Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo
There was a girl, maybe ten or eleven. Perhaps twelve;
I’ve never been good with children. They puzzle me. She stood by wherever it
was I lay and stared at me with an intensity that, had I the strength, would
have made me look away. Green eyes the color of a hummingbird’s back. I tried
to smile at her, but I don’t think my face cooperated. She began to whistle,
backing away into the middle of the room and dancing to the rhythm she set. Her
long hair, as red and gold as a Piraeus sunrise, spun about her face as she
twirled. It made me dizzy to watch her, but I was transfixed. The back of my
head throbbed like a second heart. Before I lost consciousness again, a thought
lurched past, irrelevant and nonsensical:her tresses are silken and she has no freckles. Unusual for a redhead.
***
My legs were brittle fire. If I moved, they would
crack and break apart like charred paper. Someone replaced the cloth on my
forehead with one dampened by cool water and aromatic oils. Ecstasy. The blanket
soaked with my sweat was pulled away and someone gasped. “Livia, get out,” a
woman commanded. Footsteps retreated and next I felt the pressure of gently
probing fingers. I groaned. My heart had abandoned my chest altogether. Now it
fell to my thigh, thumping against its swollen tightness. If I moved, it would
burst free from the inside.
A man’s voice:“Will he live?”
The woman answered, “If the fever breaks. I must drain
the wounds.” She began her work in earnest. There came a most disagreeable scream,
after which I spun out of consciousness.
***
Two weeks later, I was summoned. Sabina, the Greek
healer responsible for my recovery, guided me from the servants’ wing through
the house. But for her, I would have perished in the delirium of infection that
spread from my thigh until it ran up against the unyielding ministrations of my
savior. As clarity returned, I found myself in the middle of a perplexing
dilemma. A captive quickly learns that the odds of survival are greatly
improved by not drawing attention to
oneself. Yet here I was, propped up on pillows (rough-woven homespun stuffed
with seed hulls, but pillows nonetheless), spoon-fed hot broth by either the
healer or her daughter, and given a gift withheld for so long I could scarcely
count the days since I had last received it:comfort. Never in all my life had I craved someone’s
attention as much as I did this spare, hard woman. Her face, once beautiful,
had been weathered down to handsome. She was tall but never seemed to stand to
her full height, as if her trials were a constant weight against which she
strove. She was not quite old enough to be my mother, but each moment spent in
her company brought painfully sweet reminders of family, and home.
A non-ambulatory servant will test the patience of the
most understanding Roman, so I drank Sabina’s potions, hobbled about as long
and as often as I could endure it, and did everything I could to assist in my
own convalescence. On these brief walks down dark hallways, my arm gripping her
narrow shoulder, her strength supplying most of what kept us vertical, my best
conversational skills were not enough to draw Sabina out. In two weeks I
learned little more than that she was from Attica and had been married. Her
husband had been killed almost a year ago, I know not how. Like me she had only
recently come into the service of Crassus. She evaded all my queries; I did not
even know if she was bought or free. Yet there was some part of her story she
could not conceal. An unknown hardship lived just beneath the surface of her
smile, etching lines of care about her eyes. Sometimes I would catch her
standing silently, staring off in some sad reverie from which I was loath to
startle her. It saddened me to see this, and to know there was no way I could
help.
But oh how she brightened when Livia alighted in the
room, which the child did whenever her own chores were done. Then, the gremlins
that tormented Sabina dropped their detestable tools and fled the moment she
set eyes on her daughter. Livia was ready with a quick and fervent hug, but
flitted off again, questioning this, examining that. The girl could not keep
still; when she wasn’t talking she was whistling, and the whistling inevitably
led to dancing.
Her mother tried to channel some of that energy by
handing her a dust cloth, then a broom, then a mop. Sabina claimed the servants
assigned to housekeeping were sufficient for cleaning barns and sties, but
little else. Sabina was neat the way a Roman pine was coniferous. I have found
her on her hands and knees scrubbing the grout between the flagstones with an
old tooth rag and a bucket of diluted vinegar. And then again three days later.
Livia did not grumble when asked to help; her vitality
needed an outlet and almost any activity would do. She sang and scrubbed,
creating dance steps that used the mop as a partner. More than once Sabina had
to remind her they were no longer in Salamis. Romans, she admonished, find
dancing vulgar. So Sabina, too, had learned the benefits of remaining
invisible. A lesson yet to be absorbed by the dazzling and willful Livia.
“Then Romans,” she replied, fixing me with an impish
leer, “are the thing you see when you lift a horse’s tail.”
I stifled a guffaw as Sabina exclaimed, “Livia! You
must never speak like that.” She glanced toward the hallway, a reflexive
movement common in non-Roman conversations:were we being overheard, there would be consequences. Roman
consequences. “Where ever did you learn such a thing?”
“At home, of course.” And she was gone, twirling off
at speed. Sabina called her back unsuccessfully. The sadness came rushing back
into her expression, a thief of joy intent on stealing a mother’s smile.
“Home?” I tried. “But this is her home.” Sabina ignored me as she refilled my
water cup from a terra cotta pitcher. “Keep drinking,” she said, her healer’s
demeanor restored. She ruffled my hair with genuine affection. I ached to know
more, but dared not pick further at a scab that was not my own.
***
By the time we reached the entrance to the tablinum, sweat dotted my forehead;
Sabina steadied me, her arm an oak branch under my own. The study was small,
crowded with the work assigned to one of Sulla’s new favorites. The day was
surprisingly warm;curtains had
been pulled so that the room was open to the adjacent peristyle. Iron rings
discouraged a spray of scrolls from going outside to play with the occasional
breeze. There was room for but one chair, and its occupant was unlikely to give
it up to the bandaged young heron wobbling before him. Sunlight fell from the
columned garden onto Crassus’ outstretched, sandaled foot, the leather lacings
only a few shades darker than his tanned calf. His bare arms draped languidly
over cedar armrests, hands hanging down in repose. The man I must now call lord
wore a tunic hemmed with silver thread; the only other adornment was a band of
iron on his left ring finger. His form begged to be sculpted; his face belonged
on coins. Marcus Licinius Crassus, one of Rome’s new masters, had just turned
thirty-four. As my eyes rose to meet his, I saw that he was studying me as
intently as I had been taking account of him.
“You live,” he said.
“Apparently.”
“I am pleased.”
I did not respond.
“I’ve decided I am not going to have you whipped.”
“I am pleased,” I said with emphasis.
There followed a second of silence in which I tried to
hold his gaze, but faltered. “Take him back, Sabina,” Crassus said with a flick
of his wrist. “Give him another day’s rest, then have him report to Pío.” We
turned to go, but he stopped us. “You studied philosophy, did you not?” I
nodded. “Next week,” he said, returning to his work, “you’ll spend an hour each
day tutoring my son. Why should we hire out when we have our very own expert on
the Greek thinkers.”
“But how did ....”
Crassus did not look up. He took another scroll from
the pile, but his lips curled into an involuntary smile. “We keep excellent
records on captives’ backgrounds. Unlike some, I read them.”
“Isn’t Marcus a little young?” Sabina asked.
“When the other boys start at seven, he’ll be that
much further ahead. Just an hour a day; enough to whet his appetite.”
“Yes, dominus,”
Sabina said. She elbowed me.
“Yes, dominus,”
I repeated dully, marveling at his knowledge of me, and that he had bothered to
discover it.
Crassus spoke again. “Now we shall ascertain if your
educational gifts equal your prowess as an archery butt.”
