Sidetracked by War Concerns

War is a  society crushing, individual mind altering activity not today dealt with.  Or too casually so by most of us. The news I read daily is filled with political posturing and position maueuvering. Regarding war -- the war in Iraq, the war in Afghanistan is a spectator sport. Some spectators demand complete withdrawal of troops as soon as logistically possible.  Others assert such withdrawal asks for and will surely bring delayed and deadly efforts from forces hostile to the Western world.

Reading about it, talking about it, if there is nothing worth watching on Television is the extent of involvement of most of us. How many people do you know who have served in Iraq or Afghanistan? Who of us has a son, a daughter, a spouse or a sibling in these wars? Who of us has been asked to share in the sacrifice? Have we seen an increase in taxes to pay for the war? Have we seen shortages of materials as in World War II when tires, shoes, sugar and a myriad of products were rationed?

We share nothing but occassional rhetoric.  Not like our parents, grandparents and great grandparents in previous wars. Not like colonial Americans in the war making us the USA.  Not like the war which nearly spun the north and south USA into separate countries. People, ordinary people of these conflicts felt war. Those of us old enough remember the flags which hung in windows, proudly announcing to the world that this house had a son in the war. Those of us old enough remember rationing, and scavenging stray metal for re-use in the war effrort.

My ladies-- Julia of 1st century Rome, Tanaquil  of 7th century BC Rome, and Cartimandua of 1st century Roman Britain.  My Occassional tea party friends-- they all knew war.  They knew the loss of a child, a husband, a brother in battle.  If I was to come to terms with my quandary I needed them.

They appeared as always -- Julia with her long hair dangling over her shoulder, black with its shock of white over her left eye. She had lost loved ones to war. Tanquil with a profile found on any ancient Greek vase or in any Etruscan tomb painting.  Her son was a casualty of war. Cartimandua whose braids bound both her hair and her spirit, torn by many battle casualties.  They were there!

Then they were not.  In their places were two strangers. One I surmised to be Greek.  And I learned without waiting or asking it was Ismene, a proud Spartan woman from, the 5th century. The other in colonial American dress identified herself as Marybelle, 1770 America. Before I summoned the wherewithall to cope with this kink in the order of events I had tried to summon, Ismene, expression haughty, voice harsh said, "The toll war takes-- is what you want to know? Otherwise why summon us?"

"I did not summon you. I summoned my group."

Ismene held her head high, exaggerating what we've come to think of as the classic Greek pose. Her laughter was piercing. "My impression -- our impression,' she pointed to Marybelle. "was you wanted to understand about war."

Marybelle, so matronly in her high bodiced long dress, interjected, "As was mine.  If not that then what? What can we do for you?"

I hesitated too long.  Ismene with impatience of manner and voice said, "Let us hit the high spots and we'll be on our way. You surely have matters to attend to, as do I. I have estate matters to attend to.  Both my husband and my two sons are at war just now. We're at odds with Athens, you may or may not know. My lands in Sparta need my constant attention. My accountant is due at any time. Your question I believe was how do we deal with war, and what do we feel about war."

I shuddered thinking of her husband and sons in battle. "How awful. What could be worse than losing a husband or one's children in war?"

"Oh many things are worse.  We Spartan women carry on overseeing our lands and proudly, and I might add happily, send our men off to war with our urging that they fight bravely and boldly and return to us victorious with shields held high. And if not victorious then on their shields."

Marybelle, whose gray hair, lined face and dull eyes, spoke of the hardship and pain. "You forget your own history, I fear. In the beginning we understood the sacrifices and willingly -- if not cheerfully-- accepted our share of the war. We gave our husbands, fathers, sons, and at times our very homes, to the cause. I grant there were the occassional shirkers. There has always been shirkers.  And there always will be. Your quandery is I fear more serious than that. I sense things are not today what they once were. I sense you know only shirkers."

I struggled to keep Ancient Sparta and Colonial America out of my thoughts. Were they made of sturdier stuff than I, than we who sloughed off war to those who had no choice, those who could not otherwise find employment, those who dispendable.

Then Ismene and Marybelle were no longer there. I was totaly alone with haunting doubts and fears. What had we become?  Where were Julia, Tanaquil and Cartimandua when I needed them? Had they heard? Had they decided I was no longer worthy?  I must think, evalaute before I again summon them.

Time out for thinking

My historic ladies, all of whom I cherish more than I can say must be put on hold. I am sure they would agree because they, too, have had personal crises. And at the moment I must deal with me.

My life is in turmoil. My husband, battling leukemia, is home for a month before going back to hospital for evaluation. Does he still have to worry about cancer? Enough to worry the strongest person. But I have more. In the pressures on me from the illness itself, I have issues with my family-- i.e. my siblings.  If I am to interpret one sister's communications as representative of the others the important issue in the potential death of my husband is "Has he been saved?"

