Your Caius Aquilla
P.S. Too tired to write a post scriptum—after the enormity and the shock of today. Beddy-bye for me, my love. Sweet dreams. Mine, I reckon, will be haunted by a ghost of someone. Someone called “Beefy.”
P.P.S. Well, not too too tired, I suppose. Oh! Forgot to mention: the other night I had to thwack a rat. Middle of the night I hear this nibble-nibbling and sort of scratchy-scratching sound and guess what? Yes, you guessed right. A rat. In our tent. That’s right. Enormous. I had to thwack him. Thwack him good. And I did. Then tossed him out the tent flap. End of story. End of rat’s story, anyway. Nasty things, rats. Horrid.
XX Februarius
Dear Friend:
Hail and forgive me as I haven’t had time to write for a week now. Instead of heading south as I’d hoped we’ve gone southeast, sorry to report. The old gold eagles bob, the pennants flap snappishly, the officers’ horses’ arses boom-chicka-boom in the tall cold blue sky as we march on and on, following the scudding pink-and-white or just plain pink puffy clouds. The music of clinking armor serenades us cacophonously to the tattoo of hundreds of lock-step marching feet, on and on. Lieutenant Optio told us, at dinner, whispering conspiratorially, that the higher higher-ups in Rome have sent a long letter (in short order) to the generals. It goes pleading for one more maneuver before we get to hie us home. I wonder why they ever bother asking. They could just write “More kills and crucifixions, if you please, on your way back to The Eternal City” and have done with it. Why all these formalities, these gratuitous requests? They could just say: “Well, long as you’re heading this way, why not subdue yet another race of inferiors? Doesn’t that sound nice? Doesn’t it sound a bit of all right, a bit of fun, lads?” Excrement! I’m so dismayed. I thought we were done here. Oh well. Sorry, love. Try not to be too sad yourself. They say it’ll only be a matter of a month or two but who knows. We’re all of us dead tired and homesick and in need of a meal that’s not been slopped forth from a ladle. How I would love to be with you, just you, somewhere—near the gray-blue sea, say. Us (we?) two. Or picnicking up the Palatine Hill or watching some opulent pageantry or other—gladiators or orators nattering on about some such grand thing or other. How boring war is sometimes. How tired I am always. Tired, tired, tired. It never thought it possible to be this ridiculously exhausted. I’m fighting sleep as I slog along. It’s almost as bad as sparring with Spartans. I’m not the only one who’s knackered on his feet. Good old Marcellus started talking as he was walking and suddenly it struck me that he was bloody sleepwalking. Sleepmarching, I mean—to coin a phrase. How’s that even possible? Maybe he was having us all on and playing the facetious somnambulist, but I don’t think so: ’twas too convincing for him to be shamming. I need a nap badly. I’ve never been more fagged out in me entire life, I tell you. And the aches and pains? Merciless and relentless. Indefatigably indefatigable. It’s like a carnival of them or something: I’ve got iridescent blisters on both hands, niggling little cuts all over the shop, sore thighs and lower back, and my left knee’s killing me, throbbing like anything from when I twisted it and badly two frays ago or so. Here’s how it happened: cutting and thrusting and fighting mano-a-mano, Joc turned to me and said something like “Hey, Caius—watch me take this stupid barb’s leg off with a simple parry!” And as I spun round to watch him I felt this popping sound go snap! in the deepest part of my meniscus. Soon as one particular hurt’s all but forgotten, another crops up. I’ve had a severe, unstinting, beastly toothache that’s been acting up of late (remind me to go see the toothpuller soon as I come home, Lora; I keep putting it off). No sooner do I go “Ouch!” and grip my right cheek than does my elbow start thrumming unceasingly and amazingly, alarmingly painfully from when I banged it the other day on a dried-up tree stump as I was stretching, doing some pre-fray calisthenics. And it all goes round and round. At the end of any given attack-day, it’s like I’m doing a parody of Grecian stretching exercises. You know the ones where you touch one part of your body, stretch, lunge, crouch, get up, touch another part, stretch, lunge, etc.? I believe they call them “burpees.” On account of…well, you know. It’s like that. That bad. Like this one time when Marcellus, having lost his gourd-canteen somehow, got a full body cramp and had to knead madly with all his might his cramping thigh muscle, then his chest, then his calves, then back to his chest, then his stomach, then his buttocks, etc.—just ridiculous. There are few things funnier. I need a proper massage so badly but those are only given gratis to the centurions and the officers and of course the generals and the overlordly higher higher-ups. We, the grunts, the worker bees (unfortunate term) who really need a good hard old fashioned Oriental rub-down/pounding after work, have to pay out and dearly a big part of our paltry salaries for those sorts of luxuries and amenities, and as you know I’m trying to be as cheese-paring if not frugal as I can so as to buy our precious/sweet kids something nice for their birthdays this year. I can hardly keep my poor old weary eyes on the old papyrus right now, Lora. I must add that I’ve been going rather berserk during the skirmishes. (I’ve been meaning to find an op to use that word—it’s one I learned from a cove who fought some mercenary Norsemen a couple of years ago. Isn’t it neat? Isn’t it funny-sounding? I love it. The fellow said it meant “to go crazy during battle, plus raping and pillaging.” Sounds rather a good time, doesn’t it? I hope we get to meet some of these Norsemen. Then kill them, of course. They sound like rather good chaps, I daresay.) Well then: I really really really really really need to go lay me down now, go night-night, hit the sack, hit the hay, flog myself to sleep (thinking of you, your mouth, of you on top, then me astraddle, then of taking you from behind) and let the Sandman have his way with me and all of that. But here I am, up and diligently-faithfully writing, writing, writing, because, dear friend, I love you so and miss you so. My little yellow tallow candle’s spluttering and guttering: ’tis surely a sign I ought to sign off and try and get XL winks. One thing before I leave off: a wee request? Would you be so kind as to, in your next, recount some happier happy times of ours—our wedding, say? Or the honeymoon? Or the time for jollity’s sake good old Joculator let loose into our courtyard just the cutest baby crocodile. Remember that? It was shortly after we were newly married and came back from said halcyon honeymoon. That was a complete scream, just hilarious; he really is a master of humor, a true and veritable jokesmith, practical and otherwise. Ah, gods, I wish I could kiss you right now and cup and pat and palpate your nice fat white thighs and svelte waist and fine hips and great and succulent-sweet breasts and esp. your sweet, sweet and not-too-big Lorabum. And so to bed. (Cot, id est.) Exhaustedly,
Your Caius Aquilla
P.S. Zzzzzzzzzz… Please let me know, by the by, if my letters are getting through: this makes at least three I’ve sent that I can only hope have reached your soft white lovely clouds of hands.
