Your Caius Aquilla

by Fredrick, John Andrew;

  “Your’”Lora Caecilia

  who

  remains

  a perpetual

  puzzle

  unto

  herself.

  P.S. I put “your” in quotation marks for the obvious reason that I’m, in sending this, not going to make any assumptions. He (Marius, that is) wants me to leave you, by the way. Divorce you. I’m not sure I want to. At least we’d be neighbors. You could pop over & see the children any time you wanted to. Hmm. Something to ruminate over. But no. I don’t think I’d like it much, living next door to you. I’d wonder how you were all the time, make excuses to saunter over & have a laugh with you, play some new tunes, talk about old times. I’m sure I won’t divorce you. I’m not sure I could do it; I don’t think our Roman laws allow it. I mean, you could divorce me, surely. But would you want to? Please say no, Caius. He (the fool) rashly sent over an uncommonly beautiful necklace of immaculate topaz & opal, of high-grade gold & silver, that I think, but can’t be sure of course, belonged to his late wife. How tacky! What presumption! The nerve of him! It’s irresistibly pretty, though. I will say that. & it looks smashing on me—there’s no denying it. It’s simply impossible, though, I can’t accept it. Yet I don’t want to give it back. I’ll tell him I misplaced it! Hahaha. Misplaced it in my granoblastic box of baubles. I can hear your quavering little Caius voice asking me querulously if I’m planning on seeing him again. Which always means having sex with him again—I mean, let’s not kid ourselves. When people say, “I’m seeing someone,” what they really & always mean is I’m seeing them naked & they get to see me naked, too. How we fool ourselves & willingly. We seem to live for it, exist for it, seize every opportunity to do so! “Seeing someone!” Ha! When what we mean is: “I’m in full view of them as they present, as it were, their private parts & flap then flop them right at me or let them plop or plunge them unceremoniously into me”—whichever applies. Oh you know what I mean. I’m not trying to be vulgar or revolting. It’s just the way of the world & all. Truth to tell, I’m not sure I won’t “see” him again. I don’t really like him, but I like him. Know what I mean? I don’t. Know what I mean, that is. I’m merely asking for information. Let’s put it this way: I like the idea of him—which amounts to the same thing, does it not? Doubtless I like the idea of cruelly leading him on, that’s certain. Messing with his head. & with his heart. That’s what he wants, too. What all men enjoy. Thrive on it, they do. No different from a pretty woman’s greatest pleasure: nicking another girl’s guy. Mark you, that’s dead cert. He’s here for my profane pleasure—now that I’m “a fallen woman.” Isn’t that a nice phrase, as well? I’m still standing, though. I’m standing as I write this, using your writing podium, as a matter of fact. I go into your chambers from time to time while you’re gone and bury my face in the clothes you left behind. Did you know I do that? Now you do. Well, anyway, we have plans today, Marius & I, so I suspect I he’ll call for me in about ten minutes. I wonder what time it is precisely? I have to get ready. Let me go look at the sundial. Be right back. Oh dear—tell a lie, he’s going to be here in perhaps five or so. Oh my. I’m so sorry Caius but he’s just got something; he’s got some power over me, & I’m enchanted by him. Transfixed or, um, transfigured—whatever. When I think of you v. him, I mean…things don’t look too good for you by comparison. Just saying. The truth’s always best, I think. At least I think it is. I will say that the neo-vogue expression “just saying” is, verily, a passage of veritable unmusic to my ears. Someone chants that egregious phrase, someone means he’s “just saying” something mean & unkind. “Your breath smells like a dead ox six days rotting—just sayin” = just saying something not nice, something small & mean. Isn’t it funny that that is just what I did have to say to Marius on account of he doesn’t seem to be too terribly keen on cleaning his teeth all that often. “You have two left feet dancing—just saying” = just saying something disparaging about, in other words, someone’s less-than-impressive skills on the dance floor. What I’m, in fine, trying to say is: I hate that phrase. I’m convinced it smacks of hostility, covert or overt, & I really really really wish people would stop using it. You go down the Coliseum, or over Mars Field way—”just sayin’,” you hear someone say. You go to some spooky old sacred temple or to the park: “just sayin’, just sayin’,” someone nah-nah-nah’s. It’s too too crass & snarky an expression & it drives me flipping mad. I won’t have it. It’s the hilt of vulgarity. It irks me no end. All right now, listen, maybe the so-called truth isn’t best, & honesty’s not the best policy, as every poxy pleb & sententious, moralizing modern master of ethics seems to think. Gosh, I dunno. What do I know—epistemologically, that is. I’m going next door to check out his honeybee set-up, then we’re to trudge up the Palatine hill for a wee picnic lunch. Ugh. Perhaps I shouldn’t send this. Perhaps I should rip it to shreds, tear it to pieces. I’ll give it a think. It seems rather unfair, me writing you like this; & as I read over what I wrote (& yes if you’re wondering, I had to touch myself as I read it), gosh, I guess I could have tempered it a bit, but honestly, just thinking about him—I don’t know what it is about the guy—gets me so hot, you know? & bothered. He’s sent a message, over the wall, a note wrapped in a tube made of dried crocodile skin, saying he simply has to see me, can’t stand this, can’t stop thinking about me & blah, blah, blah. I’m a mess, of course. Flustered as a school girl. Giddy as all get-out. It’s maddening. Please don’t think me an horrible meretrix, terribly nefarious or something. I’m hardly that. We’re none of us perfect, you know. We all have our peccadilloes & foibles & little quirks & quandaries. We’re all fallible & we all make mistakes. It’s just, some (mistakes, that is) are bigger than others. Big, big mistakes. If this was a mistake. Nothing is what it seems at the time, I think. Who knows? Maybe it’s more of an omen than a mistake. A mistake-omen. I mean, the jury’s out right now & stuff. & oh there he is—the servant’s just announced him. My big mistake personified. I’d better run. Talk soon.

