by Ken Parejko
“What is that, impartial?” Lucius yawned.
I set my quill aside. “It’s occurred to me, lately, that Varus might actually have been a hero.”
I could tell Lucius was tired and wanted to sleep, but he stayed with me. “Varus?” he asked. “A hero? For losing three legions?”
“Throw away everything you’ve ever heard about the battle. It seems to me the outcome wasn’t decided until Numanius and his cavalry bolted. Think of it. What if the cavalry had stayed, and fought, and we'd carried the day. Then, think what a hero we’d have made of Varus. And if that's so, then isn't the massacre not Varus’ fault, but Numanius’?”
“If, if, if...” Lucius mocked me, sighing.
“But that's what I mean by an impartial eye. If we want to find the truth we can’t prejudge Varus. We should let the facts fill out what we know, not our prejudices. Polybius is good at that, and that’s why only his histories are really worth reading. And it’s how I’ve tried to write my History. Hard as all that is, I think it’s what Drusus would want, and I know it’s what he deserves.”
I set the pen and papyrus down. “It's getting late, Lucius. Time for you to sleep.”
Of course this really wasn’t news to him.
“You won't sleep til morning’s almost here.”
“Maybe not,” I admitted. “But anyway you can sleep.”
So I undressed into my nightshirt, slipped into the bed, and pulled a blanket around me. I picked up the quill and began again the furious scribbling which seemed as necessary to my life as breathing. From an early age my mind was a kind of a volcanic fumarole. The pressure of my thoughts would build and build, and to prevent a greater eruption, I had to pour them out on the paper.
But I wasn’t quite done with Lucius. “A history, finally, is only as good as it comes close to the truth.”
From out of his half-sleep, he found the energy to respond. “Truth is a slippery mistress,” he muttered.
“Yes she is,” I said, quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up trying."
Lucius' response was a quiet snore. I smiled to myself, then set again to writing. The regular scratching of the quill was a kind of comforting sound, the sound in my ears of the creativity that boiled inside me, as the sound of stony chips clicking onto the ground must have seemed to Phidias, or Praxitiles.
So I wrote and wrote, filled the rolled papyrus with short strokes of crimped cursive. But no matter how fast I wrote my pen couldn’t keep up with my mind. On into the night I wrote, until even the shouts and laughter of the men outside grew quiet, and when I finally set pen and paper aside to rest my eyes, silence was my only companion.
The oil lamp flickered over the walls of our little room, its rustic door, the shuttered window, and Lucius there, peacefully sleeping. It reminded me of my little room at home, when as a child I'd lie back and listen to the household putting itself to sleep -- first my parents, then the servants, and finally the dogs outside quitting their nocturnal arguments in favor of a few hours rest. I remembered how my father and mother would sometimes erupt in noisy argument; over what, I couldn’t tell. I knew, even as a child, that I’d be the last one awake. I came to enjoy that, that state of quiet perception, when my mind was like a calm ocean on which one might see a gull swoop down to write its signature with the tip of a wing. It was a sensual thing, letting nature write on one’s mind, and I came in time to appreciate it.
Tonight I was far from my home, far from its comforts and the warmth of my family, camped instead on the edge of an ancient wilderness teeming with hostile tribes, only kept at bay by the skill, discipline and bravery of our legionaries. But my mind, as it unwound and settled down for sleep, took me back to that quiet room on the lake. I felt, again, somehow different, set apart, blessed – or was it damned -- with a hyperactive, questioning mind which was ever-ravenous for more and more knowledge, more understanding. What really happened, and why did it happen? You can’t get the right answer if you don’t ask the right question. And when you study one thing, it seems somehow attached to everything else. I set high standards for myself. But if all you wanted was to feel good about yourself, then set your standards low enough and you’ll meet them every time. Not for me, I thought, as I drifted to sleep. No, not for me.