We, my husband and I, do not understand.  Neither of us is, as far as we can gather, is lost. Ergo why do we need saving? So when I need and could use support from brothers and sisters in my worries about the health of my mates's body, I find concern for the state of his evangelical defined soul.  May I share with you the following.

My Soul Belongs To Me

By Jewellee Cardwell

                Her words played over and over in my head. “We had a better time without you. You must know you never make any effort to get along.”  My sister’s words when I said I was hurt they made no effort to schedule the sibling reunion around my conflict as they had in previous years for the conflict of others.

                The impact of her words sparked in me an anger and hurt more fitting to a child than a seventy-five year old woman.  An anger which compelled me slam the receiver down, an anger which lasted for days.  I have struggled to reign in what could easily become hatred and faced some hard questions. Was she right? Had I made no effort to get along? Had I not tried to fit in?

                Fretful days, sleep interrupted nights with frightful dreams later, I realized she was right.  I was not making an effort to get along; I was not trying to fit in—except in the most superficial and guarded was. My early efforts to fit in had not gone well.  Only when I gave up trying to fit did I find out who I was, who I could become. And for that, I was forced to realize, I feel no remorse. Where would I be, what would I be if I had made the effort to fit in, to become what they were and thought I should be? On further reflection I knew the price of getting along, of bending to their ideas of what was right for me, were far too high.

                That realization, not acknowledged easily or openly, began early and painfully.  With desperation I tried to get along, to fit in, the year I turned thirteen. It was summer revival time, a time welcomed by kids and more so by grown-ups as a relief from long days in the fields.  The clean- up time needed to make the seven o’clock meeting was a respite from picking beans or suckering tobacco until darkness fell. My time with Jean and Annie, usually confined to Wednesday night prayer meeting and Sunday preaching became a nightly treat for two weeks. But the summer of my thirteenth year the fun of girl chatter became bitter. For the second night of the revival Jean and Annie decided to ‘get saved’.

                Unwilling or unable to remain the ‘odd man out’ I made my way down the aisle amid the chorus of AMENS and THANK YOU JESUSES to the mourner’s bench, the mourner’s bench where I knelt night after night. No effort, no promise, no plea from me was to any avail. The Jesus who knocked at everyone’s heart, the Jesus who called all people to himself had no interest in me. He left me utterly alone, sin-stained and guilt ridden. With one night of the revival left my desperation met its limit.

                The morning dew hung on the plants as I helped Mom pick beans. “You ain’t felt nothing?” she asked.  At a loss of what she was asking I said nothing. “On the bench, I mean.” I shook my head. Her face was so sad, her voice so quivery. “I hope you ain’t devil-tied.” Without another word she returned to her beans. My thought whirled.  I remembered how once I heard Mom and Aunt Eva talking about how sad it was that Grandpa was in hell, suffering the torments everlasting fire. Was he devil-tied? Would I go to hell if I died? Salty tears ran into the corners of my mouth.

                That night I boldly rose from the mourner’s bench and announced neighbors and kin, “I am saved.” For I refused to be devil-tied; I refused to be hell-bound; I refused to be different; I refused ‘not to fit in’.

                That attempt to get along, to fit in was disastrous. Subsequent days for the next week, the next month, the next year, and so many years later were filled with the constant and crushing fear of being found out. My nights were filled with vivid dreams of the horrors of hell’s fire, rolling up a long hall toward me, lapping at my tormented twisted arms and legs. I think I knew even then I had paid a mighty high price to fit in. But the need to fit does not go gently into oblivion. I kept up the painful pretense.

                A successful product of a one room school’s devoted teacher I was infected early with the love of learning. My first library book regaling maple syrup production in Vermont awakened my need to know a world outside my realm, a need which by some plan of  gods or government became possible. The consolidation of schools, the accessibility of a school bus going into the county high school opened a whole big world to me.  But almost not to me.  For my mother vowed she would never allow her children to go to high school where they would get strange ideas and surely become ‘godless’.

                I remember vividly the day I stole a three cent stamp from the book of stamps Mom kept under the Bible on the table next to the sofa. I wrote a heart wrenching letter to Uncle Luther who had moved to Detroit to work in a war factory. I pleaded that he let me come live with him and go to school with his boys. Little did I know that Uncle Luther was living in cramped house with barely enough room for him, Aunt Lizzie and their five children.  Little did I expect that Uncle Luther would send my letter back to Mom.

                Challenged by Mom, who was angry because of my defiance and embarrassed at my choosing her brother as a refuge, I stood my ground. “I will run away,” I said. “I will go to Knoxville and find me a job. And you can’t stop me.” I never stopped to think about how  I would get to Knoxville, where I would stay, and how I would live. For who would hire a fourteen year old?  Mom and Dad did not ask me how and where I would live. In the end Dad relented and in one of his rare defiant moments with his wife announced that I could go to high school. Finally I had taken my first step of not getting along, of not fitting in .

