Roman Empire, A.D. 421
At fourteen, I am tall for my age. Tarquin, my elder brother by three years, is almost the same height as me. Since our heights are nearly the same and our appearance so alike, people think we are the same age. The only difference is Tarquin wears his hair much shorter, and he prefers to wear gold togas, while mine are ivory-coloured.
I am not happy with my father, paterfamilias Albus Marcellus. Understand me Pater does not. As an older version of me, Pater’s dark-brown eyes focus on me intently whenever I talk to him. His coarse-wavy-dark hair sits snug around his head and is trimmed above his ears. His face is lined from years of exposure to the sun and hard grind in the merchant industry, often travelling to far-off lands under the elements for months at a time.
More from me he expects, more than I feel I can or wish to do. His expectations I do not wish upon me. I have other plans.
The light of dawn seeps into the sleeping chamber, awakening me. I sleep alone in my cubiculum, which is the first room adjacent to the atrium. My family is fortunate to live in a domus when the majority of Romans live in insulae. We live in the city of Remos, in the province of Gallia Aquitania, where heavy-autumnal downpours frequently beset us and which can sometimes flood the city’s thoroughfares.
Reluctantly, I leave the warmth of my wool-stuffed mattress and linen sheets, and swing out my legs. My hand touches the ivory inlaid in the wood as I push myself off the raised wooden bed and step down. I don my toga and join Pater and Tarquin in the triclinium to eat. Tarquin habitually rises after me, but this morning he is up before me.
We lie on dining couches and wait to be served. Mater fills our pottery cups with warm sheep’s milk and hands one to each of us before she joins us on her dining couch. I think my mother, materfamilias Valeria Marcellus, is beautiful. She is tall and dignified, but she does not see herself as above other wives in our social circle and does not bother with mirror gazing, as others do. Mater wears her long-dark-curly hair in a simple braid and secured with a headband. If there is occasion for it, she has it styled into multiple braids, which are looped and coiled and arranged high on her head. My mother is a natural beauty. She does not dye her hair or wear kohl eyeliner, as some of her friends do. She does not need to. Her naturally elongated, amber-brown eyes are pure and untouched.
‘You need not wait upon us,’ Pater tells my mother as she serves us, draping her linen stola further up her arm and out of the way of the food. ‘I can call upon the servants to do this.’
Mater pours milk into our wooden beakers. ‘The ientaculum is sacred to family. It is cherished time. I wish to serve my family,’ she replies.
Pater regards my mother with affection as he breaks the bread and spreads it with bright-yellow butter Mater churned lately. ‘You need not churn butter,’ he says. ‘I have the means to buy the foods we need to eat from the markets.’
But Mater likes to churn butter. She also likes to milk the ewe, make cheese from its milk, and keep chickens.
Before we eat, we give thanks. I break off a portion of the crusty wheat bread, and spoon from the jar the sweetest-golden honey. Using the back of my spoon, I spread the honey across my bread. We help ourselves to a long dish of scrambled eggs, cooked on the earthenware platter. We fall silent as we eat our delicious early morning meal. At the end of our meal of eggs, bread, milk, honey, cheese and fruit, we rinse our fingers in tureens of water and again give thanks.
After the ientaculum, Pater bends to kiss Mater and leaves the room to work in the taberna. Tarquin and I meet with our tutor, Magister Linus, in a room curtained off from the taberna. Our tutor is always there before us — waiting. He holds open the curtain as we enter while touching the side of his mouth and complaining about a toothache. Magister Linus is impatient to begin. His white hair sits on his head like a mushroom. He presses his forefinger to the table to make a point about today’s tutelage while his close-set grey eyes regard us intently. Magister Linus teaches us maths and literature in Greek, Latin and French, and likes to lecture us on the many treatises of Aristotle.
His tone is passionate. ‘Today, you will learn Aristotle’s mathematical sciences and his doctrine concerning the philosophy of nature.’
I enjoy the teachings, but less so when the magister lectures us on Aristotle’s first philosophy; the philosopher’s wisdom describing theology as a science. I think Aristotle’s belief in God is odd, and wish to tell our tutor so.
Intent on what he is about to teach us, our tutor leans forward, bestowing on us a keen look, his eyes darting back and forth. ‘Aristotle believed God to be the source of motion and change in the universe. He deemed that there is an endless-circular motion in the universe; that everything which moves is moved by something else. Aristotle said there is an unmoved cause of motion, and that this unmoved cause of motion is God.’
Tarquin and I pay attention, intrigued, while the magister speaks. ‘Aristotle reasoned that if God is an unmoved mover, He must be changeless. If He is changeless, God cannot thus be composed like other substances of actuality and potentiality. He must thus be all form, all actuality, and so entirely immaterial. Aristotle believed that God is absolute self-consciousness, conceived as a perfect being. Since God is a perfect being, He can only think perfect thoughts. To think anything less than perfect would be imperfect, and a contradiction. Hence, the only content of thought that would be worthy of being thought by a perfect being would be Himself. Thus, God thinks only of Himself. If he were to think of anything other than Himself, he would think of the less than perfect.’
How I see it is this: God would not be thinking of us; only of Himself. I think Aristotle’s belief in God is callous, and points to his thinking that God is a vain god. Whereas I do not think God is vain.
Magister Linus has noticed my abstraction. ‘Fabius,’ he says, ‘What say you about Aristotle’s theory?’ I know that Magister Linus does not like me speaking my mind, and folds his arms in readiness for my answer.
All the same, my Christian faith urges me to stand up for who I think God really is. ‘I agree with Aristotle, that God is of pure form, but I do not agree with Aristotle who thinks that God is a god of pure self-awareness,’ I reply. ‘This does not sit well with me. If God thinks only of Himself, it means that God is not significantly aware of the world. A god who separates Himself from the world, and someone who believes that God separates Himself from the world, to me is blasphemy. In fact, what Aristotle believes, I think is a sin.’
Magister Linus’s lips stay pursed. Tarquin looks sideways at me, smirking. He knows Magister Linus will not like my answer. But my Christian faith is strong; I follow The Nicene Creed. God is our Saviour, and we must worship Him. He sent His only Son to save us from death and sin. But because our education is under the direction of our father, Tarquin and I must learn the course of study Magister Linus has planned for us, and what Pater wishes us to learn.
I would not normally challenge our tutor. Boys are beaten by their tutors if they disagree with them, or are seen to disagree with them. When we are taught something that the tutor believes is right, we do not need to know why it is right. We only need to know that it is right, because the tutor says it’s right. Otherwise, they order their slaves to hold us down and beat us. But Pater has given Magister Linus strict instructions that we are not to be beaten by his slaves. Moreover, Pater gave our tutor strict instructions that he is to tutor us without the aid of his slaves.
Our tutor slaps his hands on the table and stands up. ‘That is all for today. I cannot teach. My toothache plagues me.’
It is early afternoon, so we are surprised. Our hours of schooling typically take up the entire day, ending just before cena, the main meal of the day. Tarquin raises his eyebrows at me. I strongly suspect Magister Linus did not like my comments, and is annoyed and frustrated, knowing that he cannot punish me.
Tarquin and I make the most of our unexpected free time, and go to the thermae to bathe and to keep company with our friends. Situated in the city, the public bathhouses are inside a giant compound of pillars and marble walls and floors, with bronze statues arranged around the walls.
Once I strip off and enter the men’s pool, the strain of the morning washes away. We start by bathing in the tepidarium. The double-pooled tepidarium is huge, with many hundreds of bathers enjoying its warmth. After a while, we move into the steamy, circular room of the caldarium, where we soak in one of the caldarium’s five hot pools. I lean against the side of the pool, my arms resting along its masonry ledge. My wandering gaze comes to rest on the caldarium’s majestic dome. I could gaze at it all afternoon, but Tarquin prompts me out of my reverie and has me follow him into the sauna room.
