“That’s absolutely out of the question.”
“I can force you to do it,” he said, with sudden venom.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Don’t be so sure of yourself. It could be in your own best interests to do what I ask of you. There are greater stakes involved here than just mine, that’s all I can tell you right now.”
I thought that this was enough, and I left him. He called something after me but I could not make it out.
A couple of days passed. Yesterday, when I came home toward evening, I could hear the rustle of the straw mattress behind the door to my room. I pushed the door open but at first in the half-light I could make out nothing. Then I saw someone sitting on my bed. As I snatched up the lamp and struck it into flame, I demanded that the visitor identify himself. Breathing and rustling, but no response. The wick flamed up.
A woman was huddled in the farthest corner of my couch. I saw, between the reddish strands of hair, the pale gleam of her arms and shoulders, and lower, her palla, which had slipped into a muddle of saffron-colored folds. I asked her what she wanted, why she hadn’t replied. She made no sound, but glowered at me from behind her hair. I took her arm to pull her out of the corner; her clothing glided still farther down her body. She kept staring at me, with a mixture of defiance and distrust. She gathered her garments about her — or appeared to, for I had the impression that she was baring herself with every movement. I recognized her now; she was the woman I had seen in the public house on the day of Honorius’s entry, the mistress or accomplice of Pylades and his cohorts. I was angry because I saw through this new scheme: since neither promises nor threats had worked with me, they had sent me a woman, thinking that I, poverty-stricken and long in the tooth, would be so eager for her free favors that I would not be able to resist yielding to them.
“Get out of here or I’ll throw you out!”
I expected her to curse or spit as she had the first time. But she said nothing, drew up her shoulders, and then looked suddenly helpless and forlorn as she groped for her sandals on the floor in front of the couch. I felt the same pity for her that I feel for the grimy children on the staircase of the insula, who creep up to me to show me their scratches after a scuffle or a beating, or to beg a crust of stale bread.
“What’s your name?” I asked, pushing one of her sandals toward her with my foot.
“Urbanilla,” she said, sullenly.
“Urbanilla, I don’t want you. Tell that to Pylades. He must leave me in peace.”
She stooped to fasten her shoes, looking at me over her shoulder. Eyes like stone. The flame of the oil lamp trembled in a draught, shadows moved like dark water over her back and thighs, over the curve of her arm, coming to rest on the edge of the couch.
It was as if I saw, against the backdrop of the plaster wall, a sphinx or harpy from the house of Olympiodorus in Alexandria; one of the life-sized female monsters now become flesh and blood: an ageless face, a blind stare, half-open mouth filled with darkness, a torso with youthful breasts, the lower body fallen into folds and coils which evoked the indistinct forms of plants, billows, animal claws.
These rapid metamorphoses overwhelmed me: first a vulgar streetwalker, then a helpless child and finally something inhuman in human form, a ghastly visitation in the night. I had felt successive aversion, rage, and compassion looking at this creature on my sleeping bench; but all these emotions left me — what remained I cannot describe.
The girl herself was not aware of these metamorphoses—I knew that, of course. She was like clay, or wax being shaped without her own participation, in a form she could not understand. I saw in her everything that could lead a man to ruin: not seduction in the erotic sense, for what was there before me did not promise the satisfaction of lust. It was something else, more than that: the temptation of the unknown, the pursuit of self-created danger, the irrepressible desire to penetrate into regions where the borders were blurred between cruelty and pleasure, life and death, man and beast.
If I had taken that woman at that moment, I would perhaps have been able to drive away the images which swarmed around me, incoherent as dreams or drunken visions, offering the unheard-of, the never-seen… Unequalled power over the powerless, the possibility of frightful suffering consuming the entire world and all the creatures in it. I can’t put it into words. I don’t know why, I shuddered as if I saw before me a field gnawed bare by locusts, a mutilated, depopulated city; or, again, a mob of escaped slaves (I saw them four years ago when the Goths took Rome) seeking out their former masters to wreak vengeance on them for ill-treatment and humiliation. I remembered the face of Persephone, abducted by the dark god: beauty touched by death in the full bloom of life. I saw the Medusa head of the murdered Serena, stuck on a spear above a Rome fallen into decay.
Now in daylight, it seems to me absurd — clearly insane — that because she scowled at me, because she bent over to fasten her sandals, a creature like Urbanilla could be raised to dizzying heights as the embodiment of a choice for or against humanity. This lasted, it is true, for only an instant. As soon as she stood erect, she became a young slut like hundreds of others who stroll about in the Subura, indifferently flaunting her naked breasts while slowly lifting her skirts. “What do you want from me?” I asked harshly, in confusion.
“Ask the boss,” said the girl, shrugging, before she disappeared.
