by C C Taylor
“And there she is, look,” Hanno points suddenly straight out in front. “The green cliffs of Syracuse. Nice, eh? You head east and I head west, almost to the end of the world. If we meet again, it will be for me to make you my chief musician as I shall by that time be emperor of these shores. And we will speak Greek, not Latin.”
"Vale…so I get off at the port, give this (he shows the amulet. Hanno immediately gestures him to put it away.) to your man then head for Athens."
“Exactly. Good luck. And for the love of Pan, do not tell anyone you are an actor until you are in Athens itself.”
“So…what shall I do until I get there?”
“Act.”
And so Skip was launched into the second of his great adventures en route to his worst ever gig. Now, you know that until his forced and untidy expulsion from his homeland, Skip never had been a travelling man, so how did he get by? Well, I think I can best explain it like Skip did to me:
There’s an old tale of a man who is sitting on the road from Athens to Sparta and a traveller approaches from the direction of Athens, and asks him the way to Sparta.
“Why are you going to Sparta?” he asks. “Because I am fed up with the people in Athens, they are unfriendly. What will Sparta be like?” The man indicates the direction to the stranger and says, “What will it be like? I’m afraid you’ll find it much the same.” And off the stranger goes. Then sure enough, along comes a second stranger and asks for the road to Sparta. The man shows him and asks why he is going. “Oh, I just like to travel and meet people,” he says. “So you liked Athens, then?” the man says. “Oh yes, people were friendly and treated me well…how is Sparta in comparison?” he asks. “Oh,” the man says, “I think you’ll find it much the same.”
And you’d do well to remember that, young man. Your life is your circumstances, that is true, and you can’t alter them. And sometimes paths cross, like if Skip hadn’t been grubbing around the taverns just when Caesar needed a Scipio for Africa, then he would never have been pressed into service. He would never have lost touch with Metella and me, and all of us here…so of course, he had no control over any of that. But what is more important, young ’un, is the person you carry with you. I know this old man talk sounds like a pile of horseshit when you’re a young lad, but it’ll come back to you one day. And remember this as well, the way you treat others determines what you yourself are.
See? It’s rubbed off on me, now… Skip was full of these sayings. Speaking of whom, let’s join him there and take up the story again.
In Syracuse, Skip was directed to the landing stage where the ships for the upper western coast of Greece departed, and bought his way onto one of them – a dilapidated thing, whose crew all seemed to be missing at least an eye or a limb (he thought one that had a left eye missing was his old chum Titus Statilius Taurus…the guy fixed him with a stare for a good long while, as Skip stared back sweating, before realising there was no way it could possibly be the Roman consul and finally tearing his eyes away).
During the crossing, he took Hanno’s advice and made no mention of his real hopes on arriving in Athens. He had no idea what was so wrong with actors, but he found it no hardship to claim he was a merchant (all the other passengers seemed to be merchants of one kind or another) and possibly due to one final pipe-smoking session sitting on top of some crates as they took their leave at the docks, Skip had decided on his owl-brain salesman story; he was a Roman businessman sent to Athens to study the medicinal properties of owl brains (I know, I know…) hoping at a later date to introduce them into the Roman market, where they were currently viewed as ill omens, and convince the Roman householders and cooks of their magical properties and their use as lucky charms…
He didn’t want to attract attention, but a certain way of doing that would be to speak to nobody, so he maintained a casual dialogue with one or two in order not to appear secretive. Once he had spun his yarn and politely asked the purpose of their journey, however, all of them to a man (and even women, of whom there were a few) said,
“We are going to visit the oracle at Delphi.”
It seemed that all other business was currently suspended. Though Hanno had mentioned the Oracle and by chance he was making the crossing just at one of the few times the oracle was receiving questioners, Scipio had not intended to visit, though it lay on his route to Athens. But where there are crowds, there is money. And for once in his life, Skip thought he might take the trouble to see exactly what it was that attracted people to the place rather than just try to leech the money out of their purses.