My face reddened. Was that a dismissal? Crassus read
his parchment while we stood there, stuck in a hot, uncomfortable limbo. I
shifted painfully on my leg. Finally, he said, “Oh, one more thing.” He looked
up, his expression impenetrable. “Pío is a Laletani - Hispanic. His Latin is
passable but rudimentary. He does not understand sarcasm. He boasts twice my
weight and half my sense of humor. Need I say more?” he asked with eyebrow
raised. I stared at him in mild surprise. Was he trying to look out for me, or
was he merely protecting his investment? Dare I ask? Too late. The interview
was over. Crassus had returned to his work and the moment to wave the banner of
my own ironical sense of humor had passed. Timing is all.
In any case, my stamina was flagging.
That was the extent of my first conversation with
Marcus Crassus. I would not have another for three months.
Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo
A word of advice: if you can possibly avoid it, do not get shot. The arrow pierced my right thigh and exited out the back of my leg with force enough to spin me off-balance. My wounded leg flew backward, tripping up my other leg as I twisted from the impact. I was screaming before my fall broke the feathered shaft as I hit the ground face down. Unable to stop my momentum, I rolled over until the protruding iron arrowhead stabbed the back of my other thigh. I’m told the complaints streaming from my mouth were insufferable; Sulla ordered a legionary to rush up and knock me on the head with the butt of his sword.
***
Now that I have told you how my new master ruined my first and only attempt at escape from bondage, I return to the events that happened only moments before. They concern the condemned man whose blood Crassus refused to allow to be washed from the balcony’s stones for as long as he lived in that place. So let us go back to the moment he was dragged before Sulla and Crassus.
***
There was a commotion at the front of the house: the slap and murmur of leather armor, the clamor of studded caligae, the stumble of an out-of-step gait shoved from behind. “Your next gift approaches,” Sulla said to Crassus. As this procession marched out onto the balcony, the sound of a sword being drawn was accompanied by these words from the general: “Lucius Junius Brutus Damasippus, I accuse you of the murder of Quintus Mucius Scaevola, pontifex maximus. In the blinking brightness of day. In front of scores of witnesses. In of all places the most sacred Temple of the Vestals. A crime so bold and heinous it is a reeling affront to everything for which Rome stands. Do you deny it?”
There came a coarse cough of laughter, then a new voice spoke with venom made potent by the hopelessness of his plight. “I deny nothing. I cut the priest’s throat with my own puglioand watched his blood run down the steps of the temple.”
“And do you deny that Gaius Marius Minor, the last holdout of those who have raised arms against me, he who is now held under siege at Praeneste, holds your leash?”
“This is too pretty a place for an execution, Lucius Cornelius, and far too private for your purpose. What are you playing at? I appreciate the view, but if you expect repentance, I shit on your ignorance. Do what you brought me here to do.”
“The dead make no demands: I give no credence to the words of a ghost. For history’s sake, I will make an accurate accounting. Marius gave you a list.”
“We have it here my lord,” a soldier said. There was quiet as Sulla scanned it.
“And did you ...?”
“To the last senator,” spoke Damasippus. “You’ll find them at the bottom of the Tiber. Togas make excellent shrouds. By the way, you’ll find the high priest Scaevola down there as well. You see, we did try to clean up after ourselves,” the villain added.
“You were loyal, Brutus; you served faithfully, first the father, then the son. This I do not hold against you, for it is this quality I seek above all others in my own allies. You may have truly believed, as did Marius, that the people require more representation than what they already have from the senators whom they have elected. Or maybe you simply gambled that your sword would be wielded on the side of the victor. Either way, you have chosen unwisely. Yet even this I might be inclined to overlook, but for the cruel and vicious streak in you. I take no pleasure in restoring sanity to Rome. I do what must be done. But you, you are ... overzealous. I cannot abide intemperance in any form.”
“Then chide your tongue,” Damasippus snapped. “This endless prattle offends my person more than any blade.” There was a blunt whump and the prisoner became silent. My neck ached. I rolled my head to relieve the strain of looking up, as if that would improve my hearing.
Sulla spoke again. “Marcus, come close. Do you know this man?”
“There is something familiar about his face.” A pause. “YOU!”
“Hold, Marcus.” A short scuffle. “He will be yours in good time. Before I could breach the walls of the city, this traitor had already discharged his bloody commission from Marius the son, but five years earlier, the faithful cur performed the same bloody tricks for Marius the father. I wish these good souls assembled here to know the full measure of his perfidy. Remember, Marcus Licinius; purge yourself of the memory.”
There was silence for a long while, then Crassus spoke hoarsely, but I could not make out the words. Sulla’s stentorian growl, though, fell hard on my ears. “This is the man, Marcus! More than this house, more than any treasure I have yet to bestow upon you, I warrant you will value him as my greatest gift to you. Most of him, that is. I shall retain his head for another purpose.”
Crassus found his voice, each word of the retelling slowly stoking his anger as the memory took shape and form till it was once again a live and twisting thing in his gut. “You were bearded then.” The sound of measured steps fading then returning: Crassus circling Damasippus. “Bless the gods for their kindness – they took my mother the day I was born; she would be neither witness nor victim of that day’s work. My eldest brother, Publius - he too was fortunate. He died honorably, killed in the last war against our rebellious Italian allies.
“But on the day of which you would have me speak, general, the day my family’s honor and life was gutted like a gasping trout, I was the lucky one.” The word came miserable and shriveled from Crassus’ throat. “My brother Lucius had just returned ... .” A breeze blew through the needles of the stone pines lining the garden border and carried his next words away on the chill wind. I pleaded with their great, rounded crowns, swaying like giant mushrooms on spindly stalks, begging them to be still. To my amazement, they heard my prayer and ceased their lofty chatter.
“They never found me,” Crassus was saying. “But through the cracks of the garden shed I saw what happened. Pallus, the gardener and two of his Egyptians had gone there with me to fetch fertilizer and tools. If not for them ....”
“How ironic that my father once supported Marius. He was always a man of the people. But his taste for politics soured once the killing began. He became devoutly apolitical and withdrew from public life altogether. Which is why he looked mildly surprised when a squad of soldiers marched up to his home, led by this man. I never learned his name, but his deeds made the memory of his face indelible. Damasippus, you say. I have it now. You never gave it when my father demanded it of you. Why should it matter to me now? But it does, you see, because there is a perverse balance in the knowing. In my heart, the names of my kin are forever linked to their kind and gentle ways. Until now I had no name to connect the profane acts of that day. Marius may have given the order. But never has such a heinous command ever been executed with such joyous devotion. By you. Damasippus.
“You gave my father a choice. You must have known of him: consul, censor, governor of Hispania Ulterior, a patrician proclaimed imperatore by his troops and granted a triumph for his victory over the Lusitani, yet you gave him a choice. Fall on your sword, you said, and spare the life of your son. My father was no fool. He knew the sun above his head would be the last to shine upon him. He did not beg or ask why or hesitate for one second. He said, Spare the lives of the rest of my household, my children and their children. Lucius cried out and struggled against the two that held him. ‘Be brave, my son,’ my father said as the rest of the soldiers pushed roughly past him to search the house. ‘Take anything you like ....’” Crassus’ breath caught, it became clear he was crying. ‘Take it all, Father said, ‘but spare all who live under my roof. ‘Swear this. Swear on the honed tips of Diana’s unerring arrows and upon the blessed curls that grace your mother’s head. And you swore. You swore.
“My father called for Plocamus, our steward, to assist him, and he shuffled bravely out from amongst the servants. But he was old and frail. You pushed him aside and ....” Crassus faltered. “You told him he could not lift a sword, let alone brace it.”
“I know damn well what I ...”
“SILENCE!” Sulla bellowed. “Go on, Marcus.”