Recollection of things long forgotten. Once in the reed-lands, I had cut off the head of a cock. A cruel game, a senseless, horrible act. The thrashing and fluttering of the vigorous animal in my grasp, his hoarse shrieks and later the jerking of that headless body, gave me a thrill of curiosity, dislodging something in me — I don’t know what — the desire to prove my power, to test the limits of endurance, to fill a black void with violence? Much later, at the house of Olympiodorus, I had had the same feeling; only there I was the cock, the object of oppression, who struggled in desperate panic. The only witnesses, the stone harpies. I realize now that this time of darkness affected, in the ensuing years, my closest friendships, thwarting them, undermining them. Concerning men, I knew no middle way between hatred and hero-worship; one woman, Serena — who belonged to Stilicho — I elevated to the role of celestial mother: the others I mounted in cold, heartless lust as if they were the sphinxes on whom I must avenge myself.
The Works of Claudius: lifeless ornamental plants, artificial vines in the darkness.
This afternoon, in the crush of the fruit market, someone nudged me and whispered, “Marcus Anicius Rufus asks that you come, about the fifth hour after sunset; it is very urgent!”
I could not overtake the man.
III.
THE PREFECT
1.
Profound silence in the chamber where the Prefect has retired for his afternoon rest. Sun shades temper the light. Outside, in the cypress trees of the neglected garden of the temple of Tellus, the crickets have begun their shrill monotonous song. The Prefect is stretched out on his couch, but he is not asleep. The unrolled manuscript, draped across his knees, hangs down to the floor. He should feel heavy and languid, as one does after a protracted undertaking has been brought to a successful conclusion. But he is restless and uncomfortably hot, even without his toga. He moves from the cushions to the marble bench where a slight cool breeze wafts from the shade of the cypress trees. He reaches for his writing gear.
Providence (his hand is unsteady) has bestowed on me, after ten years, the means of executing, in the spirit of the law, a sentence which was at one time incompletely carried out. In the case of C.C. (he hesitates before inscribing the initials in the wax), still a pagan in heart and soul. His remarks about the martyrs, the Church, the faithful! Repeatedly insulting the exalted Honorius. His manuscript one long testament of scorn, tedium vitae, defeatism. Left to himself he has fallen back among the scum of society. The manuscript contains more than enough evidence of the inclinations of Marcus Anicius Rufus, which constitute a danger to the security of the state. This
releases us from the necessity of delving into the question of last night’s gathering.
Concerning Pylades and associates: very imprudent, not to say reckless. That soulless trash is really useless. Make short shrift of them. The woman U. held for now in secure custody. Rigorous interrogation? No word about me. Digressions about everything and everyone, allusions to the cesspool in Alexandria, but no word about who rescued him from there, saved his soul from eternal damnation, enabled him to achieve the status he sought so that he could associate with the marvellous, treacherous top dogs. Not a word.
With a spatula, the Prefect smooths over the wax of the writing tablet, wiping out the words he has just written. He presses his fists against his closed eyes (elbows on the table) — a prematurely aged man, but with something immature in the shape of his neck and shoulders and his slender hairless arms. His secretary, who comes to fetch him about the fourth hour of the afternoon, finds him in that position.
“Clarissime, it’s time. Your toga…”
2.
The Prefect of the City to Marcus Anicius Rufus, Marcellinus Maximus, Flaccus Vescularius, Gaius Agirius Flestus, Quintus Fulcinius Trio:
“From everything that I learned during the interrogation this morning, from the Commandant of the City guard, Aulus Fronto, and from the witnesses as well as from you yourselves, combined with evidence contained in a manuscript that has just come to light (written on paper from the library of Marcus Anicius Rufus) by the so-called Niliacus, formerly known as Claudius Claudianus, who for ten years remained illegally in Rome — I believe that it is clear without further discussion that there has been a violation of the law promulgated by the late Emperor Theodosius in the seventeenth year of his reign, Codex Sixteen, Title Ten, Article Two: ‘The erection of altars with the intention of bringing sacrifices thereto is forbidden as an attack upon the true religion.’ Your culpability is established, in addition, by the sense of paragraph three of the same law: ‘Anyone who tolerates such preparations in his own house or in that of another is as guilty as if he had in fact made sacrifices.’ Finally, I cite redundantly one of our State’s fundamental laws: ‘Those who by the inspection of entrails or other idolatrous practices, attempt to discover the future of Sovereign and State have made themselves guilty of a capital offense.’
“Only a few years ago, it would have been my duty to sentence you to death. Thanks to the ordinances issued by the exalted Emperors Honorius and Arcadius in the seventh year of their reign, I can now, for violating the prohibition against holding a gathering after the ninth hour of the afternoon, impose on each of you the penalty of paying thirty pounds in gold. And for your intention to offer sacrifices and consult oracles, I punish you with banishment from Rome for the rest of your lives and the confiscation of all of your possessions in the City and in a radius around it of one hundred miles. There is no appeal against this judgment. It will be carried out immediately.”
The condemned men have been ushered out; most of the Prefect’s officials leave the building. Claudius Claudianus has been shut up in a dungeon, alone, to await his final trial. The Prefect has a discussion with those who are in charge of arranging for the expulsion of the five patricians and the confiscation of their property.
3.
Later the Prefect descends the staircase to the vaults. This reality is stranger than a dream. He had not wanted this second confrontation with him whom that morning he had not recognized — had not wanted to recognize — to take place in the hall with the black-and-white floor, nor in the room set aside for private audiences. Preceded by guardsmen with torches, he penetrates to the lower regions. What he is doing is both useless and unorthodox — he knows that. Wrapped in his white toga, he stands outside the iron bars, staring at the vague figure in the corner, and with a nod signals the guardsmen to move into the background.