  P.P.S. I’ll write more tomorrow if I have time. Oddly, you are, at this moment, more precious to me than ever. I suppose that sounds rather hackneyed. Oh well. So be it. So it goes. Isn’t that strange? Isn’t life strange? It really is. So weird. Someone said—can’t recall who or is it whom—that betrayal is the only theme. I think that’s so true, don’t you?

  P.P.P.S. Don’t think I will send this letter, after all. A bit hysterical, perhaps? Possibly. A girl “beside herself” with idiotic joy. Well, you’ll probably never see it. I’m saving it, though. Maybe one day I’ll send it, maybe not. Probably not. It’s only much of a muchness, you know. I’m not exactly sure what that phrase means—I just like saying it!

  X Aprillus

  Dear Friend:

  Hail! A sad, sorry hail from your wife today, dear friend, as a sad sorry & unfortunate (& mortifying) thing has happened: gentle, foppish, stupid, smitten, fawning, rumbustious, offending, dumb-dumb neighbor Marius is dead. Here’s how: drunk as a March skunk, drunk off his ass (as in literally, don’t you know, he rode all catawampus & harum-scarum into our courtyard on a donkey & fell right off of it like someone in a comic warm-up act at the Circus Maximus), he, after he “dismounted,” comes fairly blithering into our courtyard yesterday—the bloody servants let him in without my say-so. Clamoring at me, all of them every bit of confusion and yowling alarm, they said he was fairly punching the gates to get their attention, the cheek of him, & make them (the servants) admit him. Comes he forth, reported they, then goes a-brandishing a ridiculous little sword without a scabbard. It looks a right toy; & as you know wielding weapons in the city—even in private, even after having lost one’s balance waving it while riding an ass—is utterly illegal plus it’s super vulgar if not obscene to see one unsheathed, a rude bare blade like that. The servants themselves were crying, “Fie! Fie, Master Marius!” at him. “Who b-b-bids me cease?! Who impe-pe-peds me? Bring f-f-forth the m-m-m-mistress or ma-ma-master of the h
ouse,” supercilious he intones pompously, they said. Imitating him (cruelly), one comes running & a-laughing, to fetch me; bows clownishly, to give more relish to his jest: “B-bring f-forth y-y-your ex-ex-exceedingly pretty s-s-self, p-p-please, Domina,” one of them says, fleering like mad, hilariously. “A drunken, b-b-b-beekeeping, dwarf of a neigh-neigh-neigh-neighbor w-would have a w-word with you, Domina.” Priceless. I wonder if they, some of the servants, that is, have picked up something of a wicked sense of humor from eavesdropping on me (or you, possibly) all day. But Marius entering thus like this & causing such a prodigious rumpus & scene as though he were a tawdry, overacting player at a fringe theater or (even worse) a cheap, street-performing buffoon & butt’s no joking matter. What the demons does he think we are—ringmasters? The local impressarios or something?! Absurd! That & our house a carnival fit to be canopied with a red & white striped tent, queasy circus music issuing forth to beat the band? I didn’t know whether to laugh or shriek. The very thought of it, of him! Ye gods, what can the fool of a man be thinking, if thinking he is at all? (He can’t be.) “What do you mean, coming blundering in here, you tintinabulating imbecile? You’re wrecked on wine, as well! Quit this courtyard pronto, mister!” I say as I step into the courtyard, for quick as a cat’s lick he, Marius, comes forward frowardly, scattering the ducks, chimp, monkeys, zebra, cats, chickens, yammering dogs, the baby croc (not such a baby now) & parrots; kicking up plumes of sandy dust; reeling around like there was a fountain or something out there to reel around. (Oh, there’s an idea, Caius—we should have a nice lovely fountain! Wouldn’t you like to listen to it