Sunset the next day found us at Ubiorum, a bustling shipping port on the Rhine and a busy glass manufacturing center. Now that Claudius had crowned it Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensis it was exploding with activity. Thirty miles of pipes had been buried beneath the frost-line for a new aqueduct to bring cool, fresh water all the way from the Eiffel mountains. Workmen were busy replacing the timber stockade surrounding the city with high walls of cut limestone barged down the Moselle. Temples to Mars, Jupiter, Juno and Minerva were being built or renovated. The little Vesta temple was nearly complete, and ritual fire from Vesta’s temple in the capitol’s forum was already on its way.
The city’s baths were being improved and expanded, the theater remodeled. At the south edge of the city finishing touches were being put on a huge new amphitheater. The governor’s palace, imposing and elegant, was nearly completed. Stone to veneer its walls and to raise the columns supporting its portico was arriving by river-boat and oxcart from up and down the Rhine.
We joined a flood of troops spilling out the city’s south gate where a campground and parade grounds to host the entertainments had been set up. We learned that Agrippina, the most talked-about woman in the empire, had already arrived.
We entered a sprawling field full of tents and piles of weapons and paddocks set up for the cavalry's horses. In the center of the field were large gyri, training circles for the horses. A unit from each of the Gallic legions was taking part in the displays. My men had hoped for a day of rest and were disappointed to learn that the troops from Bonum were late and our performance was moved up to the very next morning. There was nothing to be done about it. Hurriedly we set up camp and ate a quick supper. I had no time that night for writing, but stayed up late helping my men groom their horses, fuss with saddles, reins, phalerae and chamfrons, and prepare their javelins and swords.
Still sleepy but excited we rose from our tents as the first roosters broke the pre-dawn quiet. The best thing was to get busy with the preparations and stay out of each others' way. The ceremonies were to begin at the third hour, in a sprawling field in front of the reviewing stands, which were shaded with deep purple awnings trimmed in red and hung with colorful flags and fluttering banners. By the time we arrived the stands were full of dignitaries, and a noisy crowd surrounded the field. I led my men to the staging area where they held their horses and waited. Meanwhile I searched the stands but from the distance couldn’t recognize Agrippina.
The infantry display was before ours. The precision with which they threw their javelins was something to see. In the first part of their show they hurled them toward the reviewing stands, skimming just above and landing just behind a line of infantry in a near-perfect row. Then, forming four testudos, like turtles covered on all sides with their shields, they moved mechanically to the center of the field to become the target of other javelin-throwers whose weapons landed in an exact square around them.
When it was our turn I led the cavalry out onto the field. I backed away with the standard-bearers while my men, riding full speed, aimed their javelins at four heavily-armored horses who stood absolutely still as the javelins rattled off their armor. This heavy horse-armor was a new thing, just making its way into the cavalry, something we’d adapted from the Sarmatians.
Another group of my men galloped onto the field and passing their targets, threw their javelins backward. This maneuver, called petrinos, was the hardest of all and required not only strength but precise timing. The crowds cheered at how well it was done. But they cheered even louder as the horses wheeled and at full speed picked the thrown javelins out of the ground with their mouths and turning as they ran, passed them back to their riders.
For the finale, which we
’d practiced again and again til we were confidant we could pull it off seamlessly, all my cavalry loaded their quivers with javelins and charged the infantry while throwing as many javelins as they could. Most threw eight or ten in rapid fire, some fifteen.
After passing through the line of infantry, the cavalry drew their swords and while the tubas blared, with a wild scream came back at the line of infantry. Just as the horses came thundering through their line the infantrymen went down onto one knee and raised sticks with cloth bags at their end. The bags were painted with faces and topped with odd, sometimes grotesque, hair styles. Some had faces with the bushy beards and red hair of the Germans we’d be facing in a few days at Hofheim, others were the subtly disguised faces of unpopular officers. One was a rough but recognizable image of the dead emperor Caligula. As the horses thundered past, all the swords swung at the same time and the heads, cut free from the sticks, flew off into the air.
I lead the eagles and banners onto the field. We all gathered together, cavalry and infantry, and turned to face then salute the stand. Since my manual on javelin-throwing was used by cavalry across the empire, we knew expectations were high. But apparently we’d risen to the occasion: the crowd cheered, and even Agrippina, from her seat on the stand, looked pleased. I wheeled and led my unit off the field.