“I cannot. Rage and sorrow both have stopped my mouth. Oh gods! Will you not let me avenge them now?!”
“Draw your sword,” said Sulla, “for its thirst shall be slaked. I have heard the tale, my friend, and would be your voice, for the story eats at me and must out. This traitorous whoreson took his own sword and knelt before your father, bracing the butt against his boot as is the custom. Publius Licinius addressed the house, but his gaze was fixed on Lucius, his eldest remaining son. ‘Mourn not,’ he said, ‘for I happily sell all my remaining days to make this purchase. When Marcus returns, express my sorrow at not being able to say goodbye.’ He looked down at his murderer and added, ‘Be not forsworn,’ and then he fell upon the blade.”
“I could not go to him!” Crassus cried with a voice aged with five years of guilt and anger. “Three men held me fast, their strength doubled to save their own lives as well as mine. Pallus whispered ‘forgive me’ in my ear as he clasped a hand over my mouth.”
“A foul business,” Sulla said. “And here is the worst of it. Before the sword could inflict a lethal blow, Damasippus thrust a hand up to your father’s shoulder, arresting his descent. He nodded to the men holding your brother and smiled as they slit his throat. Seeking your father’s eyes once more, he grinned as he said, “Marius bids me say thusly: you and your family shall become as dust, your coins melted, your works dismantled, and your household utterly destroyed.” He cast his stiffened arm aside, your father fell, and Damasippus laughed as the light went from his eyes. You and your three brave servants were the only ones to escape.”
The sound of weeping came from above, and more cries than the sobs of Crassus swept down to me on the wind. There soon followed silence. I strained to listen, my breath a caged captive in my chest.
Sulla said, “Marcus will kill you now, Lucius Junius. You will receive no rights of burial. Your body will be cast into the Tiber. Your possessions and property will be proscribed and your family and all that called you friend will be hunted down and put to the sword. When you are slain, I will take your severed head and send a message with it, more convincing than any inked on parchment. I shall catapult it over the walls of Praeneste so that the son of Marius will know his battle for Rome is over. For him, like you, all is lost.”
There came a thud as the condemned must have been forced to his knees. Sulla said in a solemn voice, “He is yours, Marcus.”
I had seen these executions before and cringed at the thought of what was going on above me. Crassus must have stood behind his victim, placed his sword point at the base of the neck and with both hands thrust straight down. I heard nothing, but the deed must have been done.
Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo
Several men and women were busy pruning and trimming
the flowered garden that sloped gently down the hill that overlooked the way we
had come. I almost smiled when I realized the view to the northwest looked directly
down upon the Comitium. The tribune would have insisted that I avert my eyes. I
took great pleasure in allowing my eyes to linger over every building and
temple.
Men were talking on the balcony above us.
“… the one at the very top of the Palatine?” a deep
voice, well-pleased with itself was saying.
“The one on fire?” asked another. This one sounded
much younger than the first speaker, his voice constricted by nerves. I did not
know it as I eavesdropped, but I was soon to become a poorly wrapped gift, and
Marcus Licinius Crassus the arrogant recipient.
“The very same. That is the ruins of the house of old
Marius. I shall build my estate upon its ashes.”
“Sir, may I ask why you have called me to the Carinae?
As lovely as the view is from this hill, I must see to my Spaniards.”
“Good men all. My best medics are already on their way
to your camp to tend to the wounded. Relax, Marcus. I’ve a special surprise for
you which should be here any minute. Take a cup of wine. It’s from your
vineyards after all.”
“Sir?”
“This home has been abandoned by the previous owner,
along with all his property and wealth. Not coincidentally, he abandoned the
field of battle as well, his tail well-tucked. A coward such as Carbo deserves
no finery such as this. I doubt he’ll be making any claims from Africa. Today,
I give all his possessions to the hero of the Colline Gate.”
“Words cannot express my gratitude, general. But my
father, may he rest peacefully in Juno’s arms, would never approve of such a
display of immoderate wealth. Our family home was a third as large.” The man’s
barely contained joy was proof that he was not his father.
“And your father,” the first man countered, “could
have afforded an estate ten times as grand, so let us consider this a fair
compromise. Come Marcus, we must begin to rebuild the wealth Marius stole. We
take back only that which rightfully belongs to you. My mind is set on this –
though of plebian ancestry, the Licinii Crassi have sacrificed more for the
sake of Rome than most nobles:a
father and the two eldest of three sons? It is enough. You must make your mark
for their sake.”
“My lord ...”
“No. You have your own family to consider. How fare
your wife and son?” Evidently there would be no further argument.
“Sons! When I left Tertulla in Lavinium last year to
join your campaign, she was with child. Her letters have yet to find me; I pray
Mercury lends mine swifter wings. Girl or boy, I know not which, the next
Crassus should be a year old by now. Young Marcus will turn three next month.”
Even from my lowly vantage point I could hear the pride in his voice.
“This is magnificent news. You honored the memory of
your brother when you took Tertulla in.”
“She was just a child. Only thirteen and married to
Lucius less than a year the day he was cut down. I do honor his memory, but I
would have seen it served in any other way than this. Thanks to the gods that
Tertulla was visiting her parents, or her name would have lengthened the list
of the dead. It is a marvel, but these past five years I have come to cherish
her as if I had been the first to woo her. Yet that is of no account. What I
did is unremarkable; any decent Roman would have done the same.”
“Decent Romans,” the older man mused. “Roman decency
is a rare commodity nowadays. For proof, one need but take a stroll through
almost any neighborhood of the city.” I grimaced with disgust; the man was
oblivious to the fact that at least half the carnage in the streets could be
laid upon the edge of Roman swords. The senior officer continued. “Wait a few
weeks before summoning Tertulla back to the city. A woman’s eyes ought not to
lose their sparkle from the sight of what men must do to keep them safe.
Although it’s never too early for the son of a Roman to begin his education.” I
prayed to Reason that no son of Rome would ever call me father. As it
turned out, Reason would attend. The boy I grew to think of as the son I never
had would hail from quite another quarter, a fugitive who would find his home
with me.
There was a short silence after which Marcus Crassus
appeared to acquiesce tacitly to his benefactor’s generosity by changing the
subject. “So, Carbo escaped, then?” he said.
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve sent young Gnaeus
Pompeius after him with his three legions. Do you know him?”
“We’ve never met. I hear his ability to command far
outstrips his years. Wasn’t it he and Metellus who engaged Carbo in the north?
It makes me feel unworthy being the recipient of such bounty.” My ears strained
to catch each word of this lofty conversation.
“Look there. That villa will be his upon his return.
You’ll be neighbors! Be at ease, Marcus, it has at least one peristyle more
than yours. Will that give Pompeius his due? Fine. It is settled then. Let’s
eat something while we wait. I’m famished.” In a different tone, one I had
heard often from countless men since my abduction, he barked, “Bring it
outside.”
Several more people approached, there was the scraping
of furniture and the gentle clank and clatter of trays being carefully laid
down. The man next to me took no notice; he sat cross-legged, his head tilted
back against the column. Jaw slack. Eyes closed. My foot was at the ready
should he start to snore.
After a few moments of quiet, the man who I assumed
was older than Crassus laughed out loud. “You should have seen their faces,” he
said. “As white as their togas, I swear by Jupiter.” He was talking with his
mouth full. The implication made me salivate. “The Curia was no fit place to
address what was left of the senate. I would not speak to them standing on the
still fresh blood of my friends. So this morning we shepherded them all up the
Capitoline to the Temple of Bellona. An unhappy coincidence, since close by my
legates had assembled the remaining, captured Samnites on the Campus Martius.