                That first step led to a second and a third. With each step differences grew; with each step I fitted in less and less; with each step I moved farther and farther from the need to ‘get along’ except in the most superficial way; with each step discord was kept at bay by distance. Removal of that distance – there-in lies the rub.

                Dad’s early death and Mom’s dependence on my siblings, who lived near her, left me free of the demands of intimate family interactions. Only after her death did we siblings make an exerted effort to forge and nurture the family relationship. Hence the yearly weekend retreats of siblings was born. It was an idea fraught with possibilities and hazards.

                There is no inherent right or wrong in being different. There is little serious fallout when a balance of power is in place, when one side equals the other. But who is right and who is wrong takes on exaggerated proportions when that balance is lacking. That balance we did not have. Step by step by step I had moved to religious, social and political beliefs at the opposite spectrum from my four siblings. It did not make me wrong; it did not make them right. For in the larger population, albeit religious conservatives are on the increase, they, not I, are the odd men out. But      it did not make for easy retreats with my siblings. It did not make for the warm fuzzy feelings families rarely have, but like to pretend they have.

                The last weekender I attended was on a hot October weekend, in an overcrowded, traffic congested resort, inside a fifth floor condo. Obama had been elected president; the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan raged; the economy had tanked. All fodder for opposed political ideas. We met on a Friday afternoon—five siblings and three spouses. After a dinner of too much food and to my way of thinking too little wine (for I daily enjoy wine with my dinner) we retired to our condo. I might have survived the next few hours without discomfort had not my sister, Diane, asked, “Do you remember the night you got saved? I remember mine like it happened yesterday.” She proceeded with a blow by blow description of her experience. “I was in the back bedroom; Mom and Dad were in the living room. I felt this urge to pray. I knew I was saved; I felt the terrible weight of sin had been lifted from my heart.” She continued to talk or question or what – I do not know.  I left and went to the bathroom where I could not decide if I needed to cry or vomit or slip away and unannounced go home. There was no way I could go back into that.   Because- oh yes I remembered the day I didn’t get saved.  What I thought was a conquered ache was fresh and vivid.                  

                When finally I regained my composure and returned they were in the midst of singing gospel hymns. My brother ,Arville, a preacher, had brought his church hymnal; my brother-in-law, James, his guitar. I made an effort to sing along, but after fifty years of removal from the gospel singing venue I had forgotten most of the words, of anything but the popular AMAZING GRACE. Then came a blessing to be treasured – introduction of other songs.  James sang a Jimmy Dickens favorite, SLEEPING AT THE FOOT OF THE BED.

                “Do you know TAKE AN OLD COLD TATER AND WAIT?” I asked with relish.  With help from the group he managed a rendition.

                “I know a song; it’s from OKLAHOMA.” I said and began to sing in my not great voice, “I’m just a girl who can’t say no; I’m in a terrible fix. I always say come –“   One by one they began to talk to each other. I was no longer there.

                Finally bed time came, a welcome respite from the pretense I was forced to maintain. A welcome relief from the alienation I felt. Saturday’s agenda was a late breakfast and the Tennessee-Mississippi football game on television. “If it’s ok with you I think I’ll go across to those stores and do some shopping,” I said. “Football is not my thing. I’ve got to tell you, I went to Penn State and have been at Virginia Tech for the last fifty years I have yet to see a football game. Now’s not exactly the time to start.”

                That was the last meeting I attended. The next year I got a call. “We’re going to meet at the same condo we had last year. We’ve reserved it for June 12 and 13.”

                “I can’t come then,’ I said. “You know that. You know Sylvia always come in from Alaska with the kids for her Dad’s birthday and out anniversary.  And this is a special anniversary—fifty years. You know I can’t come then.”

                “Well,” my sister said, “Golly-bum I’m sorry. I’ll tell the others. Hope you enjoy Sylvia and the kids.” This was the same sister from whom the reunion had been re-scheduled last year because of her illness.

                Hence long after their reunion, after the ‘You don’t try to fit in’ phone call, after the harsh words, after my hostile reaction, I have had time to consider, time to evaluate, time to reflect on the times we spent together. My sister is partly right. I do not fit in—not for lack of trying.  Perhaps I do not try hard enough to get along. But I have come to realize that by the same token they do not try to get along with me.  Their notion of getting along means I get along.  That notion of getting along comes at a far too high cost.  For their idea of getting along requires me to deny who I am, what I am.  That is surely the greatest sin I could commit, one I will not commit lest my soul should really be in hell.

             *                *                    *                *               *                   *              *

 I cannot say my spirit is at peace.  How could it be when those I need to have near me, supportive of me, are so alien?  But as I am sure, Cartimandua, Tanaquil and especially Julia will understand me and what I am feeling. Perhaps peace will come. Perhaps not. Time as Julia once told her maid Phoebe, does not heal all wounds.  The reality is that new wounds merely replace old ones. The pain adds up, grows bigger, takes over part of your life. In the loss of family I so hope that I can summon my ladies very soon.  For I need them.

