The Man With Two Names

by Vincent B Davis II

  “So you’ve sworn in and everything?” I asked, amazed at the difference I saw in my young friend. He’d arrived in Rome a boy, naïve and perhaps even foolish, but now he was a man—a soldier—bringing all his youthful bravery and toughness to fruition. I was, perhaps, a little jealous of his experience.

  “Took the oath last week. I’m proud to say I’m officially a man of the Colors! Well, tell me of your time with Rome’s finest. How is my elite friend doing these days?” he said, rising to pour us both a cup of honey-water from a clay amphora.

  “I wish I had some noble stories to tell, but unfortunately politics is more boring than you’d expect. Things move at the speed of pond water.”

  “Gerrae! I’m sure that isn’t true. What have they had you doing?” he asked. I admit I was too ashamed to mention the bribery, and there wasn’t much else to tell.

  “I’ve really just been a pair of eyes and ears, drinking in everything I can. I’ve received my first task, though, and I’m setting off today,” I said, his smile forcing mine.

  “Tell me then!” He leaned over the table and pushed my shoulder.

  “I’m to return to Nursia and give a rousing speech of hope and prosperity to our kinsmen in the name of my patron, who is a consul-elect.”

  “Really now?” His smile gave way to a look of despondency. “Which candidate is your man?”

  “Quintus Servilius Caepio, son of Gnaeus.” Suddenly a very strange look crossed Lucius’s face, a seriousness that was entirely unusual to him.

  “I hadn’t remembered they were your father’s patrons,” he said, swirling his honey-water around in his cup.

  “Why? You know of them?” I asked, somewhat offended that he wasn’t more excited for me.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of them …” He looked away and bit his lips. He seemed unable to respond.

  “All right then, brother … was it something bad?” I prompted.

  “Yes, Sertorius. They’re just like all the nobility—concerned with their own interests and crippling the state.” The conviction of his reply baffled me. I’d always respected my simple friend for his unwavering convictions, but this time I was appalled.

  “Correct me if I am wrong, brother, but did you not come to Rome to be a soldier? Not a politician?” I sneered, awkwardness enveloping the room like a plague.

  “I did, unlike yourself. But I had to say something, Sertorius.” He shook his head and looked down. It was the first time, to my recollection, that we had ever disagreed on anything. He always used to follow me with devotion and fidelity, no matter the interest or concern.

  “So you’ve heard a few idle rumors in the barracks and you presume to know what’s going on in the Senate House?”

  “I’ve heard more than rumors.”

  “Like what? What have you heard?”

  “Quintus, you cannot possibly believe that spoiled urban patricians like the Caepiones will ever help Nursia! You’ve backed the wrong patrons,” he said, turning to me. I felt every defensive response rush to my head, but I did all that I could to calm myself, for our friendship if for nothing else.

  “Then who do you think can?”

  “Gaius Marius.” His eyes met mine.

  “Cac! Marius? Marius, Lucius? You’ve already been inculcated by the legion, I see.” I stood up and pushed my chair in, barely able to contain my disappointment, anger, and shock.

  “I’ve been inculcated by no man, Quintus. I know Marius personally and I’ve come to respect the man a great deal. He is the future of Rome.” Many unkind comments sprang to mind; I wanted to accuse him of conspiring with a renegade and of judging me on faulty knowledge. But I decided it was best to let it go. No words could sway my dear friend once he came to a conclusion, and so there was nothing I could do. He would have to find out who the villain really was for himself. I was sure that his strong morals would eventually cause a rift to grow between them.

  “I am sorry, friend, but I must be going,” I said, grabbing my cloak and throwing it over my shoulders. “I came to ask if you would like to accompany me to Nursia, for old time’s sake.” I made my last attempt.

  “I’ll not go on the orders of your patrons, Quintus. I’m sorry. Besides, I’m needed here.”

  “All right… . I’ll be off then,” I said, making my way to the door. Lucius said he required a handshake and an embrace before I was to leave, and he bade me farewell with, “Until next time,” but honestly I wasn’t so sure anymore. Just then, there wasn’t a whole lot about which I was certain.

