by Paul Waters
It left me feeling bleak and empty and without hope.
Indeed, in the days that followed, it began to seem to me that there was corruption everywhere, not just at home. For, just then, Lucius’s advances towards Menexenos had resumed, and were becoming harder to ignore.
I came one day to the palaistra to find a commotion in the inner court, with the boxing-master talking angrily to one of the other trainers, and a group of youths standing about listening with grave faces.
As I approached I saw Eumastas coming my way. I asked him what had happened.
‘What else?’ he said, frowning at me. ‘It’s that Roman again.’ And then he told me.
There were limits, which even the most besotted suitors observed, and one of them was that the youths were left to scrape and sluice down without disturbance. Lucius, ignoring this, had followed Menexenos into the bath-house, and had proceeded to pester him there in front of all the others.
I shook my head. ‘But what did Menexenos do?’
‘He ignored him, of course. He would have handled it. But just then the boxing-master came in, and found the man sidling up to him. He called the slaves to throw him out. You can imagine how it looked.’
I stared at him, appalled.
‘Yes,’ said Eumastas. ‘I know. It was terrible. And it gets worse.
Lucius asked the boxing-master if he realized who he was.
‘ “Yes I do,” answered the master, “and that makes it more shameful still. Now get out, or must I go to the praetor myself?” ’
I blew the air through my teeth, imagining the scene. That Lucius could bear such humiliation was hard to credit.
But it did not end there. Next thing I heard, he had discovered the house where Menexenos was staying with Eumastas.
Though he had lost his farm, Eumastas’s father still kept a house in the city, in a leafy neighbourhood beyond the theatre, with a view out to the sea. I never went calling there. It embarrassed me to impose on his civility, after what had happened to his farm.
But one day, after we had been out walking in the city and were about to part outside the walled doorway of Eumastas’s house, Menexenos said, ‘Come in for a moment. I want to show you something.’
I followed him into the tree-shaded outer courtyard. There on the ledge was a small bronze statue of Zeus carrying off a squirming Ganymede, done in the new style, all soft lines and gross emotion.
‘What do you think?’ asked Menexenos.
‘It’s horrible.’
‘Yes,’ he said, scowling at it. ‘Nasty and overdone. It was delivered this morning, along with this note.’ He showed me a corner of papyrus tied with ribbon, upon which was written, ‘To the beautiful Menexenos, from a secret friend.’
‘I shouldn’t mind,’ he went on, tossing the note aside, ‘if it were just for my own sake. But I am only a guest, and no one here could afford such a piece. It insults my hosts, especially when you think where it comes from.’
‘What will you do?’ I asked.
‘I thought of putting it up for sale, but that would not do. So I am sending it back to the praetor’s residence.’
I nodded, and looked down gravely at the bronze god with the grinning naked child in his arm. Then, looking up again, my eyes met his, and we laughed.
There were other gifts after that. A crown of gold olive-sprays; a belt-clasp set with lapis; a handsome armband of twisted silver, fine Keltic work from Gaul. He sent them all back.
If we had smiled at these follies, there was soon something it was harder to smile at.
Lucius must have been making enquiries. One day, waylaying Eumastas in the street, he told him he could ensure his father’s farm was restored to him. He did not waste his time with hints, but added, with a long, significant look, ‘However, there is something you must deliver to me in return.’
‘In that case,’ replied Eumastas immediately, ‘the price is too high.’ And with that he turned his back on him and walked off.
He related all this to me later, adding at the end, ‘I have not mentioned it to Menexenos, and I don’t intend to. I am telling you, Marcus, only because it is time someone put a stop to this madness.’
‘Yes,’ I said, racked with shame. I had already wondered many times what I could do. Speaking to Lucius was no good. And the idea of going to Titus on such a matter appalled me. Yet Eumastas was right. I was a friend of Titus, and I was a Roman. I, if anyone, should intervene.
I resolved to seek a private meeting with Titus and speak to him.
