by Paul Waters
The servant returned, and while he was busy setting out the refreshments Titus asked how I was finding Rome.
‘I think,’ I said, ‘I must be seeing it with Greek eyes.’
At this he laughed. ‘Dull and provincial, you mean? Well you have seen what you have seen, and one cannot unlearn knowledge. But philosophers and artists are starting to come, more each year; and one day, when enough Romans have seen beyond the confines of their narrow world, they will begin to make changes. A man must first perceive what he lacks, and form a vision of what he wants to make himself. For now, they know only the rough rustic Italian villages, against which Rome is a sparkling cosmopolis.’
He went on to tell me of his political affairs. The land commission had been a success, and this had helped his reputation greatly. The consular elections were coming, and he had been persuaded by a number of Rome’s leading men to stand, in spite of his young age.
‘Will you win?’ I asked.
He dipped his finger in the wine-cup and made the sign on the table the Greeks make against bad luck. ‘I have opponents still. But after what has happened in Greece, they are fewer than they were.’
He paused and looked at me. ‘And here, Marcus, is where you can help.’
I laughed. ‘But what do I know of Rome?’
‘You know what happened at Abydos, and you can tell the senators for me. They know it from dispatches, of course; but they have not heard it from one who was there, who saw it all. Tell them the truth, nothing more or less.’
‘Well the truth is bad enough,’ I said, remembering.
We talked for a while of Philip and of Greece, and all that had happened since last we met. In the midst of this a servant tapped on the door and came in with a note on a piece of folded sealed papyrus.
‘Forgive me,’ said Titus, taking the paper and breaking the seal. I turned away, leaving him to read in private, and glanced idly around the room.
There was a large oaken sideboard by the window, solid old- fashioned work, the kind of thing we had at home in Praeneste. Upon it stood a few vessels of polished bronze – a casket with a lock, a table-lamp, a tray with a stand worked into the shape of stag’s feet.
Beside it, light and delicate next to the solid old bronzework, was a Greek wine-cup, white on black, perfectly made, with smooth shining sides and a leaping Tarentine dolphin painted inside.
It was a beautiful piece, but it made me think immediately of Lucius. Titus had not mentioned him. But when the servant had finished and gone off once more, I asked him how his brother was – making sure to avert my eyes from the wine-cup.
‘Oh, Lucius is well enough,’ he said, assuming a bright expression.
‘He was chosen for the aedileship last year, and—’ He broke off and glanced at me. ‘Well, I shall not pretend, Marcus, not to you. He has not changed as much as I had hoped . . . Yet he is family, for all that, and I must help him where I can.’
Next morning, back at the inn, I was woken early by the noises from the street, which seemed never to cease except in the deepest hours of the night.
I rose with the first glimmer of dawn. I bought a raisin-cake at a food stall, and taking it with me went to sit alone on the steps of the Rostra in the Forum.
The leaden cloud of yesterday had lifted. Crimson streaks shafted across a dappled sky. As I chewed on my breakfast, I gathered my thoughts for the day to come, like a man preparing for battle.
I had gone to bed early, determined to be as fresh and alert as I could for this day; but in the end, with the din from the street, and my own thoughts, I had slept badly, turning over and over in my mind what I should say to the Senate. As the night-hours passed, each version I ran through in my head seemed worse than the last, until even the simplest words seemed wrong, and I felt myself falling into a vortex of doubt and indecision. Eventually, in the silent early hours, I had drifted into sleep, and dreamed bad dreams of Abydos.
Rome is a city built on seven hills. That day, the Senate was holding its meeting in the temple of Good Faith, one of the temples on the hill known as the Capitol, which rises steeply up behind the Forum.
I finished my breakfast and made my way there.
The temple was on one side of the open ground on the summit.
After the buildings of Athens, it seemed squat and plain – old, weathered red brick, faced here and there with grey stone, and, on the eaves, little crude statues in painted terracotta. A drab-looking priest was busy sweeping the open area beneath the porch.
