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Gardens and Goddesses
The town house of Appius Claudius Pulcher, Rome, 80 BCE
I sat beside Popillia on a stone bench sipping well-diluted wine in the courtyard garden of my father’s house. I scrutinised her face for a hint of emotion. Nothing. Like unpainted marble her perfect cream-coloured skin glowed in the sunlight. She might as well be a statue. Just like the statue of the goddess Venus that stood in the centre of the fountain.
‘How can you be so calm? One day you are planning a carefree summer with us at the villa in Baiae, then the next you have two days to go until the end of your life!’
‘Hardly the end of my life. It’s a great honour…’ I screwed up my face as I interrupted my friend.
‘What rubbish! Maybe if you’d grown up knowing you would be a Vestal from the age of six. If you’d gone to the temple at ten. But you are fourteen, Popilla. Fourteen! You should be meeting men. Falling in love.’ While I frowned, Popillia smiled
‘I am already in love,’ she whispered.
I coughed, choking on the wine. I was particularly prone to choking. My nurse used to say it was caused by trying to think of too many things all at the same time.
‘What?’ I tried again to find some flicker of passion in her beautiful dark eyes. Still nothing. How could she be in love? She never went anywhere that I didn’t know about. Or met anyone when I wasn’t with her. And then it all became clear. As if the statue of the goddess of love had climbed down from her fountain and spoken. Popillia was in love with my brother, Publius. Why hadn’t I realised before? They were very different in character. She was calm and studious and enjoyed reading poetry. He was impetuous and boisterous and loved sports. He was from a patrician family and her family was minor plebeian lately come to a little wealth. They were complete opposites. Of course she was in love with him.
‘But if you are in love then how can you bear to leave your lover?’
‘Because we cannot be married. And so I will remain a virgin in the temple of the goddess, and will learn to love her instead. I’ll tend her sacred fire, and spend my time in prayer and study.’
As Popillia said the word study my brother sauntered into the courtyard.
‘Who is spoiling this perfect summer’s day with talk of study?’
‘Publius, Popillia has to leave for the temple of Vesta the day after tomorrow. Have you any parting words for our dear friend?’ This time I scrutinised my brother’s face. Also nothing. He was grinning as he always did.
Popillia looked down to the floor.
‘I must go,’ she said, standing up. I got up with her and put my arms around her waist, pulling her close into a hug, then I kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Good luck, Popillia. I will miss you. We will miss you.’ She pulled away, nodded, and left, without saying another word. When she had gone I looked towards my brother once more.
‘Don’t you have anything to say? About Popillia?’
He took my wine goblet and drained the remains of the sweet red wine.
‘What a waste of a pretty face.’
As the years went by I thought of Popillia less and less, until I hardly thought of her at all. I saw her sometimes, walking in the procession on feast days (how her feet must hurt) and with the other Vestals in their box at the games (she always hated the games, how could she stand being so close to the blood?)
And while Popillia lived in the House of the Vestals I got married, and bought myself a villa on the Palatine with my own garden. I liked the garden. Marriage not so much. And my brother didn’t become any more sensible with age and experience. If anything, he got worse.
The Villa of Clodia Metelli, Rome, 62 BCE
My brother rushed into the garden, looking even more dishevelled than usual. Not that he ever looked pristine. My husband and brother could each be wearing exactly the same grade of toga, and the one would look like a statesman, the other like an unmade bed.
‘Can I hide out here for a few days? Until it all blows over.’ I raised an eyebrow in the arch way I had perfected from years of practice on numerous lovers.
‘You have heard?’
‘Of course I’ve heard. You are the talk of Rome. A stunt like that. Did you really think you’d get away with it?’ My husband Quintus was scandalised, along with the rest of Rome. It was sacrilege. A man intruding on the rites of Bona Dea, the good goddess.
‘Yes…. I don’t know…. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
‘I’m amazed you got out.’
‘Yes, well, you wouldn’t believe what happened.’ I raised an eyebrow again
Publius took my hand and sat beside me on the stone bench as we had done when we were young.
‘You should have seen me, in a long blue dress A shawl pulled over my face so that you could only see my eyes. He motioned as if putting on a stoa, the shawl that all good, modest matrons wore when out in public.