My brother talks about his future. ‘I have no choice but to follow in the footsteps of our father,’ he says, hunching his shoulders and looking at his hands that are clasped between his knees. Beads of sweat form on his forehead. ‘Pater has groomed me from a young age to take over the business; this is his expectation. I do not wish it. I wish to become a soldier of the legion, to fight for Rome. But our father is steadfast in what he wants for us, and he expects us to abide. So it is no use to yearn of joining the legion.’
Tarquin has the temperament of a warrior; he would make a brave soldier. I think my brother is meant to be a soldier. I do not share his aspiration, but I feel for him and show him such.
We stay in the sauna room until we cannot bear perspiring any longer, then we brave the cold of the frigidarium. The frigidarium is in the centre of the main compound, its high roof supported by six one-hundred-feet-tall granite columns.
◊.◊.◊
Our servants are ready and waiting to serve us cena. My brother and I have plenty to say. Be that as it may, Pater leads the table-talk. Today is no exception, and our father asks us what we have learnt from our tutor. Albeit, before we can tell him, he reminds us time and again that the education we are fortunate to have, was not possible for him. And while we eat, Pater tells us he did not have the luxury of eating as well as we do, that he did not have lamb and soup and peacock tongues for cena.
My father is a wealthy merchant, and as Mater says, he is an excellent provider. But he takes pride in coming from a poor background, one where he was not lucky enough to have the same upbringing that he has provided for my elder brother and me. Growing up, he says, he could only read basic words. I am grateful, but Pater’s never-ending stories of woe are tiresome.
Our father also takes pride in telling us how, as a boy, he had to do menial tasks for a wealthy merchant.
‘Not a day did I complain,’ he recites time and again. ‘I gave my employer my heart and soul and more than a pound of flesh. In return, the merchant helped me to read better. He also helped me to write and to do basic math. In time, he taught me everything he knew about his business, and about how to succeed in life.’
Now Pater expects the same from my brother and me.
The merchant left the business to my father. I will not have the same leg-up that the old merchant gave my father, and nor do I wish it. My brother is the eldest, so he will, in time, take over the family business. Tarquin will follow in the footsteps of our father.
I am unhappy for my brother, who does not see this as his good fortune.
◊.◊.◊
The wife of my father’s merchant employer died many years before the merchant. Sadly for him, his wife did not bear him a son, nor did Pater’s employer have any close family to whom he could leave his business, which is why the merchant left the business to my father.
Pater recounts his beginnings in the merchant industry. ‘When I had the business passed down to me, I was right away seen as a man of a higher class. And because I was now a man of a higher class, I could marry a woman of a higher-social class. Money not only brought me stableness in life, but also respect.’
‘I met your mother at a musical performance,’ our father continues. ‘I had no earnest wish to listen to a musical performance, and neither would I, as a rule, attend one. I went to the Odeon Theatre solely to look for a bride. Your mother was sitting with her family in the ima cavea, the lowest part of the cavea which is reserved for the upper class. As soon as I laid eyes on her, I knew I desired her as my bride.’ He then lifts my mother’s hand to his lips and kisses it, and smiles at her adoringly.
At the time my father chose my mother to be his bride, she was a girl of fourteen. Mater had gone to the Odeon Theatre with her well-dressed family, and my mother appeared in my father’s eyes as a girl borne of privilege. He was right. Mater sat shyly throughout the performance by the side of her mother, father and aunt.
‘I was aware of you watching me,’ Mater says, joining in the conversation. ‘I reported it to Paterfamilias.’ Imagining the occasion makes Tarquin and I laugh. ‘When the tediously long and drawn-out musical performance ended, my father approached Pater, questioning him and asking him to make plain his intentions.’
Pater finishes the story. ‘I greeted him with a handshake and said, “Forgive me, domine, I wish no wrongdoing. I wish your daughter as my bride.” At first, your mother’s father was so astonished he took a step back and regarded me with a suspicious eye. Back then, I looked different. I was handsome and broad-shouldered and dressed in fine-woollen togas.’ Today Pater is clean-shaven, but as a young man he wore his hair long and had a full beard.
‘Your mother’s father agreed that I could court his daughter, as long as I could prove to him I was a man of good standing. Upon hearing that, I smiled confidently, and we became friends.’
My father has always given my mother the respect she deserves, but he is a hard taskmaster to my brother and me. Pater thinks and expects, because he has risen from nothing in life, that his sons should achieve even more than he has. He wants us to earn the same respect and be excellent providers for our own children.
◊.◊.◊
My wish? I desire to be a priest. My love for God is firm. I do not need the love of a woman when God’s love is the greatest love in which one can rejoice, and I wish only to be of service to Him.
I believe it is my true calling in life.
◊.◊.◊
I open my cloth-wrapped Bible often, and read many of its thin, linen pages. As if by magic, whatever page I fall upon, the scriptures reach out to me, touching on an occurrence that day. And as if by magic, the scriptures on that very page give me the answers I need. Oftentimes I let the pages fall open by themselves, and the answer shall be apparent somewhere on those two pages, however small my quandary.
Though I know it is not magic. I know it is the Lord who speaks to me through His scriptures.
God loves me. He knows my heart. He knows how many hairs grow upon my head. He is part of my mortal being, and is with me on a day-to-day basis, guiding me to make the right choices.
I think about the persecutions of Christians; how, over a hundred years ago, the non-Christians of Rome believed in many gods. Withal, the ruling of Emperors Galerius, Constantius, Diocletian, and Maximian ordered that Christian men and women were to either worship and sacrifice to the Roman gods, or the rulers would persecute them. Many Christians stayed loyal to their faith and ignored the decree. When they did not follow the orders of the rulers, they were sent to arenas where they were killed by lions. I cannot imagine how those poor, God-loving people suffered. I pray for their souls.
I praise the Lord that Constantine the Great stopped the persecution of Christians when he came into power. I praise the Lord that he converted Rome to Christianity.
◊.◊.◊
Every night, before I lie down my head, I pray speaking Psalm 23 aloud then fall into a deep slumber and wake to the crow of the cockerel. I rise and give thanks for my good night’s sleep and for the rising of God’s enduring sun. I spend much time deep in prayer until I am called for the ientaculum.
Over the day, I wonder how I can set about telling Pater of my wish to be a priest. Too long have I ruminated over it.
‘There will never be a right time. You should simply tell him,’ Tarquin says. ‘Pater will not like it whenever you choose to tell him.’
So, I do. While we partake of our main meal of the day, I prepare myself to tell my father I wish to be a priest. It is perhaps not the best time to pick, but it is when we are all lying together on the dining couches. Servants come in and place our food on the mensa. After they leave us to eat, we lie on the three couches that are arranged in a U shape around the mensa. I lie on my stomach on the couch I share with Tarquin, and make myself comfortable by plumping the cushions under my chest. Tarquin lies on his stomach as well. Mater and Pater lie sideways on their couches, facing each other. We men eat hungrily.
At the end of cena, once the servants have cleared away our pans and pewter plates, I broach the matter. ‘Father, you have noticed I am quiet.’ Pater squints at me, which straightaway makes me nervous. I hear myself swallow. My brother motions me with a slight gesture to go on. Mater drops a grape on the mensa and sits up, reaching her hand out to me for moral support. She seems to know what I am about to say.
‘I beg your forgiveness, Pater … but I wish to be a priest.’ Afraid to look at him, I keep my eyes downcast. My heart races. Slowly, I lift my gaze to face him. ‘I believe it is my true calling.’ Pater stares at me, his lips pressed together.
Moments go by. His silence unnerves me and I fuss with my food. Beads of sweat form on my brow and my breathing quickens. The threat of Pater noticing my indisposition worsens my angst.
Asudden, my father rolls onto his back and sits up, clenching his thighs. I sit up too, sideways on the couch, and gaze through my legs at my clasped hands. Pater clears his throat and I gingerly look him in the eye, but his focus is not upon me. It is just beyond me. My father exposes his bottom row of teeth, holding them against his upper lip for a moment.
