Читать книгу The Tortoise in Asia - Tony Grey - Страница 9

While the bridge crawls across the Euphrates, Marcus and Gaius Fulvius Aquila take a stroll to Zeugma. Never taken by education – uninterested in books, Gaius only ever wanted to join the army. He accepts that high rank is beyond him, content with being an ordinary centurion, practical and reliable. In the earthy twang of his youth, he often teases Marcus about his aspirations, especially the improved accent.

The two are life-long friends, unfazed by differences. Underneath, their values are the same, a moral linkage which allows each to admire the other’s qualities. Gaius is stronger, Marcus quicker. The big man has more of an earthy attitude to life, uncomplicated by the disappointments attending ambition. He’s a natural Stoic; Marcus works at it.

In a few minutes, another centurion in their cohort catches up with them, slightly out of breathe. Marcus says,

“Ave Quintus. You want to come with us for a drink?”

“Sure. I thought we were all going together.”

Slightly embarrassed for leaving him behind, Marcus and Gaius mutter something friendly and non committal and Quintus joins them. He might have said something sarcastic but lets it pass.

When they get to the town they wander through unpaved streets full of bustling merchants, women too, but not many. Some people are on donkeys, others on camels laden with packing cases, but most are on foot, busy and loquacious. The atmosphere is organic, of braying and snorting and shouts, of sweat and animal droppings, of the touch of strange bodies brushing by in the moving crowd. Spicy cooking smells flow through the street like a light fog.

A large mud brick building with an open door stands out among the rest. They go through to a noisy quadrangle, with camels and donkeys hitched at one side, trade goods stacked beside them. A few gnarled trees snatch space for themselves and no grass intrudes upon the dried mud ground. It’s a full service caravan inn, with sleeping quarters, stables and a dining room opening out onto the courtyard.

The Romans sit outside in the early summer sun and order a jug of wine and some water. Red appears. Marcus says “We Romans usually drink white wine, don’t you have any?” The waiter says there’s only local wine and it’s red. “All right then, we’ll take it”.

Other customers are there. Their clothing styles mark the varied origins collected here by the Road. Clouds of meat- filled smoke belch out of the kitchen on one side. All the tables are full, the courtyard bursting with laughter and torrential conversation. The patrons are too engrossed with each other to notice the newly arrived overlords who’re the only Romans in the place. But the Romans notice them, at least three attractive young women sitting together, locals probably. Marcus stares, knows he shouldn’t but does anyway; they remind him of an incident years ago. Fortunately they’re too involved in their conversation to catch him.

He had just returned to Rome from Syria with Gaius and Quintus to participate in Pompey’s Triumph for the Eastern victories. They were celebrating in the Boar tavern.

The day was one of the most memorable in their lives, possibly the most. It was the only Triumph they’d been in. The atmosphere was euphoric. The whole of Rome was in the streets, excited with virtually religious fervour. Everyone but the marchers was dressed in pious white. They lined the Via Appia all the way to the Forum, like long thin clouds. People strained to see around the heads in front of them. Some were on the tips of their toes. No one wanted to miss the slightest detail.

Solemn magistrates and senators in their togas came first, striding the cobblestones and backed by trumpeters, their instruments winding into a G around their shoulders. Rolling cheers erupted as the booty wagons passed by, laden with captured armour and weapons, and, best of all, treasure – goblets, plates, vases, ewers, bowls of precious metal specially polished for the day, and mounds of gold and silver coins so brilliant they looked as if the sun had broken off a piece of its crown and tossed it down for the adornment of Rome. Downcast Eastern prisoners with tearful wives and children came next. After them, a group of soldiers carried paintings, holding them on high with upstretched arms. Artists had just finished making them to commemorate the most dramatic parts of the victories. Last of all came Imperator Pompey, the Triumphator himself, with red-painted face and crowned with a golden laurel. He was standing benignly in his chariot which was pulled by a team of elephants, a sign of the East. So intent on acknowledging the adulation of the crowd, with nodding head and broad smile whose energy never left his face, that he completely ignored the slave at his back who whispered repeatedly in his ear the customary “memento homo” – remember you are mortal.

Because the owner of the Boar could tell the three comrades were from Pompey’s legions, he found a table for them even though the place was jam packed. Immediately a waiter bustled over with wine. Before long, the self congratulatory toasts repeated ad nauseam were taking effect. However, the revelry didn’t prevent them from noticing a pretty young girl sit down at the next table. She was dressed to attract male attention. Soon, it seemed she was slipping discreet glances at Quintus. Or at least so he thought, but said he couldn’t be sure. Suddenly he got up and appeared at her table with his wine cup.