  I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH from my journey home. I paid little attention to the scenery, as my mind was consumed with troubled thoughts. I do, however, remember that every step became colder and colder. My time in Rome had left me unprepared for winter at higher elevations. As I made camp each night, chilled to the bone and trying to warm my hands over the fire, I remembered my journey to Rome only a short time ago, laughing alongside Hirtuleius as we discussed things both past and to come. Now, I sat all alone, listening to the angry voices in my mind.

  As I neared Nursia, I was greeted by the smell of pine trees; in my youth, it had been such a comfort to me, but now the scent was so very unfamiliar compared to the musk of Roman air. I hadn’t been gone long at all, but I felt like a stranger there. For the first time, I felt as though I had no home, no place to call my own.

  I approached the old wooden gate I used to run by as a child and received only a curt nod from the sentry posted there. I crossed the threshold into Nursia. The air was so still and cold that a white, ominous presence seemed to surround the village. Men, women, and children lined the streets, huddled under blankets, but the only real signs of life were the quick, shifting movements of coal-black birds as they pecked incessantly at something on the cobblestone path. I moved through the streets with great reluctance, as if some force were restraining me, warning me of danger, and urging me to turn back. I could barely stand to look at the faces all around me, nor could I pry my eyes away. I couldn’t recognize a single person. To this day, I have no idea if I’d somehow never come across those people before, or if their misfortunes had rendered them unrecognizable to my eyes. They watched me with expressionless faces, as stony and cold as the death masks on Gnaeus’s walls. I am unashamed to admit that tears fell freely from my eyes as I passed by, feeling like I had walked into at a large burial or a slave camp.

  Do not take me for a hypocrite, Reader. I know I’ve told you I am a Stoic and therefore see suffering as neither good nor bad, intrinsically, but rather I believe it can even be useful. The Sabines had been suffering for an endless sea of generations and that didn’t bother me—for my ancestors and their brethren had sacrificed their peace and security for something larger than themselves. They suffered numerous toils and endless depravities in the fight for the freedom of our people and later, when they paved the way to extend Rome’s borders to nations across the Mediterranean. No, what grieved me so deeply was that this suffering was so pointless, so needless, so utterly avoidable. I’ll admit mine is a poetic soul, hopelessly optimistic at times, but I could find no evidence of greater meaning for this pain, no silver lining. What good could come of children starving and freezing in the streets, without even their parents to comfort them? Something had to be done.

  I made my way to the center of the town; we called it the marketplace, but now, after experiencing the wide throngs of Roman shops, guilds, and storehouses, I realized it was little more than a few fruit and vegetable stands. I went halfway up the stairs that led to the town square, made an about-face, and paused.

  “Citizens of Nursia!” I shouted. My voice carried endlessly in the lingering silence of the village. Nothing seemed to stir. “Citizens of Nursia!” I shouted again. A few moments passed before heads began to peak out of windows and a few confused people walked over from the side streets. I waited, despite my discomfort, as more people heard the growing murmur and began to make their way toward me to see what the commotion was about. Even some of the poor, lifel
ess creatures from the street rose and approached curiously.

  “M-many of you know me. For those of you who do not, my name is Quintus Sertorius, son of Proculus. I’ve r-recently left my home here for Rome, where I’ve been working to bring aid to Nursia.” I was shaking badly and my stutter had reared its ugly head. I tried to resist it at first, feeling mortified, but eventually gave way to it. “I am grieved, friends, d-deeply grieved. When I left Nursia, things were bad. Otherwise I might have stayed. What I see today is a truly unbearable sight. I have loved and valued this village as my home for the past two decades, and I believe I always shall. That is why I have attached myself to the patronage of Gnaeus and Quintus Caepio, the very men who secured our aid in the past, when my father was still alive.