‘It was all going well at first but then that old bitch Aurelia thought that something was fishy and pulled down my shawl. I ran into the kitchens, and you’ll never guess who I bumped into. Your old mate. The one who went to be a Vestal Virgin!’
‘So it was Popillia who helped you escape?’
‘That’s the best bit of the story. She should have been mortified. You see, I really did bump into her. I tripped through the doorway and held out my hands so I didn’t fall, And my hands landed on her breasts. Both of them. You couldn’t have planned it! Nice breasts too, she’s really kept her figure!’ I frowned.
‘She recognised me at once, and led me out of the Regia. It’s quite a maze out back. So, thanks to Popillia, I am here with you now.’
‘Of course she helped you. Don’t you remember? She was in love with you when we were young.’
‘With me? No. I asked her why she was helping me and she told me it was for the sake of my sister. It was you, my beautiful Clodia. You were the person she was in love with.’
I sat back on the stone bench, looking up at the statue of Venus, in my fountain. A copy of the one at my father’s. Who would have thought it? The notorious Clodia. Lover of poets and politicians. The secret beloved of a Vestal Virgin.
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‘Did you ever wonder why the spider’s web sparkles with dew before morning?’ Some of the younger girls at the front of the circle shook their heads, but most of us nodded. Penthesilea shouted out ‘They are Arachne’s tears’. I looked across at the beautiful girl of about my age, and as our eyes met I could feel myself blush. I hoped that this would appear to be the glow of the firelight.
The attention of the company turned to my mother, who began the story of Arachne and Athena.
‘There once was a girl called Arachne, who lived far away in a village in Lydia. Arachne wasn’t rich; her father was a dyer of wool, and he loved his daughter very much, even more since her mother had gone to the underworld, but he didn’t have much money for a dowry. Neither was Arachne very beautiful. She had pretty dark brown eyes, but her hair was too black and straight, and she was a little too short and a little too plump, compared with the prettiest girls in the village. Her step was too heavy for dancing and her voice was too shrill for singing. Her father was afraid she might never get a husband.
But Arachne was remarkable in one respect; she was an expert at working with wool. Perhaps it was because her earliest memory was of playing with the wool in her father’s workshop. Or perhaps it was because of her exhaustive imagination, as she saw fantastic pictures in her mind and had the skill to recreate them in her weaving. People came from miles around to watch her work, and to admire the finished tapestries. It must be a gift from the gods, they said, a gift from Athena. No said Arachne, it is my skill, and my skill alone. I doubt that Athena could match me, in the beauty of her work. Should she deign to come down from Mount Olympus for a contest, and then we will see who is the most skilled.
It was not long before the news came to Mount Olympus of this proud girl who was an expert at working with wool. As you all know, Athena was not a goddess to be slighted, and so she disguised herself as an old woman and came down to Lydia to meet Arachne. Athena warned Arachne that she should humbly beg forgiveness from the goddess, as all handicrafts are Athena’s gifts to mortals, and are bestowed by Athena alone. Arachne did not recognise the goddess, and told the old woman it is my skill, and my skill alone. Why doesn’t Athena come here herself to take part in a contest, she asked, and then we will see who is the most skilled. An angry Athena revealed herself in her shining armour and her aegis, and accepted the challenge.
Arachne was not afraid of the goddess, and they agreed that the contest would begin at once. Each had a loom, and the best wools, from Arachne’s father’s workshop. Each worked expertly and quickly. Athena wove a picture of the twelve Olympian gods, and the contest between Athena and Poseidon for the patronage of Athens. The olive tree alone was a marvel to behold, and before it stood a perfect copy of Athena in her shining armour and her aegis. In the corners of the tapestry were the stories of gods and mortals, each one a work of art. Her picture was finally completed with a border of olive branches, which brought together the composition, a symbol of peace, and a gift bestowed by the gods.
Arachne also chose the gods as her subject, but while Athena showed the gods to be stately and wise, Arachne wove a different story. In her picture, just as expertly woven as Athena’s, she depicted Europa seduced by Zeus the bull, and Leda seduced by Zeus the swan, and many more of the gods’ seductions of many other mortal girls. Poseidon was there, and Apollo, and Dionysos. All were lifelike, and wondrous to behold. But the girls all looked back to their friends, and the fear could be seen on their faces. For her border Arachne weaved flowers and ivy, the flowers representing the maidens plucked by the gods in the first bloom of their youth.