Before I could do so, however, on a hot afternoon shortly after, when the stormclouds were looming and the air was close and still, the whole business came to a head.
The festival of Poseidon was coming up, which in Tarentum is quite an affair, with concerts and games, and plays in the theatre.
Menexenos had been asked by the trainer to help out at the palaistra, training the young lads who would run in the sacred torch-race.
Not wishing to throw oil on fire, I always did my best to make sure I was absent when Lucius was in sight. But he had not been back to the palaistra since the day he was ejected; and, believing, naturally enough, that he would not come again, I had grown careless.
I was standing with Eumastas and some others at the side of the track, watching Menexenos preparing his troop of boys. Suddenly Lucius strode out from the shadow of the colonnade. He went straight up to where Menexenos was waiting at the starting line, having calculated, no doubt, that he could hardly walk away and leave the boys standing.
I stared, appalled.
‘By God,’ muttered Eumastas beside me. ‘Has he no shame at all? ’
Lucius was speaking. I saw Menexenos glance round once, shake his head, then turn away. At this Lucius went closer, and began whispering into his ear, and plucking at the sleeve of his tunic. The young runners, who were standing about waiting to line up, looked at one another and began to titter.
Suddenly Lucius cried out furiously, so that his voice echoed round the court, ‘Ha! Look at your godlike looks! But beware! Good looks fade, and you will not always eclipse the sun.’
There was a stillness like death. Menexenos looked at him, but said nothing; or not, at least, in words; his expression was eloquent enough. I saw him draw in his breath, and then, turning back to the wide-eyed gaping boys he said, ‘Come on, now, line up, and have your torches ready.’
Lucius had gone white. For a moment he did not move. Then, all of a sudden, he swung round, and his eyes settled on my face. He started. I do not think, until that moment, he knew I was there.
And then he lost all control.
At the top of his voice, in front of everyone, he accused me of every sort of baseness, saying I was trying to steal his quarry after he had chased it to its covert, and that I was a thief who snatches the trophy without running the race. ‘Oh yes!’ he shouted, jabbing his finger, he knew what I was about. ‘But have you stripped for him yet? Has he seen your ugly white-scarred thigh?’ He spat in the dust.
‘He is haughty and superior, this conquered Greekling, and I am not good enough for him. Do you suppose, then, he will look at a runt like you? You would disgust him.’
He ceased. Everyone stared. Even the boxing trainer, coming in from the next court, had paused in the archway, his mouth fallen open.
At some point in his tirade, Lucius’s Greek had failed him, and he had used the Latin terms. I imagine most people there did not know them. It was little comfort. It did not take a seer to guess what they meant.
Lucius seemed suddenly to grow conscious of where he was. He looked wildly about him at the gathering, silent crowd and bit his lip.
I think even he realized he had gone too far. Then, with a cry, he turned on his heels and ran out under the archway.
I had never felt more ashamed in my life. Wounds in battle were nothing compared with this. I wished only that the earth would open up and swallow me. The last thing I wanted to do, that day, was go to the praetor’s residence. But wh
en, at length, I returned home, there was a message from Titus, asking me to call on him that afternoon.
Titus’s steward, Sextus, who knew me, said when I arrived, ‘Ah yes, Marcus sir, he is expecting you. You’ll find him in the gardens, on the bench at the end of the walkway. Verginius has just finished with him; I expect you’ll pass him on his way out.’
As he predicted, I ran into Verginius on the terrace. He was a military tribune of the Roman garrison, and we had always got on well. He paused and greeted me, and we exchanged a few words. He was something of a talker, which was just as well, for I had not recovered from the morning, and could scarcely string my words together.
He spoke, as I recall, of the campaign in Africa, which was coming to a head, and would bring, so everyone hoped, an end to the war. Finishing off, he said, ‘Well, it’s time I got back to barracks.
You’ll find Titus down there near the herb-beds, but I’d wait a while if I were you. Lucius has just arrived. He seemed rather agitated . . .
Why Marcus, you’ve gone grey as a corpse; is something wrong?’