What do you know of Delphi, young lad? It is still talked of as miraculous…we should go someday… From the tales of our youth, Skip already knew the Oracle well; he knew that it had survived attacks from the Maedi and the Celts before them. Lysander had received a prophecy here, so had Philip of Macedonia. Only his son, Alexander, had dared to question the priestess’s answer…only he had the nerve to drag the prophetess out of the cave until she gave the fifteen-year-old the answer he wanted, (‘Vale, vale, you’ll conquer the world, is that what you want to hear?’) Yes, Alexander him-very-self had been there. And Sophocles. And Zeno.
“Will there be lodging in Delphi?” Skip asked.
The travellers laugh, to mean ‘no’.
“But many of us sleep under the stars. Some even have tents,” they explained.
So Skip’s mind is made up. His first stop will be the world famous oracle at Delphi. The only problem is he can’t think of a question to ask it. “If I ask it the future,” he told me, “then what can I do if I know it? What will be, will be… I just don’t see the point. It’ll only trick me. So what can I ask it?”
A short crossing later, they arrived on the western shore of Greece, the small port of Astakos, tucked away behind some islands. As soon as he is off the boat, he seeks out the yard master. In a small hut, he finds a bulky dark-skinned man warming himself with a brazier. A small hole in the roof is not enough to let out all the smoke by any means.
“Yes?” He looks up.
Skip shows him the amulet. The large man beckons him into a back room.
“Where have you sailed from?”
“Syracuse.”
“And before that?”
“What was it called? Apsos? Ipsis?”
“Apsis! So this is from Hanno?”
“Yes.”
“This is a symbol of great trust. Give me the packet. I don’t know what you can have done to have earned it. You look like a common criminal.”
(This was probably true after several weeks in the desert). Still, say something;
“We fought together,” (he said as he handed over the cargo; this is the best he could do, he thought, a nice sweeping sandstorm of a statement with a kernel of truth somewhere in the distant middle).
“You’re a Roman, right?”
“I am, but I have never sworn an oath to Rome.”
He reaches down into a basket for two figs, throws one to Scipio and begins to eat the other.
“You eat well here in Greece, it seems.”
“It is in the ports where the money is made. Once all the ports on the south of this sea belonged to us. All of them. All Carthaginians came from Phoenecia before. You know where that is, ignorant Roman? The Israelites call it Canaan.”
Skip is trying to fit all the parts of the story together… Juba, Carthage, Cato, Scipio, Lepidus, Caesar…who was supposed to be fighting who? And he would have known nothing then of Brutus and Cassius’ flight to the east. We save that for later. Meanwhile, the huge African continues tossing figs to the Roman as he reels off his history lesson.
“The Israelites tried to take this land of Canaan from us many years ago, but in the end stayed and learned our ways. We are the people of the sea, the traders and the creators of riches. We were joined to the Israelites at one time as their King Ahab married our Queen Jezebel. Her great niece was Dido, the founder of Carthage, where our great grandfathers emigrated to build the gre
atest city that the world has ever seen. Greater than your Rome. More ships than the Romans ever had. Hamulcar was our general. His son, Hannibal, whose very name means, ‘The Joy of Baal’, our god, was the scourge of the Romans for many years.”
“Hannibal,” Scipio finally reacts.
Most of his history had been learned through the Odyssey and the Iliad and the myths he’d had from the Greeks. None of the names he’d reeled off had meant anything to him (except Dido, of course, but even she was shrouded in the mists of dreary childhood poetry readings).
“Oh you know him, then? HANNIBAL!” He bursts out at Skip in a (successful) attempt to make him jump. “I bet they still use his name to frighten their children.”
“But all this you are telling me happened more than a century ago. Almost all you have is gone.”