Immortalizing the Roman Ladies

This is, in fact, a press release for the stories of the Roman Ladies: Julia of the Roman Empire, Tanaquil of the Roman Monarchy, and Cartimandua of Roman Britain.
I waited far too long to meet with what we had decided to call "The Wine Klatch Group" My preoccupation with my own emotional state at dealing with my husband's leukemia immobilized me for a while. But it was my husband himself who told me to get off my duff and get to work, So I got off my duff. After I made the decision to call up my ladies, I worded and re-worded in my mind just how I would tell them. I had decided to live up their expectations that I would present them to the world. I wanted them to know their stories were available to the world via E-Book on Amazon.
We were barely assembled when all three were competing to talk first, all annoyed that I had been silent for so long. It was Julia, who tossing her head from one side to the other as only she could do, said, "We're acting like nothing but Harpies, with claws extended, grasping for the first attack. Disgraceful, Ladies."
Laughter erupted. It was good be back together. "Now," she continued, "I suggest we stop out clatter and let Jewellee tell us in her own way whatever it is she has to tell us. You're on Jewellee, make it good."
All eyes focused on me. How did I start? Would one or another or all three be offended with my first choice? After what seemed an oppressively long silence, in unison came, "Well?"
I looked from one to the other. "I have E-Books about all of you. I'm trying to decide how to go. I could go in chronological order, or alphabetical order, or in the order I wrote them."
"Or," Julia said with an impatience in her voice that surely must have shaken even her father, the Emperor Augustus, "you could stop stalling and just start."
"And remember," Tanaquil said, "we have no idea of what an E-Book is. We're in the scroll age. So go in any order you want. Just get on with it. The three of us are all ears."
"But there are four."
"Four and who pray is the fourth. God forbid it's Cleopatra. She's been done to death with press coverage. Since the day of her birth I should imagine"
"No," I said. "It's your -- I suppose the word is grandaughter. Anyway it's Tullia." Tanaquil stiffened. I continued, "I don't like her, and never enjoyed her company as her story took form. That is why I never invited her into our group. I will start with her and be done with it and with her. From Amazon Kindle Publishing you can find an E-Book by Jewellee Cardwell titled "FLIGHT OF VULTURES. it is the story of Tullia and her husband Tarquin II and their incredibly cruel seizure of power, which precipatated the fall of the Roman Monarchy and ushered in the Roman Republic, which stood for nearly 500 years until Julia's father upset it."
"Me first," Julia said, "or now I guess it's second.
"You Julia are presented to the world as the great lady you are, honest, smart, beautiful, ambitious-- and a little spoiled by your money and position."
"Do I want to know more? Will I like me?"
"Oh you will like you as you are presented in THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER."
And Tanaquil you will like you in WHEN EAGLES SOARED."
Tanaquil chuckled, "You did the story about the Eagle that snatched Lucumo's hat?"
"Indeed I did. After all it was you who said it was an omen that he was to rule Rome." Turning to Cartimandua I said, "And I told the world what your nickname is."
"Not Sleek Pony, you didn't."
"But I assure you you will like yourself in ROMAN CELTIC QUEEN".
Now I was smiling, happy in the pleased looks on their faces. "Yes LadiEs, I have immortalized you as I promised. The whole world can know you if the check out Jewellee Cardwell's account of you on Amazon Kindle Publishing."

How Julia, Cartimandua and Tanaquil are known

In the past three weeks Julia, Cartimandua and Tanaquil have each urged me to keep in touch. Whether they missed me or each other, or just liked the attention, I will never know with certainty. Not that it matters. Our meetings bridge time and distance (700 BC to 2011 AD is time, Britain, Rome and America is distance). The meetings fill me, and I hope the other three, with the palliative joy of communion with kindred spirits. The exigencies of daily life, consuming all my energy these past few weeks, slipped into the outer edges of my mind. Front and center during our next visit were: Julia's problems with her Emperor-father, Augustus, playing god with her life; Cartimandua's struggles to keep her concern for her British tribe in its dealings with an ever encroaching 1st century Roman takeover separated from her tumultuous personal happiness: Tanaquil's tight rope role in making Tarquinius King of Rome, a century before the other two. These women made me feel insignificant. Who was I? What had I accomplished that I should hope to be counted among their number?

I had but uttered my doubts when Julia, in Julia style, said, "Ye gods. Do you not know that you are the nucleus of this group? How else would we exist except for you and people like you?"

My ego stretched; my soul soared. Was it possible? In the end my insecurity won. "How can you say that? In the scheme of things I have done what, compared to you, who each in your own ways have shaken the world? True some people know who I am, but not like you. The whole world, now and for ages, knows you."

