Of Merchants & Heros

by Paul Waters

  One day that winter, while I was out on the land, I saw a horseman making his way up the long track. It was a special messenger from Rome, and he brought a letter from Titus.

  I sent the man round to the stable house at the back, where he could get a meal for himself and his horse. Then I broke the seal and read.

  The letter said, ‘Titus to his friend Marcus, greetings. In ten days the elections take place. All is in the balance. Come if you can.’

  I went round to the kitchens at the back, and found the messenger over a steaming dish of bacon and beans, with the house slaves clustered round, listening to his news. When he looked up I said, ‘Tell him I shall see him in Rome.’

  Standing against Titus that year was an old senator put forward by the faction opposed to war with Philip, or to any foreign venture.

  Titus’s own father, I had heard from others, was part of this faction.

  Titus feared the vote would go against him; but in the event he was elected comfortably, aided by the votes of the veteran colonists he had helped settle in new lands. To celebrate, Titus held a banquet. It was almost like the old days in Tarentum. He had hired a Greek kitharist, and a renowned cook from Neapolis. But now, of course, everybody wanted to be his friend, and I was only one of many guests.

  There was one notable absence, however. His own father did not come, claiming, so I heard, that he had other commitments.

  The consuls, though they are elected in the winter, do not take up office until the Ides of March of the following year. While he waited, Titus made his arrangements; and of these, one in particular came as a shock to me. The Senate, on Titus’s advice, had appointed Lucius his brother to the command of the fleet.

  I do not know if they expressed misgivings. If they did, Titus did not tell me; and, as you may suppose, whatever I thought of this appointment I kept to myself. Titus, who usually saw so clearly, had a deep loyalty to his brother, which I knew better than to question.

  At the time, Lucius was away, on some army business in Gaul. I gave the matter little thought. But then, one day that winter, Titus said, ‘Philip is pressing hard on Attalos and the Athenians; we must do what we can to relieve them. I’ve written to Lucius asking him to sail to Athens as soon as the sea routes are open. You know the Greeks better than he does: I want you to go with him. Your advice will be useful, and besides, it is time you had a formal command of your own.’

  I thanked him, wondering if he had forgotten about Lucius’s quarrel with me in Tarentum. Titus was too greathearted to think of such things. Lucius, I sensed, was not.

  That winter, as I got to know Rome better, I liked it more.

  I spent time with Villius and his friend Terentius, and, with them as my guides, I began to discover the secret places behind the drab exterior.

  As Titus had said, at that time teachers, actors and artists of every sort were being drawn to Rome. One heard them in the little backstreet taverns, and found their workshops in secluded courtyards in the unfashionable quarters where one would not think to go. Quietly they practised their trades, and passed their skills on from old to young, master to apprentice, as they had done since time began and men had first gathered together to live in cities, and civilize themselves. There were potters working in the Greek style; there were vase-painters; there were silver- and goldsmiths; sculptors, painters and architects. In time the loaf would be leavened. They would beautify Rome, and they would spread their knowledge like rays of dawn light to the furthest reaches of the world, where barbarians wandered naked and beasts roamed untamed.

  One day, Villius and Terentius took me to hear a visiting philosopher from Rhodes, who had come to deliver a series of lectures.

  He began by praising the Good, in words of such polish and beauty that my very soul seemed to soar from my body. But then, afterwards, deliberately, and with equal skill, he demolished everything he had said, leaving my head reeling.

  When the lecture was over, and we were walking down the street towards the Forum, Villius asked me what I thought. I answered that after such a performance I no longer knew even whether I walked on solid earth or not, and at this he laughed.

  ‘It is for such reasons as this,’ he said, ‘that some men want to drive the philosophers out of the city. They serve strong wine; they force men to look at how they think, and how they act; and there are some who do not care for that. Tell me, have you met Titus’s father yet?’

  I said I had not.

  ‘He calls them over-educated babble-mouths, who talk and talk and settle nothing. If he had his way, every philosopher and artist, rhetor and rhapsode would be expelled at the point of a spear . . .