  “I know many of you may scoff at the idea of those in Rome caring enough to help you, as they sit in their pleasant homes, eating and drinking. But unfortunately, things in Rome aren’t any better. Everywhere you go you will find the starving, the sick, the thirsty …” I lapsed into silence as I remembered the hopeless faces of Rabirius and his friends. “And I’ve found that even those who are more fortunate have not forgotten about those that aren’t. I know it’s easy to blame them for our trials, their lethargy in aiding us, but I find that most men, rich or poor, would rather prosper through the h-happiness of others than through their misery. Our patrician allies in Rome are extending their hands to you. They send a message of hope, begging you to hold on a little longer, to continue this fight until help arrives. And that is the very reason I am here—to promise that help will arrive soon. Grain and supplies will be coming from our benefactor Quintus Caepio. He hopes that you will help to ensure he is elected to office so that he can continue to lend aid not only to us but to all Roman people, domestic and abroad.” I took a few steps down so I could look directly into the throng of Nursians that was continuing to grow.

  My stutter vanished as elation overcame me. “We have lived through a hard time, brothers and sisters—even by the accounts of our ancestors. We have endured loss, sickness, poverty, and the deaths of our loved ones. But I am here to proclaim a new era! One of peace, one of prosperity! One of the Roman people coming together—rich and poor, blessed and cursed, provincials and city dwellers—for the common good of each other and of this great nation we are honored by the gods to occupy. I urge you, friends, to fight! Fight! Press on until you can do so no longer. There are calmer seas ahead, greener pastures. Do not give in to despair, to grief. Push on, for a new day is rising!”

  They roared with applause. I wept. They wept. Many approached and embraced me, whispering, “Thank you, thank you” again and again in my ear. I felt that I had done nothing to deserve their thanks—nothing had yet been done to change their circumstances—yet I was deeply honored to have restored just this small bit of hope to my home. For the first time since I had left Rome, I considered my own trials infinitely unimportant compared to this. I made no empty promises that day; I meant every word.

  I SPENT QUITE some time there in the town square, speaking with as many Nursians as I could, embracing those I remembered (I have to imagine it was most of them) and vehemently shaking the hands of those I did not—pleased to meet more of my people. Eventually, through the throng I spied a familiar face: my mother. She waited patiently behind the others, bearing a gentle smile and glistening eyes. When she noticed me looking at her, her face lit up and her tears began to flow freely. I apologized to the man I’d been conversing with and bolted toward her.

  “Mother!” I cried, as I ran into her arms.

  “My boy, my sweet boy!” she sobbed into my shoulder, while I pressed her as hard as I could to me. I remember vaguely that the crowd around us clapped and cheered our embrace. I had never been so grateful to see her. I inwardly shamed my younger self for taking my family for granted. I turned to find my sister-in-law Volesa standing at my mother’s side, clutching my baby nephew, all bundled up, to her chest. I hugged her gently and leaned over to kiss Gavius, who looked up at me with wildly curious eyes, as if he’d just woken from some life-altering dream. I searched for words, yet couldn’t find them.

  “Don’t forget us, you bastard!” a voice shouted behind me, and I turned to discover my friends Spurius and Aulus. I held open my arms and locked them both firmly around the neck.

  “Aulus, Spurius, my old friends!” I laughed, as we wrestled, “How could I forget you?”

  “I was about to ask what brought you home, but I guess we know the answer!” Aulus said with a genuine smile, looking me up and down, perhaps trying to notice a difference. I turned to my family and told them I’d be home shortly, and they nodded and headed for our house.

  “How have you been, Quintus? How is Rome?” Spurius asked, positively brimming with excitement.

  “I’ve fared well, brothers. I cannot complain at all. But I am deeply gladdened to return home, despite the conditions of the village.”

  Aulus nodded. “It has been rough, truly.”

  “The worst I’ve seen it,” added Spurius. “Which I assume is obvious.”

  “Oh, how is Hirtuleius? Fighting and scrapping with the best of them, I presume?” Aulus asked, giving me a wily grin.

  “You’d best believe it. He has also attached himself to some important men, except he wears a soldier’s cloak and I wear a toga.” In that moment, I thought of my old friend with nothing but goodwill.