He again squints at me, and says, ‘It is a waste of time. I have other plans for you.’
I am slack-jawed and unable to move.
Pater leans into me, his face set in stone. ‘I want you to be a soldier. You will rise through the ranks of the Roman army and make your family proud.’ His expression softens. ‘My son, I know you can be a general, or higher,’ he adds.
I stare at my father, speechless. Pater ends the discussion and everyone leaves the dining couches and goes off, Mater lightly touching my arm. I am left alone, defeated. I drop my head and muffle my frustration.
In my chamber I pray, baring my soul to the Lord. I do not share my father’s vision. Being forced into a life as a soldier dismays me. The thought of killing people horrifies me. A soldier’s life can lead to many hardships. I wish to do unto others as I wish them to do unto me. I do not wish to kill them.
I hold my Bible in my lap and let it fall open. The verse that I fall upon expresses a great deal. I thumb through, the thin pages whispering as they fall, and read a verse from the Book of Exodus.
Comforted, I replace the Bible on the bedstand. I pray again and give thanks.
◊.◊.◊
People scream in the streets. Many more are hurrying out of the five-storey insulae. The cramped brick and mortar apartments tower over narrow streets and alleyways, sometimes blocking the sun. Though some have open courtyards, hidden from the street view, that serve as a light well for the lower floors. The rooms at street level are used as shops. The poorest of the poor, the plebeians, live on the very top floors of these apartments in slum-like conditions. The dwellers in these living quarters live in fear, for they are likely to die in a fire.
◊.◊.◊
Tarquin and I stand at the foot of the stone-paved street and watch the commotion from a safe distance. An old lady shrieks at us as she hobbles past, hurrying, clattering her stick. ‘The emperor is dead! The emperor is dead!’
Emperor Flavius Honorius Augustus has died. The people gathered in the streets are crying and yelling at one another with wide-eyed, distraught faces. Many are happy he has died and are slinging insults at his loyal followers. These folks think he was a weak emperor. Pater thinks so too.
At cena, Pater leads the table-talk. ‘I am not at all sorry the emperor has died,’ he says as he pours garum over his plate of vegetables and fish. ‘No, sorry I am not. He was an unfit ruler who did not much present himself in the running of his empire. The emperor’s rulings were ill-fated. Rome is better off without him. A fortified Roman army we shall now hope for.’
Immersed in his contemplations, my father lowers his eyebrows. ‘The empire has faced crisis after crisis. The first, twenty-five years ago, when a general named Gildo led a revolt against the emperor. Five years thereafter there was the invasion of the Visigoths; tribes of Goths from the west.’
Pater curls his lips as he recollects the event. ‘On that day, the emperor was asleep in the city of Mediolanum. When he became aware of what was happening, he fled to Asti. On that day, Honorius laid open peril to Rome and her people. Seven years after the Visigoth invasion, the Goths again attacked Rome.’ My father shakes his head. ‘The Sack of Rome was a shock to the entire empire, friends and foe alike. The Goth tribes, led by King Alaric, looted the city for days. I had just taken possessorship of the business and feared the Goth tribes would steal my stock.’ His lips tighten and I imagine he is thinking about the looters. ‘Those men by God’s bones scratch their heads with one finger. I wished at the time I was an ironclad soldier of the Roman army.’
When he speaks with such anger, I wonder if it is why my father wishes very much for me to be a general or higher — because he did not get to be one himself.
Pater continues. ‘The emperor’s father, Theodosius the Great, was a better leader, but even he failed to drive out the Goths and other barbarians who invaded the empire. He claimed lack of resources.’
While my father bristles and speaks of the ongoing political unrest, I think about man’s greed for power. And this saddens me.
Tonight, I once again let my Bible fall open. I read the passage then close the Bible and reflect on tonight’s mealtime conversation. Emperor Honorius endured his reign of thirty years with much strife. At the young age of eleven, his reign over Rome began. Pater said, as a child of the Roman Emperor, he was vain and weak and thoroughly spoiled by growing up in a royal household. On hearing this, I held only sorrow. Life for the young emperor must have been difficult.
We knew Emperor Honorius had not been well for some time. Perhaps this was partly the reason he did not present himself often to his subjects. We are told he died from swelling.
I lower my head and pray for his soul — that he does not suffer the punishment of Hell.
◊.◊.◊
Mater sees me gazing out of the window of my sleeping chamber, which affords me a view of the age-old olive tree, with its trunk swollen and split into two, and twisted grotesquely into one thick and lumpy trunk. She comes and sits with me, and together we watch the ancient sun as it liquefies and slips below the horizon, the brilliant afterglow bidding us goodnight.
My mother appears hesitant. Her brow is furrowed in the murky light. I light a candle and urge her gently to say what is on her mind.
‘I sought your father’s blessing for your wish to become a priest. I am sorry, my son.’
I smile at her. My mother sees my strengths and knows I am an academic and a philosopher. She knows I appreciate our culture and the arts, and most of all she knows my faith and the love I hold for God is firm with all my heart and soul.
Mater momentarily rests her warm hand on my face. ‘The priesthood is a praiseworthy and respectable profession. You have the right temperament for it.’
But try as she might, my mother cannot get my father to change his mind.
The deep love I feel for Mater is as much as I hold for the Lord. She is profoundly warm and loving. My mother is an educated woman who came from a good family. She received almost as much academic education as her brothers. Mater knows her birthright. She is confident and knows who she is.
My father has always held onto the desire that his family should better themselves. Mater does not share this compulsion. I need not tell Mater how much I love her, for she can see it in my eyes. I calm her concern for me. ‘Do not unsettle yourself, Mater, God is with me wherever I go.’
Her eyes crinkle with her smile and she kisses my brow. ‘Yes, He is. In any manner, you have a few more years to enjoy your freedom.’ She plays with her ear. ‘I have something for you.’
Mater leaves my chamber to fetch something and I hear her humming a tune while she rummages. Minutes later she is back and hands me an object that is wrapped in a piece of cloth. Upon opening the cloth, I stare in amazement. Three small pieces of gold sit in my palm, gleaming intermittently in the flickering candlelight.
Mater folds my fingers over my palm. ‘Tuck them away. They are for your future.’
‘I cannot accept these,’ I say, stunned. But my mother insists.
‘Your grandfather gave them to me on my wedding night. He instructed that I use them as I wish.’
‘All the more reason I cannot accept them,’ I argue.
‘This is how I wish to use them. They are my gift to you. Just as my father said to me, I say to you: You are to use them as you please.’
Before I can stop her, Mater fetches her needle and lamb’s gut thread, and in the fading light she sews them neatly into the hem of my finest tunic. ‘There. Now you cannot argue with me,’ she says with a smile that reaches her eyes.
◊.◊.◊
Pater enlists me in the Roman army and sends me on my way.
I am sixteen; on the edge of adulthood. For years I will belong to the Roman army; the thought dismays me and fills me with consternation. The hollowness in the pit of my stomach makes me feel ill; knowing that I have to pretend to be someone I am not. I do not wish to train as an infantryman. I know that the four months of training will be difficult for me, as they will force me to learn tactics and carry out drills that go against my Christian beliefs. At the end of the four months, I will have to swear an oath of loyalty to Rome.
They allow us one day only to settle into our new way of life. The emptiness in my stomach returns. I expect it will be a life full of trials and tribulations, and much brutality.
The commander introduces himself as Centenarius Antonius. A man of intimidating stature with a voice to match, he makes known the expectations of the army. With squinting eyes, he informs us that we are to take instructions from him and carry them out without question or qualm.
On the second day, we are given kits. We practice hand-to-hand combat with wooden swords, spears and shields much heavier than those the army will give us to use in battle. Our heavy training kit is aimed to strengthen us, and to empower us to fight through exhaustion. The cumbersome armour takes much getting used to, and I try not to look awkward lest the men laugh at my oafishness.