Before long, Quintus brought her over. “This is Lucia” he announced. She was quite vivacious and self-assured, but in a pleasant way, aged around twenty. It was difficult not to look at the revealing tunic that spoke more compellingly than the voice. As time went on she became a little tipsy, and friendly – seemed to like the attention. And she was impressed by the stories of exploits in the East, grossly exaggerated of course, and the descriptions of the lavish gold and silver jewellery even the ordinary girls wear.

Soon she and Quintus slipped into a flirtatious phase, although still part of the general conversation, now somewhat coarsened by the wine. Eventually it got late and the tavern keeper announced in a loud voice it was time to drink up and leave. Quintus said

“Let’s buy a couple of jugs here and go over to your house Lucia. We promise to be quiet.”

“You don’t have to be that quiet. My parents are staying with friends outside the city. They don’t like Triumphs and their crowds. My father’s an artisan; he makes shoes. We live over his workshop – not far from here.”

At that, Marcus called for the bill and two amphorae of wine. The four brushed by talkative patrons reluctantly spilling out into the smooth-stoned street, palely illuminated by a half moon struggling with clouds.

They were completely inebriated by the time they got to Lucia’s place, or at least the men were. She was fairly sozzled but steady. They entered the cobbler’s shop, which was dark except for some timorous light coming in from the moon. They could just make out sandals in various states of repair neatly arranged on benches by the wall. Lucia lit a small oil lamp and led the way up roughly made wooden stairs that creaked all the way to a suite of small rooms. They went into what seemed to be the main room and Lucia lit two large lamps which stood on metal stands. There was running water in the room, a luxury which indicated the family was doing well.

The room was bare of all but a few pieces of furniture – a reclining bed, three rough-sawn chairs and a low table. Shadows flickered across the walls which seemed to be painted red. Nothing covered the wooden floor. Quintus sat on the bed, Marcus and Gaius on the chairs.

Marcus put the amphorae on the table and Lucia brought some earth-enware cups. She sat down beside Quintus and everyone restarted the drinking campaign with raucous dedication.

All of a sudden, Quintus got up and took Lucia into the next room. Without those two, the party became quieter, lapsing into conversation about the Triumph. As Marcus was pouring another wine, Quintus called out in a thick voice;

“Gaius, you’re next. Come in”, and appeared at the door, smiling. Lucia protested “No. No. I don’t want that. What d’you think you’re doing Quintus?”

Quintus said, “It’s all right Gaius. Don’t worry. She won’t mind.” He took the cue and went into the bedroom. Screams came through the door, then muffled cries, and silence.

Marcus said “Is this right, Quintus? She obviously doesn’t want to do it with Gaius.”

Just as Quintus was about to reply, the front door burst open and six men appeared, armed with daggers. The companions had no weapons as they had just been in the Triumph.

“Tenement people; they must have heard her scream”,

Marcus said, as he picked up a chair and crashed it over the head of the leader of the pack. His dagger fell on the floor and Marcus picked it up. He thrust it at the second man, gashing him in the arm and moved back quickly. Gaius came dashing out of the bedroom dishevelled and stood still at the doorway. For a moment all was motionless, an eerie hiatus as everyone took stock of the opposition, trying to work out the best move. Although the companions were outnumbered and had no weapons except for Marcus now, the tenants were wary as they would have known they were up against trained fighting men.

Suddenly Marcus leaped to the right and, wetting his fingers with saliva, doused one of the lamps on the table. He tried for the second but accidentally knocked it on the floor. It rolled over to the corner. Flames began to lick up the dry timber wall. The little blaze distracted the intruders. They knew only too well the terrible scourge that fire can be in the wooden tenements.

Before the tenants could react, the three ran out of the door, down the lightless stairs, across the little shop and into the street, slamming the door behind them. They sprinted around the corner and along the cobblestone street until they felt safe enough to slow down to a walk. The moon had sunk leaving the night mercifully dark and the revellers had left the streets. There was not much they could do except go home and meet the next day to discuss a way out of the mess they were in.

The three met outside the Temple of Castor and Pollux at noon, hung over and worried. They sat on the wide marble steps off to one side, out of the way of the streams of people coming to worship.