There they would pay in full for their insurrection.” The man bit into some
kind of fruit. I could hear the juice fly. “Only open field with enough room to
herd ‘em all,” he said, his mouth once again overfull. I swallowed back
unbidden saliva, almost losing track of the conversation.
“How many were taken prisoner?”
“Oh, maybe five, six thousand.” Crassus made a sound
of acknowledgment. “The cries of the ones in the rear who could see their fate
approaching worked our venerable legislators into a frenzy. And my intention
was to calm them and reassure them. It really was quite funny. They thought
they themselves would be next to fall under the sword. I had to leave the
rostrum to compose myself while my men shepherded the terrified conscript
fathers back to their places. When I stopped laughing and regained my dignity I
returned and told them I had come to save them, not slay them. I could see it
in their eyes:everything I said
fell on ears plugged with wax manufactured from the screams of the dying
Samnites.
“Marius and his gang were their true enemies. If he
had had his way the assemblies and the plebs would have stripped the senate of
all real power. Jupiter! His thugs killed off more than half the original three
hundred. We need to do something about that, Marcus.” He paused a moment. “We
need to protect the old ways. I shall tear down the Curia and build a new,
larger one, this time with enough room to hold twice as many togas.”
“But the law only allows three hundred senators.”
The older man’s tone grew dark. “The law shall be
rewritten.” Then he brightened. “And we must see that the seats are filled with
our friends, with men who are loyal to Rome, eh, and to me? You shall
have a seat,” he said, suddenly inspired.
“General, I am honored, but I have yet to embark upon
the cursus honorum.”
I could envision the wave of a dismissive hand. “It is
a done thing. What a pity it would have been had my dreams died at the very
gates of the city. Your role was not insignificant, Marcus. We will speak no
more of it.”
I smiled outright. The tribune who had marched us here
had been so proud of his Curia; now it would be razed. But a breath later my
smile fled, my lips pressed to flatness by widened eyes. I tried to rationalize
my stupidity:I was exhausted,
starving, a blood-spattered wreck. Still, logic should have prevailed and
shaken me before now. Above my head stood Lucius Cornelia Sulla, conqueror of
Asia Minor, plunderer of Athens and thief of the life of Alexandros, son of
Theodotos. My heart used my stomach for a drum and I gripped the column for
support. Here was the man at whose feet could be laid every injury, insult and
degradation I had endured these past four years. In that time, all that I once
might have been had been ground away until what was left was more stone than man:cold, weathered, inert. Knowledge
wrenched me back to myself; I was suddenly, sharply awake.
Much more was said, and of that heartbreaking tale I
shall speak again. But the nearness of General Sulla was causing me to become
increasingly agitated, like a fly unable to reach a pile of offal. There was
nothing holding me save my word, my own voluntary grip on the centurion’s rope
and the promise of a summary and certain demise. Even so, I imagined myself
stepping out into the light, armed with arrow and bow to wreak glorious justice
upon Sulla, claiming as my prize a death that would make an end of my travails.
My impotent and weaponless daydreaming was cut short
by the sound of a prisoner being brought before Crassus and Sulla as they
waited on the balcony. To tell it briefly, the man was executed and beheaded on
the spot. The head escaped its executioners, rolled out off the veranda and
onto the gravel path below. I followed the sound of a moist thud and there,
almost at my feet I met the open and discomfiting gaze of the victim. His
facial muscles still twitched in a parody of communication, either from the
fluid still draining from his neck or from the jarring effect of his flight and
abrupt landing. I leapt back, stumbling over my sleeping companion who, having
been trampled awake began a diatribe of reproach interrupted by the sight of
the severed head. The gardeners froze, their hoes and rakes motionless, but
then like the well-trained servants they were, they continued as if this
barbarity were a frequent occurrence.
The chains of fear that had kept me from myself
suddenly fell away. I could act, not at the whim of my captors but of my own
volition. Sulla had emancipated me, for who among the hundreds of thousands
shackled by this brutish man’s armies had ever stood so close to the taproot of
all that misery? I was free! Free, but with only one act to choose, only one
decision that was mine alone to make. I would die, and deprive these Romans of
any further use of me. I laughed to think that I had once believed my lot could
ever improve; to wish for a return to a life of dignity was a vain and empty
hope. I would deceive myself no longer and take back my life, if only for a
moment. A meaningless gesture was my only weapon, but I intended to wield it
with skill and accuracy. I have heard that the moments before death can bring
unrivaled clarity and lightheartedness. It is true.
Running out into the sunlight, I grabbed a hank of
black, oily hair and hoisted the staring head high:Alexandros, son of Theodotos, a demented Perseus. “General,
I see you’ve lost your head!” I shouted in Latin. “Shall I toss it up to you?
Catch it, then, and bloody your hands. May the stain never fade.”
The conqueror of Rome leaned over the marble railing
and glared at me. He turned away and said something I could not catch. Any
moment now. The rumble of many feet came rushing down the stairwell.
Soldiers poured out the doorway but Sulla shouted for
them to hold. The military tribune’s horse shied and was led away, almost
trampling my bilingual friend. He scrambled to his feet only to be pressed
against the column by the points of several threatening gladii. Seeing me bloodstained and wild-eyed, holding aloft the
severed head, despite the ring of soldiers hemming him in my fellow Greek began
mumbling incoherently and making signs against evil.
“It feels good, you know,” I said, breaking the moment
of silence when the world grew still and even the breeze held its breath.
“Please,” Sulla mocked, “Do describe this brief
elation before I end it.”
“Why, having the great General Sulla do my bidding.”
“Ordering me about, are you?” He laughed along with
his subordinates. “And what is it you expect me to do?”
“You have already done it.” I would say no more, for
fear he would rescind the order for spite and spoil my plan. A moment later the
audience for this little entertainment parted and an archer appeared, swinging
his bow up and over the balustrade.
“Don’t bother throwing it up. My men will fetch it
once you’re dead.” He nodded to the archer. I dropped the corpse’s head and
spread my arms, chest out, face turned to the infinite sky.
“General! A moment.” It was the voice of the tribune
who had led us to this place. “Forgive me,” he said, “but that is one of the
two translators you had me fetch for ...”
“Damn! Marcus, this was to be another gift. Carbo’s
slaves are mostly Greek, they speak no Latin. When we took the house my men met
with some resistance and we were forced to thin them out – the house
translators were among the dead. I’ll shoot this one and get you another. There
has to be a more compliant candidate left alive in the city.”
“A shame,” Crassus said. “His Latin is perfect.”
“Archer!” I called. “Do you love your vocation?” And
in Greek, “I hope so, for ‘pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work.’”
“Aristotle!” cried Crassus. Then, almost
apologetically to Sulla, “I am an admirer.” I got the first look of my master
as he appeared at the railing. A soldier in his prime:hair close-cropped, brows knit over a
slightly bent nose; thin lips, strong chin and eyes care-worn yet masterful.
Like most of the men peering down at me, he looked worn out, yet comforted by
the mantle of victory. He leaned over the rail and called to me in Greek,
“Apologize, and you yet may live.”
“If you are a true student of philosophy, good sir,
you will not interfere,” I said. “You will know that ‘the very best thing is
not to have been born, to be nothing. The second best thing is to die soon.’”
“As much as I admire the Greek thinkers,” Crassus
said, “Aristotle missed the mark this time. Live awhile and prove me wrong.”
“Sulla!” I implored desperately. “Will you let all
these witnesses make you a laughingstock?”
“You have spirit,” Sulla called. “But there’s no meat
on your bones. What good is a weakling, insolent slave? I can’t let this go,
Marcus. Archer ....” I closed my eyes. The bow overhead voiced a single,
creaking complaint as the string was pulled back.
