The Fire Waker

by Ben Pastor

  "Did he say why he surrendered himself?"

  "Am I a fly on the courthouse wall, Commander? I don't have a clue. Maybe he heard he'd been exposed; maybe he chose to save his reputation through a martyr's death, which places him above others and might make him a saint."

  "Or else he saw his indirect responsibility in other crimes." Aelius would not elaborate. "Was his assistant Casta with him?"

  "Not that I know of. Had there been a woman about to be executed, the publicity would have been louder yet. Me, I'm going to Aquincum to buy real estate—one-third of the town is shops, you know."

  By this time Casta had probably embarked at the closest port in Dalmatia, on one of those paunchy ships that plied the Mediterranean waters. That he was not done with her (or she with him) was something Aelius had to come to terms with. She'd not escaped him, in fact: was merely out of reach for the time being. The small translucent portrait of her Decimus had chosen to give him—why?—tied him to her as the means to recognize her face, wherever and whenever.

  "Are you still working on the biography of Severus, Commander?"

  Ben Matthias's question brought him back to the day. "Piecemeal, but yes."

  "I could sell you a fine copy of Aurelius Victor's writings on him. A fair price: I'm losing money on it."

  "So, selling at a fair price means losing money?"

  Savaria, 24 February, Saturday, Regifugium, remembrance of "the Expulsion of the Kings"

  Yes, the full-fledged campaign would start soon. A movement like a long impatient shiver would go through the long line of forts, citadels, watchtowers, the military road, and men would be on the march across the Danube. Even at headquarters in Savaria, Aelius could feel the squelch of mud under the mounts' hooves, hear the leather moaning on harness, baldrics, straps, the sound of men going to war.

  As always when passing by a post exchange, he stopped to check his mail and to send a reply to Anubina, the gist of which was that he understood but did not lose hope of changing her mind. "Think of the sons you and I would have: Wouldn't you rather have mine?"

  For him, two letters awaited, neither of them bearing the sender's name and address on the envelope. One of the two was plain, lower-grade papyrus, the other of the finest quality, dyed red. "Who brought these, do you know?" he asked the army clerk.

  "Both came with the morning delivery, sir. The courier starts out in Celeia, so they could have been posted there or at Poetovio, or at Sala, or anywhere else in between."

  The inexpensive envelope was the one Aelius unsealed first. It contained three thickly written sheets in a quick hand and good Latin. The beginning line made him nearly stumble down the steps from the post exchange, slick with ice.

  To Commander Aelius Spartianus from the servant of God Casta, blessings in this world and the next.

  He hurried across the marching grounds to the officers' mess hall, empty at this midmorning hour, and sat down to read as close as possible to the window that received light from the courtyard.

  Esteemed Commander, I am writing this in remembrance of your kind visit to my old nurse's house in December, in memory of Marcus Lupus and Minucius Marcellus, and because your pursuit of the truth, albeit the truth as men construct, and not as Our Lord teaches, deserves a small reward. Arrogance is a sin, for idolaters no less than for Christians. Hubris leads to nemesis. I cannot allow you to take pride in securing my person, but I can satisfy your curiosity now that I am well out of reach. Through our fellow believers, my erstwhile teacher Agnus sent me a message shortly before his capture, detailing what you told him in regard to me when you met in Barbaricum. As a result of your revelations, he decided to crown his dubious ministry by giving himself up to the authorities as a martyr. I am not surprised by his sense of grandeur: It is true to the man. But know that when I first encountered the fire waker, I believed in him. In my despair over my husband's illness, I was ready to believe anything. He seemed to possess the peace of mind I was seeking, the certainty I needed. It was a little sacrifice to sell or give away everything I owned, in order to acquire that peace of mind. So little, in fact, that I, an aristocrat, raised in privilege, also offered to serve him. It seemed to me the most abasing, hence the most meritorious, action I could take in God's eyes.