Athena looked at the tapestry, and was jealous of Arachne’s craft. More than jealous, she was angered that Arachne could so insult her father Zeus and all the gods, by making such a picture. She had hidden under her aegis a bottle which contained the juice of a magical herb. She threw a few drops at Arachne, and Arachne’s long black hair started to cover her whole body. Her body became plumper and her legs became thinner. And in little more than an instant Arachne was turned into a spider. Arachne and her children are still skilled at weaving but instead of making tapestries they can only make the spider’s web. And if you ever see the dewdrops that form on the web of a spider you will know that these are the tears of Arachne’.
All of the women around the campfire clapped, and asked for another story. But that night when we had returned to our tent I asked my mother why we still prayed to Athena, if she did not care for the suffering of mortal girls.
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Atalanta first saw the white hind grazing with the herd in a forest clearing. The hind was not white as virgin snow, but the colour of a field of wheat bleached by the sun, shining beside her darker sisters. A prize fit for a King’s daughter. Such a beast was left by the Lady Artemis when brave Iphigenia would be sacrificed at Aulis in times to come, if one were to believe such tales. Atalanta crept away and said nothing of her discovery.
The next day Atalanta stepped out into the forest again at first light. This time with her bow. The bow with which she had drawn first blood from the Calydonian boar. Her prize had been the boar’s head and hide, given by Meleager. But Meleager had been hit by the arrow from another bow that day; the arrow of Eros, and had died pining with unrequited love. Atalanta thanked the Lady Artemis that she had never been so smitten by the power of Aphrodite and her mischievous son.
The only sound in the forest was the song of the birds. Atalanta, the expert huntress, tread silently. Not a twig broke nor leaf rustled to announce her presence. Hiding behind a hundred year old oak she waited patiently, as a hunter does, and she was not to be unrewarded for her patience.
Soon the white hind stepped out, this time alone. Proud and graceful, the hind looked up and sniffed the morning air, as if she was aware of the presence of an intruder in her world. But she did not flee. Atalanta picked up her bow, still silent, as her well-practised hand pulled back the bowstring, on the arrow already resting there. She found her mark but just as she was about to loose the arrow and secure her prize she hesitated.
Did Atalanta need another trophy? She was already famed throughout many kingdoms, and needed no more trophies to announce her worthiness. And did the Lady Artemis need another sacrifice? Or would the lady think more kindly on her servant if the white hind should be allowed to live?
As Atalanta hesitated the hind turned and ran. What chance there had been was over, and Atalanta returned to the palace. She spoke to no-one of the white hind, and the hind was never to be seen in the forest again.
But Atalanta and the white hind had not been alone in the forest that morning. Aphrodite and Artemis, rivals and not sisters, had surveyed the scene. The Lady Artemis nodded and left; she would no longer protect this girl, who had for the first time shown her mortal weakness. And Aphrodite smiled, holding a beautiful golden apple in her beautiful golden hand.
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Clodia felt that it was time for a change. Now that she was single once again – well, a widow – she would spend some of her money on the house on the Palatine. The wall paintings were looking tired throughout the house, and she was going to start with her bedroom. She wanted the latest style, to cover up any traces of Metellus. There was a young painter, Arellius, who was beginning to earn a reputation for his work in some of the best houses in Rome. And some said he had another reputation too. Clodia was intrigued, and decided to invite him to survey her bedroom and come up with some ideas. Her younger sister-in-law Fulvia was not so sure that this was a good idea.
‘My dear do you really want that Arellius to paint your bedroom? Do you want to open yourself up to more scandal, so soon after your husband’s death? Couldn’t you maybe, start with the dining room?’
‘I only want him to paint the walls, Fulvia, I’m not asking for any other services’, laughed Clodia. ‘Do you think he offers other services?’
Clodia liked to try to shock her sister-in-law. She believed that underneath Fulvia’s composed exterior was an altogether different woman trying to get out. After all, if Fulvia was really the ideal Roman matron that she performed in public then how could she and Clodius be so happy together?