‘No, Verginius,’ I managed to say. ‘Thank you for telling me. I think I’ll wait here then, until he’s finished.’
He left me, and I sat down on the stone bench behind me, and held my head in my hands, wishing I were anywhere else but here.
Then I jerked my head up and stared in horror. From somewhere beyond the tall myrtle bush which divided the terrace from the garden came the sound of Lucius’s voice, approaching along the path.
I leapt up. I think I should have run off, and thought of an excuse after. But the only way out was back the way I had come, which meant crossing the corner of the garden. To walk straight into them as I tried to flee would be even worse.
So I waited. The voices drew closer. Titus was saying, ‘But Lucius, it is in your own hands. Do you not see that?’
Then came Lucius’s voice, answering in a wailing tone, ‘But he is so noble and so beautiful! I need him!’
I stared into the myrtle flowers, scarcely daring to breathe. A song thrush, sitting among the leaves, stared back at me, its head cocked to one side.
Then I heard Titus say sharply, ‘You have been at the wine again.
I can smell it on you.’
‘Well wouldn’t you?’ Lucius flared back. ‘You are beginning to sound like Father.’
‘Don’t bring him into this. But he was right at least in one thing: the world will not fashion itself to your wishes, no matter how much you rail at it.’
‘But I want him!’ moaned Lucius. ‘He must love me! I have given him gifts . . . everything . . . I have given him everything.’
There was a whimpering sound.
I looked about, thinking: I must not be found here. I must not! There was a pause, and the sound of sniffling.
And then, ‘Oh Titus, my desires frighten me so. What am I to do? ’
More gently, Titus said, ‘This is wine talking, not my brother.
Wipe your eyes, Lucius, and try to remember yourself. A man cannot buy love; no, not even you. If the boy is not interested, then that is that. Come now, there will be others. But no one will love a drunkard. You must govern yourself, little brother. What else will you have me do? Put the wine under lock and key?’
This set him off again. But at least I could allow myself to breathe once more: the voices were receding back down the garden.
When, eventually, Titus saw me, he gave me a brief, searching look, and I wondered what else Lucius had said. But it may just have been that, by then, I must have looked as though I was sickening for something. We spoke of whatever business it was that had brought me there, though it was clear that both our minds were elsewhere.
Afterwards, when we were walking back to the house, he said, half to himself, ‘You know, if you beat a colt long enough, and hard enough, and often enough, it will shy even from its own shadow. A creature can be broken . . . and so can a man. . . . My father has a lot to answer for.’ He drew in his breath in a long melancholy sigh. ‘But forgive me, Marcus. I am talking of my own concerns. Come, you look as if a cup of wine would do you good. Now that I think of it, I could do with one myself.’
We returned to the terrace, where the steward had left wine, and a dish of honey-cakes. He must have brought it out while I was with Titus. I noticed that one of the cups had already been used. Titus, I saw, noticed it too. He raised his brow; but to me, at least, he made no comment.
The summer weather remained close and airless, and my bleak mood stayed with me like a cloud that will not move.
After that terrible morning at the palaistra, I had done my best to apologize to Menexenos.
‘For what?’ he had said. ‘It’s not your fault.’
Yet I could not dispel the thought that I had brought shame on him, and that, but for me, the appalling scene at the palaistra would not have taken place. Lucius had said I would disgust him, and in my melancholy state it seemed that it could be no other. I felt all my ugliness, and was sure he must perceive it too.
Bad as this was, it was only part of what troubled me. I began to ask myself what he must now suppose of my own motives, which he had heard described in such detail by Lucius. For all I felt for him, I could not bear to have him think I was some suitor in Lucius’s mould. Since I felt unable to explain any of this, I began to grow quiet and withdrawn with him, and took less trouble to seek him out.
I knew he noticed it. Once or twice he said, ‘I looked for you at the palaistra today, Marcus,’ or, ‘Where have you been these past days? I have missed you.’