Marcus was feeling awkward for not trying to restrain Gaius. Partly it was because he didn’t see clearly enough the seriousness of what was happening at the time and partly because of comrade solidarity. He was sharply mindful of the tradition of how soldiers fight primarily for their comrades, to support and be supported by them, to be seen favourably in their eyes, how this camaraderie forms the basis of honour, which Homer said, in the nearest the Greeks ever came to a religious book, is the essence of manhood, and how the highest decoration for valour is the corona civica – the crown of oak leaves which can only be won by saving the life of a comrade in battle.

Clearly anxious, Gaius said “How could she not expect something like that would happen? Shit, she was in a tavern of loose women; she was dressed sexy; she invited all three of us back to her place. We were all drinking – she was too. It was obvious she liked the attention, enjoyed flirting. It wasn’t only Quintus she flirted with. She did with you too Marcus, although not with me, I admit.”

“I agree”, said Quintus. “I thought she was up for it with all of us. Plenty of girls like her would be. Some say no only to go along with it once it gets started. How were we supposed to know the difference?”

Marcus was perplexed by the ambiguity and felt uncomfortable, like they all did. It was easy to see that Lucia liked Quintus and was willing to have sex with him. That much was clear. It turned out that her consent stopped with him, but the atmosphere was set by that time. Expectations were aroused, fuelled by the wine. In a sense she was complicit. But still the consent wasn’t there and that posed a problem. Something had to be done and done quickly.

“Look, we have to stop her going to the authorities,” Marcus said. “We’re all in this together. If there’s a trial we’re done for. Those tenants will support her, give her a good character reference. Besides, they heard her scream. It won’t just be her word against ours.

Even if the sentences are light our careers will be over. We all know how seriously the army takes moral character and relations with the public. The only thing we can do is offer her money. And it has to be a lot.”

The others agreed and pooled their resources. Next day Marcus appeared at the cobbler’s shop, this time with Owl’s Head hidden in his tunic. Fortunately, the fire had been put out before it destroyed the building. The door was locked. He knocked loudly and called out Lucia’s name.

After several anxious minutes, he heard the scraping of a key. The door opened tentatively. Lucia recognised him and scowled, starting to close the door. Quickly he stepped in to keep it open.

“Lucia, I’m very sorry for what happened last night. We’re not bad men; we just got carried away with the wine. I know we can’t rewind the threads, but I’m here to offer compensation and our apologies.”

“Why didn’t Quintus come? Why did they send you?” she said with a sour look.

“I don’t know exactly. He sends his apologies too and says if you aren’t too angry with him, he’ll come by later.”

This wasn’t true but he said it anyway, a little red-faced.

“In the meantime I’m to offer you this bag of denarii. I hope you’ll not complain to the authorities.”

She gasped at the amount, half the bonus Pompey awarded for the campaign and enough to set her up for life. Sullenly she accepted the heavy bag of coins, adding that she wanted him and the others to realize the deep hurt she felt, particularly for the callousness of Quintus, and the lack of respect all three had displayed. Marcus acknowledged it, his head lowered. He knew of course that she could go to the authorities anyway. But if she did, her acceptance of the compensation would most probably ensure they would take no action.

He left the tenement building with the sort of relief one experiences after falling into a well and being thrown a rope. He felt a rush of gratitude to Lucia, even affection. She could have ruined the careers of three men and didn’t. The others felt the same way when he told them of their escape.

It’s an experience Marcus never wants to go through again.

As he drains his earthenware cup, Gaius says, “This wine tastes like sandal sweat – only good for getting drunk. Shit, we might as well do that. Life’s getting pretty boring out here. All we do is march or wait around while Crassus adds up how much these people own. At least we could be doing field exercises.”

“What do you think of him, Marcus?” Quintus says. “You must know him pretty well by now.”

“Oh, he’s all right, maybe not the most brilliant general. He’s bright though, a logical thinker – pleasant to deal with. Never loses his temper. He’ll listen to advice; even though he doesn’t always take it. The big problem is he’s spent most of his time in business and politics. He’s confident though he can make the switch. To be fair, he should get there. Anyway, the good thing is he’s greedy enough to collect lots of treasure, better at it than the career army types. We could get rich on it. Who’d object to that?”

“I’d rather have a good commander,” says Gaius.

“I know that’s ideal. But we can do with less. Our army’s far better than anything the Parthians have. That’ll more than compensate. After all, he’s got good officers. They’ll advise him”.

He’s made his decision, gone through all the pros and cons. However there’s still a tugging doubt that it’s a gamble, a toss of the dice. Maybe it adds too much to the normal risks of war. The thought is superfluous; what’s done is done and cannot be undone. Besides, doubts belong to the night; in the day preponderance of evidence should overwhelm them.