“At which point would you give up if the Carthaginians had tried to eliminate your people? Or maybe you would think ‘ah well, after all, my Roman civilisation is not worth saving’. Which is what I would say. After all, I know of no other people who have turned the killing of animals and slaves into entertainment. No other people so little interested in the wonders of our world. I should, of course, hold my tongue. You are Roman, so all this is an insolence to you. But here, at least, I can say it. As you know, in Rome, you whisper some calumny and the next day it is painted on the walls of the forum, as if signed by you before a hundred witnesses. For the moment, here in Greece, I am free to speak my mind. And, of course, Hanno gave you this (he taps at the amulet which is now hanging around his neck with several other similar ones, all with the same proto-human design), so you must be in our confidence. But you don’t look or sound like a spy. What is your mission?”
“I just want to get back home,” he said.
“And where’s that?”
“Rome itself.”
“You’re going the wrong way.”
“There’s a problem. I can’t go back.”
“Why?”
“I’m a deserter from the army.”
“Good. All the best people are, if it’s the Roman one you abandoned. And a good choice, too. As you know, their empire is about to crumble.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, sir. I just want to be the sort of guy who goes about his work no matter who’s in charge…you know, a day to day sort of person, so I’m heading for Athens.”
“Why Athens?”
“I know the theatre. I can work there.”
“Then I don’t understand…”
“I’m not a spy, you’re right. I’m buying my freedom. I was a slave, but this sets me free…that’s right, isn’t it? That’s how it works? He also said you might give me some food and money for my journey…and possibly some more of this…” (Skip invented at the end).
He opens up a small pouch.
“Did he, the little cunt? Well, I’ll want it back from him the next time I see him. When will he come?”
“He’s gone to Hispania by sea.”
“Why?”
“To fight Caesar.”
“Well…” sighs Hamilcar. “That’s not where I would expect us to gather, but who am I to speak? I receive and pass on orders…and food and bangue also, it would seem…was there anything more he told you to tell me?”
Skip shakes his head. Hamulcar goes to a set of shelves at the back of the room and rummages around in some boxes.
“So you like our herbs, eh? Here,” he throws another bag over, “and there’s money, too. Take figs, olives, fish…you are a lucky son of Ifri, if Hanno took a shine to you. Is he seriously going to raise another army now? It will take us years. He is a fool. Thinks he’s Spartacus… Have you heard of Spartacus?”
“Yes. I was born in the same year they tell me.”
“Well.”
As he speaks he is filling the bowl of a chillum with some of his herbs. Now he stands up, makes towards the small ladder that leads to an opening in the ceiling and beckons Skip to follow him.
“Here is a perfect place to smoke,” he says
A fishwife in a neighbouring shack berates him for blowing the filthy African smoke in her direction and calls him a barbarian.
“I am used to this. If I can speak my mind, then she can also. ‘Stupid Roman bitch!’” he yells back to her over the rooftop
“Savages! Barbarians!” Comes back on the light breeze.
“She has an unhappy life,” Hamulcar explains, turning towards Skip and ignoring her completely now. “Also, I have told her many times, it was the Romans who stole the design of their ships from us. Our knowledge of building and sailing. Our knowledge of the harvests and crops. Our knowledge of the calendar and the stars. Then they tried to annihilate us. And now, if you believe their stories, we are like apes, worse than slaves. To regain our former place in the world. Don’t you think that might be worth fighting for?”
Skip says nothing, but they settle down to relax in the sun on top of the yard master’s hut watching the boats come and go, the cargoes being loaded and unloaded and what had now become a stream of pilgrims making their way to Delphi.
And here, Marcus, though we’ve gone quite slowly up to now, we shall have to rush through the next decade or so of your dear great-uncle’s life. As you know, I can only tell you all this because in the end he made it back to Rome, but only for two days, and that in disguise… I’ll tell you about that later… So all this I’m telling you, is all he had chance to relate during a night of kraters right next to your house…at old Stumpy’s…the ex-gladiator. At least, that’s his story…
Whatever else you thought of great uncle, no one was better than him at telling stories, so I got the whole lot with the voices and the gestures, and the dramatic pauses…(though some of his earlier earthy style had been watered down by the preening Greek company he kept, as we shall shortly see), so here, in a nutshell and to the best of my ability, is the story of how your great grand whatever finally did make it back here for a while, but not until he’d spent nearly fifteen years in the ‘capital of culture’, dontcha know.