“I like his impertinence,” Crassus pressed. “And with
all humility, may I remind the general why it was you had him found? If you
still intend him as a gift, perhaps the lorum
will tame his arrogance. Will this suffice?”
Sulla considered. “See how he perplexes me? I had
quite forgotten. Well ... he is yours now; the decision belongs to you as well.
But damn it, Marcus, I cannot allow any man to speak to me thusly with
impunity. And this ... I mean look at him. Archer, shoot him in the leg. And
somebody bring me my head!”
It has come to my attention that people may have been posting comments to which I have not responded. I am not normally this insulting (usually it's more of a low-grade snobbery), but please understand that no posts are showing up on my end. If you are one of those puzzled/disappointed/disaffected visitors who have wondered why I have not answered your posts (and haven't left the site in a huff, in which case you aren't reading this anyway), please email me at alevkoff@gmail.com.
I will get this fixed as soon as possible. And apologies to those I have faux-snubbed.
Having made it to the #8 best 'seller' on Amazon's free ebook list, my life is complete. Over 6,300 downloads. Very happy. Then, I raised the price to 99 cents a few days ago - my ranking dropped to 380,000, as in last place. Last night, "Bow" has crawled back to 7,300, so percentage-wise, a major comeback. If I could just stop looking every five minutes, I might be able to get something done on Book II.
Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo
Sulla’s enemies fell one by one. He commanded the bulk of his legions to abandon the siege of Praeneste in a final push to win his civil war at the very gates of Rome. But the general’s dream of dictatorship was almost crushed at the base of the city walls. All would have been lost if not for Marcus Licinius Crassus, only thirty-three years old, who with 2,500 Spaniards fighting on Sulla’s right broke the flank of the defenders at the Colline Gate. The city was now Sulla’s. He had paid for it with the lives of fifty thousand Romans. The peaceful life of study and contemplation I had hoped to live was buried beneath an avalanche of carnage. I watched the ashes rise from the pyres that burned for weeks about the city and mourned not only for the Athens I would never see again, but also for the lives of these strangers who choked the air with their ascent into a foreign sky.
I quickly learned that in this place, treasure had no value unless it was accompanied by victorious war, political gain or domination over multitudes. Learning, education, philosophy – these things, pursued for their own sake were worthless. Strength, influence, power - this was the currency of Rome.
Which left me utterly destitute. Yet it was my education that saved me. Although the fighting was over, the slaughter continued. Before Sulla’s armies had breached the city’s gates, Marius the younger had sought to create a majority of senators and supporters by eliminating any voice that might be raised against him. Politicians and patricians known to be partial to Sulla were murdered in their homes and in the streets. Whole families were destroyed. The Forum ran with blood, festooned with the heads of those loyal to Sulla. In this Marius was much like his father, the elder Marius, who five years earlier sought to destroy the irrepressible Sulla when his duties as a Roman general called upon him to abandon the city to put down the rebellious king of Pontus. Two victims of that earlier purge had been Crassus’ father and his only remaining older brother.
***
The officer of the century in which I served was gifted the captives from the ten contuberniums under his command. With the money he got for us at auction, he might buy drink and whores to last a week, and perhaps have a bit left over to replace his fraying belt. That is, if he could find a shop or a tavern that was open for business. The city was in chaos. Gone were the days when no armed soldier was allowed within the pomerium, the city’s ancient boundary, unless it was for the brief span required to celebrate a triumph. To my bleary eyes this was a celebration of slaughter, and those who did not take part stood vigil over a once great city devouring itself whole. Rome was ruled by gangs of vicious and undisciplined children playing at king-of-the-hill. It was a terrifying time, for these “children” had devoted, armored men at their backs, their swords bright and bloody.
The gates which Sulla’s army had fought so hard to breach were now barred shut. No one could leave, and the screams of those who had sided with the vanquished echoed all around us. We marched south, single file through narrow, stinking streets, our passage often made unbearable by the bodies through which we were forced to tread. In spite of my own chattering teeth, I thanked Athena that the fetid smell was blunted somewhat by November’s chill. Even so, all too often the ropes that bound us to each other would pull us off balance causing one or more of us to fall, wrestling for a horrid and frantic moment with the stiffening corpses. We struggled to our feet, Roman blood staining our faces and hands. As we trudged on, our ankles became spattered with a fruitage of butchery so copious at times it flowed in rivulets down the street’s central gutter. In the worst passages we gave up trying to avoid it; our toes were stained and slippery, our sandals sticky with clotting blood.
The centurion led us into a wider street, the Vicus Patricius, where we turned southwest and walked until we came into a crowded neighborhood - a valley called the Subura. That is to say it felt as if it ought to be bursting with people and activity, yet the street and alleyways were empty, save for the occasional squad of Sulla’s soldiers going about their grisly business, their captains gripping scrolls of the damned. It was oddly quiet here. Like birds calling to each other, the silence was pierced now and then by the cries of the dying. The merchant shops were shuttered; the apartments above full of fearful eyes. We could feel their stares upon us but could not see them, did not wish to see them. In our state, there was no gaze we were eager to meet.
I never made it to the auction block.
Soon we heard many voices raised, not in agony but in commerce. We turned into a wide courtyard where it was evident that the business of selling an endless, hapless multitude fallen to the lowest strata of human suffering was not only open, but brisk. Soldiers anxious to cash in on their human booty milled among the braver citizens hoping for a bargain. Other than legionaries, these were the first living Romans I had seen since entering the city. The wooden holding pens on either side of the single raised platform were full. The auctioneer and two assistants were quite well organized, moving people up one side of the auction block and down the other into their new owners’ care at a steady and rapid pace. Being the newest arrivals, before we were crammed into one of the cages we were greeted by a mercenary with a rusty, bent gladius and an armload of blank wooden boards. He began at the end of our line, questioning each captive, writing down the replies on the board, then hanging the identification plaques around each neck. Afterwards, he copied the information into a ledger and moved to the next man.
This efficient process was interrupted by the appearance of a lone mounted officer who rode into our midst with the casual confidence of the victor. The man was frighteningly magnificent in his gleaming armor, his red horsehair-plumed helmet blindingly bright when the sun momentarily sliced through the clouds and smoke hanging over the city. He sat with ease upon the largest steed I had ever seen, but was not dwarfed by it. I was toward the front of our miserable parade and heard him tell our centurion that he was looking for talent. Our officer, whose name escapes me, was still caked with the grime, sweat and dried blood of battle. I was struck by the difference in appearance between these two officers - it was as great as that between owner and owned.
Our centurion snorted a short laugh and wiped his arm across his nose with no noticeable improvement. “Talent?” he said. “Take a look. There’s no fucking talent in this lot. What’s he want with ‘em, anyway?” he asked with more impertinence than sense. For answer, the military tribune reined his mount and walked the huge horse down the line.
“Any of you Greeks speak Latin?” he asked in the language of Rome.
I barely hesitated. Before me stood the auction block with what horrid assortment of futures I could only guess. Finding a place where my education might be put to use had to be better than any other fate. To be given this choice, well, it was as close to freedom as I had had since my capture. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could utter a word the captive next in line elbowed me aside and rasped his assent. If the last four years had reduced me to a reed, this one was a blade of grass. And just as sturdy, for in his haste to edge past me his leg irons tripped him up. Breeding outraced the instinct to survive and placed my hand on his elbow to steady him. He jerked his head toward me, ready to wrench free of my grip and strike me. Stunned, I let go of him. It had probably been the only non-hostile touch he’d felt in years; at first he could not recognize it. Understanding dawned. He gave me a quick bow of his neck, down and up, and as one we lifted our eyes to the glamorous and impatient officer.