“I hope the stupid donkey listens to them”, Gaius says with a grunt and drains his cup, bringing it down in a thud with a hand like a boulder.

“So what if he doesn’t; how could our army ever be beaten by a bunch of barbarians who fight in a mob? “

“I hope you’re right Marcus. I’m just sick of waiting around while that greedy bastard grabs money. We should be out there thrashing those dung worms. Anyhow, shit, we haven’t seen anything come our way yet.”

“I know, but there’s plenty of time. Everyone knows the best’s in Parthia. It’ll make what he’s got now look like a pile of trash. He’ll have to hand out our share. I’m confident, even though he’ll keep more for himself than he should. He’s on the stingy side, except where he wants to impress.”

He’s reluctant to talk too much about his Commander in Chief; it would be a bit unseemly. He has to admit that he’s slipping under the influence of the plutocrat’s financial success and alluring personality. He’s not the richest man in Rome for nothing; he has technique. The almost friendly manner towards people as he filches their property is impressive. What disarming cleverness! He uses his patrician bearing to convince them that he’s saving them from the crude avarice of the army’s lower class officers who couldn’t be expected to show the same consideration. He always leaves them with something, never takes it all.

Within the confines of the army, the sleek and round Crassus can be charming in an avuncular sort of way, always courteous and solicitous about the wellbeing of his officers. Prone to the enjoyment of praise himself, he offers it freely to others. Like Marcus but more learned, the Commander in Chief is schooled in Aristotelian thought, much admired in Rome. It helps him make rhetorical points in the Senate. The conversations in the evening Marcus has been having with him are enjoyable, and instructive. When enveloped in the wisdom of the great philosopher, Crassus shows a goodness of nature at variance with his reputation for avarice.

Feeling a wine-inspired generosity, Marcus invites the two black-bearded men at the next table over for a drink. They can speak struggle Latin.

“Where’re you from?”

“From Zeugma; we Syrians. Just returned from trip across Parthia on Caravan Road. Three months.”

“We know the Caravan Road. We’ve been on it through Syria. What’s it like out in Parthia?”

“It’s all right, mostly routine. Long rides with donkeys and camels. We stay at inns like this, but usually not as good. It’s safe in Parthia because of army. They have to protect us. Whole economy depends on trade. King collects taxes from us.”

“How does it all work?”

The merchant smiles, a little flattered at these feared overlords showing ignorance about such an important matter. Do they do nothing but march around and collect taxes?

“Buy goods here in Roman Empire like wool and linen textiles, bronze vessels, lamps, glassware. Gold, silver bullion most valuable. We carry to Margiana in East. Sell to other merchants. Buy Eastern goods. Carry back to Zeugma and sell in markets here. Those people take to Rome. We go on one section of Road only. No one goes all the way. Too long. Not know what it’s like past great desert. We just know little bit from stories of Eastern traders.”

“What stories?”

“Past Margiana country wild, no army protection. Weather bad – winter very cold, summer very hot; sand everywhere. Dune monsters come out of desert, carry people off track. Never seen again. Shapes come in shadows, go in flashes of light. Peer into your eyes, make you confess secrets – all you know, all you ought to know. Other spirits seem good, sing soft songs, melody beautiful as if it comes from heaven, make you happy; but lead you off to die in wilderness. Can never tell what will happen. Magic there. Caravan Road sends monsters and spirits; controls destiny. It the master.

“Dune pirates come out of desert haze on flying horses like storm. Wear fur clothes, like animals, have slanting eyes, fierce beards. Take cargo, leave no one alive, only bloody corpses with throats cut. Bodies disappear into sand after vultures eat. Risky out there. But profits big if you make it. Anyway, better business in Parthia -safer. Let others bring from Far East”.

He has seen them in the Forum, extraordinary things – boxes with strange designs impregnated in their shiny coating, lapis lazuli as blue as pieces of open sky, fancy mirrors, and much else. No one seems to know where they come from or what kind of people make them. They fetch a high price though.

As the shadows of the afternoon lengthen, he gulps down his wine and abruptly interrupts the merchant.

“We have to go now. Good bye and thanks for the information. You’re worthy subjects of Rome.”

The merchants are surprised at the suddenness. Their culture allows more time for politeness. They mumble something to each other as the Romans walk off.

On the way back, Gaius says, “They seemed friendly enough.”