  Once you know the father, you will begin to understand the sons.’

  This surprised me, and I said, ‘What, both sons, Titus and Lucius? Yet they seem so different.’

  ‘So they do, yet they are different plants from the same garden.

  Their father is a man who thinks you can beat virtue into a boy with a stick. Half-rations. Food not fit for a dog to eat. No music. No books. And, of course, never – never – anything Greek. They both bear the scars, in different ways.’

  I walked on beside him, considering this with a frown. ‘Yet Titus seems so . . .’ – I hesitated, scarcely daring to use the word after the lecture I had heard – ‘so good. He must have got it from somewhere.’

  ‘Oh, he did. And this is the great joke of it; this is what his father cannot bear. One day, quite by chance, he happened to hear some streetside rhapsode reciting Homer. It can’t have been much good, but after that he was captivated. Whatever he has made himself, he got from the Greeks. He has fashioned himself from his dream. And his father, knowing the source, cannot forgive him.’

  ‘But Villius,’ I cried, ‘that’s terrible!’

  He smiled at my indignation.

  ‘I’ve heard worse. Scratch around in any family, and you’ll find something.’

  We said no more, for just then Villius saw a group of his friends advancing up the hill, and we went to greet them.

  But it was not long after this, one day when I called on Titus, that I met his father for myself.

  The winter had turned suddenly cold. Smoke from a thousand household fires hung in the chill morning air. As the steward was taking my cloak Titus emerged from his workroom, looking grave and preoccupied.

  Seeing me he almost started. I think he had forgotten I was coming. But he hid this, and said, ‘Ah, Marcus!’ And then, in a low bleak voice, ‘My father is here. He will be gone in a moment, but you had better come and meet him. He already complains I keep my friends from him.’

  Titus’s father was standing between the desk and the window, looking out at the grey winter garden. He turned sharply when Titus entered, and immediately I had the sense that my arrival had interrupted some dispute between them.

  Titus presented me, mentioning a little of what I had done. As he spoke, his father regarded me with an immobile face. It was thinner than his son’s, and there were long lines around his mouth, emphasizing his scowl. But what one noticed were his eyes. Where Titus’s seemed to shine light, his father’s quenched it.

  He glanced at my tunic and sniffed. It was one I had bought for myself in Athens; nothing showy, just a narrow border of red oak- leaves touched with blue. But he himself wore drab homespun, the sort of thing some country farmer might wear about the stables.

  There was something about his cold appraising look that made me want to feel ashamed. But I knew I had nothing to be ashamed of. So I looked him back in the eye and told him I was glad to meet him at last.

  He grunted an acknowledgement. ‘Well I am on my way out, as soon as that foot-dragging steward brings my cloak. Are you not the boy from Praeneste, whose father died in Epeiros?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I supposed he was going to say he was sorry for it, but he went on, ‘Well Epeiros is a dangerous place. It would have been wiser if he had not gone . . . How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty, sir.
’

  He laughed. ‘Twenty, and you are rushing off on this wild foreign venture.’ And then he said, ‘So you were the one at Abydos?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was there when it fell.’

  ‘Well the Greeks have brought this trouble upon themselves, and now they expect us to go and rescue them. But I am wasting my breath. I don’t suppose you will listen to me any more than he does’

  – jabbing his thumb at Titus. ‘In my opinion a young man would better spend his time tending his father’s farm, and honouring the example of his ancestors. They did not take themselves off overseas, to fight other people’s wars.’

  Behind me Titus sighed. ‘They did not have to.’

  ‘And nor do you. What is it to us if they all kill one another? Let them get on with it.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Titus patiently, ‘we talked of this before. It is not for the sake of the Greeks alone that we must fight Philip. It is for ourselves.’

  ‘I do not believe it.’

  ‘I know you don’t.’