But first, Delphi. As he’d imagined, the crowds were a great boon to a juggler and musician. He couldn’t use language as his Greek was so poor, but this pushed him into a more mimic style which – according to Skip, of course – later went down so well on the grand stages…oh, I’m constantly running ahead of myself. Let me concentrate.
Delphi, Marcus! You know what it is, of course? Famous in all the world. In fact, as the African explained, the very centre of it, the navel, the omphaloskepsis.
He didn’t explain how he managed to get in. Maybe he’d even joined the queue legitimately, though I somehow doubt that. I suspect he would have tricked someone into ceding their place as he was NOT one for queuing, I remember… But in any event, there we join him at the front of the line, probably wondering what he was doing there.
Then he was led into the cave. The prophetic witch was standing whooping some way off in a recess filled with smoke, which smelled foul, according to your uncle…and then when she seemed to have died down a bit, he stepped forward and asked his question.
Then afterwards, off he set straight away for Athens.
What? You want to know the question? Well you’ll never guess. As I’ve said, he could see no sense in asking about the future (though it has to be said absolutely everybody else did exactly that, but Skip being Skip), he decided to ask…well, I bet the Sybil had never had such a question either. Go on, have a guess, Marcus…
Nope…no…no, not that either…no, I’ll tell you. He asked the oracle.
“Do elephants think and feel?”
And then off he went to Athens…
What? The answer? Oh, the oracle never gave a direct answer. It was always a further riddle. Who knows if she’d understood his broken Greek in any case. I don’t know why she was so popular. It was all a con, if you ask me. I’m not sure Skip was convinced, either…in any case, this time she just sort of shrieked something about ‘ketae, ketae’ and went into a faint, he
said.
Then Skip was woken from his trance by two eunuchs who appeared out of nowhere and lifted him up, one by each arm, and carried him to the entrance where the next pilgrim was waiting to enter. He could still hear the weird creature’s animal noises as he was marched out across the threshold.
“How about owls?” He shouted back into the dark as they ejected him into the light.
Then what? Well, he told me about the walk to Athens. It so happened, he had enough money to hire transport, with what he had earned at ‘the fair’, as he called it. But, figuring that he would probably never pass through this part of the world again, and seeing himself as a mini-Alexander, he took the several weeks necessary to make the journey on foot (new sandals after only two days at Delphi!) so that he could acquaint himself with this mythical land and its people. After all, these were the guys who had seen off the legendary Trojans and the mighty Persians among other shabby little tribes of upstarts. I don’t know what they teach you in history these days, but I remember we had that drummed into us.
So there he was, inching his way down towards the famous capital. At first, he simply grunted replies to his Greek collocutors and pointed at things in order to obtain them, but in each village picked up something of the local language. Perhaps, enough to learn that it was of practically no use in the next village along. But no matter. Finally he found himself at the outskirts of the great (so they say) city of Athens.
As most travellers do, he was expecting a shining city of gold to arise out of the olive groves and rolling hills. Instead, the first signs of the city were the filthy beggars who began to line the sketchy dirt streets with their palms outstretched, hoping to catch crusts as they fell from the carriages and riders that occasionally passed by.
There were buildings, just as in Rome, that were no more than thin plaster board sustained by sticks and things patched with gypsum paste…three storeys or more. Just like the ones that fell down in the Subura when he was a kid. You don’t see them so much now, Marcus, but they’re still there. The ones where you have to shimmy up five ladders just to get to your room. So remember to take everything with you before you leave home. Ha ha ha. Though it might be better to live on the top floors than the ones below, I suppose, on the grounds that it’s better to piss on than to be pissed on.