II Aprillus
Dear Friend:
Hail! All’s well here at home in halcyon Rome, dear friend, & I am indeed in receipt of your last—your last three, actually; the post’s been particularly good, along with the superbly & surprisingly clement, favonian weather. It’s sun, sun, sun for us the past few days; everything spangles & sparkles colorfully in a sky that’s by turns blue & mellow oatmeal & mild gold all over our fair city. The sunshine’s only too welcome after so many desperately depressing cloudy days in a ragged row. There’s a nice breeze, too. & furthermore they say the grain harvest was plentiful enough last year that, should it happen not to be so very great this year, the plebs won’t starve. Hence we can all relax & assume there won’t be much grousing & unrest or—gods forbid!—any sort of incipient uprising amongst the undesirables, the hoi polloi, the riff-raff, losers, commoners, et alia. I miss you heaps, you know. I do so very hate to go harping (pun!) on my own burdens, but you must know that it’s really quite hard on me, Caius Aquilla, having you away again & for who knows how long. Nevertheless, well I understand that of course the empir
e & the glory of Rome come first; & we poor thumb-twiddling, deep-sighing, bored-silly, understanding, & goodly wives must wait & wonder & keep ourselves busy with children & trifles & try not to fret & sport-eat & wring our hands right off our wrists with obsessive worry! You aren’t to worry, by the by. Rest assured we’re all of us safe & sound, snug & not inordinately unhappy. Spring has sprung: fresh pink flowers wink in profusion from the bowls on our tables, carnations, roses, lilies; birds dance in the air and work their happy melodies; human voices call to each other from beyond the walls of our yard, voices merry & jovial, twinkling with chummy energy & liveliness & enterprise. I haven’t all that much to report, sooth to say, sorry to say, save the humdrum fact that I’m getting along pretty well with my music lessons, learning new tunes & pleasing runs & little riffs & scales & ditties all the time; becoming more & more fond of my instrument the better I get to know it. Let’s see: what else? Perhaps on account of the erstwhile dreadfully overcast stretch of weather, Aurelian’s had a very bad cold, very rheumy, sniffly, listless, mopey, enervated, cranky, whingeing, helpless, crusty. He’s been kept home from ludus, which is of course sheer torture for him as he loves his ancient doddering schoolmaster Master Seneca Maximus & he’s rather terribly if not frightfully popular with the four other kids he goes to school with. He’s such a bright star, such a tyro senator already. As you know, Seneca Maximus doesn’t take every puer who just applies: he’s frightfully selective & the Socratic interview was grueling. It didn’t help that you weren’t here to go through it with me. SM likes a family that presents a unified front, where both parents are there, present, helping with the homework & not off subduing inferior, subpar peoples: I don’t mean to remonstrate with you here so harshly, Caius Aquilla, but you have no idea how much homework—piles of it, really & truly—Aurelian ports in each night. Though no doubt Master Seneca’s worth it—every denarius, every silver or copper coin that we/I cross his aged palm with. There’s a waiting-scroll to get in like you wouldn’t believe—everyone wants him, everyone adores him. Drusilla’s mollycoddled kids didn’t even get an audition. I don’t mean that cattily, but still—pretty grand, wouldn’t you say, that we got an epistle of acceptance so quickly. I had one of the servants paste it up on the larder with some glue made from coconut milk and the sinews of various expired horses, Jews & Christians & barbarians. They melt them down in cauldrons in foundries on the edge of the city, I believe. Most interesting. You never know what inventions our Roman engineers will mastermind next! You know, we should be very proud of him, Aurelian, & of ourselves (you in absentia), for holding out for the best fit, schoolwise. Truth be told, it’s the best in the city & hence the entire world. It’s not hubris. And of course I hate to brag but I have to: Aurelian’s so cute & so smart & funny & sweet & witty & adorable. Such a fiery little noble already, the way he thrashes the cats & rides our giant tortoise round the terrace, whipping it “hut-hut!” & all that rot. How his eyes sparkle when I thrash the servants for one of their many quotidian stupidities. How I love to see him play! So free, such a blithe little spirit. Let’s see. What else? Oh! Here’s story you’ll surely appreciate: the other night, a darkling new moon one, Aurelian looked up in the starry sky & pointed & said: “Look, mummy. Mummy, look! The moon’s not open. The moon is closed.” I nearly started weeping with pride & sentimental sentimentality. Such a bright, clever little boy that boy of yours. I mean, how poetic was that?! “The moon’s closed.” Surely, if he doesn’t become a senator or centurion he’ll be an epic vates & write great books to rival Homer’s, big heavy ones, as impossible to lift as they would be to comprehend. Perhaps he’ll oversee a colony one day, become a magistrate or potentate or governor, be recognized by some great Caesar-or-Senate-to-come. I can envision him expatiating on some obscure law or sitting in state on a great & imposing chair, officiating at a tribunal, having commanded someone’s hands be lopped off or banishing someone else to some faraway island or wilderness. Proud I am of him no end! I let him have an entire stalk of sugar cane for