  ‘Once we begin this, there will be no turning back. The Greeks will corrupt us. Don’t shake your head. Have you looked about the city lately? The youth are all scented fops, dressed up like actors, filling their heads with nonsense – Greek nonsense. They look more like women than men. I suspect they do not know themselves whether they are girl or boy.’

  Wearily Titus said, ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Too much learning is no good. It makes men dissatisfied. Look at that drunken wastrel Lucius. I said he would come to nothing, and I was right. My own father would have beaten it out of me. Well I blame myself; I have been too soft . . . Spare the rod . . .’

  Titus looked down, his cheeks reddening under his light-brown beard.

  His father went on, ‘Look at you! You are not yet thirty. Your head is full of dreams, and now you have persuaded the people to make you consul. Consul! At twenty-nine! I have never come across such public folly.’

  ‘Scipio did it.’

  ‘Scipio is another fool. Only yesterday I was talking to Cato. He agrees with me. Now there is a young man who shows promise. You could learn something from him.’

  ‘Cato!’ cried Titus, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. ‘If Cato had his way we’d still be living in mud huts, and washing once each half- year in the Tiber. I do what I do for Rome.’

  ‘You deceive yourself. What you do, you do for yourself . . .

  Sextus! Where is my cloak?’

  He made for the door, intending, I suppose, to go searching for the slave. Then, remembering me, he turned.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘Mind you do not get yourself killed like your father.’

  Then he walked out.

  Titus met my eye. ‘Cato!’ he said bitterly. ‘He holds Cato up as an example! Have you met him? He is a heartless young prig who affects poverty and thinks there is no one in Rome more virtuous than he. There is nothing more distasteful than a rich man who pretends to be poor. But the old die-hard senators, and my father, take his vain posturing for old-time virtue and adore him.’

  He threw himself down at the desk. ‘No matter what I do, it is never enough. He sneers at the Greeks, because they know more than he does. To him, virtue is to act without question, like a slave.

  Why is it always those who need it most who despise philosophy?’

  I searched for something to say. He looked utterly crushed. But what did one say about fathers? I realized I did not know. Feeling embarrassed, and at a loss, I eventually said, ‘I suppose he means well.’

  Titus looked up. ‘Do you, Marcus? That is because you do not know him. He is like the Gorgon, turning everything he gazes upon to stone.’ Unconsciously, as he spoke, his hand had been toying with the marble paperweight, tapping and rocking it on the tabletop. The fidgeting reminded me of Lucius, and I remembered Villius’s words, that the two brothers were plants from the same garden. Yet, even with such poor soil, one had grown to the light, while the other had languished. It seemed a mystery to me.

  Presently he grew conscious of the tapping and stopped, stilling the weight with his hand. He stared at the dark veins in the stone, and then impatiently set it aside.

  In a quiet, taut, final voice, he murmured, half to himself, ‘So much for my family.’

  That was all. It was as if the furnace door had closed, shutting the raging fire within.

  He shook his head, then rousing himself said, ‘But come, Marcus, let us send for some warmed, spiced wine, and talk of the future.’

  I never met his father again. But ever since, when I hear some important politician extolling the family as a self-evident good, I think of him.

  ELEVEN

  WE HAD BEEN DELAYED. Lucius had held a praetor-ship in Gaul during the previous year, and although Titus had urged him to make haste as soon as he was able to relinquish his office, telling him the fleet was waiting for him at the Roman base on Kerkyra, still I had to wait almost to month-end, kicking my heels at Brundisium with the other officers, the pilots and sailors, and a small detachment of troops.

  Finally he arrived, not on horseback, or in a swift one-horse gig, but in a ponderous four-wheeled carriage drawn by a train of languid oxen, with another carriage following on behind, laden with his personal effects.

  Once, in Tarentum, I had mistaken Lucius for his brother. There was no chance of that now. It was like seeing some ruin of Titus, an apparition of how he might have been. His brown hair, which on Titus curled about his neck and brow, was flaccid and dull. He was expensively dressed in a fine purple-striped long tunic, and over it he wore a heavy winter cloak, dyed peacock blue, the kind of thing certain rich men had begun importing from Greece.