I was much too early for the Senate meeting. But that was as I had intended. After my failed interview with Philip, which had upset me greatly, I wanted no surprises.
For a while I wandered about among the shrines and altars and statues, pausing to look at the piled-up victory trophies – a clutter of old shields weathered almost to nothing; ancient spears, swords turned to rust and verdigris, rough-cut votive figures: all of them mementoes of battles long forgotten and heroes turned to dust.
I stood on the steps of the shrine of mighty Jupiter, and gazed up at the image of the god, frowning and all-powerful, rigid and austere, like the city he watched over.
Soon the sky lightened to a cloud-studded blue and, seeing the senators begin to arrive, I made my way to the porch of the temple, and looked in at the open bronze doors.
The chamber was cold with the morning chill. Sunlight lanced down from tiny high window-slits, casting thin bars of brightness across the wooden benches. At the far end, beneath a wood-pillared baldachin, the statue of the goddess stood on a plinth of black granite. Before her, twigs of fragrant juniper smouldered in an open censer.
The senators were taking their places. They were old men mostly, lean and grave-faced, like veteran warriors or country squires.
At first their age, and their grim unsmiling solemnity, made me uneasy. But then I thought of the Athenian Demos, who in their ignorance were swayed by the honeyed words of every clever speaker who wished to bend them to his will. Better, I thought to myself, to be governed by these stern, serious old men, who knew of battle first- hand, and could weigh up an argument without emotion. They were here, I thought, to deliberate on peace or war; on life or death. It was no place for levity.
Just then Titus arrived with a group of younger senators. He greeted me briefly. I suppose he saw the uneasiness in my face, for he said, ‘Don’t worry. Tell it as it was. They are decent men, even the ones who don’t agree with me, and they know truth when they hear it.’ And then, with a quick smile, ‘—And thank you, Marcus. There is no one I had rather address the Senate today than you.’
Then he went off to take his place; and I waited to be called, and looked out at the far-off Alban hills. Here and there, feathers of smoke were rising. It was the end of the harvest, and the farmers would be burning the old wood from the vineyards. The sight of it made me think of home. I would go there, when my business in Rome was done. But now the usher spoke my name, and I turned and followed him into the chamber, and focused all my mind on the task before me.
My words came out well, for all my night-time fears. I told myself later that it was the shades of the people of Abydos, coming to my aid, and I made a silent promise to offer something to Mars the Avenger, since it seemed this was his business most of all.
The senators heard me out in silence. Afterwards, there was some discussion and questions. Much of it I had heard before, from Titus.
I recall one old senator who objected, and Titus answered him saying, ‘How much longer will you delay? Must we wait till Philip lands in Italy, like Hannibal and Pyrrhos?’
The old senator dismissed his comments with a wave of his arm, as if he had heard it too often before.
‘Now is not then,’ he said. ‘The situation is different.’
‘Are you so sure?’ returned Titus. ‘Philip already dominates Greece; our spies report he is in secret talks with Antiochos; Egypt is weak and prostrate. Must we wait until the whole of the East is united against us?’
&n
bsp; He turned to the others and continued, ‘No city has the divine right to exist, not even Rome. We survive by our virtue, for so long as we possess it, and by our strength, for so long as we maintain it.
We have staked our authority on ordering Philip to stop, and he has ignored us. If we do nothing now, why should he believe us next time? He will think us weak, and lacking in resolve. Let everyone remember, an idle threat is worse than no threat at all!’
From around the chamber there came murmurs of assent. These men were men of honour, and a man’s word was his bond.
After this I felt a subtle shift, a change in the mood, like the first air of spring in winter. And when, at length, the time came to vote, I knew what the choice would be, and I was glad.
As the hands went up in support of Titus, I recalled Philip’s words to me, that we threatened him at our peril.
Then I thought of the people of Abydos.