“Claudius.”
No reply.
“As always, I feel responsible for you.”
The man in the cell moves a few steps closer, but not close enough for the Prefect to distinguish his features. “The responsibility of the magistrate in this case applies only to the execution of the delayed sentence,” he says.
“The Christian prevails over the magistrate. I want to save you.”
“I haven’t asked for mercy.”
“It’s not a question of what you’ve asked for; it’s a question of the salvation of your soul.”
“Is this intended to be reparations for a judicial error? Am I going to be set free?”
“There’s no question of error. I will give you your life. Not your freedom.”
“Then I prefer that you slice my head off right now.”
“In your case you would not be entitled to death by the sword. A pagan, born a slave outside Rome, suspected of criminal activities, soothsaying… Such a person usually receives the pyre.”
“Into the fire then, like the Phoenix.”
“Your recklessness would be ridiculous if it were not so tragic.”
“The mime Pylades seemed willing to involve me in the performance of tragedies in more than one sense, in the service of this so-called justice. It would have been a real tragedy if I had let myself be recruited.”
“Your insinuations are as empty as an actor’s bombast. That actor, by the way, will never boast again — steps have been taken to see to that.”
“Undoubtedly similar steps were in fashion ten years ago when I was arrested in Mallius Theodorus’s house.”
“Don’t forget that you were surprised in the act of burying the remains of a sacrificial cock. Those circumstances constituted overwhelming evidence.”
“There were indeed sacrifices.”
“Of course you helped Mallius to escape in time.”
“Sometimes one does something for one’s friends. One comes to their rescue even if one has reason to suspect that an informer has had a hand in the summons — as happened last night.”
The Prefect paces back and forth before the bars. The prisoner is now standing flush against the barrier; the glimmer of the torches — held aloft at a distance by the guardsmen — illuminates his face, a grimy bearded mask. A criminal in cheap, filthy clothing. The Prefect could not recognize the spirit which had enlivened that other face, of earlier days, which he had been thinking about since that morning.
“Sometimes one does something for one’s friends, you say. Who knows that better than I? Haven’t I given you enough proof? I can still do something for you. In those days you refused to listen to reason; you would not be converted. Perhaps now I can help to awaken the better man in you, to save your soul. I haven’t given up hope. That manuscript of yours which was brought to me — it breathes bitterness. Rome isn’t lost! Listen, only the true religion has the power to deliver us, to waken the dead, to breathe new life into what seems to have become old and finished. Only the true faith can inspire City and Empire, can bring peace, order, justice and glory! All resistance will be crushed, reduced to ashes in the fire of our zeal. The new Rome is rising now from idolatrous Rome, for those who have eyes to see and ears to hear —”
“God’s State on earth, but the spirit has been driven from it. What is left is the deified State.”
“That sounds like heresy. In your manuscript you mention acquaintances of yours in the Subura whom you take to be Arians. That would certainly interest an ecclesiastical court. I don’t consider myself qualified to render judgment in those kinds of cases. I could turn you over to that court…”
“The Prefect of the City has my fate in his hands.”
“You acknowledge that I am powerful?”
“Very powerful. In spite of the coming of the Goths, or perhaps precisely because of it, your career is rising steadily.”
“In contrast to most of your former friends, I resigned my office when the City was occupied.”
“That gave you more time to devote to the management of your own affairs.”
“Still that sarcastic tone. I have maintained my property, provide
d for my inferiors, met the responsibilities of my class, while you — you risked your skin by coming back to occupied Rome, didn’t you? — according to your own words — you crept into that stinking hotbed of the Subura, where you felt at home —”
“Doesn’t the wealthy Hadrian own some tenement houses there — as an investment? There is gold to be earned in all that stench.”
“You haven’t changed. Once again you want to ridicule me, to place me in an unfavorable light. …”
“Seize another man’s goods. Drive curiales to desperation and then profit from their misery. Buy barbarian prisoners of war cheap and then resell them at a profit to work in the copper mines. Buy parcels of land from bankrupt farmers at ridiculous prices so that you can add them to your own holdings. Use heavy fines and severe regulations in certain districts to exercise a reign of terror among artisans who are barely earning a crust of bread, so that you and people like you can profit more from having the work done by your own slaves. And while you are doing all this, kneel three times a day — if not more — in basilicas and chapels and recruit disciples for a new Rome flooded with the light of grace!”
“In the past you asked me to forgive your sarcasm. You called it a youthful sin. Do you expect leniency again?”
“I expect nothing. When I apologized then, I was appealing to that good relationship that you kept talking about all the time.”
“It was not I, but you who destroyed that relationship. Where has he gone, he to whom I gave the name Claudius, and who looked up to me with friendship and respect? For admit it — you were grateful to me because I rescued you from Olympiodorus.”
“I worshipped you as a god of light — a Mithras, a Helios — that’s true.”
“Have I ever been anything but a benefactor to you?”
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