that one, that quip about the moon, & a handful of candied gooseberry & lime jellies, plus a dish of strawberries & cream, then some watered wine—a glass or two only, elderberry, I think it was. He just can’t stop with the adorable adorability. Pretty near every day he comes up with something that makes me tingle with joy. You won’t remember this one either, ’cause you weren’t there: when he was five Aurelian was playing with one of those wooden toy racing chariots you gave him—the painted purple & white & gold ones. I spotted him turning it into a war chariot, zooming it round & round on the freshly scrubbed marble floors, pantomiming having the toy driver with his splendid red cape & pristine tunic & heigh-ho sword raised high going running over & smiting every last one of his painted Jews & Samaritans & Goths & craven Thracians. Such a look of concentration on his fierce face there was. & I said with a broad-big maternal smile on my lovely, loving face: “Aurelian-darling—why do you like chariots so much?” & he just looked up preciously & shrugged his bold little shoulders & said: “Because they get me where I need to go.” Isn’t that incredible? Utterly wonderful. So sweet & cute he is—I could eat him alive for breakfast, turn temporary cannibal & have him roasted then glazed with raspberry sauce & lap him up with a spoon, mop up every bit of him with a round of good bread from the heart of the country. He’d be delicious! Hahaha! Anyway, Caius, don’t be upset about the treats he’s been given, if you don’t mind: every sweet he eats, each goblet he downs is one less for me, you’ll be pleased to be reminded. Ha! I know I have an insatiable sweet tooth—& a hollow leg to boot. You know how I struggle with it. You know my demons. It’s the bane of my existence, this weakness, this perpetual craving for succulent savory sweets—a sugarcoated Achilles heel, if you will. You needn’t remind me of it every third epistle, descant upon it at length as though it were a pet subject with you, a hobby horse, etc. Just a nudge, so to speak, from your I-know-you-consider-me-flumpity bride. So there. Enough. What else? Where was I? Oh! Sorry to mention horses: I know how you—speaking of demons—fear them, or at least do all you can to avoid them. Nevertheless, do stop telling me what to do, what to eat, not to drink, etc. How tiresome that is—don’t you see? Thank you very much, I can manage my diet on my own. I don’t need your input; but I do need your support. Got it? Good. What to report, now I’ve chided you good & proper you for your unseemly officiousness? Think I’ll pour out an enormous tumbler of wine right now—in your honor & just to spite you, just for the Hades of it! Drink deep from some beaker of the warm south. Watch the beading bubbles wink at me from my favorite goblet, hoist a toast to you so very far away & proceed to opiate myself with liquid happiness. Hear that sound from all this distance, husband? Splishy-splashy! It’s the sound of me pouring forth. Enough! I’m sick of this chastisement, & of all the allusions to my problems. I thought you were on my side. & quite frankly I’m a bit mystified as to where this rather rum over-concern for me’s coming from! I sort of assumed when we married that you were something of a lipophile. That’s, in part, why we made such a pretty pair. Am I wrong? Right? & get this, mister: I like the way I look, all right? Whether it’s in looking glass or bath or basin I like what I see when my everyone-says-lovely visage in reflection gazes fondly back at me. Understood? Got it? Fine. Sorted. Now leave it out, won’t you? I’ve had about enough & that’s that & no mistake. Now let’s see: what else can I tell you? Julia’s growing like a weed: you wouldn’t recognize her. The other day she asked me if we could put one of the monkeys on one of the donkeys so it could have a nice “wide awound the yard.” Where on terra firma’d she get an idea like that, I shouldn’t wonder? That a monkey could ride a donkey, around the yard, no less? You’ve never taken her to the circus or the races without my knowing, have you? Of course not. I hope not. I bet you have, though. You’re very bad, Caius Aquilla: you spoil them. & spoil me. Those lovely flowers you had your niece send me? Those were from you, right? I hope so! Otherwise… Oh, Caius. Dear husband, dear friend, I hope you know I do love yo
u so. & speaking of spoils & spoiling: no monkeys, when you return this time, all right? No monkeys & no necklaces made from the teeth of eww-y barbarian children. What next—a shrunken head? “Hello, love,” I can just hear you saying, smirking, biting your lip the way you do when you’re being coy & crafty & have a surprise for me: “Brought you somefink: ’ere you go, love—the head of barbarian, shrunken! Innit great?! Innit terrific?!” No thanks. Gross! Oh, how I wish you were here—without said head, of course. I’m really horny right now; think I’ll have a lie down for a bit while the children are napping & think of you while I…you know. I mean, you’re not the only one with needs of that kind, yeah; I find that I get hornier & hornier as I get older, oddly enough… Okay. I’m back. Where was I? Oh, off to fantasyland, thinking how I’ve just been very exceedingly randy & dying to be touched & kissed & ravished—taken from behind. I wanted you so bad a minute or so ago; I hate this. Today I do, I reckon. Some days are easier to bear than others. Some days I don’t even think about you even for an instant, I’m so busy practicing the harp, reading poems, exercising (yeah, right!) in our compound yard, bossing & beating the servant slaves, reading Roman histories, snacking, organizing meals, & watching the darling children play & do their respective lessons. I do so like to spectate while Aurelian’s giving old Master Seneca a run for his money, sword fighting-wise, heaving his little toy wooden cutlass (despite the fact that old Seneca has the reflexes of a bloody just-fed house cat or common garden lizard doing push-ups in the sun): I can just picture Aurelian, when he’s older, of course, running right through the breastplate or brisket some bastard of a Jute or a refractory Mesopotamian, some jai-crying, blue-painted Hindu, acquitting himself honorably on the glorious field of battle & killing all manner of foes, enduring war’s horrors & becoming quite the renowned warrior & bloodthirsty slaughter king! How lovely that would be, to see him laureled something, empurpled with glory, deigning to nod to a multitude of fawning sycophants & admirers & women throwing themselves at him! Anyway, please come home safe. & soon. Dear darling brave sweet silly Caius Aquilla-husband! How I too long for the warmth of your arms. But not too warm, please. I pray the gods every night on my very knees to bring you back in one piece to me & the kiddies. Anyway, one more thing about spoils & all that might make you smile: these days I can make my own human tooth necklaces, seeing as Aurelian keeps losing them like your slutty sisters their virginity! (Just joking—they’re five of the nicest whores I know, the trollops!) Two of his fell out this week! I sacrificed a rabbit & a turkey & an ostrich to Mercury to speed his good growth, dentalwise. Really, though, Caius, I must say that even though they’re growing apace both young monkeys are still far too little for such sights as are customarily displayed in the Circus Maximus. You mustn’t take them there again, all right? Promise me you won’t do that again. That was most naughty of you. Alas! Next thing you know you’ll be sneaking them off to a battlefield to watch you at work! Not good. I understand they need breaks from time to time from their breakneck schedules, but still. I do wonder if we have them doing too much these days, with their every waking moment regimented & accounted for. Aurelian breaks his lavish fast from eight till ten-thirty, then, after a quick nap, Master Seneca from eleven to noon; recess & gallivanting about the yard for an hour; more tutoring; swordplay; then on Tuesdays, Thursdays & Saturdays he has Archery; and on Wednesdays & Fridays Legion Scouts; Sunday afternoon is Latin Book Club; & Mondays he has Junior Senate Debating & Diplomacy. Precious Julia likewise doesn’t seem to have a minute to herself (aside from meals & playtime & nap-times) to save her life! Drama With Dolls all morning; Reading & Writing with her nanny; a Play Date in the afternoon (if we can orchestrate it); & Playing Dress Up & Choosing Jewelry every weekend afternoon. I myself am exhausted just thinking about the chalkboard in the foyer that I continually have to consult in order to know where the poor ambitious dears are in the course of sun-up to sundown. Poor dears. I know you think I’m overprotective but Rome’s changing so rapidly these days & kids grow up too fast, methinks, even the ones that are cossetted & doted upon overmuch, as ours incontrovertibly are. What little innocence they’ve got left I’d like to preserve for as long as I can, if I may. As a matter of fact t’other day I had to shield both their precious little pairs of eyes as, past the usual beastly beggars, ghastly cripples, hideous moneylenders, & absolutely appalling ancients as through rivulets of muck, we charioted it over to Drusilla’s for a luncheon-time playdate. A horrible Persian merchant, all beetling brows and insane flaring nostrils and fish-eyed, was slave-driving his slave through the traffic-jammed marketplace with a great brown-and-white candy-striped bullwhip. Some giant of a mutant African bastard, the slave was, with the saddest, most dreamy-dreary big light brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Blood sprinkled my best pale orange frock, I tell you. Did it not! Absolutely appalling. It looked, my frock, like some portrait painter’s drop cloth or a mosaic done up by a madman. The blood from the guy’s brawny black back splashed right at us, & some of it freckled my fucking face, if you can believe that. Unbelievable. Julia said: “Mummy, you’ve have got [sic] wittle red butterflies on your face! They’re pretty, mummy. You’re pretty too!” & laughed & laughed. A sweetish moment, surely, but what’s the city coming to, anyway? Absolutely incredible & unconscionable, if you ask me. I couldn’t believe it, what I saw. “But seriously, what is that on ‘ur’ cloak & face, mummy?” Julia said, the sweet little innocent dear. Mind you, I was quite shocked. Had to think on my feet & very fast & no mistake. “That?” I said. “Oh, nothing, love. Just pomegranate juice.” “That man who just got whipped bled pomegranate juice?” Aurelian said & screwed up his lovely little peachy-creamy face. “That can’t be right, mummy,” he said all stout & sitting up straight. I didn’t know what to reply, I swear to gods. Telling ya. The child just busted me completely. Just proves: you should never ever lie to kids. But what? What should I have told him? Then Julia asked if she could taste it, see what pomegranate tasted like—she actually wanted to lick it, my garment! Appalling, I’m telling you. Both of them, our progeny, strawberry-sweet & innocent as the diem is long. As our driver sheared off, as per