Ovid’s Other Metamorphoses
Example of a Noble Wife
“Where is that time — unless you don’t wish it recalled —
When, I remember, you loved to be, and be called, mine?” —Tristia 4.3
The return trip to Rome is a haze to me, so little of it do I recall. Cornelius had partaken of the nectar of the Fiasco, drinking the manhood once belonging to me and to Alexios. Some of that male essence, too, had been Julia’s, for no woman save the nymphs of Parnassus is entirely female; and without any drop of male essence in us, nymphs we all were, all save Cornelius. We three, Alexia, Julia and I, clustered and giggled around our male companion, constantly desiring his companionship and approval, each of us aware of his most intimate desire. We competed with one another to serve him.
My compulsory vacuity was not as powerful as that which had commanded me when Julia had possessed the whole of my manhood; still, I found it impossible to deny Cornelius anything. What he desired, I also craved. I thought never of myself, only of what would make him happy.
Our journey was another eight uneventful days, during which we saw no bandits of any kind. Given our united lust, we scarcely kept watch. In retrospect, I feel grateful that we made it to the City at all.
By the time I returned home I realized something was amiss with me. My breasts had become tender and swollen; I had begun to discharge blood from my female parts, which Julia helped me to manage. Every day was a weariness, and each morning I woke with exhaustion and nausea. On the sixth day of our return journey, before dawn while Cornelius still slept and we women were more able to think for ourselves, I went to Julia and begged her for help. Was there nothing that could alleviate this condition?
Julia listened to my symptoms soberly and pronounced her conclusion. “You may be pregnant,” she said.
“Pregnant?” I asked, clasping my hand to my belly. “I can’t be. I’m not a woman.”
“Yes, you are, Ovidia,” Julia said, and the corners of her mouth twitched. “You bear all the signs of pregnancy. I’m afraid I may be responsible.”
I stared at the lovely woman who had so enchanted me on that afternoon walk along the streets of Viminalis Hill. She sat beside me on the rough bed provided by the hostel, a faint humor registering on her beauteous features in the dim pre-dawn light. It seemed ridiculous, that this woman had impregnated me, but it had to be true.
“What are we going to do, Julia?” I asked her, pleading and praying that she had a solution. “If I truly am, what happens to the child? What happens to me, if I drink the nectar and become a man again? Does the child disappear? Does this nightmare simply go away?”
“I wish I knew, my dear,” Julia whispered. “Perhaps instead contemplate what might happen if you drink the nectar, and become a man again, and the child doesn’t disappear. What then? How would the physician get it out of your belly, dear Ovidia?”
That possibility was too horrible to contemplate. It was certainly possible to remove a fetus from the mother’s womb with surgery, but the mother was always dead or dying before anyone was desperate enough to make the attempt. Some said that Julius Caesar, Julia’s adopted great-grandfather, had been born the same way. Julia herself assured me it was nonsense. “His mother Aurelia raised him. How could that be, if Caesar had been cut from inside her?”
Her clinical, calculated remarks forced me to shiver and hold my belly protectively. “Julia, I beg you, please don’t speak that way.”
At this, her face softened. “I apologize, Ovidia. For everything. Now that I have personally seen what the Bacchic Fiasco does, I regret ever having tried it. I used you abominably, Ovidia. I knew I was having my way with you, but you seemed so willing, and I never considered how difficult it was for you to resist. I have experienced it myself, now.”
“When Cornelius speaks, we all obey,” I said unhappily.
“Precisely,” Julia Caesari agreed. “He commands us all. Between just us, Ovidia, I worry how this magic might be abused. Not simply us, for we are already ensnared by it, but others. My stepmother will be furious with me, but I have resolved not to let this relic fall into her hands. I tremble to consider the unfortunate soul on whom she might use it.”
“Your father wishes to return some decency and morality to the citizens of Rome,” I suggested. “An artifact of the gods that promotes lasciviousness is hardly the proper means.”
“Ha! Yes, morality. My father loves to encourage the morality,” she said with a bitter laugh, “of others.”
