome before anyone decided to make her leave. She had a place on a cart going north, a bundle of clothes under her bed, and almost enough money. Almost was why she stood in a stranger's courtyard with a stolen purse beneath her sleeve.

The gathering was in honor of the host's birthday. Terentia had entered beside two guests who were arguing about a horse. Neither had looked at her. Now she was waiting for them to leave so she could follow them out again. In the warm evening of the year 246, nobody seemed eager to go anywhere.

She could hear the coins inside the purse when she moved her arm. One showed the face of Otacilia Severa. Terentia had glimpsed it while checking her prize behind a door. She hoped the empress would keep quiet.

“You are standing on my cloak,” said a woman beside her.

Terentia stepped away. The woman was old, dressed in dark red, and seated on a low bench. Her eyes were as alert as Terentia's.

“Sorry,” Terentia said.

“That wasn't the word I expected. Usually people say they didn't see it.”

Terentia smiled and looked toward the gate.

“If you leave through there,” the woman continued, “my nephew will ask who invited you. He likes asking questions whose answers he knows.”

The host stood near the gate, greeting a new arrival. The two men with the horse had joined him. Terentia had missed her chance.

The woman held out an empty hand.

Terentia's stomach tightened. She had been caught before. Once she had talked her way free. Once she had been beaten. She did not like the calm ones.

“I don't have anything of yours,” she said.

“I know. My staff is in the room behind us. My nephew put it there. He says I can lean on his arm when I leave. Apparently a staff makes his family look old.”

“Then ask him for it.”

“I did. He said later. I dislike being stored until later.”

Terentia looked at the room. Its door stood open. A tall wooden staff rested against the wall, behind a table piled with folded cloth.

“You want me to take it?”

“I want you to bring it to me. I could get it myself, but getting up from this bench is difficult without it. A foolish place to sit. That was my choice.”

Terentia did not move. There must be more. The woman had noticed her, had warned her about the gate, and now wanted something. Perhaps the staff was a test. Perhaps she meant to call out when Terentia picked it up.

“What will you give me?” Terentia asked.

“A way out. Walk beside me. He won't stop us both.”

That sounded possible. It also sounded like work without profit, except that Terentia already had the profit. She kept her arm close to her side and went into the room.

The staff was heavier than it looked. She took it with her free hand. On her way back, a guest stepped into the doorway carrying a cup. Terentia turned sideways to pass him. Her hidden purse struck the table, slipped from her sleeve, and fell onto the stone floor.

The guest had been looking into his cup. At the sound, he looked down.

“My purse,” he said.

Terentia could have dropped the staff and run. The gate was open. But the host was there, and running would give him a reason to grab her. She stood still while the guest bent to pick up his purse.

“Where did you find it?” he asked.

Terentia pointed at the table. Her mouth had gone dry.

“Someone must have left it here.”

He opened it and counted. He took so long that she began to hate each coin separately. At last he nodded and stepped aside, already calling to a friend about his missing property. He had his money. He wanted an audience more than an explanation.

Terentia brought the staff to the bench.

The woman looked at her empty sleeve, then at her face. “Shall we?”

They went slowly. Terentia offered an arm; the woman used it for rising, then walked with the staff. At the gate, the nephew frowned.

“Aunt, I was going to escort you.”

“And now you may stay with your guests.”

He looked at Terentia. “Who is this?”

“Someone who did what I asked.”

Outside, the woman let go of Terentia's arm. A servant waiting farther down the street came toward them with a lamp.

“You lost something in there,” the woman said.

“Yes.”

“Will you go back for it?”

Terentia laughed once. The sound surprised her. “No.”

She returned to her room and counted her own money. Without tonight's purse, she could still pay for the cart. She would have less for meals on the road. She put the coins in her bundle and left out a second tunic to sell in the morning.

At dawn, she climbed onto the cart with bread, one tunic, and no stolen birthday money. The driver asked whether she had forgotten anything.

“A very profitable evening,” she said. “Go.”

I came to Rome with a list. This was my first mistake, although at the time I thought it proved I was a serious traveler. In the year 248, the city was celebrating a thousand years since its founding. I intended to see enough to keep my friends at home listening through the winter.

My companion, Blandus, intended to eat well and avoid being stepped on. He had been to Rome before. I considered this a sad waste of experience.

We arrived early at a crowded approach to the day's entertainment. I found a strip of shade beside a wall and stood with my elbows out. Blandus said he would find water. I told him to hurry. He told me that water could not hear me.

I waited. People moved past carrying baskets, children, and the firm belief that everyone else was in the way. A man asked me to move so he could get his cart through. I moved, lost half my shade, and gained the warm smell of onions from his load.

A woman came up beside me. She wore a plain brown dress and carried a small bag. She looked at the space I had kept for Blandus.

“Is someone standing there?” she asked.

“My friend.”

“He's very thin.”

“He went for water.”

“Then I shall stand here until he returns.”

She did. I could not think of an argument that would leave me looking sensible. After a while she asked where I came from. I told her, and she said she had never been there. I began to describe our streets. She listened for two sentences, then pointed toward the crowd.

“Your friend?”

Blandus was coming back with a cup and a piece of bread. I reached for the cup. He let me drink, then took it back before I emptied it.

“The water seller is over there,” he said. “There is a place nearby serving food. I'm going.”

“Now? We have only just arrived.”

“We arrived this morning. You have been defending a wall ever since.”

I looked at the crowd. More people were coming. If I left now, I would lose my place. I had told everyone at home that I would see the great celebration. Going for food felt like admitting defeat before anything had happened.

“Go, then,” I said. “I'll stay.”

Blandus gave me the rest of the bread. He described the eating place twice: a narrow doorway, a green shutter, past the man selling onions. I said I understood. He left.

The woman broke off a piece of her own bread. “You may regret that.”

“I can eat later.”

“I meant the company.”

I turned toward the noise beyond the crowd. Someone cheered. Everyone around me lifted their heads. I saw a raised arm, the top of a hat, and a bird crossing the bright sky. The woman could see even less than I could.

For a time we moved with the crowd. I thought each step would bring a clear view. Instead it brought someone else's back. When I tried another way, I ended up near the onion cart again. The woman was still beside me, laughing at my expression.

“I have seen this cart three times,” I said.

“Then you can give a very good account of it.”

I wanted to be angry with her. But she had made no promise, and neither had Rome. The list was mine. So was the idea that the afternoon would be a failure unless I could carry home every part of it.

I asked whether she knew the eating place with the green shutter.

“Everyone knows it. The shutter has been broken for years.”

She led me there. I offered to buy her food. She declined; she was meeting her sister nearby. At the door she wished me a better afternoon and left before I could ask her name.

Blandus was sitting on a bench with a bowl in front of him. He made room without saying that he had been right. I appreciated that more than I wished to admit.

“Well?” he asked.

“I saw onions.”

“Fine onions?”

“Excellent. Some of the largest in the empire.”

He laughed so hard that the woman serving us came to see what was wrong. I asked for a bowl too and put down my coins. Otacilia Severa's face looked up from one of them. The woman took what she needed and pushed the rest back. I was too hungry to watch which portrait she kept.

After we ate, Blandus asked what came next on my list. I took it out and read it. Then I folded it and said we could walk until we found something we liked.

That evening we sat where we could hear people passing and watched the light leave the roofs. I had missed more than I had seen. I knew my friends would ask about the great sights. I would have to tell them the truth.

Blandus asked whether I was disappointed.

“A little.”

“Good. We can come back.”

I still have the list. Beside the first item, I later wrote: onions, water, a woman whose name I should have asked. I made no notes beside the other items.