burbling, like a lullaby at night?) I stare & hail him with: “Marius! You muddle-headed voluptuary, you oaf & dope, you libidinous, drunken n’er-do-well, what are you on about—swaggering in here like this, & before noon as well?” Then, “Something-something-something-something, Lora,” says he & falls on his sword. Just like that. Nobody could understand a word of his preposterous inebriate babbling. Blood everywhere, just everywhere, all over the shop. Luckily, Aurelian was on a school field trip & Julia napping like the dead (she was up all night last night with a little sniffle, the poor dear: it’s only meet & right that both kids get sick like sickly little aristos, only peasants never fall ill, don’t you know; I’m glad they’re prone to illness, the poor loves—proves they’re of good blood). Gods all mighty, what a mess & a half. “You bloody fool,” says I. He stammered something as a bathetic sort of utterance, but I couldn’t understand any of it, sort of as a “dying fall,” if you’ll permit the pun. “I’m sorry?” I said, meaning, of course, “Excuse me, you twit—can you say that again?” But he seems to take it like I’m saying I’m sorry for something I’ve done. Then looks he up at me with those impossibly kind/sad eyes of his. Whatever could he mean? What could I have done, I ask you, to deserve this? What hurt or harm? What a ninny, anyway! I wonder whatever he could have meant by that, Caius. People—is there anything weirder than them, dear friend? I am so glad we have each other. & I appreciate you so much; I hope you know that, cherish it. I really do hope we’ll never divorce—as so many young couples seem to do these dark days. You’d never in a million moons do such a thing, I know, as embarrass me with inchoate, drunken babbling, then quasi-public suicide. Dreadful manners, his. Bless you, husband. How are things on the campaign trail, as it were? Making lots of converts, campaigning? Hahaha! So funny. I do make me laugh, do not I? Well, you aren’t here to do the job! Gently chiding, Caius Aquilla—just a way to tell you I yearn for you & your wack-o sense of humor, you zany. Plus I’m very shaken—& thirsty. Need wine badly. Gobs of. I’m trying to cut down on my drinking but this is an emergency. Obviously, there’s been some traumatizing drama here, but it’s all over now. One good thing: there won’t be anyone to keep those bees of friend Marius’s on account of there’s no more Marius, so you needn’t worry about them & being allergic & all of that rot—they’ll die. Or migrate or something. I wonder what he was thinking, taking up beekeeping in’s old age like that? Such a silly hobby for a Roman man, & him in his late twenties or whatever—practically a cadaver. Perhaps he had gone or was going mad/insane? Doing a full “Caligula.” A lot of that going round these days, it seems. A regular spate of it. E.g. Drusilla reported that, just t’other day, one of their closest, oldest, most trusted neighbors was apprehended down by the Forum in a tatterdemalion tunic tarred with chicken feathers, clucking out a prophesy that, “The fall of Rome was nigh, we were a doomed civilization, excess & indulgence & convenience & abundant fruit & wine & imperialist conquests would be the death of us all, & that he was the quote-unquote Chicken of the Apocalypse, Doom Chicken, Bird of Doom, etc.” The Clucking Cassandra, he called himself, I believe. Appalling. Just appalling. Just yesterday, Drusilla reported, the man & his wife had been to tea at theirs & had seemed fine—not one allusion to foul fowl in specific or the barnyard in general did he make. All this came straight out the blue—totally unexpected. Dru said he talked mainly of favorite gladiators, what he had to eat that day, what kinds of cakes he favored, how he admired her new lace shoes & outfit & whatnot. The Senate Guard, she says, caught up with