It was not difficult to perceive that Julia felt Caesar Augustus was not so committed to his own moral betterment, and I said so.
“Imagine,” she said to me, with a twinkle in her eye, “what the First Citizen of Rome might say when he learns his wayward daughter is the father of a child she has had with a woman who is not her husband.”
It was true, tragically so. Julia Caesari was everything I had ever dreamed I might see in a female figure, and here was I, female myself, unable to take advantage. Already we had committed adultery together, despite our respective marriages, and yet I could not comprehend the reality. Julia, daughter of the first citizen, was the father of my child: a child of the Caesars, the heirs of Rome.
My wife, I feared, would never understand.
Those fears proved true when I arrived in the City. Julia Caesari left us and returned to her husband, hoping to re-enter his company without his becoming aware of the changes in her. She was not quite the same woman she had been two weeks ago. Still, who would believe the reason?
Before departing, Julia had conveyed her fears to Cornelius. We could not permit these Golden Figs to become the property of Livia Drusilla, lest she employ them against her political enemies. Since Livia had been aware of Julia’s intentions from the beginning, and had indeed urged her stepdaughter to pursue the Bacchic Fiasco, she was also informed of the role played by Cornelius and me. If we kept possession of that satchel of figs, she would surely find us with it. Cornelius agreed we would have to dispose of them: not simply to discard them, but to deplete their magic if that were possible.
Figs are fruits, he said; fruits have seeds. Should we discard the figs in the nearest rubbish heap, more Golden Fig trees might grow. That would be disastrous; the availability of the magic fruits would multiply. Instead, we would have to put them out of her reach, entrust them to those with whom she would never willingly consort. Cornelius would give them to the Bacchae revelers, who would use them up. Whether they ate them, juiced them, or dried them, they relieve us of the burden of them. As they consumed the magic figs, Cornelius explained, the Amphora would fill with the golden nectar of male essence, which we could use to restore Alexios and me to our old shapes. His logic may have been faulty, but we women were unable to disagree with him.
For my part, I returned to my wife and my insula, dreading the confrontation with Flavia. I had been unfaithful to her; I had left her for two weeks with little prior arrangement. I had abandoned my position with the centumviri to chase after holy relics. Finally, I was a woman now, and pregnant. She was legally free to divorce me. Nevertheless, the conversation was worse than I had predicted.
When I arrived home, Flavia recognized me, even transformed as I was. She did not ask my name, or disbelieve my story, but proceeded directly to venting her irritation after the briefest moment of hesitation.
“Well, my wayward husband returns at last,” Flavia said. “I wondered what had become of you, departing Rome without even a word. You should count yourself fortunate that I hadn’t gone straight to the judges. They’ve been asking where you’ve gone. I could hardly tell them you weren’t in a fit state to attend to your duties, could I? How risible that would have been: I’m sorry, Prefect, my husband cannot sit in judgment today because he is a woman. Apparently he preferred to be the passive partner and take it up the cunnus. Don’t worry, Prefect, he’s off looking for a cure. In a brothel, it appears,” she added with a sniff, taking in my disheveled appearance. “Ovidius, if you are going to fornicate with every passing soldier on the street, at least have the decency to visit the baths afterward.”
I tried to explain myself. “My love, I had no way to know this would happen. Every tale I heard of the Fiasco led me to think it would refill with wine as soon as it was drunk, and that would restore me back to normal.”
Flavia laughed sardonically at my predicament. “You put your faith in tales, my husband? Why did you not simply ask me? I watched your previous transformation. Your disreputable poet friend, Cornelius Quadratus, delivered a drunken woman to our rooms one night, and as I sat and watched, she turned into you, Ovidius. He left a carafe on the table, still stinking of whatever wine you had been drinking, so I rinsed it out. Did it magically refill? No, never. I could have told you that, Ovidius, had you trusted me. Instead, you chased the tale of some mad wine merchant, leaving Rome and offering me no more an explanation than what your stiff-necked brother could devise. And, it seems, you have been so busy wallowing in corruption that you have become pregnant.”