I had not failed them a second time.
I took the familiar ascending track, up through the oak forest.
The air was still; the sky showed deep and cloudless, and up on the high rocks, where I had played as a boy, came the familiar clanking sound of goat-clappers.
I drew the air into my lungs, and felt a longing for I know not what: for simplicity; for lost childhood.
Presently I came to the long avenue of poplars that marked the beginning of our own land, and immediately I began to notice signs of change. The brook that trickled down between the terraces, its natural course formed by time and the contours of the mountains, had been hollowed out, widened and dammed. The surrounding woodland had been felled and ploughed, and there were new cattle- pens behind the white-painted block where the farmhands lived.
I arrived unannounced. I smiled to myself, thinking of the surprise. What I had not been prepared for was my mother’s tears.
I found her in her private room. She turned, then started.
‘Mother,’ I said, and crossed the floor to kiss her.
It took me a moment to realize what was different. The room seemed somehow empty and stark, though I could see nothing missing. Then, lifting my head, I realized that the old spreading rowan outside the window had gone.
‘You took away the tree,’ I said. ‘You always liked it.’
‘Your father decided we needed more light.’
I went to the window. There was a sawn-off stump where the rowan tree had once been. I thought again of the scarred land outside, needlessly changed in conformity with some ill-considered plan. A sudden bitterness filled my heart, and before I could stop myself I said sharply, ‘Is there nothing at all he can leave alone? He is not my father, curse him. He will never be that.’
I had spoken harshly, and in anger. Immediately I felt ashamed, for it was no fault of hers. I turned from the window, my face full of regret.
She sat unmoving, staring at the little piece of sewing-work in her lap. Her hair was as it always was, tied back, with careless wisps at the side. But the last traces of fair had gone, replaced by grey.
For the first time, I thought, she looked old. I felt a falling within me, as if the foundations upon which I had built my life were crumbling. It came to me what she had sacrificed to keep the farm.
She had never spoken of it. It filled me with a dull, bleak, impotent sadness.
She turned then, and it tore my heart to see the moisture welling in her eyes.
‘My dear, precious Marcus,’ she said softly, ‘how glad I am to see you. What a shock you gave me.’
She blinked, and touched at her face, and in a firmer voice went on, ‘We received your letters from Athens. You have done so much, and I am proud of you. Your father – your true father – would be proud of you too. And look how broad and manly you have become.’
I looked away, lest she see my eyes. But my voice cracked when I said, ‘But I am still me, Mother. Still the same Marcus.’
I heard her catch her breath.
‘Well he – Caecilius – is not here,’ she said. ‘He is in Patrai; he has business with some king or ruler there.’
I nodded.
There was a painful silence. Then she said in a small quiet voice, ‘The farm was important. Understand that. I would not see it lost.’
It seemed then that all my pent-up grief broke out. I had wanted her to speak to me, to open the closed door, to drop the mask of duty just for a moment. And now that she did so, my emotion swept over me like a wave.
I let out a sob, for her loss, and my own, and for the deep unending brutality of the world, which even the shading rowan tree could not withstand.
I hurried across the room and knelt, and took her hand in mine.
‘I know, Mother,’ I whispered. ‘I know.’
She touched my hair and cheek. After a short while she released her hand and stood, and went to gaze out of the window.
‘Your sister has missed you,’ she said. ‘She loves you dearly. Did you know? Perhaps some god brought her here, knowing what she needed most. She has found a brother in you. Scarcely a day goes by that she does not speak of it.’
‘I have brought books for her.’
‘She will like that. Go then and see her. You will find her down on the lower terrace, where the old oak grows above the summer pasture. It used to be a favourite place of yours. Do you remember?’
She swung round startled when I called. She had a heavy winter cloak wrapped around her, and a book spread open on her lap.
‘Marcus!’ she cried.
She set her book aside and came running.
‘Why didn’t you send word? I thought you were in Greece.’