“You, too?” the tribune asked.
In as loud a voice as I could muster, I recited in perfect Latin, “’Education is an ornament in prosperity and a refuge in adversity.’ My lord,” I finished, “I am seeking refuge.”
The fat auctioneer interrupted his harangue when he heard me quoting Aristotle. The merchant had been selling a thin, dark Numidian, the plaque around his neck stating the man’s name and confirmation that he was free of epilepsy and had not tried to run away or commit suicide. He pointed a grubby finger at me and addressed the centurion. “I’ll give you 150 sesterces for this one. 200 for both.” Before our weary soldier could get the word “Sold!” out of his mouth, the tribune held up his hand, gave the auctioneer a fiery glance and commanded our centurion to cut the two of us loose. Our officer stood very still for a moment, as if weighing the odds of success in further argument. He fooled no one. Finally accepting his delay in obeying as his sole victory, he begrudgingly untied the lengths of rope around our waists. These had kept us bound in line, and we marveled at this tiny freedom. The centurion secured his slightly poorer inventory, grumbling not quite under his breath all the while.
“Where did you serve?” the tribune asked him as he bent to unlock our chains.
“With the third on the left flank. What’s it to you? Sir?”
“We were hard pressed on the left. How did you fare?”
“Three Samnites right up against the wall,” he said, patting his sword as he stood. “Then it got a bit hectic and I lost count.” The tribune motioned to our officer to toss him the lengths of rope that had held us in line. Pommels rose from both the left and right side of his saddle. To these he looped our ropes and let them drop on either side of his mount. Without being asked, I grabbed the nearest one and my new companion trotted around the horse to take the other.
“Do you understand what will happen if you let go?” he asked. We assured him we did.
“Good. I’ve seen men trampled by horses. Makes quite a mess. Many animals shy away from it. But Lightning here quite enjoys it. You there!” he said, turning to the auctioneer. “Pay this Roman officer the 200 sesterces you promised him.”
The auctioneer was dumbfounded. “But I ... you ...”
“General Sulla has asked me to repeat how much he deeply and personally appreciates your offering of thanks to his legions for your liberation and our victory over the illegitimate Marius, the traitorous Carbo and the vicious, godless Samnites.” The tribune turned back to our centurion who was now beaming and said, “Carry on, soldier.”
As we reversed direction heading back down the narrow side street that had brought us to the courtyard the tribune said, “One more thing:read and write, yes, in both tongues?” His right hand rested gently on the butt of his sword. I said of course, and assumed that on the other side of the tribune’s horse the other man nodded, for I heard nothing and the Roman continued on.
***
The tribune marched us through the Subura. Ahead, in the “v” of our restricted vision formed by the four and six story apartment buildings that looked as if they could topple down upon us in an instant, we caught glimpses of white marbled temples and basilicas of brick and stone. From a pack slung across his saddle, the tribune pulled a fair-sized hunk of bread, tore it in two and held his hands down at his sides. Miracle of miracles, it wasn’t even stale! I tried to consume it with dignity, but after one small bite manners were overwhelmed by hunger, even gratitude. The best I could manage was to be discrete while wiping away a tear that formed as I chewed.
“If Rome is the heart of the empire,” the tribune lectured unnecessarily, then the Comitium is the heart of Rome. There lies the Forum and the Curia Hostilia where the senate deliberates, and you should thank the gods you lived to get a glimpse of it.” Before getting any nearer, the Roman turned his horse sharply to the left. “Don’t expect to ever lay eyes upon it again.”
We had come onto a wide, flagstone paved street that sloped gradually uphill.“I would not stain the Sacra Via with your unworthy and pestiferous feet, but this is the shortest route.” I could not help but look back the way we had come to stare at the seat of Rome’s power, but my head was jerked around abruptly by the tribune’s pull on my rope. Clearly, my unworthy and pestiferous eyes had lingered long enough.
This new street was also lined with merchants’ stores, now deserted, but these were finer and no doubt traded in goods beyond the reach of any but the richest citizens. Well behind these single and two-story shops we could see the roofs of the homes where those wealthy patrons must live. To my right, a roughly rectangular hill rose a few hundred feet, its base graced by a grove of trees surrounding a columned, circular temple. The top of this hill was studded with many ornate villas, but several of these were now burning. Our route took us to the top of the Sacra Via on the hill opposite. The homes of the wealthy graced both sides of the broad street, but our view was blocked by high walls, broken now and then by the doors and displays of a tabernae catering to the richest Romans. As we approached a pair of tall, iron gates, two guards threw the bolt and gave us access.
It was as if we had passed beyond the veil of the living and entered a miniature Olympus, a place inhabited by immortals. I was at once dumbstruck, and almost immediately thereafter afraid. I did not belong here. The sight of such wonders could only bring misfortune, like Actaeon stumbling upon Artemis as she bathed. The Huntress turned him into a stag, then caused his own hounds to tear him apart. Our tribune broke this dreadful reverie by yanking on my rope to pull me forward into the grounds of the estate. We walked on white gravel paths through rolling greenery adorned by fountains, statuary and flower gardens, the sight of which would calm the most agitated eye. Though I remained uneasy, I was compelled to look. Yet it was not long before another sense conquered my fears and completed the seduction. I found myself stealing great breaths of fragrant air, saturated with a harmony of herbs and flowers that made my knees weak. Suddenly overcome, I fought to keep my eyes from welling.
The tribune led us down and around to the back of the home where we and the soldier’s horse were tied haphazardly to the same column supporting a semicircular balcony above our heads. He took our fragile hands, the ones that held the free ends of the rope, and with his own calloused, giant fingers squeezed with such force that my knuckles cracked. We were admonished in a low whisper that to move or speak was death. The fullness of my belly made me giddy; as the officer strode briskly into the house, I almost called out after him that we would do our best to keep his horse quiet. Sanity prevailed, but was soon to be abandoned.
If you are a citizen of Rome, you will not know the count of the year, because history, being a thing of the past, is of little interest to you. Rome concerns itself with today and tomorrow, but cares little for yesterday. So while we Greeks (the learned ones, that is) know that 690 years had passed since the first Olympiad, you Romans know only that which concerns you most:who is in power now. Which I suppose is a very modern, forward-looking attitude, for who can remember who was in charge seventy or eighty years ago? Should a Roman astound you with the ability to recall such a year, you may assume with some assuredness that some costly and bloody war was fought, a renegade noble took political matters into his own hands, or a rebellion of one sort or another was put down. Or perhaps a bit of each.
When I was little more than a boy, time had stopped altogether:the count of the year reset itself to 1, and would remain there the following year and the one after that, for so many turns of the calendar I cannot recall the count. Ah, invincible, immortal youth. You see, free men may make use of the passage of time as if each golden coin may forever be newly minted: lay plans, set goals, chart achievements. But never mind. However you set your clock, what I speak of now transpired sixty-six years ago. I was 19, about to be imprisoned for the next thirty-three years of my life, not in a cell, but to the will a single man.
My, Alexandros, you whine like a stuck boar. Reader, pay no attention to the sniveling of a melodramatic ancient who has outstayed his welcome above ground. I have had more than my fair portion of satisfaction and accomplishment. I have even known love. And as you see, I am quite accomplished in the art of digression. Move along, Alexandros, move along.
***
Who am I, you may protest, and with what credentials do I claim the right to chronicle the life of one of Rome’s once venerable patriarchs?I am no one. I am less than no one. But I was there through it all, and now I shall bear witness. You of breeding and substance, you senators and aristocrats may dismiss with a wave of your soft hands the thread of my narrative should it not unravel to your liking. Nonetheless, I shall tell what I know for truth’s sake and my master’s honor, and the glory of Rome be damned!