As well as the demanding exercises, we are told we will march every day, twenty-two miles at full pace. When we set out on a march, not only will we carry the heavy armour and weapons, but also tools for making fires and gear needed for cooking.
On the third day, as soon as light breaks, a century of eighty pedes, including myself, set out on a march. Baggage trains of pack animals and horses carrying artillery follow at the rear. The long day brings much discomfort. Six abreast, we grit our teeth as we vigorously pound the earth. After many hours, the trail of men who started off with long-robust strides of one hundred paces a minute, move much slower.
The distant voice of the centenarius barks, ‘Quicken your pace!’ Fatigued, we exchange exasperated looks and soldier on.
When we reach an area selected by the military surveyor, where we are to make camp, my feet are raw and blistered. It is late and we are burnt out, but the centenarius orders us to form in groups of ten; we are to build a fortified camp. We will sweat and slog until we build the camp, however late the hour may be. The castra, he instructs us, is to consist of earth, turf, and timber. Centenarius Antonius stands with a wide stance and commands us to dig a ditch and build a ramp using the earth taken from the ditch. From my kit I pull two wooden stakes, and, along with the two stakes carried by each infantryman, we tie them together to form a barrier. The surveyor, who chose the camp’s site near a river, supervises our work. Centenarius Antonius bellows instructions to the immunes — soldiers among us with particular organising and building skills. These are men who are freed from both ends of army service; from the grunt work of digging ditches, to the more perilous tasks of patrol duty. An immune near me — a nervous-looking officer, passes on instructions, the veins in his neck bulging as he yells them out. Within three hours we have built the camp. Inside the fortified site, under the dim starlight and a crescent moon, we wearily pitch our leather tents and eat our flatbread and mash. I share my tent with seven other men. Cramped together in each tent lie eight soldiers covered in sweat and grime. I lie flat on my back among the other seven soldiers, grateful to finally be allowed to sleep. In the damp warm stew of our tent, I drift asleep.
The next day, together as a unit, we learn how to cope with injuries. After yesterday, the coping-with-injuries lesson is like a day of rest. At the end of the day, I feel well rested for forthcoming drills, and whatever else the centenarius has in store for us.
Attentive, we sit on our haunches and listen to Centenarius Antonius. He lectures us on army discipline. He warns us of the consequences if we commit an offence, such as treason, cowardice or disobedience, mutiny, desertion, or making peace with the enemy. My blood runs cold when he makes known the stipulated punishment — centesimation.
‘Any man who is guilty of an offence inflicts this punishment on his entire cohort.’
I look around at the faces of the other infantrymen; some have their mouths agape. They are just as scared as I. We listen, stock-still, as the centenarius bares the specifics.
‘You will divide into groups of one hundred and each group will draw a lot, and the men of his group will kill the soldier who draws the shortest straw. That means, men of my cohort, that every one-hundredth person will be put to death, no matter who is at fault. Any soldier. And regardless of their rank.’
His words swim in my head. Comrades killed by the hands of brothers-in-arms. The centenarius has not finished. He goes on to inform us we will need to choose how we kill our poor hapless comrade. It is a sure-fire way of keeping us in line.
In my confined space I toss and turn at the thought of it, and at the likelihood of it. Judging by the restlessness of my fellow infantrymen, Centenarius Antonius’ warning is playing on their minds as well.
I think back to a talk I had with my father, and his belief that men of the army are seen as men of glory. He painted a fine picture. He believes it is an honourable thing, his earnest wish that I rise through the ranks of the Roman legion.
It is not honourable to kill a comrade. There is no glory in killing living souls at all.
From my chest, I pull out my crucifix necklace and kiss it, and say the fifth commandment under my breath.
By pure fear, the thought of the punishment makes the cohort stay keen to their tasks. We focus harder and train harder. We learn to cook. We learn to swim. We learn to perform the Roman salute.
At the end of a gruelling four months’ training and a succession of marches, we are fit, able, and determined.
◊.◊.◊
Along with a five hundred-strong cohort, I am posted to the Roman province of Germania Inferior. Our mission is to stop Barbarian invasions by Germanic tribes crossing into Roman territory.
The fortified garrison that will be my home for years, looms into sight. Weary from hours of riding, we approach the stone fort, its appearance menacing. Two watchtowers sit high on either side of the fortified gates. From the thirty-foot-high battlements, guards watch us, motionless and silhouetted. We cross a bridge over a wide ditch and wait. The iron gates squeak open and our cohort files inside. I am one of the last to enter and hear the coarse scraping of a crossbar as it is drawn across behind us.
A centenarius shows us to our barracks, then leaves us to eat and sleep, ready to start the new day.
From my calf-skin pouch, I pull out my Bible and turn over the pages, my eyes settling on a verse that calms me. I kiss my crucifix and go to sleep.
At sunrise the centenarius wakes us. Because we share the barracks with our horses, the air is ripe. The cohort leader’s demeanour is authoritative yet mild-tempered. His expression suggests he was once in our boots.
‘Cohort, assemble outside,’ he says with conviction. He gives a quick nod in my direction.
On a wide flagstone thoroughfare, we stand before the commanding officer who introduces himself as Primicerius Tulius. His chiselled jowl frames his handsome features. A head of glossy-dark curls fall about his forehead and come down in a widow’s peak, sitting neatly around his ears. His full lips are like a baby’s pout; alas, his soft appearance is a façade.
Primicerius Tulius’s voice booms across the fort enclosure. ‘Good men of the Roman Empire, today we have much to do, but first you must know the layout of the castrum. The centenarius will lead you and lay it bare.’
The centenarius, an elfish man with gingerish-red hair, a sickle of a nose, and a protruding chin, takes us past the praetorium, the commanding officer’s private quarters, and past his own private quarters. The praetorium and plush military officers’ rooms are ‘not for our eyes,’ he pointedly informs us. Several slaves bustle about, some on their knees scrubbing flagstones. Slaves in pairs lumber past with bent heads and pained expressions, hunched under the weight of rods carrying large vessels of water. The amphorae are tied to the rods slung across the slaves’ shoulders.
The centenarius shows us the horrea where the grain is stored. He shows us the workshops called the fabricae, where the production of armour and weapons are implemented, as well as the manufacturing of artillery accessories and helmets. The centenarius leads us into a small hospital, where rows of cots line the walls neatly. Upon the cots sit clean folded linen placed at the head end. He then shows us the cistern and the baths, and lastly the stables for the horses of senior officers.
The centenarius points out a large building in the centre of the fort. ‘The principia. It is where assemblies are held and where you must meet from this day forth. The principia is the primicerius’s offices, where the legion’s standards as well as its armoury are kept.’
To my delight, inside the principia there stands a small altar, and behind it a statue of the Virgin Mary. Beside the tabernacle, is a raised platform — the tribunal.
The centenarius briefs us. ‘Here, tribuni angusticlavii lead assemblies and administer disciplinary hearings when called for.’ My moment of gladness stops short when I recall Centenarius Antonius’ lecture. I pale at the thought of the inhumane punishment. I decide to stop by the tabernacle whenever possible, and pray for our souls.
The centenarius is still talking, instructing us on the importance of cleanliness. He shows us the latrines. We stare in silence at the row of seats set over a trough of running water.
‘Fear not, for your drinking water comes from the wells,’ he says with a roguish grin. We laugh, relieved to hear it.
At the first change of watch, I am chosen, along with four others, to guard the fort. I pull on my heavily nailed sandal-boots and tie them at the front. Next, I don my armour, fitting a bronze breastplate around my knee-length woollen tunic and breeches, and pull on an iron, bronze nose-plated helmet. The weapons I carry today are a gladius, a dagger, and a scutum, that, when held in the defense position, fits neatly around my body.