I would make some bland excuse, blaming work, or whatever came into my head. Perhaps he sensed I was lying. Before long he ceased to ask, and I left him to think what he wished. It seemed better that way.
But I suffered. I had been touched by light. The return to night came twice as hard.
When next I saw Pasithea she fixed me with her wise brown eyes and said, ‘You have scarcely spoken two words this evening, Marcus.
I think it is time you and I had a talk. Come and see me, the day after tomorrow. I shall send my slave Niko to fetch you.’
Two days later, at the time of lamp lighting, Niko came to fetch me, a black-skinned slave-boy from Memphis in Egypt, with shining eyes and large gold earrings. Though he was a slave, he was clearly learned, and I guessed he had been schooled by Pasithea, of whom he spoke with great fondness.
In due course we came to a pink-washed house built on a terrace on a slope, shaded by a hanging vine.
Pasithea was waiting for me at the back, sitting in the little private high-walled courtyard, beside a pool of water lilies fed by a tinkling fountain. She had dressed carefully, as always, and tonight she was wearing a light dress of sky-blue silk, woven with flying and sitting swallows picked out in gold. Her hair was loose, adorned with a garland of roses.
Niko brought a jar of cool honey-coloured wine, and a bowl of bread and black olives, and a little yellow-glazed plate of goat’s cheese, and while he was busy with this, Pasithea chatted, telling me of her plans to travel to Greece in the autumn, where she planned to visit her home in Korinth, and stay with friends elsewhere. Then she paused and looked me in the eye, and said, ‘I hear your stepfather has been entertaining his friends.’
‘You heard about that then?’ I said miserably, supposing his grossness must be the talk of the whole city.
She smiled. ‘Don’t be so surprised. I am one of the first to know of such things. After all, my friends talk to me; and I have many friends.’ She caught my eye and winked. ‘I suspect, though, that your stepfather’s little gathering was not quite to your own taste. Is that what has cast you down, or will you carry on suffering alone and not tell me?’
And then the words came.
I had not realized how much I needed to talk to someone. I do not know if was the wine, or her gentle comprehending smile, or the peaceful courtyard under the stars. But all of a sudden, like a dammed-up torrent, out rushed all my pent-up feeling. I t
old her Caecilius was a brute, that he humiliated me for his sport, that he brought dishonour on my mother, who was good and honest and true. I lamented the day he had married her, and supposed I must have displeased some god to suffer so much ill luck. It seemed to me, I said bitterly, that there was no beauty in the world, that the only truth was baseness and self-seeking.
I went on for far too long; I spoke in anger, resenting the world and my place in it.
But when, at last, I had finished, she placed a comforting hand on my forearm and said gently, ‘All this I understand, Marcus my dear.
You are not the first to think this, nor will you be the last. And it is true that a man who is intent on finding ugliness will not need to search for long. But is that really the only truth?’
I shrugged. ‘I look about me and that is what I see: men who are no better than beasts, who walk on two feet instead of four, and snatch at what they desire like starvelings at a feast.’
‘You are talking to me of man’s place in the world, yet you tell me he is the worst you can conceive. Is all else a dream then?’
‘What else is there?’ I said sulkily.
She sat back and regarded me with irony in her eyes.
‘What then?’ I said.
‘Look to what you love.’
Our eyes met.
‘Yes, indeed, my dear. That is your guide. It is there you will find your proof that man is more than you describe.’
She paused, and with her finger stirred the bubbling water of the pond. The spreading lilies bobbed their petalled flowers at me. Then she smiled softly; not mockingly, but wise and knowing.
Lightly she said, ‘I hear, too, that our friend Lucius has been making something of a scene.’
I sank my head in my hands. ‘Truly, Pasithea, nothing escapes you. Do you have eyes even in the palaistra, where no women go?’
She laughed. ‘Nothing so mysterious. The boxing-master is a friend.’
‘Even you have heard about it then?’
‘Who has not? It is all round the city.’
It was worse than I thought. I shuddered, remembering the things Lucius had called me. ‘It is a great humiliation,’ I said, blushing to my ears.