“Flavia, my dearest wife, I promise you I could not help myself!” I moved my hand to my belly protectively, and that only further enraged her.
“On the contrary, Ovidia,” she sneered, “you have helped nobody but yourself. Whose baby is it that you carry? Do you even know? Cornelius, perhaps? One of the drunken fornicators at the Bacchanalia? No, I see it now — those letters you received in Greek. You arranged your tryst at the baths, yes? I made some inquiries, and a woman was observed entering the baths near Palatine with Cornelius Quadratus. She came out of the baths with a patrician man in rich clothing. At every stage of this affair you could have refrained, Ovidia, but now it is too late. Our marriage is concluded. Crawl back to your new husband, whoever he is, and ask if he wants your baby. I certainly do not.”
I did indeed return to Cornelius, for I had no alternative. Gaius, my brother, would never admit me to his household, for it would endanger his own situation with the centumviri, and I could not return to my father’s home in Sulmo. In the residence of Cornelius Quadratus, I would at least have a name and a measure of security, even if I had little control over my destiny.
In his presence I was dominated by him easily, controlled by his desires. I craved his attention and devised ways to increase his pleasure. Only when he was absent from the insula was I fully able to think for myself. I cogitated frequently upon my situation, as slowly my pregnancy advanced and my child expanded to fill my womb. Here I was, now named Ovidia Corva Quadrati, wife of Cornelius. By night I was the dumb devoted wife, the plaything of a strong man who was imbued with the lusts of three. What was I by day?
In two books of Ars Amatoria I had advised young men on the Art of Love, and equipped them to go forth to pursue and seduce the young women of their choice. Now I was in that situation, seduced nightly, unable to defend myself. All my strategems were used against me. Julia had known it at once; I was now the victim of my own verses. Now, perhaps, I had leisure to right that wrong, to arm the Amazons against the wiles of the Greeks. I could compose a poem that might help the women of Rome to resist the temptation of idle men. I could relate the methods they might use to secure a man of their own choosing, rather than the brute predator which had come to capture her. These verses might not relieve me of the compulsion of Bacchus, but I could at least exercise my poetic gifts; it would ease my anxiety. For the next nine months, I would have little else to occupy my mind, apart from worry over my unborn child and over the specter of childbirth that loomed in my future.
The Golden Figs which Cornelius had brought back to Rome in his satchel quickly vanished. I do not know what became of them, but soon the Bacchic Fiasco began to fill again with male essence. Someone in Rome was using their magic.
Cornelius had apparently anticipated this, because he had provided the slaves of his household with a large amphora, a massive vessel used to transport olive oil. When the Bacchic Fiasco overflowed, as it had for us in the Anio Valley, the excess would be poured off into the amphora. We could then bottle the male essence and dispense it back to its owner.
“Or we could even sell it back,” Alexia suggested. She had not returned to the palace of Caesar Augustus, and had instead chosen to remain, as I had, with Cornelius. How could Alexia venture into the presence of the First Citizen, when she had no official identity? Not even the other slaves of the palace would recognize her.
“That’s a Greek for you,” Cornelius laughed, patting Alexia’s posterior. “Always thinking of trade.”
As Alexia blushed brightly at the attention of her master, I posed a question — politely, daintily, for such was all the more forcefully I could oppose the man who commanded me. “How am I to know, Cornelius, which is the man the essence belongs to? Any woman who comes to the door can claim to be that man.”
“You’ve seen the Fiasco in operation, Ovidia,” he assured me. “I’m confident you can discern an ordinary woman from one who has been enchanted.
I was not so confident, but I could not raise any further objections.
That was my role in the household for the months that followed. Cornelius had disposed of the Golden Figs, either charitably or commercially, each wrapped in a large leaf so the bearer was protected from its magic. Most of those magic fruit found their way to the Bacchanalia, where many of the male revelers had their maleness drained away. Those unfortunate men became Maenads, as I was, and even some of the women too — the Golden Figs affected either sex.
