by Ben Pastor
“It’s smooth sailing from here to Sicily,” he overheard the skipper prophesying, and the reserved Expositus grunting back.
Pressing on his palm, Aelius forced the wounds to spurt fresh blood and serum. As he finished rinsing his hand, he noticed one of the animal handlers coming up from the hold, and quickly stood from his crouch and walked toward him. The man, a bowlegged little Sardinian with a squint, acknowledged him and said immediately, “The dog was beaten for it,” expecting an angry scene about the bite during the storm.
Aelius cut him off. “How many animals are you taking along?”
“Oh, that.” The handler swayed a bit, reaching for the closest rope to steady himself before the next wave. “Why, Commander, about seventy-five. Six pairs of lions, a dozen ostriches, leopards, and a herd’s worth of gazelles, plus porcupines and wild dogs to sic at the pygmies.”
“How much do you want for the dogs?”
“They’re sold already.”
“How much? I’m sure it isn’t the first time you’ve sold animals twice.”
The handler looked virtuous, whether because he refused the accusation, or smelled an affair. “Well, they’re not just dogs, Commander—they’re wild dogs.”
“They’re mutts. You may have found them in the wild, but they’re plain mutts. One of them even bears the marks of having worn a collar.”
“That may be, but it cost me as much trouble to catch them as to catch wolves or hyenas.”
“How much are they paying you for them at your destination? Don’t lie to me, as I have means of finding out the truth.”
The handler coughed up the price. “And that’s without the freight I’m paying for them.”
“I’ll buy the lot.”
The Sardinian held out his hand, seeing that—like all on board in rough weather—Aelius carried his coin pouch about the neck.
“And do what with them, if I may ask?”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
The pitching and rolling of the ship continued well into the coming of night, by which time the swell subsided at last, and once more the Felicitas made good time, though it was still toward the southern coast of Sicily that according to the skipper they were heading. Morning of the eighth day came before they sighted Malta, and even then a continuing strong nor’easter pushed them westward, so that they were unable to make immediately for Catania and the strait.
1 Mesore (25 July, Tuesday)
The place on the coast, sunbathed and solitary, was termed Chalis on Aelius’s map. From history, he knew this had been once the site of the great ancient Greek city of Gela, of which Herodotus and Diodorus had written. Utterly destroyed and abandoned for nearly five hundred years, from the ship, only the estuary of its namesake river and pitifully overgrown ruins marked it to the visitor now. Aelius would like to be able to say he recognized Timoleon’s glorious walls, and the places where Carthaginians and Greeks had camped to fight, but nothing remained. Indeed, there was no harbor either, just a beach with halfsunk breakwaters. A little recessed from the strand, fishermen’s huts had cropped up, with their boats, oars, and nets high and dry.
Still, a small military ship lay at anchor nearby, and there was some activity ashore. Boxes, kegs, and building material piled up, while pack animals already laden waited for their drovers to lead them off. With the Felicitas anchored within calling distance from the navy boat, Aelius introduced himself and inquired of the captain. From him, he learned they were escorting the shipment of fine art and precious materials for the new villa of Maximian Augustus.
“I don’t see any sign of construction,” Aelius observed.
The navy officer made a vague gesture indicating the land rising beyond the beach. “It’s not around here. It’s two days’ march-inland, by Philosophiana.”
Aelius checked his map for a few pensive moments. “Is there a road to it?” he asked then.
“Not from here, not yet, but once you get there, you’re right on the Agrigentum-Catania military highway.”
Meanwhile, the skipper had decided to do the best of the situation, and get fresh provisions as well as fresh water; minor repairs to the sail were needed, and it was as good a place as any to take a breather after the storm.
“How long do you plan to stop here?” Aelius asked him.
“Until tomorrow. Then we sail back and round Pachynum for the Catania port of call.”
“When will you get there?”
“Gods willing, by Sunday noon.”
Aelius nodded. “I’ll meet you there, then. I’ll get off here with some supplies and men, and will travel by land to Catania.”
“As you wish, Commander, but we stop there one day, and I’m waiting for no man once the anchor’s aweigh.”
“Fair enough.”