Julia cackled as only Julia can. Tanaquil with a controlled smile said, "And how are we known?"

How were they known? I realized they were known because they are held in the repeated memories of generation after generation. Their lives are preserved in the pictures, songs, teachings and writings of artists, writers and teachers and passed down. Classic teachers and writers like me. My ego regained its equilibrium. I will continue to share my stories of the remarkable women of history. Everyone should know the real Julia, the real Tanaquil, the real Cartimandua. And others who have not yet joined our group. Until the next time.

Tanaquil Shares How She Was Widowed

We met with no idea of what we would discuss. Facing the uncertain nature of my husband's condition, I had little to offer but listening. It was Julia, wonderful unrestrained Julia, who asked Tanaquil how she became a widow. Tanaquil seemed hesitant in light of my plight. I assured her it was okay. And her story unfolded.
The entrance court to the palace was empty except for one guard posted to await Tarquinius' summons for escort back to the Curia for the afternoon meeting of the Senate. In the courtyard the dozen lictors sprawled on the ground under ivy covered trellises awaiting that summons. Outside the palace entrance all along the street half sleeping residents leaned against the walls of closed silent houses.
Two ruffians, armed with axes commonly used by rustics, attempted to enter the palace. They were stopped by the insistent guard. They began to argue between themselves as to the next move. When they raised their voices the guard ordered them to leave. The raised their voices more and soon there was such a ruckus that on either side of the door crowds gathered, lictors and slaves inside the palace, extra guards and residents on the outside. The ruffians raised their voices ever and ever louder and began to fling their axes. Lictors from the inside and guards from the outside surrounded them and restrained their physical activity. But they were unable to quell their shrieks. For one after the other, then both together, the yelled at the top of their voices for the king.
They were summoned to the king's office. Held before the king by guards the ruffians were at last silent.
"Now," said Tarquinius, "let us see if we can get to the bottom of this unseemly childish escapade. I am going to order you released. You will stand at peace, or I have you restrained in a way you will not like. Then I shall hear what each of you has to say . I will hear first one and then the other. Is that agreeable?" They nodded. "Each of you will remain quiet and in control while the other speaks. Is that agreeable?"
With lowered heads in an apparant show of shame both nodded.
The guards released their tight grip on the men but they remained alert. Neither ruffian moved. "Now you," Tarquinius said to the shorter of the two. "come here. Now what is the cause of this disgusting display?"
Lifting his head the man breathed deeply as if calming his spirit and collecting his thoughts. Finally he said, "It all started before the beginning of the month. I had these three young ewes--good ewes, anybody'll tell you that if you just ask. For since their first lambing they all three gave me twins-- and one one time triplets. That was three times already and with no trouble at all."
The taller of the two paced slowly back and forth behind Tarquinius. He made no noise save the sound of his boots on the tile floor.
"Siccius-- that's Siccius back there." He pointed to the pacing man. Tarquinius did not turn. He merely nodded. "Siccius got it in his head he'd swap in some pitisome worn out ewes for my prizes. And he did it. Just as bold as you like but I found out the same day. And the ones he slipped in have shaggy skimpy wool and they have lost most of their teeth. I bet they can't even lamb anymore, and if they can I know they won't be giving me no twins or triplets."
Siccius continued to pace, occassionally swinging his axe, but otherwise in control. The guards relaxed, sensing the king had the situation under control. Tarquinius rolled his eyes and sighed. "Just get to the end and spare me the petty details."
Siccius in one fluid movement took a step forward behind the king. He lifted his axe with both hands and brought it down with such force that it split Tarquinius' skull. Leaving the weapon in the wound both men made a dash for the door and fled as guards knelt before their fallen dying king, his head still holding the axe. And that was how it happened.
"How awful," Cartimandua said. Julia's eyes were filled with tears. "But did they get away with it?" I asked
Tanaquil assured us the villians were found and brought to justice. "But it did not bring back my husband," Tanaquil said.