  Blinded by trust, it took me many months to realize how small-minded and self-important he was. Agnus's love for virtue was actually love for his virtue, for his virtuous self. His techniques were paltry and transparent: a few herbs, much incense, monotonous chanting and rolling of eyes. People's credulity and the hiring of false cripples did the rest. I had seen better mountebanks in Laumellum as a child. Still, my disappointment could have been tempered by admiration for Agnus's admittedly pure life, had he not held women in such contempt. His pastoral letters circulated widely among adepts, were quoted and abided by. Everywhere they resulted in dismissal of those of my sex from aiding in the ministry, in unbearable restrictions within a Church that claims to honor the woman who gave birth to the Savior!

  "Commander, may I get you something?"

  The orderly stood by, inopportune as most orderlies are. His mind still on the reading, Aelius stared at him a moment before gathering his wits to say, "No, leave me alone."

  You should know that I could have continued serving him, had he not belonged to those in the Church that with the arrogance of Nimrod set themselves before God at the expense of others. Where would Christianity be today, were it not for the women who gave up their husbands, their sons, and even themselves to the true and only God? Were there not more female than male martyrs? Were there not more pious ladies than wealthy men who opened their houses and estates to the persecuted, at their own risk? The Lord is the Lord, Agnus and his would say. But I say, the Lord himself was born of a woman. Was not Mary, Christ's mother, the first minister of this Christian Church? The months of her divine pregnancy are an absolute sign of this perfect union, and of a privilege no other human being was granted. Now, if Christ allowed himself to be physically contained in a female body, is this not a sign of the superior holiness of women over men? Had He chosen so, He could have taken abode in the seed of His putative father, or sprung fully formed out of a rock as the followers of Mithras tell of their god. No, He chose a woman's body as the vehicle for His incarnation.

  Yet the women's community where you sought me in Treveri, dedicated to good works and the study of the healing arts, was closed down because of Agnus' s insistence that it was against God's will. The elders of the Church were ready to listen, in Treveri as in Mogontiacum as in Mediolanum: Matrons are deemed useful for the money they will to the Church, for the embroideries they stitch for priests' robes, and nothing else, unless you count the sons they can raise for the priesthood.

  I had no money left, no sons, and no embroidery skills. My own beauty, worthless as it is in God's eyes, militated against me. Thus I mortified my flesh, fasted until I was ill. After two long years, however, I decided that this could not be what God wanted, that this Church is not what God wants. This is why the arrogant church of these arrogant male priests has to be shamed, to be shown fraudulent where it is fraudulent. I'm neither a saint nor a chosen instrument, but I will work to change things.

  The door slammed when two cavalry officers walked in, carrying a blast of cold wetness from the outside. Aelius turned his head, hearing them converse with the recognizable cadence of the Roman-born. Decimus had spoken that way. Strange how Aelius was not ashamed of having ridden to his lonely villa to warn him of danger, knowing that his colleague was guilty of planning treason and had left him to die. He'd been much angrier at other men for much less. And now, Commander, to the matter of your successful pursuit of the truth, and to the names with which I began this writing: Marcus Lupus and Minucius Marcellus.

  You are right, Lupus's miraculous return to life was my doing. It was necessary in view of the letter that I would later send anonymously to expose Agnus's chicanery. The most surprised at the "resurrection" was the fire waker. He purged himself a
nd fasted for three days afterward, to thank God for giving him the power to bring back the dead, when all Lupus had was a banal fever. Arrogance blinded the trickster to the simplest of tricks, to the ease with which you can buy a sleeping potion, physicians, and cemetery workers. Impoverished as I had made myself, I had access to Agnus s huge purse, fattened by the gifts of men and women duped as I had been. He would not defile his hands with money! So all I had to do was use some of it to buy the witnesses, and claim I had given the sum to charity. The holy man was above checking such sordid details.