“Sure, but they’re still barbarians. Barbarians begin at the Hellespont. They’re not up to much. I’ve never seen any I admire. Have you? They’re born to be ruled by Rome.

We bring them pax Romana. I don’t believe Parthia is as peaceful as that merchant claims. It’d be far better off under us.

And we get a quid quo pro – as we should. Listening to that merchant makes me realize how much better to get rich by force than trade. It’s much nobler. There’s nothing noble about bargaining and lugging goods all over the place and all the other things they do.

I say this advisedly, Gaius, as I admire our Commander in Chief who got his wealth, I know, from non military ways, even dubious ones. They say he seduced the chief Vestal Virgin to get her land, ha ha ha”.

Gaius has heard his friend go on like this before and smiles. He often does it when he has a lot to drink. It’s not that he’s callous, only patriotic.

“Come on Marcus. Give us a lecture from those books you read.”

Quintus chimes in, “I’m keen to hear it too Marcus. Ha ha ha”.

“All right you two, you asked for it. Human progress is founded on military strength. Advances have always been on the shoulders of conquest. Look at Egypt, Persia, and Greece. Every one of them started with a military culture. Once they became strong enough civilization took root. But only then. They eventually declined because they failed to maintain their strength.

“Look at the spread of culture; it always follows power. When foreigners copy our way of life it’s not because they really admire it. It’s the power behind they want to be part of – even vicariously.

“We’re lucky to be Romans. I’ve got no sympathy for Socrates’ claim of being a citizen of the world. What’s the point of that if we’re superior? Anyway, how does that sit with patriotism, which the controversial fellow seemed to lack?”

“All right, all right” says Gaius. “Let’s change the subject. How’s Aurelia? Have you heard from her?”

“I’ve just got a letter. Haven’t had a chance to read it yet. I’m amazed how good the postal system is, even here. The last one said she’s well, still with her parents. Do you remember when she rescued that little dog hit by a chariot?

“Yes I do. You told me about it. Made a big impression on you.”

“Well she mentioned it in the last letter. It’s in good health now, living with her. We miss each other a lot. I haven’t asked her to marry me yet but I might. I think she’s willing to wait for me. But can’t be sure. You know the temptations of pretty girls when their boyfriends are away.”

“Sure. You’ll be lucky if she hasn’t found someone else by the time you get back”.

“Thanks for the confidence my friend.”

They laugh and clap each other on the back.

“We’d better speed up. We’ve been away a long time. It’ll be time for the crossing.”

❧

The finishing touches are being put on the bridge as they arrive. Hundreds of hammers driving in the last nails at different pitch break the silence of the place, sounding like frogs in a mating frenzy. At the river’s edge a different sound joins the staccato, of flood water rushing past all obstacles in its way, over them, around them, under them – never to be frustrated for long.

Soon the order’s given to commence the passage. Marcus and his men tread carefully over the pontoons. They’re being jostled by the impetuous current, making it difficult to keep balance. Men stagger, grabbing hold of each other, some dropping their shields. The bridge is stout though; a tree trunk pulled out of its roots heads downstream and crashes up against a pontoon. Failing to do any damage, it turns around slowly and dashes off down stream.

The troops are in full armour. It’s a sunny June afternoon; fragrance of new leaves on a gentle breeze melds with the soporific hum of bees working endlessly in the flowers. Normally it would inspire a sense of well being, of comfort and security, but not today. Thoughts of battle blot it out. Marcus says to his optio nearby,

“It’s a good time to give those barbarians a lesson in the art of war.”

Just as he’s almost at the other side, light vanishes completely. It’s like being in a tent when a surprise wind blows through the entrance and snuffs out the lamps. He looks up in alarm. Rain clouds coming from nowhere have arrived while he wasn’t looking and are rushing about like black chariots. Suddenly a bolt of lightning rips the darkness in a savage splash of beauty and screaming winds begin to assault the bridge like harpies.

He grabs the rope along the side and staggers forward on the rocking pontoons. The gale is heaving the clouds around like fragments of mountains. It’s as though everything has fallen backwards into primordial chaos, where the gods are fighting the titans and the whole world breaks apart in their fury.

Waves rise as tall as horses, tossing white manes in deadly sympathy with the wind. Rain slashes down in whips stinging the eye and leaving pock marks on the surface of the water. Marcus is almost blinded. The raft in front starts to give way, its lashings tearing loose. Men frantically try to haul the ropes back into place but those closest to the water are swept overboard, eyes wild with terror as they’re pulled down. Everyone’s shouting, officers giving orders that make no sense. One man cries with arms outstretched, “We’re doomed. O Neptune, save us.” Another yells, “Call on Jupiter you fool. This isn’t the sea.”