I explained, and she listened with her wide intelligent eyes on me.
When I had finished she said, ‘Another war. Well, there has been talk of it long enough.’ She paused and looked at me. ‘Will you have to fight?’
‘Perhaps. I have fought before . . . Oh, I almost forgot, there’s a big parcel for you up at the house. I went shopping at the bookshops in Athens before I left.’
She caught her breath with joy. ‘Oh, Marcus,’ she cried, and kissed me on the cheek.
‘But first,’ I said laughing, ‘you must tell me how you’ve been.’
‘Oh, I have been happy,’ she said. ‘I treasure each day. I have your mother with me, the people from the farm, and your father’s books.’
‘Then I’m glad.’
I paused for a moment and met her eye. ‘And how is he?’
Neither of us needed to say whom I meant.
‘He is in Greece,’ she said with a shrug.
‘I know. Mother told me.’
‘You ask how he is. Well he is richer, of course, and he makes sure everyone knows it. He is fatter. He listens less.’ She glanced out over the sloping pasture towards the far hills. ‘Did you ever look down into the valley from here, and notice the farm houses, and the animals, and the men working in the fields, all tiny and distant, as a bird might see?’
‘All the time,’ I said. ‘I used to sit in this very place.’
‘Far away you can see it all; the cart on the track; the stallion with the mare; the boys swimming in the river; the servants about their work. Not one of them can see the other; yet from here I can see it all, as, surely, a god must see it, all of a oneness, in its true proportion. And so it is with him. Before, I thought of him as my father: that was all I knew, it was the limit of my world. But when he comes here now, after his long absences, I see not the father, but the man.’
‘Has he changed so much?’
She shook her head. ‘No, Marcus. I have changed. I see what I did not see. Riches are no longer enough for him, though he talks of them often enough. Now there is something else: he has caught the scent of power, enough to know that he wants more. But he does not understand it, or how to win it, or what it can do to a man. Have you seen his study yet?’
I said I had not.
‘Then go and look, if you have the stomach for it. You can learn a lot about a man by seeing what he de
sires, and what he regards as beautiful. He has filled the room with every fashionable vulgar trinket he has set eyes on. Bronzes of kissing naked boys; satyrs on nymphs; goddesses reaching at their privates; it is a mirror to his secret soul.’
I considered her serious, intent face. Yes, I thought, she had changed indeed. She had looked into the dark places, and from there she had drawn a calm wisdom, born of knowledge, and of pain.
Then I asked, ‘Does he bring women here?’
‘Not here, thank God. He knows your mother would not stand for it. He has sense enough for that, at least.’
I nodded, and we said no more about him. For a while we talked of matters of no consequence. But presently she said, ‘You are different. Something has happened to you.’
I smiled.
‘Well I am older, I suppose. And I have seen things I had not seen before, not all of them good.’
‘Yes,’ she said. She paused for a moment. ‘Yet there is something else; I can see it in your eyes.’ Then she said, ‘Are you in love?’
I laughed out loud. ‘You see a lot, little sister.’
‘Sorry. I should not have asked. You need not tell me.’
‘No, I want to.’
And so I told her about Menexenos.
I went on far too long, as lovers do. When I had finished she said, ‘I thought it was something like that. It must be a wonderful thing to have such a friend. Is he like a brother to you?’
‘A brother?’ I shrugged and smiled. ‘Why, I cannot say; I have never had one.’
‘Nor I.’ And with a shy sideways glance she added, ‘Until now.’
I remembered my mother’s words. Turning to face her on the bench I said, ‘And I have a sister. I could not hope for a better one in all the world.’
Her serious face brightened, and then she smiled her rare, round-faced smile. ‘I hope you’ll bring him here one day. I should like to meet him.’
I imagined with happiness bringing Menexenos to Praeneste and showing him my childhood world.
‘I shall,’ I said. ‘One day soon. You and he would be friends, I am sure of it.’