  Lupus, of course, had everything to gain from maintaining a silence that made him suddenly famous and brought business to his brickyard. But he had to die, so that Agnus and his woman-hating colleagues would fall under suspicion. Asking a trusted (and unaware) lady friend to bring Lupus a gift of dainties was child's play. So many admirers and believers queued to see the miracle man! Convincing her to let me lower myself before God by escorting her to the brickyard in the guise of a servant was even easier. No one notices servants. Thus Lupus entertained the visitors until bedtime, and the lady's servant stayed behind with an excuse, hiding in the dark, waiting to seal his room with rags. How useful my readings on the causes of illness and death turned out to be. . . Unfortunately I hadn't enough cloth with me, so I had to use Lupus's coverlet as well: In fact, you noticed the dirt on its fringe. By morning, the rags were gone, Lupus's window cracked open once more. The servant sat among others in the bivouac of female pilgrims and believers in the field near the brickyard and saw you ride by alone at dawn. You looked over as well, and we were staring at each other when I pulled the shawl over my head. That is why I could not show myself to you under the light at my nurse's home.

  As for Minucius Marcellus, he was a dear old magistrate and a friend of my family, whose last act of generosity to me was serving as a victim, so that the misogynist church in Medi-olanum could be punished like its counterpart in Belgica Prima. In fact, who else but Christians would be suspected of attacking him in the baths, where Christian serfs labored? You lead men in the field, thus you know how beholden soldiers are to their commanders, how ready to execute orders. Casta is less than dirt under God's feet," I thought, but Agnus walks with God. What if a rumor spread among the serfs at the Old Baths that Marcellus s next trial will be against the fire waker, who thundered against him in his pastoral letters? Would it suffice to cause an assault?" Christians from the North African provinces have the reputation of bringing to their new creed the impetuosity of their tribal beliefs. One anguished meeting with them in one of our hideouts stirred them up beyond my hopes. I only expected a desperate attempt on their part: They much surpassed my dreams, and killed the gentle judge. Surely Our Lord has a place not far from His throne for the merciful unbelievers, and there Marcellus abides now.

  The two cavalry officers sat down at a table behind him. Aelius heard them order wine, and chat in Greek not to be understood by the mess-hall personnel.

  "You heard about what they had in mind? Yes, it reflects badly on all of us. Now every goddamned upstart stands to be promoted before we are."

  "Yes, Curius Decimus is the one who bothers me most: Who'd have ever imagined?"

  I do regret the fate of the churchmen's wives, hut they made the free choice of following their husbands to a martyr's death. None of us counts much, I less than everyone on earth. The important thing is changing the Church; those wives' sacrifice will he one more step to the recognition of women's role as teachers and ministers. Agnus's downfall is our victory; the dousing of his fire is the kindling of a larger, more brilliant one.

  Had you known at the time of our brief meeting at my nurse's home, would you still have kept silent about my presence in Medi-olanum? The question puzzles me. You puzzle me, Commander Spartianus. How do you behave toward your own women? Do you honor them or are you like the rest, violent and overbearing toward them? I trust there will be an opportunity for us to discuss these matters, if God sees the good of making us meet again.

  By the time you receive this letter, I will be far away but, be assured, working for the goal I spelled out above. With greetings, and prayers to our merciful Lord for your well-being and conversion.

  Written by Casta on the twentieth day of February, in a safe place.

  Aelius rolled up the letter without haste, without haste slipped it back into its envelope. The fire waker's downfall, he thought, had begun the day of his meeting with Annia Cincia. Maybe her god was greater than Agnus's, not as merciful as she said. Maybe Christians made allowances for trickery and murder to advance their aims. Even executing them was useful to their ambitious design. That firm little mouth, those dainty wrists surrendering from the dark: She would have let him take her off to her death without resisting. He had not done it, yet she did not lie when she'd said, Should you ask me, I could not tell you that Christians are innocent of Marcellus's death.

  Behind him, the cavalry officers were conversing of lighter things: women they knew, horseflesh. They'd reverted to Latin and cursed a great deal.