As well as the already burdensome weight of the armour, we carry a dolabra, a double-sided tool with an axe on one side and a pickaxe on the other, as a trenching tool. Also part of our kit is a razor-sharp hooked knife that we will use to cut limbs from trees for firewood. When we are not marching, we are to practice battle techniques at the fort.
We are heavy infantry, always at the ready. Semper Paratus.
◊.◊.◊
Despite our being primed and ready, not much happens in the first period of our station. It is a good thing, I suppose, but over time our daily routine becomes tedious, and boredom sets in. I begin to forget the horrors of punishment cautioned by Centenarius Antonius so long ago.
Little happens in the second period of our station, and they soon move men of this cohort onto other regions, disbanding and integrating with other cohorts. Some are sent to fortifications in Cōnstantīnopolis and others travel by boat to Southern Gaul.
A number of men, including me, are left to protect the fort. The fortified garrison’s main reason now is to offer protected shelter for field army soldiers and the limitanei as they pass through to their posts. The fort is also used for storage of food and weapons. We keep spare horses as well. From time to time, groups of passing soldiers arrive at the fort needing horses; theirs having been put out of action for one reason or another.
Months drag by. Now that our numbers are greatly diminished, the fort is markedly weakened, and because of this we would not bear up under an enemy attack. Most days I spend at the tabernacle, praying that no invaders arrive at our door. There is a sense of peacefulness in the temple, and quietude. As well as many hours of praying, I maintain a healthy fettle and keep myself fit by jogging around the fort and in the open ground outside the fort.
One afternoon while I am praying, I hear the distant sound of galloping horses. I hastily end my prayer and dash across the castrum, sprinting up the steps, two at a time, to the watchtower. Squinting into the lowering sun I see five riders drawing near, their horses’ hooves kicking up dust in their wake. One holds the flag bearing the insignia of Rome. I hurry to notify the others of the approaching soldiers and we spring into action; gathering water from the well and lighting a fire to make broth from the pork stock made lately and from vegetables freshly picked from the garden. No doubt the visiting horsemen will be hungry and thirsty. Thankfully, Comrade Manius made bread in the large stone oven this morning. A benevolent gentleman with a bearded overbite and thinning hair that sits flat on his head, Comrade Manius is a jolly man. Rigorous training in the Roman legion has not broken his spirit; he too had desires to become a priest. From the storehouse I fetch olive oil and an amphora of watered wine sweetened with sugar of lead. The wine will be a welcome beverage for the horsemen. I sit the amphora in a wicker basket to keep it cool, and make haste fetching pottery cups, paterae and silver spoons for the pork broth.
The horsemen are centenarius of the Tribunus Angusticlavius, the legion’s senior military officer. Worthies, field army soldiers call them.
‘There has been an attack north of the River Danube by Germanic barbarians called the Juthungi, and many of the soldiers who formerly lived here at the fort have been killed,’ the chief centenarius informs us from his horse. At once, I drop to my knees and pray for their souls. As I remember their faces, I wonder who of my former comrades were brutally slain. ‘Tribunus Angusticlavius Valerius sends orders to stay locked in and not to answer to any party of horsemen, unless they prove to be soldiers of the Roman Empire.’
We happily give him our word.
Happily, no more parties of horsemen come to our door.
◊.◊.◊
I lose track of the years as they drift by. Inchmeal, I notice our group of soldiers diminishing. I hear whisperings, snatched from overheard conversations, that they have deserted the fort. I am in awe of their courage and wonder to where they escape. There is not much left to protect at this remote fort. Germanic tribes and local people leave us alone, as they do not now see us as a threat.
◊.◊.◊
It has been ten years since they stationed me at this remote post and no higher authority, no tribuni angusticlavii, have come to check up on us during this time. At the age of twenty-six, the shavings from my whiskers are a mixture of black and grey and I can feel fine creases around my eyes. Clippings, too, that fall at my feet as Pedes Caius trims my hair, show a number of grey hairs.
I spend my days keeping fit and reminiscing about my lost life; how dearly I wished to have become a priest. For it is the sick to whom I wished to minister the most, making sure their needs were being met before they return to the Lord. I wished to give people hope that God forgives their sins, and reassure them there is everlasting life. It is a cause in which I believe with all my heart and soul.
Alas, my lifelong aspiration has been stripped from me. It saddens me ever so greatly. Regret and emptiness linger in my soul.
As I look around at the empty fortified garrison, which the remaining few of us have lived in for so long, I feel disconsolate. Blockish shadows of the battlements creep across the courtyard. Tunicked, timeworn men shuffle about with nothing interesting to say. They comment on the heat or the cold as they pass by one another on their regular trips to the latrines. Some simply stare at the walls.
In peaceful fulfilment with God, I pray in the tabernacle. If I am not running around the garrison and doing press-ups to maintain a good level of fitness, I am in the garden with Comrade Manius, tending to a patch of onions or the brassicas and beans. A grove of olive trees grows nearby. We eat the fruit and also make oil. The garden is our only means of food, so we must continue to look after it.
I duck my head as I enter the stone-built granary. Sacks of spelt flour, which Comrade Manius uses to make the bread, lean against its walls. Large bins of grain sit on top of foot-high stone posts that run the length of the granary, two abreast, so the grain is stored off the ground and away from rats and mice. I examine the grain, as I do daily, looking for weevils. The nettlesome beetles are easy to find if they are present, as their reddish-brown suit of armour stands out in the yellow-coloured grain. If I find any, I pick them out and crush them beneath my heel before a female weevil has the chance to chew holes in the kernels and deposit her eggs, which are hidden and hatch into worms within the seed. Comfortably ensconced, my tiny bitter enemies happily feed on the inside of the kernel before they appear among the grain as adult weevils.
◊.◊.◊
Time slows further. Soldiers of the Roman Army are we, but we have not worn our heavy kit for years, and I for one would not know where to find my kit if an emergency should ever arise. The legion seems to have forgotten about their manned fort. We are left waiting for a mandate.
I go into the tabernacle and kneel, my palms pressed together in prayer. ‘Lord, have they forgotten about us?’ I pray and wait for His answer.
With my hands still clasped in front of me, I wait patiently. When nothing comes, I rest my hands on the cool and smooth stone chancel rail in front of me and reflect on the last ten years. There is nothing left here for me, I determine. I imagine my father can hear me. I tell him how sorry I am. I know it would dishearten him if he knew I did not rise through the ranks and become a general, as he much wished. Perhaps it is better I do not return home and let him think I achieved an honorable rank rather than return home and disappoint him. I ask myself if it is better to leave him to his beliefs that I effected victory and brought pride to our family name.
Right away I chide myself for entertaining the thought. It is the eighth commandment; the sin of omission.
Nevertheless, I decide that I can no longer live this life. From beneath the neck of my tunic, I lift my necklace and kiss the crucifix. For a moment or two I regard the Madonna. I kiss the crucifix again, bow my head, and recite the Lord’s Prayer.
◊.◊.◊
Never would I have imagined I would follow the footsteps of my comrades and assume the appellation of a deserter.
I stop and regard the fortress that for ten years was my home. I observe the bridge I have just crossed. For a few moments I am thoughtful. With God as my witness, I decide I shall build bridges not of war, but of peace, and cement them with a compound of love and kindness. It is my solemn promise; a symbolic bridge of faith; my duty to God.
I do not know to where I will go. Withal, I know the Good Lord will be by my side. He will lead me once I am safely fifty miles from my post.
My journey takes me across the Germanic border and into the remote northern end of the Frankish Empire. The seemingly empty countryside is remotely peaceful; the early morning’s damp earth invigorating, and I give thanks to the Lord. After many hours afoot, when darkness begins to creep over the fields and flowers return to their sleep, I bed down under my old leather army tent, now strange to me. My rations should last me a few more days. Thereafter, I will need to rely on the goodwill of the local people.