It was readily apparent when the celebrations were taking place, because the Fiasco would fill rapidly with masculine nectar, draining away into the amphora beneath it. Starting at down the next morning, I saw a steady stream of mortified red-faced revelers returning to claim their manhood. Using the Fiasco, I measured out a portion of nectar to each former man and restored him to his normal self. To those who had women, I dispensed a smaller portion, enough to restore their personality, but not enough to transform them.
“Don’t give them a full dose, Ovidia,” Cornelius instructed me one day. “Set aside a portion for yourself. There are enough men in Rome willing to experiment with these Golden Figs, surely they won’t notice if a small fraction of their essence hasn’t been returned to them.”
“This method worries me, Cornelius,” I admitted timidly.
“Calm yourself, Ovidia,” he smiled. “It’s only a tiny amount. We have already proved that it doesn’t matter whose essence it was; one portion still restores the man to everything he had been before. When you have collected enough from each reveler to make a full dose, you can restore yourself.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I said, touching my pregnant belly. It had become rounded in the past months, and the roundness showed within my tunica. “That isn’t what worries me.”
He saw the helpless look of anxiety in my features, and he came to comfort me, taking my shoulders in his strong hands. “What is it, Ovidia? What’s wrong?”
“Whoever drinks a man’s essence,” I said, “controls the desires of that man. When you had a portion of the maleness belonging to me, and to Alexios, and to Julia, you became our master. Whatever you desire, we desire. Julia was affected to a lesser degree, for she had little male essence of her own, but Alexia and I were affected much more strongly.”
Cornelius shrugged. “What of it?”
“I am dispensing a mixture of essence back to each man,” I said, “at your command. Each restored man is now in control of the lustful desires of many others — some women, perhaps, and some men. It is difficult to know. Have you not heard that the Bacchanalia are becoming rowdier, more frantic? More frequent? Have you not heard the proclamations of Augustus that decry the rising immorality in the populace?”
“Augustus is always saying things like that,” Cornelius sniffed.
I cast down my eyes, chastened. Despite myself, I felt his opinions seeping into my brain, and I began to lose track of my argument. “If one man controls the desires of others, are we not contributing to the general debauchery?”
“Perhaps, Ovidia,” Cornelius said indifferently. “Perhaps. But we did not invent debauchery, did we? The Bacchanalia existed before we were born. Perhaps this Fiasco was created by the gods, but I have my doubts — perhaps it was made by the Greeks. The workmanship does look Greek, you must admit. It is simply a device to enhance the pleasure of men and women who enjoy each others’ company. Caesar Augustus is a fool if he believes he can legislate the morality of Rome, especially when he disobeys those morals at his own convenience.”
It was then that I began to see it his way, in opposition to my own fervent opinions, overriding my own judgment in the matter. The arguments in my head were becoming silenced by the echoes of Cornelius’s decisive words.
As we entered the month of December, when I was just into my seventh month of pregnancy, the Saturnalia celebrations approached. I had spent so many months in the shadow of Cornelius, affected by his every word, absorbing his every statement and belief, I was like a miniature Cornelius myself — I thought as he thought, I laughed when he laughed. I told everyone that the child I bore was his, for that is what he told everyone. He named me to his friends as Ovidia Corva, his wife. I was even re-introduced to the man who was my patron and his, one Paullus Fabius Maximus.
Some patrons collected craftsmen, some collected equestrians. Fabius was a tremendous supporter of poetry, and had collected many artists and orators under his aegis, including Horace and Virgil. It was at the mansions of Fabius Maximus that one always heard the best works, the most recent epistles. We listened to Virgil’s latest addition to the Aeneid, and Cornelius read his treatment of Oedipus to polite applause. It was there, too, that I encountered the woman that would become my third wife: Iunia Oratorina.