The dogs, freed from their chains, raced up to the deck and festively followed their handler down the gangplank, where they stood in a semicircle sniffing the sand and the tangles of seaweeds washed ashore by the storm. “Now what?” the Sardinian asked. “If you have a mind to kill them yourself, Commander, let me at least have the carcasses for the lions.”
Aelius waved in annoyance. “They come with me to the interior.”
“Well, why take them so far to kill them? I never heard of such nonsense!”
Travel notes by Aelius Spartianus:
Three men and I left the shore as soon as our dutiful attendance to the thanksgiving sacrifice was done with. After negotiating a bit, I was able to secure excellent horses from the locals, as ours would be wobbly after the sea voyage. Fortunately, although there is no paved road, as the navy captain mentioned, the traffic of mules, donkeys, and laborers back and forth along the trek toward the site of the imperial villa has cleared a path easy to follow. Indeed, there are small stations along the way where water and food are to be had, and we made good time, notwithstanding the motley company of the dogs. Twice we thought we lost one of them, but he returned both times, and proceeding without delay in the best cavalry fashion, we arrived at our destination, a road station on the military highway called Gelensium Philosophiana, early on Friday. The construction site nearby is spectacular, and had I not seen His Divinity’s construction at Aspalatum, I’d have been floored by what is going up here. The foreman took a look at my everuseful letters of presentation and immediately offered me his room, ordered dinner, and—convinced as he is that I travel here on official business—began at once to show me around, all the while dictating a list of the details he will explain tomorrow. See below regarding my intention to comply.
Brick kilns and stonemason huts surround a huge area already partly built, and the tesserae to be used for mosaics are so numerous as to be heaped like hillocks of various colors. African workers have been brought in to work on the patterns, and despite our long ride, I was shown one after the other of the cartons of what promises to be acres of mosaics showing landscapes, hunting scenes, and all kinds of seasonal activities and entertainment.
Having declined with a polite excuse to impose on the foreman’s table and bed, I ate in the open with my men, and just before sunset hiked to a nearby mountain shrine to the deified Hadrian (who visited these parts after his famous climb to see the rainbow atop Aetna). The shrine, elegant and small, stands abandoned, and the laurel grove around it that once must have been carefully tended is a shapeless jumble I had to cut through with my knife. I had with me enough incense to offer on the altar, which was so overgrown as to stand tilted where the laurel roots have undermined it.
I learned that the locals have their own explanation of what happened to the blessed Antinous after his death in the Nile, believing that his body was never retrieved after drowning, but emerged north of here from the waters of Lake Pergus, after traveling in the underworld for several days. As a proof of this, the foreman pointed out to me a fine bronze statue of Apollo—likely dating back to the times of Sicily’s Greeks—which they mistakenly call “Antinous the Reborn.” The statue was discovered on the lakeshore years
ago and brought here by the road station, where it stands covered by a little roof an object of some veneration by peasant boys and their mothers.
Pergus is certainly the lake by that name mentioned in the fifth book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, in the neighborhood of which Proserpina was abducted by Hades. The foreman described vividly its brackish water, turning to blood in this season “ever since the death of the blessed Antinous,” his very words. It might have been the late hour, but the way he spoke of the place well-nigh spooked me. On a happier note, half of the birds in Sicily (apparently not only the swans mentioned by the poet) make their home on Pergus’s shores.
Just out of curiosity, as we were on the topic, I asked the foreman whether there are any local theories about the circumstances of Antinous’s death, and he said that “he died like Patroclus.” I confess I was rather surprised, as this is what the tract I bought at Oxyrhinchus also says. “But Patroclus died in battle,” I objected, to which the foreman replied tossing back his head and clicking his tongue, a ubiquitous Sicilian response that left me as ignorant as before.
Anyhow, I acquainted the man with the fact that it is my wish to leave the dogs here, under imperial protection, and that their care will fall upon him. He showed himself much more pleased than I expected (civilians grumble first, whatever you ask them, to let you know they’re doing you a favor), as apparently foxes and wolves have been prowling around the construction site, and a pack of dogs is welcome.