My name is Alexandros, son of Theodotos of Elateia. I may be bald, half-blind and more than a little wobbly on these eighty-five year-old willow branches that serve for legs, but my mind has yet to fail me; it is as keen today as the day I was made a slave of Rome.
Now there’s a dull word for you, commonplace and prosaic, like the chalky base coat of a mural, necessary to fortify the coming of the artist’s colorful strokes but ultimately invisible, its worth unseen. It is a word without bias or weight, like ‘water,’ or ‘tree.’ Unless you happen to be one. Then, the world becomes a simple but lopsided place. There are owners and there are the owned. And the latter, those afflicted with fits of common sense and introspection, must soon come to ask themselves in the black, sleepless hours, why? Why would the gods, in their unfathomable wisdom, give us life only to watch us fall to a state as low as this? What good could ever come of such a fate? There were those of us, I among them, who once blithely sought answers to the essence of being, who contemplated the meaning of existence with a pomposity only the truly ignorant may display. Without warning, the focus of our contemplation was wrenched from such esoteric heights and narrowed most effectively to the chafing sores of our ankle chains. The pursuit of knowledge is an inaudible whisper lost in the stentorian debate of an empty stomach, drowned out even by the quiet discourse of muffled sobs in the night.
What folly to once believe we were the masters of our fate, when at the point of a sword we may so swiftly and permanently become the mastered. In this world, philosophy must go begging. No, not so, for even a beggar may choose his street corner. To be a man, once, and then to be magicked so effortlessly to be transformed into a clay pot, a footstool, a nothing. I was not brave. I was not a soldier. I tried neither to escape, nor to end my servitude by my own hand. This is my shame, and I carry it upon my back like the sacks of rock my stooped and broken brothers and sisters bear in the quarry. Why do I speak of such things? Because if you are reading this you must surely be among the owners, not the owned, so of what possible interest could anything I have to say be to you? Do you wish to learn of greatness? Then abide, for one need not possess greatness to stand close by it.
***
How my bondage came about was a study in cause and effect. My parents raised horses on our small country estate; I was riding before I could hurl an insult. (My mother claimed the first word out of my mouth was “stupid.”) I was also quite bright:I was reading Aesop by the time I was five, bored with him at six, and laughing with Aristophanes a year later. Beyond anything to do with hippology or reading, I had no use for the continual stream of young, hapless playmates with which my mother was continually pestering me. As a result, any friends I might have made quickly became discouraged, if not by my disdain then by my smell. In truth, I was an alarmingly disagreeable child.
My mother and father, being quite patient and forbearing parents, did their best, but even their gentle tenacity finally frayed and their restraint turned to resignation. By then, unfortunately, my acrimonious and antisocial behavior had all but calcified. And so, when I turned seventeen, they threw their hands toward Olympus and packed me off to the urbane, marbled wonder that was Athens. Perhaps my compassion would expand with my mind, they prayed. I do miss them, and shall forever wonder what fate they suffered.
In the city I found a new love, but became just as single-minded as I had been with my previous equine obsession. Its name, or rather his name, was Aristotle. I ate his words as if no other food could sustain me. Obsession being my only way of shutting out all that I saw that was wrong with the world, I soon had no interest in anything other than the continuation of my studies at the Lyceum. In my arrogance, I presumed to think that some day I might even teach there. Finding spare but adequate lodgings near the school, for two years my eyes would not be torn from the parchment of my texts, my ears would heed only the words of my teachers.
Oh, how the fierce devotions of youth are easily diverted!
When not in class, it was my occasional habit to go for long walks, not for exercise or with any destination in mind, but to digest what I had learned that week in school. On one of these peripatetic strolls, I found I had taken myself to the very steps of the library at Plato’s Academy. I ventured within and before my eyes had adjusted to the indoor light, I beheld a raven haired, blue-eyed girl pushing a trolley of unfiled scrolls. She turned and spoke to me, asking if I required assistance, and I was immediately undone. From that moment on, my walks become neither random nor infrequent.
But the Academy was Plato’s school. No matter. It became clear to me in a heartbeat that the focus of my studies was far too narrow. After all, to become a truly enlightened philosopher, one must have a generous and open mind, mustn’t one? Without so much as a letter home I rushed to matriculate where I might be nearest to her, trading philosophical heroes faster than the time it would take to barter for a handful of figs in the market. In the end, it made no difference – the same fate awaited both schools.
Like the Academy, my infatuation was doomed. To her credit, Phaedra only laughed at me behind my back. In retrospect, a little more overt derision on her part might have dampened my obdurate campaign to humiliate myself. I could not comprehend a universe which could allow a love as pure as mine to languish unanswered. How could I feel this deeply unless her heart stirred as well? I was achingly naïve. Phaedra was my first encounter with the brittle, wintry truth that alas, love is often a skewed affair. I returned to my studies, vowing never to love again, unaware that I hadn’t yet loved at all. Eventually even I tired of my pitiful pining and determined to redirect that wasted energy back toward my studies. I was at the center of the philosophical universe, and there was much to learn and little time to waste. But by then it was too late.
Plato’s school lay northwest of the city walls in a park along the southern bank of the Kephisos. The Academy was an idyllic spot close by the gymnasium and formal gardens, and we students debated and discussed as much and as often wandering through leafy glades as we did in the halls of learning. But it had not always been so. Centuries before, to celebrate Cimon’s victory over the Persians, the vast spoils of that war were used to both fortify and beautify the city. Had not my forebears chosen to turn the dusty, neglected hills north of the city into a verdant paradise, Plato might have founded his school elsewhere. But no, to honor Athena, Cimon had planted there a grove of sacred olive trees, irrigated them with care and transformed the forlorn northern suburb into a bucolic haven. The goddess of wisdom blessed the grove and the trees grew thick and tall. A hundred years later, Plato arrived to find the place a perfect setting for contemplation and learning.
Alas, my thirst for knowledge withered when it came near the heat of the aspirations of a Roman by the name of Lucius Cornelius Sulla who, in ruthless and systematic fashion, laid siege to fair Athens. His engineers chanced upon the Academy’s ancient grove north of the city walls. What was once a sacrament to a goddess now became timber for machines of war intent on the destruction of the city that bore her name. If not for Sulla, I might even now be strolling, perhaps with the aid of a walking stick, or better still with a young, attentive maiden supporting each arm, through the gardens of the Lyceum, my students crowding behind, hanging on every word of my discourse. Afterwards, they would bring me honey, bread and wine, and we would devote each day to the simple yet sublime pleasure of seeking knowledge in all its forms. A pretty picture, that.
But this was a life imagined, never lived. For like one of our sacred trees usurped to make their siege engines, I was harvested and swept up to feed Rome’s insatiable appetite for the tens upon tens of thousands of men, women and children upon which that lumbering beast’s survival depended.
In those first days, I was bitter, despondent, terrified. I never knew what became of Phaedra. Did I hate Rome? Most certainly. Why had she come pounding at Greece’s door? What had we done to deserve invasion and annexation? It was only later that I discovered why it was that Sulla had crossed our borders, a tragic example of cause and effect. Was it not to avenge the death of tens of thousands of his own countrymen at the hands of the King of Pontus, with whom Athens was allied? Shall I then lay the blame for my bondage at the feet of Asia Minor’s treachery? Or were they, in turn, simply trying to expel an invader? If you ask Melyaket, he will tell you it was my own foolish lust for a library girl that put chains around my ankles. But he is a lover of pain, and likes the rap of my knuckles upon his Parthian pate as payment for his insolence. In the end, what does it matter? The gods set me down in the right place at the wrong time. Now, time has brought me here to this moment where right and wrong have become little more than words, drained of meaning. Over the years I have grown ... philosophical.