Iunia was a woman perhaps double my own age, with thirty-eight years of life behind her. She was a great appreciator of poetry, and respectably widowed, with a purple stripe on her tunica that designated her as one of moderate rank, possibly equestrian. Iunia Oratorina was herself the daughter of a poet, and well trained in words; her face was handsome but not unlined by age, though her hair remained a delightful honey-gold. Also, it appeared, she had heard the rumors that the gravid wife of Cornelius was an excellent woman to contact, if one wished to experiment with the magic of Bacchus.
“Come now, Ovidia,” she said in her direct fashion, cornering me in the atrium. “Take another glass of wine. I insist — Fabius Maximus keeps the best vintages in Rome, and you must try this one. You are a devotee of Dionysus as well, I have heard it said?”
“I do enjoy the theater, yes,” I admitted. “Last year I traveled to Athens with my husband to see the classic works of Sophocles and Euripides.”
“Not the theater,” Iunia said with a musical laugh. “Oh, my dear, one should not be coy. I’m speaking of wine. A very specific wine, in fact: you have heard of caricarum?”
“I have,” I said, tipsily. “Made of figs, I believe.”
“And much appreciated by the Bacchae recently. I cannot think why. Can you, Ovidia?”
“Bacchus is the patron of all wine,” I said, recalling what one young reveler had once told me. “He enjoys all wine equally.”
Iunia’s face became serious, as she seemed to recognize the phrase I had spoken. “But there is one vintage,” she said, keeping her tones quiet and neutral, “which his revelers especially enjoy. Not any mere bottle of caricarum will do: it must be the Golden Fig. Yes, Ovidia — do not be startled — your husband has told me. I have heard it said from others, as well, but let us not speak of them now. You know of the Golden Fig.”
I nodded, regretting that I had so freely partaken of the wine she had offered me. My face had begun to feel as if it belonged to someone else. “I have seen them,” I said. “Cornelius and I brought several back from the Anio Valley, but I don’t know what happened to them.”
“He got rid of them?” Iunia asked me, mildly curious.
“We didn’t want — want anyone to get hold of them,” I stammered. My tongue was loosened, and spoke on its own; I had to concentrate to will my mouth to behave. In addition, the wine had made my baby start to kick.
“Anyone,” Iunia repeated. “Yes, you did not wish anyone to get hold of them. I believe I have met this Anyone you mentioned. I have been friends with Anyone for many years, in fact. She idly mentioned that there was a poet in Rome who had discovered one of the secrets of the Bacchae, but she had not yet put her hands on it. She came close once, yes, but Anyone has a wayward daughter — perhaps you’ve heard of her?”
“Rome is filled with wayward women,” I conceded.
Iunia smiled as she eyed my vast pregnant belly. “Some more wayward than others?”
I didn’t want to discuss my pregnancy, and especially not the rapidly approaching event of childbirth, so I changed the subject. “I do know this particular wayward daughter, yes. Did she not vanish for two weeks this spring?”
“That would be the very same,” Iunia said seriously. “Yes, Ovidia, I have long been friends with Caesar Augustus’s wife Livia.”
“I have no idea where the Golden Figs went,” I protested.
“Don’t worry, Ovidia, I have no intention of returning to Anyone,” Iunia reassured me, taking my hands in hers. “I am not Rumor, bearer of tales. All the stories of Bacchus suggest he is mad and devious and not to be trusted; I would not put any wine of his into the hands of Anyone, on that you have my promise.”
“The wine,” I said, in sudden inebriated realization. “No, I haven’t seen the wine merchant either. And I think the Bacchae have been traveling to Anio and picking all the figs that we left on the golden tree. We only brought back one hundred, but I have seen many times that number of revelers at my door.”
“That does not concern me. In fact, I do not seek the caricarum at all.”
“Oh?” I asked. “What do you seek?”
“The nectar of the flask,” the beautiful widow smiled. “Consider it appropriate for the season. Soon it will be the Saturnalia, will it not? That is the celebration where masters serve and servants master. The weak become the strong, and the strong weak. Is the worship of Saturn not an appropriate devotion for a proper Roman citizen?”