A Hitch in my Plans

My idea of regular meetings with Julia, Carti and Tanaquil was dealt a blow. My husband was diagnosed with leukemia-- the nasty kind. My time was filled with doctors, hospital personnel and managing the homefront by myself. Finally we did get to meet. Julia was of great comfort. She shared her own 'husbands in trouble'. Her accounts seemed to soothe me. She survived the illness and death of two husbands. And even though they are not at all like mine I feel a connection.
"My first was Marcellus", she said. "A cousin destined to succeed my father Augustus as Emperor of Rome. Marcellus was little more than a boy. I was a starry eyed teenage." As it developed Marcellus fell victim to his sense of entitlement and became what many called 'an overindulged brat'. He never had the chance to outgrow adolescent foolery. While his Uncle Augustus was away on empire business, Marcellus fell ill. His illness lingered and worsened. He died. A common belief of 'foul play' permeated the city. The notion was that Augustus's wife Livia had a hand in his death. It was known far and wide that Livia wanted her son, Tiberius, from a previous marriage to succeed my father, Augustus. And it was Livia who nursed Marcellus through a simple stomach upset, turned bad and then terminal.
"I was devastated," Julia said. "For though the marriage was arranged, I treasured my time with Marcellus. I think what I liked most was the sex. He was my first sex partner. And the sex was phenomenal. Livia accused me of harlot behavior."
But Marcellus died. Tata gave me little mourning time before he married me to Agrippa, a man of Tata's age, his colleague in establishing the Empire after so many years of civil war. Tata needed Agrippa and to keep him in service he needed me to be in Agrippa's service.
Agrippa was not the lover Marcellus was, but he was fertile. Five children we had in short order, two girls and three boys with claims to the emperorship. His death came after an illness, at an age more appropriate for death than Marcellus's was."
As we talked I was so engrossed I could hardly wait for more. We decided--we even vowed to meet often-- as my time around my husband's chemo allows.

Let the party begin

     My wildest dream-- time travel is possible.  I had an afternoon (one of what I hope will be many) with three of my favorite all time heroines. Tanaquil, 700bc Etruscan princess; Julia 1st century bc/ad daughter of the emperor Augustus: Cartimandua 1st century ad ruler of the Celtic tribe, the Brigantes. From different times in history, varied stations in life, different religions-- we had little in common.  Or did we?
     As trite as it may sound on our first meeting we talked of our first loves. Or in some cases our only loves. Julia was effusive.  Although she was in a marriage arranged by her father for political reasons, she reveled in her marriage to her cousin, Marcellus.
     "I liked his company for he was full of fun, far removed from the stodgy ways of so many people around my father. Any number of whom my father might consider as a mate for me if he needed it. But he was set on his nephew succeeding him. I liked the idea of one day being married to the emperor.I have to admit it was the sex that was wowing.  He was my first.  I suppose they are always special. To be honest I think it was my step mother's objection that did it.  Livia was so power hungry and so 'her family' concerned that she was determined to have one of her sons succeed my father. Drusus, the younger, didn't like me very much. And the older one, Tiberius was so ---" She was silent so long that we all thought she had forgotten we were there. Finally she said, "so dour, yes that's the word."
     "So you loved Marcellus?" I asked
     She tossed her head, flicking her hair in a most annoying manner, laughed and then fell serious. "Love him? You," she said to me "live in the wrong time or the wrong place or both. This love thing-- what is it? How does one describe it?"
     I barely began to answer when Tanaquil interrupted. "Or maybe it was you, Julia, who lived in the wrong time or place.  I know this-- what did you call it -- This love thing."
     "Pray, do tell us then," Julia said as she plopped yet another piece of cheese in her mouth.
     Tanaquil's eyes focused on the space behind Cartimandua.  A faint smile, closed eyes, and a heavy sigh. "It was the first time I was allowed to move around the arena by myself.  It was a wrestling match.  My best friend who had agreed to sit with me abandoned me as soon as we were out sight of our parents.  and went with her would-be boyfriend.  Wandering down a row of seats looking for someone to sit with I tripped and fell into the lap --" She paused.  "Of the most handsome man I had ever seen. By the end of the wrestling matches I was hopelessly and forever in love with an utterly unacceptable man."
     "But we all know he was to be king of Rome. How unacceptable can that be?" Julia asked.
     "But not an prince in Etruria. Despite his charm, and he was charming, and his wealth, and he was fabulously wealthy, --despite all that I had fallen for an alien, and in the end I married the alien. You must know what that meant. But I was not to be done in by it.  I refused to let myself and the man I married be relegated to second-calss citizenship.  Together we left Tarquinia for the wilds of Rome-- a mud hut village at the time.  That Julia is the 'love thing'."
     Julia's lilting laugh was infectious.  Cartimandua finally held up her hand to halt the laughter. "My love thing came late-- if it was a love thing.  I can't imagine you'll find it of much comparison to what we just heard.  It was my husband's armor bearer-- his second self, you might say. I used him as a spy when things were touchy between my husband and me.  I used him for sport when I needed entertaining. I used him for revenge when I wanted to hurt my husband. He was more a sex thing than a love thing. Had things turned out differently in the political road I took, or had I never taken that road, who knows if my love might have been my husband."  Cartimandua turned to Julia. "Had I never had to deal with your nephew or cousin or somthing of that nature.  Had I never had to deal with Claudius and his men."
     Julia erupted in laughter. "Claudius?  You mean Cla-cla-claudius?  Are we going to have a lot to talk about.  Politics-- the glorious wicked world of politics.  But not today, ladies. Not today.  Today let's part with the love thing on our minds."  Suddenly she caught her head in her hands.  "Oh how rude I have been. You, Jewellee, tell us about your first love."
      "Next time.  There will be a next time?"   We agreed to meet again and again in the future. You're all invited to join us.  
To visit the biographies of these women, go to IONICBOOKS