I write this late at night, as it is my intention not to sleep, but to depart with my men well before sunrise, and travel the well-designed military highway to Catania. We will rest tomorrow night, probably at Capitoniana, and reach the harbor well in advance of the Felicitas Annonae’s date of departure for Rome.
Catania, Sicily, 4 Mesore (28 July, Friday)
At Catania, Aelius discovered that the cavalry troop and its captains had disembarked and were on their way to their assignment, and that all the ostriches, two of the lions, and several porcupines had been delivered to the local entertainment officials. Trials against the Christians were being held this week, and though the squinting Sardinian maintained they were to be tortured by having porcupines tied to their backs, Aelius had his doubts. With his men already on board, there was enough time for him to stop by a bookstore behind the odeum, where he found an account of Hadrian’s trip to Sicily in the eighth year of his rule.
The skipper was as good as his word, and they were off by midday. Soon, leaving behind Aetna’s brooding massif, they sailed up the eastern coast of the island, keeping in sight the shoreline highway heading for Messana. Past the narrows of the Sicilian Strait, which the Felicitas negotiated without trouble, for the first time in his life Aelius entered the Tyrrhenian Sea. He scribbled without pause, making notes to himself for later elaboration:
Swordfish being fished at this time, large blue schools of it streaming, a sea incredibly rich. Dolphins capering, begging for food and grinning all over. Each place on the shoreline an important historical spot. Rhegium, Cape Palinurus, Vella, Vesuvius, Goat Island, Cumae, Formiae—we sailed or are about to sail along all these, and more. Too excited to sleep. Wonderful weather, though the skipper smells winds that will likely push us north of Ostia. Expositus grumbles, but it’s fine with me. I will gladly enter the City from the north, as the tomb of the deified Hadrian is near Vatican Hill.
In the waters facing Tarracina—where the sailors hailed out loud the terraced mountain temple of Jupiter—the Felicitas met the small, slick and brand-new Providentia Deorum II, speeding south with favorable winds on the Antium-Lepcis Magna-Cyrenae-Alexandria route.
There followed the usual exchange of pleasantries while idling in the water side by side, wishes of good luck, and mail. “Is there mail for me?” Aelius inquired. “It would be inconvenient for messages to arrive to my quarters in Egypt while I’m about to reach Rome.” Quickly the letters were checked, and three messages addressed to Aelius Spartianus were handed to him. Two were replies to inquiries he had sent weeks earlier—confirmation that an official inventory of the buildings erected under Hadrian’s rule existed in the State Archives, and a bookseller’s price list. The third letter, in a strange, cramped hand, was from the prospective collaborator Gavius Tralles had contacted for him. Dated on the previous Thursday, it’d been taken aboard the Providentia the following day, and indeed providentially met him here on its way to Egypt.
Letter from Aviola Paratus to Aelius Spartianus:
Gaius Aviola Paratus to the esteemed cavalry wing commander Aelius Spartianus, good health and greetings.
It is with a deep sense of joy, sir, that I heard from your erstwhile colleague Gavius Tralles that you might see fit to employ my professional skills in what I understand to be an important historical survey relating to the reign of the deified Hadrian. While I do not presume that you will indeed decide to do so, the very opportunity of being once more of use to my emperor through you, fills me with hope and affords me great consolation. From your own military experience, undoubtedly you understand the plight of a veteran who still has energy enough to serve, despite the limitations of his infirmity. It is my fond wish that my knowledge of Egyptian matters, history, languages, and several sciences (including, but not limited to, paleography, astronomy, and geography) may be worth your consideration.
Presently, as your colleague may have told you, I make my home with family at Minturnae, but stand ready to meet you and offer my services in person whenever you desire. Should you elect to grant me an interview, it will suffice to send word to me care of Innkeeper, The Bear in a Skullcap Tavern, outside the Roman gate of Minturnae. As of August 1, I will be instead at my own establishment at the XII mile of the Via Labicana, At The Glory of Our Lord Aurelian’s. I will promptly travel to your location in Egypt or elsewhere. Should your travels take you to Italy, of course, I will be on hand if needed as soon as you come ashore.