Others shriek “This is an omen, this is an omen”, repeating the phrase ad nauseam, overlapping each other in a chaotic chorus. Marcus tries in vain to get them to calm down. The men behind him bunch up in panic, adding to the instability of the bridge. Some rafts break away, dumping their terrified charges into the roiling brown stream.

The pontoon which Marcus is on holds, but only just, pulling and tearing at its sinews. As he stumbles, trying to get a better hold on the rope, a clutch of horses flashes by, frantically holding their heads above the water. They’re neighing but can’t be heard; only scared teeth show the poor animals are calling out to be saved. Some sink and rise only to sink again without trace. Among them his commanding officer’s steed bravely fights the waves, its bridle catching whatever light there is, glistering gold against grey and black. Soon it’s too far down stream to see, or in its watery grave.

Not normally superstitious, Marcus feels the cold hand of doom on his heart. Is there within nature’s anger a law behind all laws, whose ultimate purpose is not for him to know, which today is somehow connected with the visceral misgivings about why he came to Parthia? Many in Rome oppose the war, spilling into the streets in protest. Parthia is a friendly nation and has done nothing to deserve the aggressive treatment. The real issue though is that it’s blessed with riches that are the envy of the world. Crassus is after them, and so is he.

As the troops are sliding into despair, pleas for divine help the only hope, the storm clears as abruptly as it came. The clouds disappear and all is calm. It’s as if an imperious hand has swept away the turbulence, giving permission to the elements to rest now they’ve delivered their sign.

❧

With few fatal casualties, the host is now on Parthian soil. The invasion has formally begun. As the sun peeks out of the fleeing clouds, morbid feelings are put aside and pride returns. It was just a freakish prank of nature, Marcus thinks, no more than that. But still, it’s not a good way to start.

Camp can now be set up near the grassy bank, close to a water supply. The storm has caused an annoying delay. As the task takes six hours, it’ll be well into the night before it’s finished. There’s no way to shorten it. The cluster of square, brown tents must be protected by earthen walls and a ditch, a requirement that takes time. Roman discipline allows no corners to be cut, ever.

As pitched roofed tents of oiled calf’s skin begin to pop up in the usual linear pattern, Marcus slips away to sit under a tree to read the letter. It was right to wait until he can read it unrushed. It’s from her – the faint perfume her signature. A touch of anxiety comes; her affection can’t be taken for granted.

My beloved,

Your fingers will feel mine as you pick up this parchment for the ink still bears the imprint of my touch. I miss you so. How’s the campaign going? When will you come home? I hold your letters close to me all the time to keep a connection that, alas, can only be spiritual at this stage. Please write more, at least one a day. I know you’re busy but spare a thought for the one who loves you. Everything’s so dull here without you and I’m lonely. Anyway life must go on.

I spend most of my days with my mother. Her sickness makes her bad tempered so I’m finding it difficult to look after her. No one knows what’s wrong with her. It’s a big worry. But anyway I know I must do my best to make her life as good as it can be. But sometimes it’s hard.

I’m back playing the harp, but only by myself. It gives me comfort in those long days when you’re not here. I think of the notes as little messengers that might go all the way to where you are. Well, must go now to mother who’s calling me.

All my love, and write soon,

A

He reads and rereads, drifting into a reverie in the drowsiness of the moist heat. The river of civilization seems benign now; it has rediscovered peace. Such a short while ago it threatened to swallow his life. Aurelia’s long black hair coiffed in the latest fashion hanging over her forehead curls into his mind’s eye, and the image gradually extends to her broad and pretty face as a slightly impish smile creeps into her chestnut eyes.

That time he came home with wounds Aurelia was so sympathetic. But only until she realised they weren’t serious. Then she showed a hardness admirable on one level but worrisome on another. They need to be weighed up – though impossible to calibrate. There’s strength there but it may be difficult to live with depending on how it’s wielded. On the whole though, it may be worth taking a chance. While he’s holding the letter, an optio comes up to him and abruptly says,

“Sir, the Commander in Chief requires your attendance at seven tomorrow morning, sharp.”

“Thank you Antonius. Tell him I’ll be there.”

The optio snaps to attention and salutes – right arm straight upward just above the shoulder, fingers flat against downward- facing palm. He spins around stiffly and marches off.

What’s the old man want advice on now? The summons seems importunate. Some urgency’s at hand.