A Tea Party

     If by some warp of time I could invite my three special ladies to tea, the party would dwarf that of Alice in Wonderland.
     Tanaquil, the 700 bc Etruscan princess, wife of Roman King, Tarquin.
     Julia, the fiery political savvy daughter of the Emperor Augustus, first century century ad.
     Cartimandua, the Brigantes Queen in 40 ad when her Celtic tribe was being swallowed up by an ever encroaching Rome.
      I see me sitting at the table with these three strong women, who operate in a man's world with drive, ingenuity and success equal to any male counterpart.  In short order we put aside chit-chat about frivolous women's concerns. Without tiptoeing fanfare we get to the real issues which unite us.  For despite time and space differences we four face the same problems. How do we assure a world for our offspring-- a world that is peaceful and hospitable?
     But what does peaceful mean to each of us? It takes no brains to see that an ancient Roman soldier killed on the German-Roman border is just as dead as one killed in today's Iraqi conflict. The Roman lad in Tarquin's army and the Celtic warrior bleed with the same blood. For war is war is war. And in the last analysis how we women view it depends on our place in time and the scheme of things.
     Julia, the most widely traveled and the most cosmopolitan, comes from a time labeled as 'Pax Romana' because it followed decades of civil war. In contrast to the Roman matron who followed faithfully and submissively the ambitions of  her man, Julia represents a new kind of woman. She rebels against the constraints of 'a woman's place'.  She has never known the inconveniences of war; she relishes in the luxuries of life that her position and wealth afford.
     Cartimandua has known war.  She has been a part of  the unending  tribal conflicts among Celtic tribes of Britain; she has witnessed the ever encroaching Romans.  She has seen it close up.  For the Brigantes, as do most Celtic tribes, do not relegate any of their women to the sidelines of life, rule or war.  Cartimandua is the reigning queen of her tribe.
     Tanaquil, against the advice and wishes of her aristocratic Etruscan family, married an alien, the son of  a Greek trader. That he was a very rich alien mattered not. Shunned by her family and friends she convinced her husband to leave flourishing Tarquinia and move to the 'mud hut' city of Rome. Her husband with wealth, know how and charm captured the city and became king. She knows well the cost of developing a city.
     And I-- I am privileged to learn from these remarkable women-- just what is the legacy of war.

To visit the biographies of these women, go to
IONICBOOKS

Meet Cartimandua

     My idea of the perfect hen party crosses time and space with ease. Julia of the first century AD and Tanaquil seven hundred years earlier (already introduced) are 'musts'. 'Musts' because they are soul mates who not only survive but thrive in their male dominated worlds. We now add a third member.  Far from Rome, concurrent wth Julia, is a Celtic princess, Cartimandua of Brigantia, (a tribe of Britain).  In spirit she rivals Julia and Tanaquil.
     Cartimandua was but a child when her father, the king, dragged her from her play to meet a new prince from a neighboring tribe.
     "It's a young man from the Carvetii. He will live with us for some time."
     "Not that again," she said as she tried to wipe her dirt covered face. "I hate these stupid boys you bring in.  They're mean and nasty."
     The king's laughter rang out as he wiped dirt from her nose. "And you're clean and sweet?  Now Carti, you know we have these agreements with the federation. And don't forget your brother has just left for his stay with the Carvetii. Would you have me go back on my agreement? Think for a minute just what that would mean."  She scowled and lowered her eyes. "And while you're thinking about it, wipe that grimace from you face and determine to be civil.  Who knows, you just might like young Venutius."
     Cartimandua's nod belied her determination to hate this interloper into her world.  How different could he be from the others? They were all the same- boring and ugly.  Far from she would wish as a play mate, a companion or a friend- and gods forbid a husband. Overly confident, usually unattractive, one after the other they came, from one tribe or another.  This new Carvetii would be no different.  And she, a mere girl, would have no choice but to accept him. She would not make it easy for him.
     Both Julia and Tanaquil will like her.  You will like her and can get to know her by going to Ionicbooks.com.
   

Meet Tanaquil

     My affair with Julia was followed in rapid succession with new women.  The second was Tanaquil. In my wildest imagination I see them as friends, not only with me but with each other. Julia, whose indomitable spirit captured the hearts of her young contemporaries in the first century AD, would have enthralled Tanaquil, who lived six centuries earlier in Tarquinia, not yet a part of Rome. Likewise Tanaquil would have spurred Julia on in her defiant moves.
      Just who is Tanaquil? An aristocratic teenager, ripe for marriage, horrifies her family with her desire to marry the son of a Greek merchant.  Neither the merchant's enormous wealth nor his marriage to Clestia, a Tarquinian aristocrat could soften the fact that he was an alien. From Tanaquil's story.
     She has just asked her mother if she can see the merchant's son.                         