  The second letter, the one in the costly red envelope, Aelius kept still unopened in front of him. It was addressed in Greek. He recognized the handwriting. The sealing wax bore the imprint of an antique ring. The servant who had entrusted it to the army post no doubt had been told to keep it for a week before doing so.

  Outside, rain had turned to snow and to rain once more. Aelius saw the grayness of the day when the Roman officers left the mess hall. He broke the seal.

  Had you joined me in my desperate venture, Aelius Spartianus, I would not be writing any of this. It is because you said no that I write.

  In the two months we knew each other, many things happened. Had they been years, I cannot say I would have grown to know you better. Is it perhaps because the last weeks of our lives became so intense? In Italy and during our travel to the frontier, I watched you closely. Amused at first, I watched you for the signs of crudity and uncouthness that your wild ancestors are said to have raised as a bulwark against Rome. I told myself, l( His great-grandfathers raped Roman women, sacked cities, nailed the heads of Roman officers to the trunks of their fir groves. He is one of the trained bears we lead by a chain, forcing them by a pull on the ring around their nostrils to dance to our tune." And all the while, inevitably, I had to admit that your behavior was no less mannerly than that of those I call my Roman friends. Your Latin speech was not only clear but thoughtful and intelligent, if more modern than what I was taught in my youth. Your written Greek —/ blush at the admission — was even better than mine. Hardly the tasks that trained bears could be taught to perform.

  But your essence as a man, seen even from inside the whirlwind of my hopeless conspiracy, was the one element with which I could least contend: your sense of history, your knowledge of what passed before us, and why it happened as it did. Your familiarity with things Roman that many in Rome — you have to take my word for it — would envy, if they even realized it is something to envy. Little by little, against my better judgment, against that will, even, that you Stoics say is the only thing that really belongs to man, I came to the conclusion that Aelius Spartianus — Aelius Spartus's son, whose ancestors were barbarians and slaves — is a Roman. More, that Rome has to be what you represent, or else she will perish from the earth.

  As you know I have no sons: None, legitimate or illegitimate, were born to me. You might say (I can hear you saying it) that it is the decrepitude of Roman blood, cross-bred to the point of incest and past that point. Two of my ancestors married their own nieces, and it s fabled that a young ancestress, wrecked at sea as a child and raised in a brothel, only after being freed and married by her lover realized herself to be his long-lost sister. But that may be a tale adapted from Plautus's stage play, who knows. Ancient blood! We have idiots and madmen in our lineage. I married four women — from the Valerii, the Anicii, the Fabii, the Cornelii, the bloom of Roman ancestry. And only from the second did I father one daughter, the one you saw, sole amon
g my friends. Yd have killed her, you know. Killed her to save her from her father's absence. But she gave me a second gift by dying a day ahead of me, after giving me the gift of being born. You will observe (I can hear you say this as well), "Why did you not seek a plebeian mate, then, or a woman from the far reaches of the Empire?" Of course I did, as you and all soldiers do time and again during your years of service. To my knowledge, not even from my concubines did I beget sons. Thus the lack is in me, Aelius. Blood and glory and purity and republican values, generalships and consulships, seats in the Senate, all ends with me unless I put a remedy to it.

  You may recall how in Mediolanum, that night that seems to be so long ago, I invited you to dine at my house, and — hearing that you hadntyet decided whether you would accept —J added that no one had ever turned down my invitation. Tonight, with things being so different, yet so much clearer in my mind, I invite you once again, and will not accept a refusal. Through faithful lawyers, my available wealth — not the real estate, all sadly to be alienated by thefisc on account of my disgrace — was, weeks ago already, placed into an anonymous trust. The entire sum goes to you, for any of the following reasons you may choose: Because I could think of no one else. Because it pleases me. Or because, even though my attempt to halt the barbariza-tion of the Empire was sacrosanct, it was nonetheless treason, and as you bent neither to my threats nor to my blandishments, you showed yourself faithful and a Roman through and through. My ancestors will turn in their graves less for this than for my dishonoring their name.