enclosed garden—the peristyle.
It was not my massive ancient opulent old home on the Palatine Hill, which had grown new corridors and rooms over many generations, penetrating its broad gardens.
It was a bit too glossy. But it was grand. All the walls were freshly painted with a more Oriental bent, I think—more swirls and serpentine lines. How could I judge? I could have fainted from relief. Would people really leave me alone here?
There sat the desk in the atrium, and near it books! Along the porticoes flanking the garden, I saw the many doors; I looked up and saw the second-story windows closed on the porches. Splendor. Safety.
The mosaic floors were old; I knew the style, the festive figures of the Saturnalia on parade. They had to have been brought here from Italy.
Little real marble, plastered columns, but so many well-executed murals full of the requisite happy nymphs.
I went out into the soft wet grass of the peristyle and looked up at the blue sky.
I wanted only to breathe, but now came the moment of truth regarding my belongings. I was too dazed to ask about what was mine. And as it turned out, no such thing was necessary.
Jacob and David first did an entire inventory of the household furnishings they were purchasing for me, as I stood there staring at them in near disbelief at their patience with detail.
And when they’d found every room quite fine, and a bedchamber down the hall to the right, and a small open garden somewhere to the left, beyond the kitchen, they went upstairs, found things proper and then unloaded my possessions. Trunk followed trunk.
Then to my utter shock, Jacob’s father, David, drew out a scroll and actually started taking a full inventory of everything that belonged to me, from hairpins to ink and gold.
Jacob was meantime sent on an errand!
I could see the hasty writing of my Father on this inventory that David read under his breath.
“Personal toilet articles,” David said in final summation of one portion of this examination. “Clothes, one, two, three trunks—to the largest bedroom, go! Household plate to the kitchen. Books here?”
“Yes, please.” I was too shocked at his honesty and meticulousness to speak.
“Ah, so many books!”
“Fine, don’t count them!” I said.
“I cannot, you see, these fragile . . . ”
“Yes, I know. Carry on.”
“You want your ivory and ebony shelves assembled here in the front room?”
“Magnificent.”
I slumped down on the floor, only to be lifted at once by two helpful Asian slaves and settled in an amazingly soft cross-legged Roman chair. I was given a cup of fresh clean-smelling water. I drank it down, thought of blood. Closed my eyes.
“Ink, writing materials on the desk?” asked the old man.
“If you will,” I sighed.
“Now, everybody out,” said the old man, dispensing coins quickly and generously to these Asian slaves, who bowed from the waist and backed out of the room, nearly stumbling over each other.
I was about to try to form some sensible words of gratitude when a fresh brace of slaves rushed in—nearly colliding with the departing crew—carrying baskets of everything edible that a marketplace could yield, including at least nine kinds of bread, jugs of oil, melons, green vegetables and much smoked food that would last for days—fish, beef and exotic sea creatures dried out to look like parchment.
At once to the kitchen, save for a plate of olives and cheese and bread at once for the lady on that table to her left. Fetch the lady’s wine, which her Father has sent.
Oh, how incredible. My Father’s wine.
Then everyone was ordered out again with lots of coins freely given and the old man at once returned to his inventory.
“Jacob, come here, count for me this gold as I read off the list to you! Plate, coin, more coin, jewels of exceptional value? Coin, bars of gold. Yes . . . ”
On and on they went, rushing at it.
Where had my Father hidden all this gold? I couldn’t
It was not my massive ancient opulent old home on the Palatine Hill, which had grown new corridors and rooms over many generations, penetrating its broad gardens.
It was a bit too glossy. But it was grand. All the walls were freshly painted with a more Oriental bent, I think—more swirls and serpentine lines. How could I judge? I could have fainted from relief. Would people really leave me alone here?
There sat the desk in the atrium, and near it books! Along the porticoes flanking the garden, I saw the many doors; I looked up and saw the second-story windows closed on the porches. Splendor. Safety.
The mosaic floors were old; I knew the style, the festive figures of the Saturnalia on parade. They had to have been brought here from Italy.
Little real marble, plastered columns, but so many well-executed murals full of the requisite happy nymphs.
I went out into the soft wet grass of the peristyle and looked up at the blue sky.
I wanted only to breathe, but now came the moment of truth regarding my belongings. I was too dazed to ask about what was mine. And as it turned out, no such thing was necessary.
Jacob and David first did an entire inventory of the household furnishings they were purchasing for me, as I stood there staring at them in near disbelief at their patience with detail.
And when they’d found every room quite fine, and a bedchamber down the hall to the right, and a small open garden somewhere to the left, beyond the kitchen, they went upstairs, found things proper and then unloaded my possessions. Trunk followed trunk.
Then to my utter shock, Jacob’s father, David, drew out a scroll and actually started taking a full inventory of everything that belonged to me, from hairpins to ink and gold.
Jacob was meantime sent on an errand!
I could see the hasty writing of my Father on this inventory that David read under his breath.
“Personal toilet articles,” David said in final summation of one portion of this examination. “Clothes, one, two, three trunks—to the largest bedroom, go! Household plate to the kitchen. Books here?”
“Yes, please.” I was too shocked at his honesty and meticulousness to speak.
“Ah, so many books!”
“Fine, don’t count them!” I said.
“I cannot, you see, these fragile . . . ”
“Yes, I know. Carry on.”
“You want your ivory and ebony shelves assembled here in the front room?”
“Magnificent.”
I slumped down on the floor, only to be lifted at once by two helpful Asian slaves and settled in an amazingly soft cross-legged Roman chair. I was given a cup of fresh clean-smelling water. I drank it down, thought of blood. Closed my eyes.
“Ink, writing materials on the desk?” asked the old man.
“If you will,” I sighed.
“Now, everybody out,” said the old man, dispensing coins quickly and generously to these Asian slaves, who bowed from the waist and backed out of the room, nearly stumbling over each other.
I was about to try to form some sensible words of gratitude when a fresh brace of slaves rushed in—nearly colliding with the departing crew—carrying baskets of everything edible that a marketplace could yield, including at least nine kinds of bread, jugs of oil, melons, green vegetables and much smoked food that would last for days—fish, beef and exotic sea creatures dried out to look like parchment.
At once to the kitchen, save for a plate of olives and cheese and bread at once for the lady on that table to her left. Fetch the lady’s wine, which her Father has sent.
Oh, how incredible. My Father’s wine.
Then everyone was ordered out again with lots of coins freely given and the old man at once returned to his inventory.
“Jacob, come here, count for me this gold as I read off the list to you! Plate, coin, more coin, jewels of exceptional value? Coin, bars of gold. Yes . . . ”
On and on they went, rushing at it.
Where had my Father hidden all this gold? I couldn’t
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