  His body was concealed under all these folds of finery, but one could see even from his face that he had gone to fat. There had once been a dissolute handsomeness about him; now his eyes were sunken, his face was drawn and irritable, premature jowls hung around his mouth, and his brooding sulkiness had transformed into something permanent, and dangerous.

  The others standing beside me had seen it too. Eyes were averted.

  No one wanted to be the first to meet his challenging gaze.

  All except mine. And so, fool that I am when it comes to such things, his roving hostile eye fell on me first of all.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he cried.

  His voice had deepened since I had last seen him in Tarentum.

  Then there had been a hint of unsureness about it, a lack of confidence. Now he spoke like a man who has grown used to ordering others around.

  My comrades beside me shuffled and allowed themselves to look up, now that I was singled out and the danger averted. I made some answer to Lucius; I knew full well that Titus had written and told him I should be there, and my uniform and insignia of a military tribune would have told him the rest, even if he had not inspected the list he had been sent by Titus, which, I saw, he held rolled up in his hand, slapping it against his palm.

  But it did not matter much what I said, I could see from his face he was not listening.

  ‘Well, since you are here, you can see to it that my things are properly stowed,’ he said, waving his arm at the bulging wagon behind, as if I were some deckhand. Then, to the quinquereme commander, who had stepped forward, ‘I will see my ship now.

  There is no time to lose.’

  We arrived in Kerkyra to find the fleet had sailed on without us.

  Lucius was incandescent with fury. He sent for the military officer whose job it was to oversee the movement of Roman warships, and demanded an explanation.

  I stood watching from the deck as he railed at the man. Beside me stood the pilot, a black-haired youth from Ostia called Lamyros, who had a cheeky, smiling face and a good nose for fools.

  As Lucius blustered on, Lamyros shaded his mouth with his hand and murmured, ‘Just as I tried to tell him, Marcus; the fleet commander had orders to wait for no one, not even him.’

  We exchanged a look and allowed ourselves a private sm
ile. On the quay the military harbour-master was explaining, in between Lucius’s snapping interruptions, that the fleet had moved on to Kephallania, where it was taking on stores, prior to sailing round the Gulf of Malea and onwards to Piraeus.

  Lucius heard him out with grunts of anger and impatient snorts.

  Then the harbour-master paused, clearly uncomfortable with what he had to say next. But he set his face firm, and pressed on, like a man treading on the lintel of his house after an earthquake has struck, not knowing which movement will bring the roof down on top of him.

  ‘I have been asked, sir – that is, ordered – to convey to you that you are to proceed with all haste to Kephallania as soon as you arrive; and that, although the fleet will be there for some days, the—’

  ‘Ordered? ’ burst out Lucius. ‘Who dares to order me? Who gave that order? I want the man’s name. I want him brought here.’

  The harbour-master stared at him appalled.

  ‘Well?’ cried Lucius, glaring.

  ‘Why it was the consul, sir. Titus the consul. I have the order here.’

  It was as well Lucius had his back to the quinquereme, or he would have seen the grins and flashing eyes that passed among the crew behind him. Even the pilot had to draw his hand to his mouth and pretend to cough.

  On the quayside there was a long, unpleasant pause.

  ‘Very well,’ said Lucius eventually. ‘It is no great matter; we can catch up with the fleet on Kephallania, just as you say . . . I was delayed, and the fleet has gone on, that is all.’ He let out a sudden sharp laugh. It sounded like a dog choking. ‘Still, now we are here, we may as well eat and amuse ourselves a little . . . Which tavern is best? And which house has the best girls?’

  The poor harbour-master, a lean, serious-looking man of middle age who was, no doubt, an excellent organizer of ship movements and such things, assumed a stricken expression, suspecting, I think, that Lucius was trying to catch him out in some lapse of military discipline.

  ‘Why I cannot say, sir,’ he stuttered. ‘I eat at the mess generally; though I hear there are good dining houses up on the hill . . . For the rest, I do not know.’