Authors: J. L. Farris

Floralia

Cover design and
photomanipulation by J. L. Farris.

Couple stock photograph by Hot Damn Stock
Background stock photograph by Bernhard Siegl

* * *

It was already late April, and the Floralia was nigh.

Livia was exceedingly aware of this fact. A
signboard had been posted at the end of her street for a fortnight, loudly proclaiming that the festivities dedicated to the goddess Flora would begin on the 28
th
day of April and conclude on the 3
rd
of May.

The billboard, however, was mostly unnecessary.
Livia would hear about it incessantly – through the excited chatter of adolescent boys loitering below her window, or from the giggling and gossiping of pretty young wives gathered at the local water-fountain.

Floralia this, Floralia that
. The festival had not even begun and Livia was already tired of hearing about it.

The Floralia was the six-day religious festival held in honour
of Flora, the flowery maiden goddess of plant life, fertility and the season of spring. She was a minor goddess for the most part – but a very ancient one nevertheless – and a firm favourite of many Romans come springtime.

There was much music and dancing and drinking to be had at the Floralia, Livia knew, as well
as a panoply of revels and spectacles: drama performances, contests and games and gladiator combats, as well as the all-important sow-sacrifices made to Flora at her temple on the Aventine Hill.

Though
the festival was loved by many Romans, many others nonetheless thought on it less favourably. There were many who considered it six days and nights of unbridled wantonness: a festival dedicated to lust and drunken debauchery, where dancers performed unclad, lovers stole away into dark nooks together for liaisons, and every second woman was a prostitute, given free rein to walk amongst the people and ply her trade.

One such person had been Livia’s father
; a stern, staunch and stoic plebeian shopkeeper by the name of Livius. Even though he had never tilled a field in his life, Livia’s father had fancied himself something of an honest Republican-farmer – clinging closely to the example of the great pre-Imperial statesman Cincinnatus – and imposed on himself and his family a mode of humility and simple virtue.

“No daughter of mine will
observe the Floralia,” her father would grumble – more than once, and sometimes completely unprompted by Livia. “Drunkenness and debauchery! We will have no part of it.”

The
words took firm root. Though her father had gone to the Gods some years hence and she was now a fully-grown woman, she had still not attended the Floralia.

It would come and go
every year, and Livia would avoid it whenever possible. She would skirt around the forums, plazas and avenues where festivities were being held, and would maintain a very safe distance from the temples and shrines dedicated to Flora. Of a night she would close her shutters to the sounds of music and merrymaking drifting down the streets. She would shoo away whatever goats that might wander, with gormless expressions and daisy garlands around their necks, to her doorstep. For six days in late April and early May, bright bouquets of flowers and gaudily-coloured clothing were anathema to her.

And things proceeded in that manner.
The first day of that year’s festival came and went – there was the usual music and dancing and performances, the mock-gladiator combats fought by prostitutes, the flowing wine, the religious rites... and of course the trysts and lovemaking. And Livia, to the surprise of no one, kept her distance.

It was afternoon on
the second day of the festival and Livia, carrying a wicker basket of bread, fruits and vegetables, was returning home from the markets. She rented a small room on the second floor of her building, and her next-door neighbour, Drusilla, was only just stepping out of her door as Livia approached.

Drusilla was an older woman, not long past her fiftieth year.
She was still comely, however, and one knew when looking upon her that she had been a striking beauty in her youth.

She turned
presently to Livia and gave her a warm smile. “Will you be going to the Floralia, dear one?”

Livia had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “
No, Drusilla,“ Livia said. She would ask her the same question every single April. ”Not this year.”

“Oh,” Drusilla sighed.
She gave an exaggerated frown. “I do wish you would go, Livia. Just once, at least.”

“
Honestly, I don’t see the point of it,”

“Floralia does not need
a point!” Drusilla replied. “Or it is its own point, rather. You’re young and gorgeous, Livia! But you won’t be forever.”

Livia could not help but blush at that.

“I want to see you enjoy yourself, my dear,” Drusilla continued. “I want to see you live life. It pains me to see you steer clear from something so joyful.”

“I remember when I was your age,” she said. “Come April, I could think of nothing else. I lived for Floralia.
I
was
Flora, even! I would dress up in my orange stola and plant flowers in my hair. I would dance and frolic about like a forest-nymph, and none of the young men could keep their eyes from me. Oh, Livia! It was wondrous.”

“I still have my garment,” she said
, as if suddenly remembering. “My Floralia stola! Here in my old chest at the foot of my bed. It will suit you beautifully, Livia, I’m know it. Just speak the words and it’ll be yours.”

“Thank
you, Drusilla,” Livia murmured. “A very generous offer. But no. Floralia is none of my business.”

Drusilla
gave a small smile and nodded, but the gleam in her eyes spoke of a heartfelt disappointment.

“Very well, my dear,”
she said. They exchanged good-byes and Livia proceeded into her room.

She prepared a meal and s
at down by the window to eat it.

She peered out the window. She could see none of the festivities from her vantage point, but already, the sound of lively music was reaching her, flowing into her room on the gentle breeze. She reached to pull the shutters closed, but then reconsidered.

Drusilla’s words sounded clearly in her mind. Livia wanted to forget what her neighbour had said, to go about with her business – but she simply couldn’t.

Her father’s prohibition against Floralia seemed to be growing quieter in her head, just as Drusilla’s
endorsement grew louder.