            "Have you taken leave of your senses, child?  Have you quite forgotten who you are?  Do you not consider whose daughter you are?   Are you intent on making us the laughing stock of the city?  Do you imagine for an instant that your father and I will countenance your keeping company with this -- with this alien?"

            "But  mother,  he is not really an alien.  His mother is Clestia."  Tanaquil had learned all she could about Lucumo's aristocratic mother. "Clestia is ever so aristocratic. Everybody knows that.  Even Tarlia's mother-- and you know what a horrid snob she is-- even she says Clestia is heads above any of us."

            "Was heads above us.  Before.... Did Tarlia's mother say anything about what has happened since Clestia married Demaratus?  She's not now quite aristocratic enough I should think.  What are you thinking, child?"  Urnilla looked up to the ceiling.  Then she closed her eyes, sighed deeply and said, not particularly to her daughter, "What is the world coming to?"

            Tanaquil lowered her head and began to sob.  But Urnilla was not fooled by the faked tears nor was she to be deterred.  "Good gods, child, he's a foreigner-- an alien.  You cannot -- you must not think like this. It cannot be  What will people think? It cannot be." 
            "Oh Mother.  It's not right." She tried to force tears but they would not come.  She scowled and added, "I shall die. I shall surely die."

            Urnilla smiled.  "At fifteen I assure you will not die for lack of a young man."     

Who is Julia?

      They say a picture is worth pages of description. True if pictures are available. Two thousand years ago cameras were as remote from man's imagination as 'beam me up, Scotty' is today. So how do we know what Julia looked like? Pages of description and numerous statues?

     Verbal descriptions tell us Julia had jet black hair with a white streak over her left eye.  Her skin was fair, her body slender and well proportioned. All these portrayals do not give us what one Paparazzo photograph gives. But do the specifics of looks matter? Brown eyes or blue eyes? Brunette hair or blonde hair?  Or is mental acuity more important?
     If we say yes, then it is Julia's fiery and ambitious nature, her intelligence and passion for her studies that matter. That is what put her in the forefront of a new post war generation, determined to free itself from tradition.
     It was this side of Julia that captured my imagination. As did three other remarkable women, Tanaquil and Tullia, queens of early Rome, and Cartimandua,  the Celtic Queen who was an ally of  Rome.

Each account is available as a PDF file at Ionicbooks.com.

Julia begins her life as a pawn

After years of civil war, Augustus became the first emperor of Rome.  His only child was Julia, not what he needed for an heir

When Julia was 15 he married her to his nephew Marcellus, not unwelcomed by Julia.  But his plan for grandchildren she did find unwelcome.

A scene from a father-daughter encounter on Julia's 16th birthday follows:

Augustus found his daughter in the garden, dancing with abandon around the statue of Apollo.  He approached her:
"My princess looks happy on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday" he said

"You remembered. OhTata, I knew you would. Marcellus is so big headed now that he's an aedile, he forgets I am alive. But you brought me a present.  What is it? Come on Tata. I know it's behind you.  Give it to me."

"Julia, you're incorrigibile, and yes I have a present"    He handed her the seal skin amulet on a long leather throng.  It was without question the ugliest thing she had ever seen, a wrinkled brown leather disk the size of an egg, suspended on the ugly thong. Julia's first thought was it belonged on the neck of a dog.

She stared at it.  "It's horrid.  What is it?"

"My pet, it will ward off all evil and assure you great luck.  It has served me on many occasions, and I am told that soon after you put it on you will become pregnant."

:But Tata, it's so ugly, and besides I don't want to be pregnant.  Pregnant women are so fat an ugly."

How I Got Here

     When as a student of Roman history I was assigned to read I CLAUDIUS  and CALUDIUS THE GOD, my feminist bias rejected the emphasis on emperors and generals.  Rather it came to rest on the women, who sometimes behind the scenes, sometimes openly pricked the neat 'pseudo-republican' claims of the disgenenous rulers.  They say  'behind every successful man is a woman who makes his success possible'. The opposite, logically, is that behind every successful man is a woman who if not controlled threatens his success. This most certainly applies to Augustus, the first Emperor of Rome. His wife of decades for whatever her reasons was a bulwark of his politics, a champion of his desires (perverted or not) and a protector of his image.  Daughter Julia unwilling to be sacrificed on the altar of her father's political ambitions, positioned herself a a personal and political danger.
     Over and over I imagined myself as Julia, with her personal abandon, her political ambition, her rejection of her sacrifice for some man's, albeit her father's,  success.  Julia emerged in my consciousness as a friend, a sister, a woman whose story I would share, a woman whose story I had to share.

Launch Daze

In the coming days I intend to introduce the characters of my novels and hope they will capture your interest.