‘Clodius, your sister is incorrigible’, said Fulvia, ‘Can’t you persuade her to choose another room, or even better, another painter…’
‘Oh, she’s never paid any attention to me. Anyway from what I hear Arellius’ taste in women does not aspire to the heights of my beautiful patrician sister. His painting of Hebe is supposed to be based on….’
Fulvia interrupted ‘well if you must have Arellius and he must paint your bedroom then you won’t mind if I meet him with you, just to ensure the proper decorum’
My dear sister-in-law, you should have just asked, if you are as intrigued as me to meet the young painter. I’ll send for you and you can help me decide on a subject for the painting.’
*********
A week later Clodia and Fulvia were seated in an alcove in the peristyle, the private courtyard at the back of the house, drinking Falernian wine. One of the slaves brought Arellius into the courtyard, and he was handed a glass of the wine, and took the stool the had been placed in front of the two women. He was a handsome young man in his twenties, with dark hair, a suntanned face, broad shoulders and a broader smile.
‘Good afternoon, Arellius, I am pleased to meet you, as is my sister-in-law Fulvia.’ Fulvia nodded to Arellius, looking not particularly pleased.
‘How do you like my wine?’ asked Clodia.
‘The wine is very good, thank you, my lady. My clients rarely share their best wine with tradesmen’.
‘Oh I wouldn’t call you a tradesman. You are an artist, surely?’
‘Artist, artisan, tradesman, call me what you will.’
‘Artist, then. And my garden. Any improvements you would suggest?’
‘The garden, like its owner, is well-renowned for its beauty, and on surveying both garden and owner I am happy to say that both are beyond my expectations and quite perfect.’
Fulvia’s eyes hardened at the impertinence of the painter but Clodia smiled. If she was a little shocked at the audacity of the young man she didn’t show it.
‘Your slave told me that you would like me to paint one of your rooms.’
‘Yes, my bedroom. It’s over on the right, my slave will show it to you later. I want it painted in the latest style, with the columns and the little mythological pictures I hear you are so good at.'
Fulvia was pleased that at least Clodia had taken her advice and decided not to take Arellius into her bedroom herself.
‘And do you have any ideas on which myth you would like me to paint? I see by your fountain that you are fond of the goddess Aphrodite’. He glanced towards the statue in the fountain at the centre of the courtyard, adorned by the crouching naked figure of the goddess, her hair half undone.
‘The goddess of love is perhaps not the subject for a widow’s bedroom’ Clodia replied, raising her eyebrows, but her tone was more playful than disapproving.
‘Oh I am sorry, I should not have been so indelicate. My sincere condolences. I never met Metellus but I hear he was a great Patrician.'
‘Indeed he was’, said Fulvia. Fulvia had never liked Metellus. Although he was only a couple of years older than Clodia they seemed to be a generation apart. Metellus had always been opposed to Clodius and was disapproving of her own and Clodia’s interest in politics. But she was pleased that Arellius seemed to have finally remembered his place.
‘So tell me, Aphrodite aside, what are people with the best taste commissioning for their room paintings this year?’ asked Clodia, returning to business.
‘As the first woman of Rome, you can set the taste, rather than follow it.'
Clodia laughed. She had actually not been at all offended at the idea of Aphrodite, but Arellius had given her an idea.
‘You flatter me, Arellius, I am just one Roman woman among many. But the first woman. That might be a subject for your painting.'
‘Ah, Pandora. Yes of course. I think that would be an excellent scheme for three painted panels.’
‘Excellent indeed. I’ll have my slave take you to the room now. Fulvia and I are going out.’
Clodia and Fulvia got up, leaving Arellius alone on the peristyle.
‘So what did you think of the impertinent young painter?’ asked Clodia, when the women were alone, ‘do you think his reputation with the ladies is an exaggeration. He is nearer your age than mine, so you must have an opinion?’
‘Why does my age mean I should have an opinion?’
‘I could see you blush when you looked at his muscles. Oh don’t deny it, you try to be a proper Roman woman, but you are married to Clodius, after all.’
Fulvia stifled a giggle but said nothing. Clodia had long thought that her sister-in-law could be more fun if only she would allow herself to be a little more indiscreet. But both women agreed on one thing. Arellius was probably trouble and best left to his painting and his other women.