The crushed-stone pathway leads me through more pleasing scenery of endless-green meadows. Dragonflies dip and dive, and colourful butterflies keep me company, flitting back and forth across my path, looking for insects that are kicked up by my footfalls. My footsteps and laboured breathing are the only sounds I hear apart from the drone of a passing fly. I imagine I am on a march, together with seventy-nine other sandal-boots keeping in step.
I stop and rest again, drinking from my metal canteen; the most valued piece of equipment I unearthed from my old army kit. It is a mild day, but the weight I carry upon my back causes me to perspire. Two figures in the distance catch my eye. The people are bent over, working. Picking myself up, I increase my pace and stride towards them. On closer inspection, I see that it is an elderly couple.
‘Salut! Bonjour!’ I call out. They lift their heads and peer in my direction, their hands shielding the sun.
With eyes scrunched, the tall and thin, angular-chested man with a face weathered by time, studies me closely. Snowy white hair swirls around his head like a winter hurricane. I introduce myself and show the elderly couple my crucifix. I determine that it is up to them whether or not they think I am a man of the cloth. I do not affirm I am, but let them think I am. Is it a sin? I think not.
We converse in French. Thanks to Magister Linus, I have a good understanding of the French language and its melodious inflections.
‘Nice to meet you,’ the farmer says, changing his demeanour, as he introduces himself as Archird de Gagne, and his wife as Madame Genevote de Gagne. His wife’s heart-shaped face expresses a delicate mien. Her eyes are warm.
Madame Genevote de Gagne politely tilts her head at me. ‘How do you do?’
After exchanging pleasantries, I tell them I have walked a long mile and kindly seek food and shelter. They briefly talk among themselves.
‘If you are looking for work, succour is sought for the farm,’ Monsieur de Gagne says. ‘I require a man who can do manual work around the yard and in the fields.’
The elderly couple’s small self-supporting farm is noticeably rundown. ‘Oui, monsieur. Merci.’ I am welcomed into their home.
That evening, over a hot meal of soupe à l’oignon, Monsieur de Gagne tells me they have had no aid with the harvesting of their crops. ‘Much of our last season’s yield languished and went to waste.’
His wife sits quietly while her husband speaks, her elegant, softly lined face wistful. Madame de Gagne’s graceful composure hints that she may have lived a life of privilege in her earlier years. Withal, her bearing shows sadness. When I gently nudge her into conversation, she shifts uneasily and fiddles with her bonnet. Her husband lays his hand upon hers, and a pang of guilt stabs me. I have touched on a nerve.
Madame de Gagne lifts her head and looks at me with rheumy, pale-blue eyes. Her speech is soft and fragile, her manner decorous. ‘A very long time ago we lost our three children to sickness and accidents.’
‘I am sorry,’ I say, with an apologetic tip of my head. ‘May God lead you to quiet waters and replenish your soul.’
In response, Madame de Gagne crosses her thin-veined hands over her heart and smiles at me graciously. She does not elaborate, and I do not press her. I think I have asked enough questions for one day.
I settle in and work the long hours that are necessary for a self-supporting farm, happily taking over the heavy lifting work for the monsieur. It is not long before he and I form a good working relationship. Madame de Gagne, also, has become fond of me and I her, and soon the elderly couple regard me like a son. Nonetheless, I am sure Monsieur de Gagne suspects I carry a secret relating to my past, though he never pries into my upbringing or asks me how I earnt my livelihood.
Careful am I to ensure I always cover the brand on my upper left arm under the short sleeve of my tunic; the military tattoo I received at the end of my four-month training period upon my recruitment into the Roman Army. The branding, they told us, was to stave off desertion, and to make those who deserted the army recognisable, and hence, more likely to be reported by a member of the parish wherein they may try to hide, and thence be brought to trial.
The warnings of Centenarius Antonius still ring in my head: You will divide into groups of one hundred and each group will draw a lot, and the men of his group will kill the soldier who draws the shortest straw. This cannot now apply to me, as these days no group from my legion exists, but there is no question of my being executed by the Roman Army if it arrests me for treason. I promptly dismiss the thought.
As my father did before me, for the monsieur and his wife, I work with my heart and soul and give more than a pound of flesh. It is hard grind, but I do not mind. Glad am I to be free of the tedium of the fort, and pleased am I to be of service to the elderly couple.
◊.◊.◊
Three years I have stayed with the monsieur and his wife. Now it is time to forge ahead. It is sad saying goodbye to Monsieur and Madame de Gagne, but I am bound by my heart’s desire, and go I must.
I give them my best wishes and clasp each of their hands in turn. ‘The peace of the Lord be with you always.’ Madame Genevote’s watery blue eyes gaze at me sadly, empty and silent. Her lips quiver when she tries to smile.
The monsieur looks at the ground, the muscles in his jaw working. ‘And to you,’ he says, lifting his head and giving me a double-handed handshake. The thickening I feel in my throat threatens to expose my sorrow, and, hesitating, I take my leave.
◊.◊.◊
With my few belongings, I stroll the well-trodden path, ready for a fresh beginning, and hope it is not too late to become whom I wish to be.
Frankish Empire
No guilt of absconding the army gnaws at me. At the age of twenty-nine, I can now rejoice in the Lord for forgiving my sin of desertion.
Indeed, I am eased of mind since the Roman Empire is facing uncertain times. Many soldiers from the army have lost their lives because of barbarians and Germanic tribes who have descended upon the Roman provinces. Fearful as it is, I am led to believe the reign of the Western Roman Empire is steadily falling apart.
My contemplations reawaken memories of lengthy discussions Tarquin and I enjoyed with our father, when Pater talked about the time that the empire of Rome began to lose her power. “It began over eighty years ago,” he told us, “when the Goths moved into Roman territory looking for shelter. They wanted to be Romans, but it did not take them long before they swung from living and abiding by the ways of Rome, to wanting to sabotage and destroy her. Theodosius the Younger made matters worse because he failed to take care of the trouble forming.”
I hark back to Pater’s fierce dislike of the son of Theodosius the Great, when he stated, “Even the former emperor Theodosius failed in driving out the Goths. The emperor claimed it was owing to a shortage of money and military supplies.”
Perhaps Theodosius the Younger now finds himself in a similar plight. Should we, as people of the Roman Empire, have more faith in our emperor, and recognise that it is, indeed, just as it was in his father’s reign, a shortage of money and military equipment that has caused the weakening of our empire? Withal, the quandary of the Roman Empire may well cause a chain of events that could lead to its collapse.
One should not speculate on such circumstances.
While I am deep in thought about the state of Rome and political unrest, I open the Bible. This time, I look for Psalm 9:9 and read it aloud to myself.
Feeling comforted, from my kit I take my waxed tablet and open it. With my brass stylus I write across the top, this year of CDXXXVI, 436. I write my wishes for peace and goodwill to all mankind, then place it down and pray. This is my wish for the twelve months ahead.
From my grassy patch where I camped for the night, I pack up my tent and my assortment of cooking tools, and move on. The road ahead is unclear, but I know God is with me wherever I go.
◊.◊.◊
It does not take me long before I find another paying job. Ten years in the Roman Legion has made me into the man I am today. Unlike the men I left long ago at the fort, I keep my body in good form. And as soon as they see my brawny frame, farmers do not think twice to have me work for them.
Peasant tenant Monsieur Chenery informs me he lives and works on a strip-farm that belongs to a lord, and that now that the rains are few, there is much call for help with the ploughing and tilling. A thin old man of tall stature with grey-thistledown hair and a long neck, his leathery face bears a pinkish complexion, and a haunted look has consumed his eyes.
After a meal and a good night’s sleep, I am ready for work the following day. As if incensed by my cheerful mood, the heat of the sun intensifies, baking the already parched earth. I pull on over my ears my wide-brimmed leather hat and begin my afternoon tasks. With the aid of an ox, I guide the plough through the strips of land, trying to keep a perfect line as the plough turns over the dusty soil. But the beast is stubborn. It stops and starts and turns this way and that. Time and again I hit it with a stick. At this pace, the beans in the other field will ripen and die before I can harvest them. The sun begins to lower and one more strip of land needs to be ploughed before I can lie down my head.