Our men had the rest of the day off. After attending to their horses and stashing their gear, some lazed around their tents replaying the morning’s show. Others went back to the parade-grounds to watch the rest of the ceremonies. All looked forward to the evening when the dignitaries would head off to their big parties and troops from up and down the river would compete in ball-games, tugs of war and archery contests, with prizes and plenty of wine for all.
That evening I stopped at the field-hospital to visit a rider whose horse had tripped at the beginning of the display. Fortunately he only had a broken collarbone, though his horse hadn’t fared as well. We chatted a while. As I was about to leave someone came up from behind me and greeted me. I turned to see an officer, whose short purple cloak marked him as a general.
"Gaius Plinius?"
"Yes."
"I've been looking all over for you," he said, as though blaming me. "Great show you put on." I didn’t recognize him though his strong Sabine accent should have given him away. He rested his hand on my shoulder. "My highest compliments. Oh, sorry. We haven’t met, have we? Vespasianus."
Of course. I should’ve known. But wasn’t he in Britain? "I thought you were on the island lending Cartimandua a hand."
"Well yes, I was." Vespasian threw his aides a small sack of coins. "Get something to eat. Only careful with that awful beer. It’ll leave you sick in the morning.” He turned back to me. “Can you spare a few moments?”
We slipped out of the tent and walked toward the parade grounds, now deserted. The field, torn up by deep horse-prints left from the day’s activities, smelled of crushed grass, damp soil, and fresh horse manure.
“Rumor is you’d found Varus' battlefield," he commented.
"Found it? No, no. We went looking for it and were close, I think, but were forced to turn back.”
"Ah. And now you're headed upriver."
I was surprised, and flattered, that he knew so much about me. "Yes, to Mattiacae."
"Nasty stuff," Vespasian observed. "The Germans won’t come over as easily as the Gauls."
“And the Brits?"
"Well, they’ve excellent oysters.” Vespasian smiled. “Other than that it's a mess, really. One revolt after another. The Druids escaped Caesar by fleeing to Britain. They’re the worst, the religious fanatics. Fortunately they’re poorly organized. Until, that is, they find a leader.”
“Caratacos.” I interjected.
“Yes. It took two years, but I’ve got him. Brought him with me, in fact, in chains.” Vespasian pointed to his encampment down along the river. “He’s due for a long vacation in Rome.” He bent to pick a broken javelin-head off the ground. “You know what the Brits call us?”
“What?”
“Raptores orbis. Globe-grabbers. It’s what we are, really.” He swung and threw the javelin-head off into the parade grounds. “So by grabbing a piece of the globe I've done my duty and for that they’ll give me a triumph, probably a priesthood or two. And Claudius could use a spectacle, so I’ll bring him one, dragging Caratacos behind me."
"A triumph? Well, congratulations."
"Yes, thanks. Publicly a conquering hero. Behind the scenes, though, because Narcissus and I backed Aelia Paetina instead of Agrippina, as Claudius’ new wife, we’re officially persona non gratis."
"So it's true what they say, she rides him like a horse?"
He shook his head slowly. "Claudius is the biggest enigma I’ve ever known. On the one hand, an astute politician, and competent enough on the field of battle. But you know I was right there alongside him when, after he’d had Messalina executed, he came into the barracks.” Vespasian stopped, took his helmet off and held it in the crook of his arm. “Lllloolook, guys, this wuwuwoman thing is no ggggood at all.” He smiled at his own imitation of Claudius’ stutter. “If I ever rrrreremarry, ssssesend ssssosomebody out to kkkkikill me.” We moved on again. “Well, he said it as though he meant it. But no more does he separate Messalina from her head, in walks Agrippina. Have you seen her?”
“Only briefly, today, from a distance.”
“She’s still beautiful, even at thirty-five.”
“Yes.”
“Here’s how I see it. Claudius, because of his deformities, craves acceptance, especially by beautiful women. Believe me, she’s a stronger, smarter woman than Messalina. None of Messalina’s running off to a whorehouse playing Lysisca. You must have heard. Claudius’ wife, the nation’s empress, out playing the whore!” Vespasian spat. “Not too bright, when you think of it. It’s amazing how long she got away with it. But mind you I wouldn’t bet on Claudius’ chances with Agrippina. Her eyes look past you, into the future, where she sees her son as emperor.” Vespasian stopped, spoke more quietly. “We speak in confidence, of course."
