Prima, Secunda and the absurdity of importance

To have a sister that was turned into a starlet by Aphrodite, the goddess, sounds like a fabulous perk. While the rest of the family argue who will inherit the orchard, you can simply point to the sky and say: ‘I have a sister among the stars! I need nothing else.’

The only problem is that when you are Prima, the first-born daughter of a noble family in Augusta Trajana, you must always act with dignity. And this can be awfully weary.

In recent years, everything has turned so serious, everybody has become such bigwigs. Yes, Augusta Trajana is so important that even the cattle grazing by its walls seem smugger than those in the villages. Emperor Trajan granted it self-governance (which actually means, ‘You can decide about some minor interior matters but make sure you pay your taxes in time. And may they be plentiful!’). Our city thrives: trade, culture, theatres, baths, exquisite mosaics. Passersby chat in Latin and Greek on cobbled streets, bronze statues of the gods look down from their high columns. Walking around, I can almost hear the walls and stones argue. The forum argues with the theatre about which is more important. The theatre contends that without its plays people here would be as dumb as Thracian goats. The forum insists: ‘I am where the fate of all is determined!’. And here the library joins in, whispering quietly: ‘And I am where the fate of the entire world is set in letters, where the dead teach the living.’ This is how important our city has become.

Our family is high society, as they say. The daughters do not bear just one plain name as most local girls do; we adhere to the old Roman principle: the firstborn is Prima, the second – Secunda, the third – Tertia, and so on. Quite handy if your parents have bad memory.

A name like this, Prima, can be challenging, in a peculiar way. Imagine somebody asking: ‘And who’s that?’; the answer inevitably is: ‘The First!’. ‘The first in what?’ – ‘Well… The First! Just the First.’ It sounds like an argument between drunken grammarians and mathematicians, doesn’t it?

Secunda was twelve years old when she fell sick. In contrast to the drama of myth where the Moirai suddenly grasp your life away from you, hers was a rather dull case: she faded away slowly, in pain, with sighs and groans. On her tombstone it says that she ‘withered away’. And this was exactly how it felt: like I was watching a rose that somebody had ‘watered’ with hot wine, and not water. My mother couldn’t bear her loss and followed her beyond.

Of course, my father ordered the inscription in their honour to be written in epic hexameter. For when you commission an epitaph, you want people that pass by the altar of your deceased beloved to say: ‘These people must’ve been really important – only important people die in hexameter.’

I miss them, especially Secunda. She was my closest friend and sometimes I get angry that it is not my name on that epitaph. Prima. When she was alive, everyone’s eye was on her and her alone, she was so beautiful, whereas I have always been the dull one. I don’t have any special skills, just shortcomings – people keep saying that I am quite ill-mannered for mocking important stuff; and they try to usher me away, into a corner. And now, without my sister, I have become literally invisible to everyone.

Secunda didn’t just die. She turned into a star. Such honour is usually reserved for heroes like Heracles, Perseus and others that have acted heroically, killing a monster, cleaning somebody’s dirty stables (this is a serious endeavour, trust me) or coming up with a new recipe for fish. The latter is highly appreciated recently. But my sister… she was just… beautiful, so Aphrodite decided to take her under her wing and turn her into a celestial light.

There are disadvantages to that too. Every time I look up to the sky, I remember Secunda and I feel the tug at my heart as I realize how much I miss her. Then I remember the markets in Augusta Trajana, the baths and the wine, and I say to myself, ‘Well, maybe being here, in this world, also has its advantages.’

When I look at the imposing altar, I am annoyed that my name is not on the epitaph. My family, my closest people, are there, and I am not. There isn’t enough room between the letters so I can’t squeeze in. Philosophers would argue that that what is not there is the most important, and they have the most detailed discussions about it. But does anyone even remember that I existed… that I still exist?

Pythagoreans believe that every soul has its star, that souls come from the heavens and if they are virtuous, they come back there. So, if I behave, one day I might end up among the stars myself. Also, according to Pythagoras everything in this world is a number. And my name is a number too, and the first number at that. The beginning. Without me there would have been no Secunda, no Tertia. So, even though I am not on that piece of stone, I think that I am the foundation. Who knows, maybe a god will decide to make me immortal by mistake, even though I do not stand out with my beauty or some other quality; maybe they’ll pin me on the sky between the Big Dipper and that strange cloud that never goes away. And maybe my father would notice me then. After the carver chiseled out the last letter of that important epitaph in the stone, he stopped seeing me.

For now, however, I live my insignificant life in Augusta Trajana. I drink my wine diluted, for I come from a refined family, and with my heart slightly broken, I laugh at the absurdity of the fact that the most important monument for my family is a stone that says everything about everybody… but me.

Author: Paoulina Micheva

Translation in English: Alexander "Sancho" Marinov