Once I finish, the field will be left fallow so the earth can replenish itself and become healthy soil for sowing come next autumn. In another field there is more work. Strips run at different angles to the first and third fields. Rows of sorghum grain grow in the second field, their green leaves and brown seed-heads making it a pleasing sight, and crops of beans in the third field will be picked tomorrow.
At first light the farmer and I cut row upon row of grainheads with sickle and scythe. It is back-breaking work, but I consider hard grind makes a man. When all the work is done on the peasant tenant’s land, he and I will help other peasant tenants with the ploughing and harvesting on their strips of land. All the villagers work together, because it is necessary that all work is done before the advent of colder temperatures.
My work here is poorly paid and will be short-lived, but it is a job, no less, and it will get me through to my next meal. My most prized possession is my thick-leather tent, and I feel blessed for its shelter and warmth.
The lord of the manor lets his peasant tenants use his mill to grind the sorghum grain, and his oven to bake their bread. Monsieur Chenery tells me the lord is a seigneurie banale, a lord who exercises his banal rights. For the privilege of using his oven and his mill, the seigneurie banale expects his tenant farmers to pay a fee in coins. Monsieur Chenery tells me he cannot pay the lord and is worried the lord will force him and his family to leave, and that they have nowhere else to live.
‘It is the health of my children for which I fear,’ he says, a rictus of fear set upon his face. ‘Without proper shelter and nourishment, they will surely face sickness.’
Inside my tent that night, I ask God for guidance. I leaf through the Bible. He leads me to John 3:17 and I pray aloud.
I think about the long days of work I have put in for Monsieur Chenery. I have put my nose to the grindstone and given him my pound of flesh. I consider I have helped the peasant tenant a great deal. In return, he has provided me with bread, water and an evening meal, and has allowed me to help myself to the fruit trees and vegetables from the garden, for which I am grateful.
Still, the Good Lord wishes me to give more. I ask His forgiveness for my misgivings.
Upon wakening, from the hem of my tunic, now shabby with wear, I make a hole and push out the three pieces of gold Mater gave me. I caress the shiny small nuggets in my palm and pray. ‘Dear Lord, thank you for your wisdom and guidance. Amen.’
Monsieur Chenery slaps his palms to his forehead and stares, wide-eyed, at my open hand. The old man cannot believe what he sees. ‘How can I ever repay you? You also need it, for you yourself are poor.’
I shake my head. ‘No one has ever become poor by giving. The Good Lord says I should not withhold generosity from those to whom it is due.’
The Lord fills me with a sense of great pride. My gift to Monsieur Chenery is one that will change his family’s life forever. The Lord has brought me to know that I need not cling to material wealth, for I will receive true riches in the Kingdom of God.
My gift, I feel, has brought me closer to God.
Monsieur Chenery and I bid adieu and I go on my way, happy in the knowledge that in the Kingdom of Heaven, God will reward me.
◊.◊.◊
Tramping for days after my work strip-farming, and a year older, I walk towards a quaint village. I follow hedgerows white with hawthorn, and fields bestrewn with the sunny heads of daffodils. Further still, poppies blaze among the fields of wheat, rye and barley. I wander into a village. A church stands proudly at its centre. I make my way to the church, where lines of crocuses, irises and lilies greet me. The pretty flowers edge a flagstone path that leads to two handsomely carved church doors. I pass through and step inside the church. A lone gentleman, a bishop, kneeling, prays at the altar. Tall candles burning in gold sconces sit at each end of the Lord’s table. Bent in prayer, his crown is fringed by wisps of hair like dandelion fuzz. He startles upon seeing a strange face in the aisle.
‘Pardonnez-moi, Monseigneur,’ I hurriedly say. The older man climbs awkwardly to his feet. A polite smile forms across his round-ruddy cheeks. The skin on his nose, I notice, is dry and flaky. His grey-green eyes are curious. I shake his outstretched hand.
We exchange courtesies and I introduce myself. I learn that he is expecting his congregation to arrive shortly, so I make known hastily why I am here.
‘Well, the church needs help with some major carpentry work, if you are interested.’ He points to the nave. I look up and see two solid beams riddled with holes, wracked by wood-boring beetles. A swift nesting on one of the beams takes flight and swoops at us with a noisy flapping of wings, well-nigh touching our heads as she tries to protect her young.
My carpentry skills I mastered in the legion will come in handy for this job. The church is in dire need of repair.
‘I could not find a carpenter who is fit and able to carry out the necessary work, though it was not for want of trying,’ Bishop Moreau says. ‘Since it is the village’s only means of worship, can you be as quick as you can? The parishioners rely heavily on Sunday worship. And since it is too dangerous to have people in the church at the present time, over the last five weeks I have been leading my congregation under a one-hundred-year-old olive tree.’ He points at it through the dusty and cobwebbed pencil-shaped window. ‘With winter temperatures and the onset of inclement weather only a few weeks away, I am afraid this makeshift arrangement will soon be out of the question.’ Bishop Moreau’s expression is grave and still focused on the olive tree.
Right away, I clasp his hand in my two and smile at him. ‘The Lord has led me to you. I can help.’
I give thanks to the Lord, feeling blessed that He has given me an opportunity to repay Him for His love and understanding. I feel fortunate that it is indeed a wonderful opportunity to serve His Church with my brute strength and knowhow.
The work I carry out is usually a two-man job, but I do not wish to encumber the elderly bishop. I would not forgive myself if the weight upon which he would have to bear caused him injury, or worse, damaged his heart. Instead, I forge two braces on which to sit the beams. Then I shore up the beams and fix them in place with horsehide glue and wooden pegs. I take only two weeks to replace the borer-infested ones.
When Bishop Moreau steps in to see the finished work his eyes are smiling. ‘The Lord thanks you,’ he says as he pats my shoulder.
‘It is my pleasure, for as God’s humble servant, I am only too pleased to serve Him,’ I respond.
I take my leave and move on.
◊.◊.◊
The reaping of vast crops of barley and oats on a large estate is my next venture. The sizable parcel of land belongs again to a lord. I am put to work at once. At the end of five weeks’ worth of slicing through stalks of barley with a sickle, I am asked to help with the threshing.
A family of workers supervises the entire harvest. The head of the family, the paterfamilias, asks me many questions. So far, I have answered him in half-truths. Every time I do, I silently pray for the Lord’s forgiveness.
The old patriarch, his gaunt, coffin-shaped face, wizened and mottled, watches me closely while I work. His beady eyes above heavy, sagging lower lids, peer at me keen of gaze, expressing suspicion. An old-grey hat sits perched high upon his narrow forehead. His constant attentiveness to my toil unsettles me. After many hours of threshing barley, I lay down my flail and go to the river to bathe, relieved to be away from his suspicious and prying eyes. I strip down to my loin cloth and brave the water’s chill, wading in until I am up to my neck. I hold my breath and duck. The sharp cold pierces my being, refreshing me.
A movement to my left alerts me and I’m again mindful. A shadowed form watches me through a thicket of trees. It is he. He knows I have seen him and quickly retreats. I press my lips together and curse under my breath. I am sure he will have seen the brand on my arm.
◊.◊.◊
Later in the week, when I see several horsemen loping along the estate’s periphery, one bearing the legion’s red and gold flag with the Senātus Populus que Rōmānus insignia, nearing the estate’s main residence, I know then that the old man saw my tattoo and reported me.
I stand stock-still, letting my stick fall to the ground, the aurochs leaving me behind. The large-horned, furry beast keeps going, dragging the tribulum over the large circle of newly picked grain. It soon realises its master has stopped hitting it with a stick and stops, testily shakes its head and stomps its hoof. I am still eyeing the horsemen, who are talking to two men. I suspect one of the men is the paterfamilias. He points in my direction. I chide myself about how careless I was to have let the old man see my tattoo. I should have waited until after dark to go to the river to wash.