"Of course."
"Agrippina would just as soon I’d gotten myself killed in Britain. In fact, I think she convinced Claudius to send me up there, to keep me out of her hair and away from him. We go way back, he and I. My son Titus and his son Brittanicus are like brothers. With a British chief in tow and headed to Rome for a triumph, I belong alongside her on the stand. But she won’t allow that. I’m outside the pale. Well, really, it’s fine by me. In the morning I'm off to Rome. In a bit of a hurry, actually. Domitilla, my patient and forgiving wife, isn’t well.
We walked easily side by side. Though Vespasian had a long and intimate acquaintance with the imperial family and was widely known as a brilliant general, he seemed down-to-earth, almost ordinary.
He spoke again. "I’ve heard you’re doing a history of the German Wars.”
“Yes.”
“How's it going?”
“Fine. You know, along the way, I’m learning so much, not just about the war, but about us, who we are as a country, and a people. And of course about how, and how not, to write a history.”
“Well I hope sometime we can talk about all that,” Vespasian smiled warmly. “Meanwhile here's my perspective, take it or leave it. After Julius Caesar retreated across the Rhine, first Drusus then Germanicus took up the German cause. It was her father Germanicus’ sudden death in Antioch, under mysterious circumstances, that launched Agrippina’s career. That’s what brought you to this place. And my being here goes back to Caesar’s failure in Britain. If you think about it, all of those events cast their shadow into our present. It’s as though we’re merely acting out the next scenes in their play. Time, said by some to be the harshest of masters, seems when you look at it this way, to be nothing more than an illusion. Have you heard that Claudius...” Vespasian began, when a dozen cavalry suddenly thundered past. He waited for them to pass. "...That Claudius has legally adopted Agrippina’s son?"
"Adopted?"
"Yes, I just heard yesterday. Frankly I wasn’t surprised. It’s a scary prospect. The only one who can’t see through her plan to put Domitius on the throne is Claudius. I’m concerned for both Claudius’ and Britannicus’ safety. Clearly, as Claudius’ son, Britannicus should be next in line. But Britannicus is the biggest obstacle preventing Domitius from the emperor-ship. Frankly that’s the other reason I’m hurrying to the capitol." His voice found a new urgency.
We stopped and faced one another. We spoke now of the very future of the empire. Vespasian continued. "Claudius is a savvy politician with the best interests of the country in mind. But he’s also naive. Look what it took for him to face up to Messalina. But he’ll listen to me, I think. Well anyway, I hope. Someone has to warn him before it’s too late. And while Agrippina’s here I’ll have Claudius to myself."
"So. I wish you well.”
"Thanks," Vespasian replied. "And you might as well know I’m putting myself in for a consulship.”
“Well,” I said, “Let’s hope for the best on that too.” Consulship was the highest office on the Cursus Honorum, the pathway of civil service. As consul Vespasian’s influence would rise, and provide him some protection from Agrippina.
“I’ve got to go,” Vespasian said. “I wish you well at Mattiacae. What you’re doing out here is in the empire's best interest. Meanwhile I’ll do what I can in the capitol.” He held out a hand. “Well, my friend, I didn’t want to miss chatting with you. Good work. I trust we’ll meet again."
He turned toward the officers’ quarters, took a few steps, stopped, turned, and shouted back to me. “Oh, I almost forgot. Titus is already at Mattiacae, you know. I think the two of you will get along just fine.”
He turned and walked off into the distance.
I felt suddenly alone. A moment before I was proud to make Vespasian’s acquaintance. But that had turned into anxiety for the country’s future. Politics in the capitol swam in a deep muck of personal ambitions. If men as bright and pragmatic as Vespasian could be so easily sidelined, then what of a man like me, of no particular political will or insight, who preferred to spend my hours in a flimsy house of ideas? I shivered to think how quickly I could be chewed up and spat out by those in the halls of power.