him at home; he’d left a trail of feathers, so finding him wasn’t hard. Apprehending him wasn’t diffy either, as he couldn’t fly away or anything. In the end, they took him away & cut off his right hand & extracted his tongue. Served him right, of course, & most just, the very thought of it: a madman like that going round freaking everyone out like that. He got off light if you ask me. Rumors swirl so anyhow these days that you just can’t have people going around prognosticating gloom & assorted doom. Not in a chicken suit, you can’t. Guy had stretched a giant orange custom-fashioned glove across his head, they said, to make his costume all the more chickenish. People are on edge here, my dear; the public’s mood shifts like a sun dial. Mercurial as Mercury himself. Omens are daily promulgated. Signs are divined in the very air. Most are hoaxes, I shouldn’t wonder, but still. One must think of the credulous populace, I imagine. I’m no political animal; no avid follower of Democritus nor a staunch supporter of The Republic neither, per se, but even I can tell that we Romans are not exactly a universal favorite, in terms of popularity, other countries-wise, principalities-wise, tribes-wise & what-you-will. I mean, think about it: we do go round with a bit of an attitude, to say the least. Sooner or later, some superlatively rebarbative quote-unquote people are going to try & take us down—if we don’t do the job ourselves, id est. It’s only inevitable. Alexander went down. The ancient Persians. Sparta? Mighty no more. Hindustan, they say, has seen worlds of peoples be buried under miles of rubble: an entire Atlantis or Underworld of Hindi towns & cities lying atop one another. But promulgating such a thing as our demise, the demise of us? Us! In a public forum, no less! & by a mad, prophetic, soi-disant Doom Chicken?! Posing as soothsayer & clairvoyant? La, what next? Drusilla said—can you believe this?—that the guy got five fucking followers fucking following him home & vying to wash his feet for him, salaaming at him & garlanding him with heaps of flowers & garnishing him with chunks of crushed garlic & sea salt, then proclaiming him “Messiah”—whatever that means. A low Hebrew term, I think. Demarcating king, someone said. Cults of all sorts seem to start up right before your very eyes nowadays! You walk along, taking in the sights & sounds & there’s some lunatic baying at you, talking nothing but cack, rousing the rabble around you that you’re trying to skip away from, entreating you to harken to some nonsense or other. Before you know it—poof!—cult! I’ll tell you one more thing for nothing, chum: it’s never a woman looking to start a movement, though, is it now? No, sir. You ever notice that? We women, I say, don’t go round (unless we are completely insane, & fit to be tied & banished) ranting & raving & caterwauling & lecturing & intoning & invoking & suchlike carry-on, dressed in black-from-dirt rags & with twigs & dust in matted hair, adjuring people to follow us to some island or retreat or ashram & begging us to just give them alms & bread. Men are so strange. Ye gods! For the life of me, I’ll never figure you lot out
. Take Marius. The only thing I can think of (in terms of why he—Marius, that is—might have been cross with me) is I criticized his technique when we were going over some Diatonic thing or other, practicing together the other day. You male musicians! So tetchy sometimes. Hahaha! Oh, well: I suppose I will have to wait till you come home to play duets. Or maybe I’ll just leave off making music altogether, or for a while. I can’t look at my harp now without thinking of blood. He was so nice (sometimes he was), Marius. Some people just shouldn’t drink. & esp. in the mornings. Most people, that is. Which reminds me. Ha! Thirsty! Anyway, please come home soon, do, to your