In recollection of our common fight during the Rebellion, and with all good greetings, I am respectfully yours, G. Aviola Paratus (having written the present brief in his own hand, the calligraphic uncertainties of which I hope the Commander will forbear, on the twenty-sixth day of July at Antium, which I am visiting on family business).
It was a promising break in his search, this offer of competent help. Delighted with the letter, Aelius looked forward to landing according to schedule, but the skipper’s nose for contrary winds proved once more correct. Foul weather “somewhere between the Ausonian Mountains and the marshland,” as he put it, created enough commotion seaward to push the Felicitas away from Astura, so that it had to keep off the troubled waters one more full day. The Severian Way, Laurentium, Ostia, and Portus seemed to flee on the right-hand side, villas and groves, breakwaters, harbors, and lighthouses disappointingly far. Other ships, too, tossed and listed northward in their search for safer moorings, while fishing boats took to the open waters. Expositus mumbled under his breath, but there was no helping the delay.
The morning of Wednesday, the last day of July, an oil slick on the sea could not have made it calmer. For all of the slate black sky above the iron hills farther north, perennially storm-ridden and lightning-charged—or so said the skipper—the weather over Alsium resembled a polished mirror, breezy and perfectly warm.
“You had better head to Rome from here,” suggested Expositus. “It’ll take you less time than if you continued with us.”
Aelius was more than willing. The harbor facilities were modest but adequate; nonetheless, Alsium had seen better days. Now only a few of the great villas looked kempt from the shore; gates on the beach were locked, no sign of recent use around their seaside fish ponds; vines crowded walls and pathways. The imperial residence, whose works of art were mentioned in his travel guide, seemed to have been locked up since well before the Rebellion; servants at the gate said no official party had come to visit in nearly ten years. According to Harpocratio, Serenus Dio had managed to acquire a collection of books here from the guardian, two of whic
h—a Latin-Etruscan dictionary and an Etruscan grammar—were rumored to have been kept there since the deified Claudius’s days. Dio, his trafficking and his death seemed worlds away from this aging gentility, and even Antinous had tumbled back into Aelius’s memory until he recognized a small statue of him at a flower-decked crossroads shrine. There he parted from his escort, sending it ahead to the Castra Peregrina, or Foreign Unit—now Special Agent Barracks on the Caelian Hill. He’d follow unencumbered by luggage, on horseback, to savor his first visit to the Italian mainland south of Bononia.
At the Aurelian Way roadside station of Towers, he stopped long enough to draft a note to Aviola Paratus. I look forward to meeting you, he wrote in conclusion, but have some business to attend to beforehand. Please stand ready to hear from me some time after the first week in August.
For himself, he noted:
Everything I read in the books about this area is true, from the villa where Julius Caesar was met by noblemen at his return from Africa to Marcus’s maritimus et voluptuarius locus (as you read in Fronto). It is indeed a pleasurable spot by the sea, among ilex and olive trees, dark groves and shrub-lined streams, neglected mineral springs, ancient burial mounds of Etruscan chieftains (see Strabo) along the way. Caere and Artena were powerful once, but only ruined citadels mark their location today. I am proceeding ever in a southeastern direction, careful not to get off at the wrong turn, as side roads multiply hereabouts; the Aurelian Way is what I am to follow at least until the eighth milestone before Rome, where supposedly I’ll join up with the Cornelian Way and see the City walls!
A curious incident upon my first entering the station at Towers: seeing me, and not even knowing who I was, the station master told me that an hour earlier, a couple of men had been asking his son for someone resembling me. A mistake, I should think. How was anyone to know of my coming, given that I was to touch land at Rome’s harbor? Either that, or what ben Matthias said, that I should be watching my back even on board, is true. Sailors are easily bought off, and it is possible that through them someone learned of my arrival, and even of the change in landing place. If so, who are these men preceding me? Egyptians? Others who want to make sure I do not find Antinous’s grave, and the documents supposedly contained in it? The thought that a conspiracy against Rome might last through the ages curdles at the sides of my mind without taking a definite shape. I asked the station master for a description of the twosome, but he could give me none, since his son—who spoke to them—has meanwhile taken off for a supply trip to Volaterrae.