Though he could often be strict, she
had loved her father, and he had loved her. But she was Livia, – not Livius – and she was in control of her own decisions and mistakes.

The breeze outside stiffened, and a single pink rose-petal
blew into her room and drifted down to the floorboards near Livia’s foot.

She picked it up, and brought it close to her face. The pink was vivid and
strinking, and she could smell its sweet scent.

Perhaps it was a message from the goddess, Livia thought wryly.

Even if it was a sign from Flora herself, it didn’t really matter. Livia had already made up her mind.

It was not difficult at all for Livia to find the middle of things –
she simply followed the flowers, the bright colours, and the music.

She hoped she looked striking in the orange
stola she had borrowed from Drusilla. The older woman, for her part, had sworn more than once that Livia looked marvellous in it.

Livia could not be sure, but she nonetheless felt a spr
ing in her step. And her confidence, strangely enough, seemed to steadily grow with every eye that peered her way.

Before she knew it she was walking through what could only have been the heart of the
Floralia festival, and things appeared to be in full swing. Livia was inundated with sights, sounds, scents and sensations.

All was a
tumult of bright colours and fragrances. Floralia revellers, as a general rule, wore brightly-dyed garments – pinks, oranges, reds, yellows and purples were favoured – and many wore flower-garlands around their necks and flower-wreaths on their head, not unlike a crown. Some even wore flowery masks: either something made from wood, plaster or leather and painted with vibrant floral motifs, or a mask of actual flowers arranged cleverly.

Livia saw
hares and rabbits darting amongst skirts; goats, left to their own devices, where rooting through fallen flowers and foodstuffs. Revellers staggered to and fro, joyful with wine and merriment, and dancers moved to the music in formations and in pairs – and the music! One could not walk a dozen feet through the Floralia festivities without coming upon a band or a musician of some sort, playing lively and merry music – there were thudding tympans and jangling tambourines, shrilling double-flutes and Pan-pipes, ululating great horns and thrumming citharas.

One musician in particular drew a second look from Livia
: he was a tall young man – a citharode – with dark eyes and a tangle of black, curly hair.

He was alone on the small
platform, sitting on a high tripod stool and strumming away gently at his highly polished cithara. With a voice like silver he sung a sweet but sorrowful paean, and his long fingers worked their deft magic, strumming out a beautiful strain. He was making the cithara weep, as the poets might say, and a small crowd of people had gathered around him, watching and listening in quiet wonder. Neither his voice nor his chords were loud, but they seemed to reach Livia’s ears over the noise and the tumult of the celebrations without effort. He took a moment to look out on his audience as he sang and thrummed, and his dark gaze seemed, for a moment, to settle on Livia. But she may have only imagined it.

Perhaps the most confronting thing
about the festival, Livia found, was the presence of all the street women: there were prostitutes everywhere, many of them distinctive due to their masculine dress, their togas. Many still could be easily identified by their conspicuous
lack
of dress.

Up on a small elevated stage, a pair of whores conducted mock
gladiator combat, and it was a bizarre spectacle to see. They wore pieces of boiled leather shaped and decorated to resemble gladiator armour, but the armour did not protect the body so much as draw attention to it. One young whore with long auburn hair wore an arm-armour of overlapping leather pieces and an elaborate helmet, both of which had been painted in gaudy colours. Aside from these she was stark naked; she fought, using a pair of phallus-shaped swords, against another young woman who was outfitted similarly. The duel was obscenely lewd. Every movement of the combatants’ mostly-naked bodies was suggestive, and whenever a sword-blow struck, the scream was the sort of cry that one might hear at the brothel, not the arena. Livia blushed and shied away from the obscene performance but found, strangely enough, that she could not stop herself from watching altogether. She looked on, with morbid fascination, as the auburn-haired prostitute presented her rear end to the audience and had her opponent slap it repeatedly with her phallus-sword, bringing up a bright red welt across the milk-white rear end.

Livia’s face, she supposed, was
more or less the same colour as that arse. Embarrassed and intimidated by the rowdy and lustful audience, she moved along quickly, weaving through leering and lurching spectators.

Soon later she
found herself at a wine-seller’s stall. The packed earth at her feet was wet and sodden, no doubt from where wine had been spilled by celebrants – both accidentally and purposefully, as drunken libations in honour of the flower goddess.

Now, Livia thought, was a
s good a time as any to take some liquid courage. She handed the merchant five copper ases and he poured her a generous cup of wine, darkly red but watery.

She wandered away from the wine stall – not too far, because she would
need to return the cup once she was done with it – and took in the sights of the festival as she sipped her drink. She could feel herself gradually becoming more and more accustomed to the bawdy business of Floralia.

Just at that moment
a bold goat charged out from nowhere, and almost bowled over a drunken reveller not far from where Livia was standing. It seemed to rush towards Livia like a raging bull, and she had to take a swift step back to keep herself from being knocked down.

“Oh!” someone said.

The goat had swept past her without incident, but Livia’s evasion had caused her to spill her wine and bump into whoever was standing behind her.

She turned quickly to see the
cithara player.

“
That goat has had too much to drink, it seems,” he said. “At least the goddess will be pleased with your libation.”

Livia bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”

“Quite alright,” he remarked. “I’m just glad that you didn’t spill any wine on that lovely stola of yours.”