my stentorian orders, me tongue-lashing him to bloody get the demons the Hades out of there, I had to distract them (Aurelian & Julia) with a positively ridiculously phony story about a very pretty little lonely pony who belongs to the Legion & who gets lost after a nasty & astonishingly bloody skirmish, then finds his way home by asking some helpful-friendly goats & a brave little roadrunner to point out the way—a story, I’ll have you know, they saw right through from the get-go. You could tell that the entire time I was making this ludic dreck up they were only thinking about what they’d horripilatingly seen through my splayed & fumbling & dancing fingers. I mean, the savage look on the master’s face as he wound up & let fly was something I should never like to see the likes of again, let alone allow the kiddies to peep at, despite the fact that I must admit I might have stopped & gawked a bit were the kids not there: ’twas the sort of scene that’s so disturbing, so fascinating, really, that one can’t tear one’s eyes away. Sooner tear them out than away, really. Such an unimaginably grotesque display of ire & unmitigated thrilling savagery. People are just beasts sometimes. Beasts, I tell you. Brutes. I hate them. I hate that I’m flabbergasted at what they, these so-called humans, can do. & you tell me if you don’t think civilization’s just going straight to the dogs. I wonder what the poor slave did to warrant such a ruthless thrashing? Deserved it, probably. But have a bit of decency & whip him in your own home, not in public, won’t you, tough guy? I’m no great supporter of or even sympathizer to the philosophies of master Xeno (isn’t he the infamous xenophobe: so hard to keep all these egghead Greeks straight; & xenophobia’s kind of antithetical to our mission to Romanize the known world, no?), but some of these godsdamned arrivistes are beasts, I tell you. Sorry to keep repeating that term but. Oh! Speaking of which—gosh, I do have something to fill you in on, some news. Not good news, though. I don’t know how
to tell you this, Caius, so I’m just going to go ahead & just spit it out, just say it or write it, rather. Fido, your favorite old hound dog, is unfortunately dead. Apparently, Aurelian went to pet him this morning & have him chase a ball made of yellow wool & when he found him lying on his side on the cold bare kitchen floor he patted him (the mutt, the hound) a few times, he said, then thumped him thwack! a few times real good, he said; & then the poor sweet innocent dear boy came a-running, yelling: “Mummy, mummy, Fido won’t wake up! Fido won’t wake up! Fido won’t wake up! There’s something wrong with him, mummy! Fido won’t wake up! What’s wrong with him, mummy?! What’s wrong?!” I went with him to see what the deal was & sure enough: dead as a doornail, sure as the world is flat. As Aurelian wept & wept & lay on top of the maculate, mangy old cur, embracing him heartbreakingly, his pretty little head nestled in the dead dog’s neck fur, Julia chanted “Fiwdo dead, Fiwdo dwead, he’s dwead, he’s dwead, he’s dwead!” She was jumping up & down corybantically & crying like a mad thing. You know—that little springy thing she does when she’s upset. Strange thing: most people “jump for joy,” right? Curious girl. I don’t know where she got that from: neither you nor I act like that. We aren’t “jumpy”! Even though she does indeed pogo up & down sometimes when she’s excited in a good way. Perhaps it’s only a phase or something. Anyway: “He can’t be dead, mummy!” Aurelian sobbed & sobbed, looking up at me with the most pitiful look in his beautiful eyes; “Just yesterday he was fine! He kilt [sic] a big fat rat only two days ago, & I saw him chased [sic] & almost catched [sic] a mean old orange tabby just yesterday afternoon!” Chased! Ha! More like waddled after for two limpy steps, then lie a-down again, poor old hobbling—now deceased—thing. Nevertheless, they’re both so cute I can’t stand it sometimes. At IV and VII I think we have two of the most adorable little fuckers in all The Eternal City, don’t you? & beautiful. Incomparably so. Everyone remarks upon it, their beauty. Don’t you think they are—beautiful? Much more bonny than Drusilla’s brats, certainly. I imagine Julia will grow to be a great beauty, in fact, & have many, many lovers and suitors, & perhaps be a famous courtesan or concubine. & Aurelian a right devil of a lady killer, smiting them left & right, ambidextrously, as it were. Anyway, sorry about good old Fi. He was faithful as his name & is now well out of it, this vast, expansive vale of tears we call life. The way at the end he hobbled when tossed a scrap of cow or a bit of boiled chicken or squab was just so sad to see, don’t you think? (Oh what do you know, husband? I don’t mean to henpeck but you’re never here, you bastard.) Anyway, these past few months or so the children teased him (Fido) relentlessly: they’d dangle bits of their dinner at him, then pop them into their own gluttonous gobs; or the cats or birds would get the few measly scraps flung at him, make away with them (the scraps) before he could even get a shirt on, poor old cur, poor old canine smellfeast. Come to think of it, you ought to count yourself bloody lucky you didn’t have to see your dear old pet dog dragging his bare bleeding old dead arse about the house these past few months. War’s good for some things, is it not? Cold comfort, I know, but still. I miss you. You know I am with you whithersoever you roam…from Rome. Ha! Good one, huh? Just like I know I’m not the only comedian in the family. I mean, you’re not the only funny one. Got distracted there for a sec as I thought I heard someone call my name… Back in a jiffy… Okay, where was I? Oh, that was neighbor Marius, coming over to say hello & “May I have a word?’”