***
Not long after I was captured I was given by Sulla as a gift of thanks to one of his generals, and it was he I served first in fear, then faithfully for thirty years. It was not the life I would have chosen, but who among us is fortunate enough to choose his own destiny and see it fulfilled as planned? Who, indeed, is fool enough to make such a plan?
Lest you think I skipped merrily from student of philosophy to master of one the great houses of Rome, let me assure you, the road was long and bitter. Those first days of my shame and humiliation still prickle with crisp memory; I yearn for a cup of forgetfulness from the river Lethe, but it is yet beyond my reach. I cannot forget, but neither can I bear the thought that you will condemn me or call me coward for allowing myself to become the man you shall discover. I shall tell you of those early days, with the hope that in the end understanding may be accompanied by forgiveness and forbearance. As for you Romans who have not already tossed this narrative aside, I hope for and ask for nothing.
From my hiding place in the library I was discovered and at first praised Athena I had not been skewered then and there. I lived to regret that answered prayer. I was thrown shackled into a cart identical to those used to transport wild beasts to the arena. Our oxcart joined a dismal procession of countless others, the yellow dust cloud of our passing clogging our lungs and eyes and turning day to dusk. As we passed the Lyceum I beheld a sight that caused me to shove my way to the wooden bars and groan aloud. I was purple with rage, yet reluctantly grateful as well. Dozens of Roman soldiers were systematically emptying the library of its contents, packing thousands of scrolls carefully into a line of waiting covered wagons. Much of the rest of the city was aflame, yet Sulla was saving the works of Aristotle. This Roman was a strange and perplexing man.
Although my traveling companions and I were total strangers, we soon became intimate. For days, then weeks we rode at the back of Sulla’s army as it cut a swath first through Greece, then into Italy. The rough roads and bare wooden wheels conspired to make close acquaintances of us all. We stumbled and tripped into each other, there not being enough room for all of us to sit on the hay-strewn floor. There were countless carts like ours, and we passed many more thousands chained and on foot. We were the pretty ones, I suppose, destined for labor outside the quarries. Most of my cart-mates were women, plus a few children and six other young men. It took three, maybe four days before we no longer bothered to turn away at the sight of one of us squatting to piss or shit. The bronze butt of a gladius in the gut quickly taught the men not to aim their arcs outside the cage. Soon we no longer tried to avoid our own reeking waste. The soldiers laughed, raised up by the depth of our abasement. The few days it rained, in spite of the chill we pressed close to the bars, washing ourselves as best we could. To our captors I am sure we resembled nothing so much as a troupe of ardent beggars, arms outstretched, hands cupped to catch the drops, a paltry blessing from the gods who had otherwise abandoned us.
Our return to Rome was hastened by consul Lucius Cornelius Cinna. Fearing that Sulla’s victories in the East would obstruct his own ambition, Cinna raised an army and drove them hard to meet his enemy before Sulla could once again set foot on Italian soil. But the Italians thus conscripted had no stomach for the hardships of a forced march across the mountains of Illyria. Facing Sulla’s seasoned legions with no prospect of booty held less allure than the thought of returning to their farms. Which they did, but not before stoning the despotic Cinna to death. When news of the consul’s fate reached Sulla, it inflamed that which Cinna had feared the most:Sulla’s lust to don the mantle of dictatorship. He took five of his seven legions, marched through fallen Athens, past Corinth and northwest to Patrae, dragging his spoils behind him.
In those three weeks, except for the occasional snarl over a maggoty hunk of bread, or an ineffectual attempt at comforting a terrified child, none of us ever spoke a word to each other. Ever. We could barely look each other in the eye. From Patrae, we sailed to Brundisium, and as I stepped blinking from the dark hold, I set foot for the first time in Roman Italy. It looked liked any other country on the Adriatic.
But it was not.
***
The moment Rome learned that Sulla had landed in Italy without disbanding his troops was the signal for civil war. There were many battles waged on our march toward the center of the Western world, and Sulla’s senatorial antagonists, especially Marius the younger and consul Gnaeus Papirius Carbo knew that after what they had done to any friend of Sulla they could catch, they were fighting for their lives. There would be no quarter. And there was not. Carbo was eventually cornered, but managed to escape to Africa. Then, three day’s march southeast of the city, Sulla gave Marius a furious thrashing and sent him and what was left of his army running back to Praeneste.
Sulla pursued him and laid siege to the town. Since we were to rest there for some weeks, we were brought to the baths and given fresh tunics. A medic came and applied some greasy salve to the sores on my ankles, but my chains were left in place. I was given the first piece of goat’s cheese I had had in a month. Then, as a special gift to the company of legionaries behind whom we were dragged, my cart-mates and I were each assigned to an eight-man contubernium, or squad, one of us per tent.
I don’t know what happened to the others, but my new life depended upon a single and all-consuming duty:to service the needs and whims of these sweaty, filthy and exhausted men. When stripped to their tunics, you could hardly tell us apart. Yet if I was not quick enough with water, if I did not scrape the mud from the soles of their caligae to their liking, if I was not pliant or willing enough in the dark, I was beaten senseless. It was then I wished that death would come, but I had neither the will nor the courage to take my own life. On those few nights when my rest was brief but uninterrupted, I dreamed of Athens and the Academy. Each dawn I returned to Hades. The days passed like this, one after another, for over a year.
My life was taken from me, and often were the times when I pondered the irony of taking it back by ending it. Suicides among new captives could reach as high as twenty of every hundred. Were these men and women the brave ones, and we the cowards? I would not presume to judge them, but I chose a different path. To live - not to thrive or protect family or leave something of value for the next generation - but simply to take the next breath and the one after that, I submitted to abuse of any kind, allowed my spirit to crumble to dust, knowing all the while I was crippling my soul for eternity. Yet I was unable to bring an end to it. I clung to a life which was no life. I rose each morning in a stupor, with barely the strength to wish that this day would be my last. Is it cowardice to choose life? Any life at all?
I slept outside my legionaries’ tent, a thin, tattered blanket my only shield against the chill. One morning, well before the cornicines had sounded the call to awaken the camp, I was disturbed by a noise and rose shivering to one elbow, hoary rime clinging to my hair and blanket. Two soldiers were dragging a body by its heels. It was just light enough for me to see the slashed wrists from the man’s upturned hands, his arms trailing above his head in a jostled pose of surrender. Blood still leaked from the wounds, leaving slug-like trails, black in the pre-dawn light. As they passed close by, I recognized the suicide:he was one of the six other men in the first cart that had taken us from Greece. The two Romans, whispering happily about the end of their watch, would take him outside the gate and dump him into one of the defensive ditches surrounding the camp. I strained to see the dead man’s expression, hoping foolishly to find the trace of a smile, or at least the hint of a look of peace. There was nothing. There was no expression at all. It was just a corpse.
It was in that moment that I decided to choose life. I set my heart and mind on living with an act of determined will. And to justify that choice, to suffer all the degradations that lay ahead and the sorrow of remembering the life left behind, I chose to believe that those of us who survived did so not out of cowardice, but for the slimmest and most fragile of unuttered hopes that one day our lot would improve.
I was to discover that even when such miracles are granted, and life’s burdens lighten, hope comes not as a solitary friend, but is joined by confederates of guilt and shame that sit like harpies in judgment over every goodness that fortune bestows. I survived, and some would say I flourished. But never think for an instant as this tale unfolds that mine has been an easy life. Even in the best of times in the house of Crassus, even after I had opened the smallest of places in my heart where I secretly, silently call him ‘friend,’ he was still and forever my master.