  “Really? Well, excellent!” Aulus said, and he and Spurius exchanged a look of mutual shock and pride.

  “Has he been struggling with the condition of old Manius? I figure that must be hard on him,” Spurius said, catching me off guard.

  “What? What’s wrong with Manius?” Lucius’ grandfather was old, but I was still surprised to hear that something might be wrong with him. My heart began to race.

  “You haven’t heard, then?” Aulus looked to Spurius, deferring to him the job of giving bad news.

  “Manius is very sick. He’ll likely die any day now. I cannot believe you haven’t heard. It makes me wonder if even Lucius has.”

  “If he has, he has not mentioned it. Excuse me …” I said fumbling over my words. “This burdens me.”

  “That as much as everything else has added to the solemn spirit in Nursia. He may be a mean old man, but he’s been a pillar of this village for nearly a century. I think Nursia has relied on his strength more than we’ve known,” Spurius replied sadly, his brother nodding.

  “I apologize, friends, but I must return to my family. Can we have a drink before I leave?”

  “We’d like nothing more.” We embraced again, though more subdued than before. I set off toward home at a quick pace, knowing that I had to see Manius for myself. He’d always been so strong, so tough. In my youth, his mythic persona seemed somehow to eclipse death, but unfortunately I was learning quickly that no man can escape death, no matter his strength.

  I HURRIED home but felt I couldn’t move fast enough. I spoke with my mother and sister-in-law for but a moment before I apologized and said I had to go see Manius. They lowered their eyes and said I had best go soon, which amplified my fears.

  I held back tears as I pushed out into the bitter cold of Nursia and followed the familiar, well-worn path to Manius’s house. It was along this path that I used to run as a child, when going to play with Lucius. We would pretend to be soldiers and generals, waving fallen tree limbs like great swords.

  Before I could reach the door, Lucius’s younger brother, Aius, burst across the threshold and ran to me, as if he had sensed my arrival. He fell into my arms and was already crying. He tried to speak but the only managed a gurgling sound from deep in his throat. My young friend had always acted well beyond his age. An old soul, we called him. But here he seemed as broken and lost as any child would be. Both his parents dead, his brother moved on, his only provider now beginning his journey across the River Styx to the afterlife.

  I held him to my chest as he wailed the high-pitched, helpless cry of a babe. It broke my
heart.

  “He is dying. What will I do?” What a valid question it was.

  “Take me to him,” I replied.

  He turned and led the way back into the house as cold and barren as Nursia’s streets. Manius had always kept a spartan home, with only the barest necessities and nothing at all for pleasure. He kept chairs with no backs so as to necessitate proper posture, the mosaic tile on the floor told of no aquatic adventures or tales of the gods. It was how this house had always been, yet still there was something different about the place. Perhaps it was only that there was hardly any light. The candelabra that usually brightened the dark home were barren, and the dark clouds outside didn’t permit any sun to shine in through the windows, either. There was a particular smell, a musk, which seemed to be the very essence of sickness. I could tell his condition was bad, perhaps worse than I was prepared for.

  Young Aius led me to Manius’s bedroom, where I strained my eyes in the darkness to make out the figure crumpled on a straw mattress on the floor. He’d been withering for some years since he lost most of the mobility in his legs, but now he seemed at risk of dissolving altogether. His legs and arms were pursed together tightly, as if he were trying to compress himself into the smallest form possible.

  “Grandfather, you remember Quintus Sertorius, don’t you?” Aius said, trying to sound cheerful. The old man’s eyes were still alert, and he looked up at me, shaking slightly, for a long moment before he nodded his head and rested it back against an old straw pillow.

  “Manius, how are you, sir?” I knelt by his side and reached for his hand. I think this kind of affection would have been promptly refused earlier in his life, but now he made no attempt to pull away.

  “He was coughing constantly yesterday, violently. He hardly ceased from dusk till dawn, but since late last night he has been silent, hardly making a sound. Even his breathing is shallow,” Aius said from the doorway. I had very little experience with the sick and the dying, but I knew this wasn’t a good sign.