& all of that fulsome & I daresay quite oleaginous stuff & nonsense &—interestingly enough—to borrow a cup of honey if he might, etc. What an absolutely bizarre request! I don’t know if I’ve ever encountered the like of it—borrowing something from a neighbor. Sooner ask to squat over one of our chamber pots! Quite remarkable, really. Perhaps he’s been day-drinking (or what I like to just call ‘drinking’)! Dunno why he doesn’t have one of his servants toddle off to market for it. He’s only lonely, I suppose. Wants a wee chat. I could tell he’d have loved to stay for a quaff of wine, a bit of “the grape” & a nice round of country bread, some actual grapes, & a bit of fresh-made cheese & sweet young figs & ripe mangos & candied almonds & plump & juicy strawberries & cream. (I must be feeling peckish to write that out so lustily.) I will say one thing re: Marius: it must be enormously difficult to lose one’s spouse at twenty-six, in the prime of life, don’t you know. I shouldn’t like to lose you, dear friend, at any age. Funny—he’s only two years younger than me and two years older than you. Such a nice fellow, though, don’t you think—affable & stuff? & pretty amusing, pretty funny, too, despite his sugar-cane smiles & honeyed words & verbal disabilities or handicaps or anomalies or peccadilloes or whatever the vogue term is nowadays. What a strange man! Very strange, actually. I don’t know that I’ve ever met anyone like him. “I’ll pay you back in s-s-spades,” he says brightly. “D-d-d-double, I will. Sometime next m-m-month.” With a frank wink he told me he’s thinking of taking up beekeeping! “Oh, joy,” I tells him, “what a splendid thing to have—a keeper of countless angry, dangerous, swarming, stinging insects for a neighbor! You don’t half know how to reassure a girl,” I says. He laughed at that one & pinched my bum & made a sound like buzzing. The liberties you Roman men take sometimes! The absolute effrontery! No respect for the proprieties. You’re all incorrigible. Plus unflappable. He’s only lonely, I suppose. My most murderous glares are met with obstinate, importunate glances. I reckon he was only joking, coming on to me in that fashion. I sure do hope so. “Ca-Ca-Ca-Caius about?” he asks, twinkles in’s eyes, things coming to a pretty pass between us, I should warrant. La, don’t he full well know you’re still away campaigning? “No?” says he with an even more horrid, knowing wink this time. He’s a rare one for winking, the smarmy goon. “Why d-d-dontcha c-c-come over & take a d-d-d-draught with me one of these n-n-n-nights if you get to fidgeting,” he says. “Fidgeting?” says I, all mortified astonishment, & he hems & haws a tad bit & stammers (or is his a stutter—I never know the difference, & when I look it up, the difference between a stammer & a stutter, I never remember it; it’s like the term a priori—I can never recall what that signifies, despite the fact that I’ve researched it an hundred & five times at the least, honor bright, I tell you) further: “Y-y-you know—la-la-la-lonesome like; must be hard having your ma-ma-man a-wa-wa-way a-warring all the t-t-time, & you a ra-ra-ra…” “You mystify me, sir, but go on, then,” I says, “spit it out, do.” “Radiant la-la-lass, no less. Ra-ra-ravishing, also,” he says. “Well, that’s a routine compliment but I shall let it pass. Though you do lay it on with a trowel, as I’m a person! La! & speaking of passes, he’ll—my husband, that is—know who to thank & thank you very much,” I tells him over my shoulder & turns on my heel, meaning you’ll have him to thank if anything, you know, happens between us, me & him, if you want me to spell it out for you, Caius. I’ve just gone & done so. “Sau-cy!” says sassy neighbor Marius & full-on palms me on the rump this time. Then, mind you, he runs after & takes my hand, turns me round like someone on a stage somewhere, some poxy actor type. The nerve of the zealous fellow! “Marius, what are you—what do you think you are—doing?” I said. Stares he, unnervingly, straight into my lovely, big, & beautiful (everybody says so) pale gray & sometimes hazel blue eyes, & his indeterminate-colored ones go all soft & sorry-soppy: “I can’t help it, Lora,” he says. “It’s been a very trying time, you know. You have the most beautiful g-g-gray eyes.” Well, the last sentence I fabricated; he didn’t say that, exactly, but by Argus he sure should have. Or something like that. Men always say too much—or too little. They flower it up—or leave an abundance of weeds. There’s no in between, it seems. Demurely, I told him I understood, & bowed my head most faux-piously. I’m such a horrible coquette! Such acting—on my part as well! & from one who has little patience with anything thespianish. I can’t believe the tricks I pull & get away with sometimes. Roman men, despite being the best in the world, are not always the brightest or the most gentlemanly-chivalrous, as I’m a person. A bunch of decadent