I wish to flee, but my feet stay planted firmly among the dry stalks of grain. I know the Lord wishes me to stay and face the truth. Indeed, I ask myself if it is the Lord who punishes me for deserting the legion.
Unnerved as I watch the horsemen approach, I close my eyes and silently pray, asking for the Lord’s strength. And for His forgiveness.
‘Are you Pedes Fabius Marcellus, under the charge of commanding officer Primicerius Tulius of Castrum Herculls in the Limes Germanicus?’
I open my eyes and see the red-tunicked officer before me, struggling to keep control of his jittery horse. He is flanked by four other officers of the legion, who stare at me from their saddles, backs straight, in a contemptuous manner.
I bow my head in resignation. ‘Yes domine, I am he.’
‘I am tribunus of commander-in-chief, Magister Equitum Pompeius. You will address me as Magister Militum Claudius.’
I nod at him. ‘Yes, Magister Militum Claudius.’
The officers follow me back to my humble tented abode and allow me to collect my belongings, then order me to hold my hands in front of me. They shackle my hands and march me to a waiting horse, and help me into the saddle. My horse is tethered to another horse and rider. A row of workers has formed along the ridge, their curiosity aroused by the goings-on. The old patriarch is among them, his stance intimating that he is pleased with himself. He has performed an admirable duty to the Legion of Rome. I shift my attention away from him as my horse lurches forward.
◊.◊.◊
The soldiers escort me back to Rome. Once there, the Roman legion will try me for treason. I wholly know the punishment for treason.
After twelve hours’ riding, we stop at a clearing and make camp. They undo my shackles that are secured to the horse. Under militant-type supervision they order me to make a campfire and cook a meal. I scour the grassy glade for dry twigs and sticks and lumps of wood, and carry them back to the campsite. Inside a circle of stones, which I have gathered, I prop the pieces of wood against each other. Then I forage for dry tree mushrooms, which I find nearby. One of the officers passes me a fire starter. The small piece of iron sits snug in my palm, but when I strike the flint against the iron, my thick calloused fingers are clumsy. The men’s sneering and Magister Claudius’s impatience makes me nervous. On my third attempt a spark kindles the mushrooms alight which set fire to the dry sticks. Once the campfire is established, I cook a large pot of puls, stirring until it makes comforting bubbling and popping sounds. Then I ladle it into bowls and pass the bowls to the hungry outstretched hands. An officer rips a chunk of bread off the slab before passing the slab to the next man. When it reaches me, it is but a scrap of bread. I pop the leftover piece in my mouth and chew slowly, trying to make it last as long as possible.
We sleep in the open with one soldier on guard, making sure I do not attempt to escape. My once-were-comrades treat me as if I am a prisoner, for that is what I am. They watch me as I kneel in prayer. Grateful am I, that they allowed me to bring my Bible. I hug my most cherished possession to my heart, then let it fall open. The poor firelight hinders me reading the verses, but as long as the Bible is with me, I feel comforted. God is with me. When the soldiers realise my devotion to God, they show more respect. I know they are merely carrying out the legion’s command in its quest to bring me to trial. They are human, just like me. Deep down they too carry compassion for loved ones — for their families.
I try to get comfortable by rolling up my greatcoat to serve as a pillow. The magister tosses me a woollen blanket for which I am grateful. I thank him and throw it over myself, then lie on my back and close my eyes. A cacophony of night birds launches from deep within the bush that surrounds the glade. Hours pass and I lie awake, unable to go to sleep, listening to the continuous trill of the nightjars intervened with an occasional hoot from an owl. Animal noises also emanate from the forest; the high-pitched whistle of a chamois, alerting others to danger. Tall, leafless trees are silhouetted in the murky gloom; they look like the long ghoulish arms and gnarled hands of witches, their bared roots like woody knees. In timely fashion to my baleful thoughts, a colony of bats explode from the trees and fly overhead with a clicking and abrading squeak and a thick flapping of wings. The strain of the day adds to my weariness, until I finally fall asleep.
◊.◊.◊
This night’s bedding down is a repetition of last night’s camp. Unable to sleep, my mind races again. For some unknown reason I think about the Roman Empire and its ruler, Theodosius the Younger, who took the throne as a child. Groomed to be ruler of Rome, as he grew older, Theodosius has known no other life. The young ruler is a supporter of Christians, and I applaud him for supporting Christianity as the official religion of the Empire. Withal, I applaud Constantine, a former emperor of Rome who granted legal status to Christianity in the first place, he himself converting to Christianity on his deathbed.
My contemplations take me to the scriptures in the Book of Matthew, and I ponder its verse about loving your enemies. Just like soldiers of the Roman army, enemy fighters too are human, and can hold a great measure of compassion for their loved ones.
It is late when I realise my thoughts have stolen my precious sleep, but I do not care. I wish to dwell only on God, for my fate is now in His hands.
After another day’s trek, again we set up camp, this time near a river. Gladdened to be off the unyielding saddle, I rub my derrière, numb from the long hours of riding. The soldiers crouch at the riverbank and refill their waterskins and canteens while I build another campfire and make vegetable potage. I quietly give thanks and eat my ration of bread and soup. Under God’s sweeping vault of stars, I lie down my head, using my leather pouch as a headrest. My appreciation of the night sky is brief, as exhaustion gives way to sleep.
We are still far from the city of Rome. During this third night, I am woken from deep slumber by the scuffling of feet. The soldier on guard of our travelling party has fallen asleep, and we are being set upon by bandits.
‘Aaaee!’ one yells as men lunge at us. The guard has little time to realise what is happening before his throat is viciously slit. With swift movements, the bandits snatch swords from the officers’ belongings and use them to slit the throats of the remaining men, all the while shouting at each other in rapid French.
I freeze and stare at the hunched-over men whose blood spills down their fronts and pools in their laps. A bandit gives me a keen look out of his dark, sharp little eyes, and asks me why I am being held captive.
‘I am a deserter from the Roman army, and we were on our way to Rome for the army to bring me in front of the tribunal to face punishment,’ I truthfully tell him. The bandit stabs his grimy finger at me and snarls, making known his hatred of Roman soldiers.
He lifts his chin and smiles darkly, his eyes burning into mine with fierce contempt. ‘You will face punishment here, this night. We will be your executioners.’
His followers mock and sneer at me. The first man grabs the back of my neck, forcing me to rise to my feet. Still clutching my neck with his fingernails and digging into my flesh, he steers me to a spot he deems shall be the place of execution. He asks me if I have any last words.
For a few moments I am quiet. I pull my crucifix necklace from beneath my tunic. ‘I hoped to have become a priest in this life.’
The bandits think this is funny, and they expose blackened and missing teeth. They taunt me and speak the Lord’s name in vain, mocking Him. Their profanity is evil. Silently, I ask God to forgive the men’s egregious behaviour, forgive their sinful hearts.
◊.◊.◊
From quivering lips and with shallow-rapid breathing, I murmur my goodbyes. ‘Vale, Mater. Vale Tarquin. Vale Pater. ‘Gratias tibi, Mater, words cannot express my deep gratitude for your love and kindness; I take them to my humble grave. Gratias tibi, for giving me your three pieces of gold,’ I say in near-silence, relieved that I passed her gold onto a deserving, hardworking family man. Had I not carried out the Good Lord’s will, these bandits would have got their filthy hands on it. Perhaps He knew what was in store for me.
I stare into the frenzied face of my persecutor, who makes slits of his small black eyes, and close my hand around my crucifix. He seizes a clump of my hair and wrenches back my head. The glint of the sharp blade of a sica catches my eye.
‘May God have mercy upon me!’ I cry out as, in one swift movement, he drives the blade deep into my flesh and slices open my throat.
God has heard my cry. I leave my bloodied corpse. I am weightless and aware.
My soul ascends.
There is no pain. Only peace.
I return to Him.