**********
Arellius came back the next day to show Clodia his initial sketches but she would not see them. She would not see Arellius either, but gave a message through her slave that Arellius was to ‘surprise her’. Clodia’s bed was moved to a room off the atrium while the painting took place, and the lady of the house was not to be seen by the painter for the three long weeks he took to complete the room. Starting at sunrise he worked on the plaster until the light faded with only a little bread and cheese to sustain him. First he painted the architectural details; red columns contrasting with the golden yellow background, using a ruler for the precise dimensions to create an illusion of depth, as if the columns stood out from the wall. He left the three spaces for his mythological paintings until last.
For the paintings he had prepared cartoons of imagined scenes from the story of Pandora. The first picture was her adornment by the gods. His first attempt had been depiction of her creation, with the blacksmith god Hephaestus creating the first woman from clay on the orders of Zeus. But he hadn’t been happy with the composition. The lame god had looked awkward, and he felt that Pandora needed a different divine companion. He had a choice of gods for her adornment; the giving of gifts to the first woman whose name meant all giving. He would have liked to have included Aphrodite, but after his conversation with his patroness in the garden he decided against this, and instead chose to depict Pandora attended by Hermes on her right and Athena on her left. Pandora had been clothed by Athena in a shining robe and a youthful, girl-like Hermes looked into her dark brown eyes, as he formed her character. On completion of the painting Arellius stood back to admire his work. He was very pleased with his triptych composition, and felt satisfied to move on to the next panel and the next phase of Pandora’s story.
The second picture was a depiction of a wedding, that of Pandora and Epimetheus. Epimetheus was painted as a handsome young man in his twenties and Pandora appeared a little older, but a great beauty. As was written in the story she was the image of an immortal goddess, on whom her appearance was modelled. Beneath her bright blue tunic and red shawl her slender form was visible, and the shape of her breasts were discernible. Her eyes were the ox eyes of Hera, but her breasts were Aphrodite’s. Arellius’ skill with the paintbrush had created a woman who wore the stola and palla of a Roman matron, but in the gauzy material that would have adorned the goddess of love herself, should she have chosen to cover her divine nakedness. The married couple walked on rose petals, and more petals filled the air around them; offerings to the goddess of love.
The third picture was dominated by a large storage jar; a pithos made of clay. It was decorated by many symbols, which Arellius felt had some meaning but even he, the artist, could not decipher them. Pandora stood behind the jar, the lid in her hand, though still on top of the jar. Pandora looked directly from the picture as if into the eyes of anyone who confronted her, a smile on her face. She seemed pleased that she would be performing the task ahead of her, the task for which Zeus had created her. Both she and the jar were one, a deadly weapon to cause suffering to mankind.
***********
Arellius was well paid for his work, but the money came from the hands of a slave, not the hand of his patroness. As she had heard of his reputation, he too had probably heard of hers, and maybe even hoped for a moment. But that wasn’t Clodia’s way.
A few days later Clodia showed the paintings to Clodius and Fulvia.
‘The audacity of that young man. Look, he’s painted himself into the picture as Epimetheus! You will now have to contend with his smirking face as you undress every evening,’ said Fulvia. ‘I’m surprised you paid him so much. If this were my bedroom I’d have the painting covered over by a more respectable tradesman.'
Clodius grinned ‘Of course he isn’t the only person he painted into the picture. Look at Pandora’s dark eyes’. Fulvia put her hand to her mouth, eyes wide as she looked at her sister-in-law and back at the painting.
‘Fulvia don’t look so shocked. If you were a widow and my age you would be happy if someone painted you to look so well. I’m quite pleased with the way he has captured my eyes.’
‘And the subject matter is entirely suitable’ added her brother ‘Clodia as Pandora, the beautiful evil put on earth to wreak havoc on unsuspecting men.’
‘That’s a little harsh, even from you’, said Clodia, ‘but if that is true, you men certainly deserve a little havoc once in a while, don’t they Fulvia!’ A secret smile passed between the two women, and Clodia confirmed what she had suspected for a while, that Fulvia was indeed going to be more fun, and also more indiscreet, in the future.