ninnies they/you all are—when it comes to the unfixed rituals of courtship & seduction. Then I said—bless his little imbecile heart & ridiculous handicap—that I sincerely hoped things’d get better for him before too many more months went by, blah, blah, blah. I found I actually meant it! What a little fool I was being. La! Where in the world could such genuine tenderness come from? His eyes glow with almost tears & his risible muckle mouth quavers like a sea anemone does when you tickle it or poke it viciously with a wet stick or branch. Then, all mild & stuff, he goes: “I th-th-th-th…” “Thank you?” I says. “Y-y-yes,” says he & goes on: “I thank you. Listen, th-th-though, L-L-Lora: you know how I’ve just t-t-toldja about the b-b-b-bees?” “Yes,” I said, falling right straight into his trap. “& what of it?” says I, all haughty-like & I know not what. “I have about zero interest in bees, Marius,” says I. He says: “Well now I’ll t-t-t-teachja ’bout the birds, as well, I will! You come over one n-night & s-s-see, pretty m-m-missus. You always smell so n-n-nice, you know—what’s that you’re w-w-w…you’ve got on? Is it eau du la-la-lavender?” “No, I don’t think so,” I said. “Well, whatever it is—even were it sewer water or b-b-b-bilge—you look lovely as well. You’re am-am-amazingly pretty, you know. I’ve always th-th-thought that. I’ve always had a th-th-thing for r-r-redheads, & you’re the p-p-prettiest one I think I’ve ever s-s-seen.” “Whatever do you mean, sirrah?” says I. “Come, come, Lora,” says he, “no need to be kittenish about this! I think you kn-kn-know ex-ex-precisely what I am driving at here! Surely you d-d do, madame.” Goodness gracious, Caius Aquilla, I hope for the life of me it’s all in good fun & egregious he’s only fooling, only flirting. If he’s not…well, the cheek of the fellow, pawing me like that outrageously & coming on to me so! I’ve never seen anyone so b-b-brazen. Cups my ass, flatters me flagitiously, propositions me, invites me over… Who’s he think he is—Zeus or something? & me Leda & he The Swan in the old myth? He’s only a lawyer, after all. Nothing special. Nothing to write home about, crow about. Swing a dead Egyptian cat & hit five & a half of them on any no-name street in this great town, yet they all think unquestionably that they’re gods’s gift to humanity, lawmen do. Damme if they don’t. Godsdamned silvertongues! The pompous hubris of these guys, sometimes. I mean, really. If he really does mean business & is trying in earnest to seduce me, get in my tunic & have his way with me & fuck me silly sideways, soon as you get home I’m sure you’ll show him “what for,” thrash his stuttering-stammering ass as sure as Indivia’s the goddess of jealousy. “I’m a happily married woman, Marius,” I tells him, hand on one sassy, jutting hip, accompanied by a pert little moue—one of my best moues, actually, one I haul out only when serious business is meant, & afoot, & it’s absolutely necessary to put a randy & frightfully forward man in his place & drive him mad with thwarted desire, inflame that desire, stoke it, feed it more & more kindling, fan it, then douse it, drench it with water or dash flour upon it with both fists full. Haha, I laugh. Ha. Ha. Ha. I daresay you’ve seen it—that champion look—more than a few times, you have. Works like a charm: man’s in the proverbial palm of your etc. “Well, if you say so,” he poutily & mock-bashfully & coyly says & gives us a rather meaning look. “I say,” I says, “do stop playing the fool, won’t you? It’s most un-neighborly & most unbecoming. I’m not just…those aren’t just empty words…” “It’s just…” says he & pauses pregnantly. “What?!” says I (Damn him!). “Oh, nowt.” “What?!” says I again. “I shouldn’t say!” says he & turns away all mock-demure, like a schoolgirl whose nipples have hardened unaccountably. “Tell me!” I queen it. Sighs he again for the hundredth time prodigiously & he looks up at the sky & says: “Nothing, Lora. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. It doesn’t matter. Have it your own way, I su-su-ppose.” Can you credit it? Mark you the fond as in madcap fellow. Unbelievable. I really don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’ve no idea why I’m making such an issue of it, why it gets under my skin so badly. I should have thrown him out straight away, told him “Clear off, you rotter” & all of that, lickety-split. What a remarkable personage. What an absolute bore he is, what a quiz! Astonishing, the things people will get up to, if you let them. One begins to think one knows nothing at all about human nature. Absolutely zilch. I mean…I’m not quite sure I do know what I mean…is what I mean. Oh, bollocks! You know, an odd thought occurred to me, husband—one to do with curious parallels. For we wage war no less valiantly—here in the no less important domestic realm, a different but no less substantial or germane theatre of operations & thwarted cooperations. For we women—the I daresay attractive ones, id est—must needs go fending off untold desperate foes of the frisky variety. Coming at us as they are wont to do sometimes, when we are all but defenseless against them whilst our brave spouses labor in no less dire fields of glory. Perhaps I overstretch my metaphor, but still. & as for obtuse & positively wicked & unconscionable Marius (he is most villainous, methinks, in something of a benign & charming way, I reckon—or perhaps not, perhaps it’s just my imagination), the campaign, nay war, he makes ’gainst my treasured honor & chaste treasure (my cunt, is what I’m trying decorously to say here) is under weigh & no mistake. I do hope it’s all in jest on his silly part; him having fun; a cod siege, as it were. He is an awfully nice chap, after all, so merry & sweet & nice & kind & musical & considerate & quite sunny & cheerful (at least he used to be) & not all that bad-looking for a shorty-short short guy with a hairline that reminds one of last year’s economy (id est, it’s greatly “in recession”) if a bit dorkish & certainly goofy. When the servant brought him the cup of honey he wanted, it was filled up to the brim—perhaps one of cook’s private jokes; & he (Marius) held it up & smiled & said “A cause of you, dear Lora dear, & your p-p-pronounced pu-pu-pulchritude, one’s c-c-cup surely ru-ru-runneth over!” Boy did that crack him up. Him a-slapping his knee & busting up like it was the most riotously uproarious & corkerish thing anybody in the history of comedy’s ever said in the history of comedy & most downright hilarious & clever-dick godsdamned if it wasn’t the funniest thing imaginable, like he was quoting what’s-his-name, that playwright, that Greek, whose name escapes me right now & that’ll probably come to me in the middle of the night like a ghost or one of the kiddies who can’t sleep or like one of your wet dreams. You’re not having wet dreams still are you, Caius Aquilla? I certainly hope not. He’s just very lonely, surely, Marius. A bit smitten. & who am I to say thee (as in “him”) nay? Of course he’s a chauvinist through & through. Of course he’s quite the insouciant valetudinarian. Doesn’t have to work a stitch, really. Lawyer in name only now. Filthy rich & all of that. Hence the strange, blithe hobbyist proclivities & what not. His insipidities! How might one countenance them? Insupportable that he’s so insensitive to them; & of course he’s a superpig & megalech. All you Roman men are. Goat-randy to a man. I mean, come on. One wonders if the days when people had a modicum of manners are over. Such riff-raff everywhere. They’re coming in the windows, scaling the walls. But he is our neighbor, after all. I will say that much for him. & lost his dear wife, as you know, only just this Januarius—poor fellow, poor fool, stupid eegit. I dunno what I would do if I lost you, wheat muffin. Surely I should want to die, hope to, too. I wouldn’t be able to bear it, surely. How could I? I’d have to top meself, I would. I wouldn’t be able to carry on. I wouldn’t. Speaking of topping oneself or the prospect thereof, I can never decide if I’d rather take poison or have someone stab me through the breast, the heart, if I ever had to do the noble, honorable Roman thing &—you know—commit suicide. Such a conundrum, really. It is & no mistake. All the time I wonder: did Cleopatra really let an adder bite her or is that just some bloated, scurrilous urban myth? I’m serious. I’d like to know. Honestly, I would. It’s like that jejune question we’d as kids ask ourselves about whether, had we the choice, we’d rather be deaf or blind. How very morbid I am sometimes. Like, the other evening? Well, Drusilla asked me if I shouldn’t prefer, one day, to visit Londinium or A
lexandria, & I said: “Heavens, what in the world for, Dru?” “Oh, you know, to travel,” said she. “See the world a bit. Get a new perspective on things & that sort of thing!” As if that were a good thing! What a notion! Why would anyone save a lunatic want to leave Rome?! What sort of response can one give to such a sally? Leave Rome? Unthinkable! Unless, natch, it was/is to do what you do, valiant, peripatetic husband. Of course. I’m not saying anything bad about that. About our military & all of that, you know. Our serving men, our warriors. About campaigning & colonizing & cutting off barbarian heads & having their tongues out & crucifying them for fun & to make them bow down to Imperial Rome & so forth. No, sir—& we thank you & bow down to you & honor you for your service. Ah, Hades. I’d better have a nice hot bathe now, with heaps of bath salts & rosewater & lavender & civet, try & halt these terrifically as I said morbid caravans of thought & then go & see how our dear children are faring, the little darlings, little precious ones, wee overachievers. I don’t mean to be (or come off as) so very ostentatiously doting & fawning but, gosh, if you saw the way they play with each other these days & heard their serious little sharpish-shrill voices raised when they’re furious in earnest about something, their terrible-wonderful tempers flaring, you’d wax sentimental too, I think. So, so precious, both of them. They could not be cuter, either one of them. & me so proud of them, as I know you very are. Julia’d wandered into the kitchen the other day & I went to fetch her, right? Well, in the hot heat of the place, cook had, well, she must have begun to pong a bit, I think. & as I came running in, Julia, who was standing looking up at cook with her pits & her great fat brow all wet with sweat—Julia goes: “Mummy, Mummy!’ & I said “What’s the commotion, lamb? What’s the matter here?” “Mummy, I smell gorgondzoldla [sic],” says she. I just about laughed my head off at that one! “Gorgondzoldla!” Hahaha! That kid, so funny. Cook could have died, I daresay, from mortification. Hard at work she was indeed—making a roux of some sort, I reckon. Stinky work. I’ll warrant I just cackled like a mad thing & bid Jules come away with me, away from the smell of rank cheese that effused from her (cook’s) person! Ahahaha! Oh the little darlings. They do make me laugh so that I’m fit to be tied, as the saying goes. They’ve had a rough week, though, you know, what with Fido dying & them seeing that slave badly as in indecently whipped, the poor sweet dears. Still & all, we’re all of us in fine fettle & you needn’t worry a jot. Or just a jot & that’s all, no more. Take care, come back safe, safe as houses, write soon, keep your guard up, & your pecker up, & your head down when you’re attacking, dear friend. Kiss-kiss & miss you very muchly, sure as I am
Your Caius Aquilla Page 2
