From afar Aemillia appeared to be the very image of Arachne working
at her loom. Her fine white wool tunic
fell gracefully against her budding womanly figure. Beautifully carved crescent moon buttons stitched
together the cloth along the top of her shoulders, creating open oval shapes
where one could see the smooth paleness of her skin peek through. She appeared at ease sitting on the engraved
wooden bench in front of the standing loom with her sandaled feet crossed at
the ankle and tucked beneath the bench.
On closer inspection, a slight protruding of a plump lower lip
could be seen as a pout. Her hair had been
curled such that there was graceful waving light brown hair pulled into an
intricate bun. Small pieces of hair had
escaped and dangled behind her right ear, due to her frequent unconscious
tugs. Her soft delicate hands awkwardly
moved the rich yellow, wool yarn through the forest of vertical strings. Due to pulling the string alternately too
tight and too loose, the previous four rows of cloth already had a wobbly appearance
that caused her pout to deepen whenever her blue-grey eyes landed upon it.
Occasionally, Aemillia glanced at her slave who was in charge of
weaving the family’s clothes. The slave
bit her lip and anxiously watched her mistress’s attempt at weaving. Unsure how to teach the girl the traditional
Roman art of weaving, without giving unwanted advice, she decided it best to
sit and wait until she was asked for help.
Hearing brisk footsteps, Aemillia straightened her slouching
shoulders and quickly smiled at her father, while hurrying to give the
impression of quick efficient weaving.
In her rush, the wood used to guide the wool through the loom bumped
into a vertical string and bounced loudly to the floor. Due to the fall, the string still attached to
the wood pulled the partial row on the loom, making the woven fabric look even more
misshapen. “How is the weaving coming
along?” He asked brightly, fondly smiling at his daughter. Without pause he looked at the thin tangle of
yellow on the loom and declared, “Looks marvelous. Publius Crassus will be proud to have
a true Roman wife; one that wove her own palla.
I will buy you the finest matching īnstita to beautify the bottom of your first
stolla, mea dulcis Aemillia.”
Cheered
by the thought of herself in the fine gown (though inwardly cringing at the
thought of Publius Crassus), she thanked her father sincerely, reclaimed the
fallen piece, and gave weaving another try.
