The girl made no further mention of her slave. There were many people out on the forum and she wanted to walk up and down there for a while between the temple and the Curia, all the time holding my arm as if she wanted to show off her prize and possession to people. One or two people called something to her as if they knew her, and the girl laughed and replied without shyness. A senator and a couple of knights and their following met us. They turned their eyes away when they caught sight of the girl. She took no notice.

“As you see, I’m not considered a virtuous girl.” She laughed. “But I’m not entirely depraved. You needn’t be afraid.”

Finally she agreed to come with me into an inn by the cattle market where I boldly ordered hot sausage, pork in a clay bowl, and wine. The girl ate as greedily as a wolf, and wiped her greasy fingers on a corner of her mantle. She did not mix her wine with water, so neither did I. But my head began to whirl, for I was not used to drinking undiluted wine. The girl hummed as she ate, patted my cheek, abused the landlord in simple market language and suddenly struck my hand completely numb with her fist when I accidentally happened to brush against her knee. I could not help but begin to think that she was a little odd in the head.

The inn was suddenly full of people. Musicians, actors and jesters made their way in too and entertained the guests, collecting copper coins in a rattling jar. One of the ragged singers stopped in front of us, plucked at his cittern and sang to the girl:

“Come, oh daughter Of the hang-jowled wolf, She who was born On the cold stone step; Father drank And mother whored, And a cousin took Her virginity.”

But he got no further. The girl rose and slapped him across the face. “Better to have wolf blood,” she screamed, “than piss in your veins like you!

The landlord hastened up to drive away the singer and he poured us out some wine with his own hands.

“Clarissima,” he pleaded. “Your presence is an honor, but the boy is a minor. I beg you to drink up and go. Otherwise I’ll have the magistrates here.”

It was late already and I did not know what to think of the girl’s unrestrained conduct. Perhaps she was in fact a depraved little she-wolf whom the landlord only jokingly addressed as honorable. To my relief she agreed to leave without any fuss, but when we were outside, she seized my arm again firmly.

 

 

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“Come with me as far as to the bridge over the Tiber,” she begged.

As we came down to the riverbank we saw uneasy clouds appearing low in the sky, reddened by the flares from the city. The rough autumn waters sighed invisibly below us and we smelled the mud and decaying reeds. The girl led me to the bridge which went over to the island of Tiber. In the temple of Aesculapius on the island, heartless masters left their mortally sick and dying slaves for whom they had no further use, and from the other side of the island a bridge went on over to the I4th department of the city, the Jewish Transtiberium. The bridge was not a very pleasant place at night. In the gaps between the clouds there glittered a few autumn stars, the river shone darkly, and the moaning of the sick and dying was carried toward us from the island on the wind like a dirge from the underworld.

The girl leaned over the bridge and spat into the Tiber as a sign of her contempt.

“You spit too,” she said, “or are you afraid of the River God?”

I had no desire to dishonor the Tiber, but after she had teased me for a while I spat too, childish as I was. Simultaneously a shooting star flew over the Tiber in a flashing arc. I think I shall remember until my dying day the swirl of the waters, the uneasy shimmering red clouds, the wine fumes in my head and the crystal star curving across the glossy black Tiber.

The girl pressed herself against me so that I could feel how supple her body was, although she was a head shorter than I.

“Your shooting star went from east to west,” she whispered. “I am superstitious. You have lines of happiness on your hands, I’ve noticed. Perhaps you will bring happiness to me too.”

“At least tell me now what your name is,” I said irritably. “I’ve told you mine and I’ve told you about my father. I’m bound to get into trouble at home for staying out so late.”

“Yes, yes, you are but a child,” sighed the girl, taking off her shoes. “I’ll go now, and barefoot too. My shoes have already rubbed my feet so much that I had to lean on you as we walked. Now I no longer need your support. You go home so that you don’t get into trouble because of me.”

But I insisted stubbornly that she should tell me her name. Finally she sighed deeply.

“Do you promise to kiss me on the mouth with your innocent boy’s lips,” she said, “and not be frightened when I tell you my name?”

 

 

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