by C C Taylor
And then five months passed, and then six.
Well, I thought, Augustus, as I keep forgetting to call him, he’s still out there as far as we know, so maybe Skip is too. Maybe he’s taken quite a shine to the three of them and now he and his fancy new friends are firm favourites at the emperor’s court’.
Then more months passed and as is the way of things, I began to forget. Daily life took over and the urgency of making money began to take its place in the forefront of my thoughts. People came, people went.
By day I toiled over complex legal scripts, scrawled some stuff myself, then at the end of the day stuffed my parchments into their pigeon-holes, shut the door, came home and went to bed, most days hoping Metella was in the mood for a fuck and if not, heading out for a krater at Stumpy’s or the Thracian’s kitchen. Then I went to bed, got up and the cycle began again. One morning, as I was throwing the slops out in the porch, I heard a voice call out ‘You!’ and I looked up. Two men were running over to me. It was the Athenians. I knew instantly, though their appearance had changed dramatically (if you’ll pardon the word play). These were no rich actors now. They were a couple of haggard beggars stumbling at me. Their faces were lined, their clothes were ragged and as they came closer to me I noticed that both were missing a right hand; where their fingers should be, just a bandaged stump at the end of the arm. They bundled me against a wall. What with these two now and Stumpy, it seems I’m surrounded by mutants, I thought, as I cried out.
“Whoah, whoah, Phil! Harry!” hoping they’ll be impressed that I remembered their odd Greeky names, but no. They are here to air a grievance.
Money, they wanted, of course. Reparation for what had happened to them. As if I could either help or had any guilt in the matter. As I’m telling you the story, I should say that in the end I had to give up several aureae in hard cash, just to send them on their way. And also because in exchange I heard the story of what had happened to Skip, since when I’d seen him off to when they’d left him in Tarracona (for there he remained, as I had suspected). And you may agree with me that a couple of aureae was a good way to close this particular book.
So what happened? Well, of course I’ll tell you. We haven’t come this far to stop now. Or maybe it could wait till tomorrow. Aren’t you going in for your dinner? No? Vale, I’m not hungry either. Let’s go on to the end. The only thing is, just as I tell you the story up to now through Skip’s eyes, with all the puffing out and exaggerating that that may entail – well in the same way, from now on I can only give you the version of the somewhat stylised and over-mannered Greeks. Still, it’s the only one I have, son…so here it is:
Despite my grim premonitions, they had no problem hugging the coast all the way through Genua to Massilia, though Skip insisted on travelling the furthest inland, even if by a pace or two, still wary of the Delphic prophetess’s warning of ‘ketae’; sea monsters. They had been offered a boat journey, which would have been the most logical, but Skip would have none of it. The sea held no attraction for him and it was a perfect excuse to request a stopover in Rome where, he said, he had distant family.
And on they travelled without problem until they came to Tarraco, which is the grandest city so far to have been built by us on the western shores of our sea.
Now, young lad, there is an amphitheatre. Back then, there was not, though clearly the city was expanding. Building work was going on in all the streets as they arrived and Augustus had already had a palace made, with gardens and porticoes, sundials and fountains.
Now for this bit of the story, I’ll have to be Phil, vale? When I had managed to calm the two of them down and had them sitting at table with a drink (I made the mistake of offering it to his right hand before noticing my mistake.) ‘Don’t be ashamed, we have become accustomed to being sinister,’ Philoktetes began, but on with his tale… I judged him to be the more clear-spoken of the two…and I’ll even try to remember it in his exact words, as it’s worth the telling. I begin…ahem…
“We were well enough received,” said Phil…
"In fact, we were treated like aristocratic guests rather than in the rough manner to which we artists are accustomed. This had its explanation in the fact that, as we were a surprise gift, we had to go incognito and so pretend to be ordinary nobles. So there we were, being helped down from the cart and everything, given nice, new togas, and to keep off the sun, a hat each – your friend wore his low down over his forehead, so as to obscure his mark, as he was still timorous of meeting this Taurus fellow or anyone who might have recognised him from his days in Rome, from where, as you know, he had had to run on account of his bad debts (news to me, son!) – and for the most part we were spoken to in Greek, which was a help to us, though in the mouths of many, it was the most mangled example of our tongue, it has been my misfortune to hear.
"On the first day, we were given a tour of the emperor’s new dwelling places. It was impressive. On the inside, a lot of marble and alabaster. Outside, layered gardens rose up from a low cliff near the coast giving an excellent view of ‘Your Sea’ (this was said mockingly, of course), and far enough from it to allay the fears of your friend who has, it seems to me, an unnatural phobia of water (though he was not referring here to Skip’s aversion to bathing, of course). Some old soldier led us around…I say old, he was about your friend’s age…and gave us commentaries on all the battles he’d fought. How they attacked Vellica and the enemy had to flee up a mountain, which is where the Roman army contained them during the winter and consequently where almost every last one of the unlucky fuckers starved to death. Even that was worth a parade, someone evidently thought.
"Then they went east to besiege Mount Medullus in a place called Gallaecia, which was as far from Tarraco to the west, as Rome is to the east, he assured us. For this, the poor sods had to dig a ditch some fifteen miles long, so most of their time in Hispania was spent digging in hard earth. If he was making a pitch for the retired legionnaire’s benevolent fund, he was doing a good job…
"He showed us the various plants that had been brought from as far as India, strange trees, large yellow flowering shrubs, and everywhere gardens littered with statues. Mostly of Augustus, but also Julius, some of the old Alban kings and eagles. Eagles everywhere. Beautifully sculpted, poised on the top of columns…
‘This is how people know the Romans are here,’ our guide said, ‘the mark they always leave, the bird at the top of the standards that the whole world fears,’ and stood back to look at one in pride.
‘Come with me now,’ the soldier said, and we followed him further over the grassy knoll by the cliff, Gratio (that’s Skip, to Phil, who’s telling the story, remember) keeping as far from the edge as possible, then down a path to a large adobe building.
‘You’re not the only entertainment this week,’ he said as he led us through the doors.
Not ordinary doors. Huge doors, which had to be shoved with the shoulders to force them open.
Sawdust on the floor, an animal stench with its accompanying noises, and rows of cages, beginning with the smaller ones for the birds, then river-horses, lions and right at the end, alone in the biggest cage, the pride of the collection.
‘This is Hanno,’ he said.
‘Hanno?’ Gratio asked, somewhat surprised.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No. I met a man called Hanno once.’
‘It’s an African name,’ the soldier said.
‘Yes.’
‘We took it from the elephant’s trainer.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, the elephant didn’t have a name, but the slave we captured at Munda did, and thankfully for him, his knowledge of elephants kept him alive…we needed someone to look after a couple we’d kept after the last victory. He was very good. He knew how to train them. They’re all off fighting somewhere now. Then there’s this one, which we’ve had brought over from Rome for the celebrations…’
‘Where is Hanno now?’ Gratio insisted.
‘
Right here in front of you,’ the soldier said as if he was an idiot.
‘I mean, the trainer. The one whose name you gave to the elephant.’
‘Ah…follow me,’ and the soldier led us through a smaller door at the side of the menagerie.
(I should say at this point, young Marcus, that it was clear from their telling of this story, the Athenians knew little or nothing of Skip’s dealings in Africa. Who knows? Maybe he could have made a good spy for Old Carthage after all).
‘We haven’t finished yet,’ the soldier said, and led us down to an enormous, specially constructed pool that had been scooped out of the hillside and which received water directly from the sea via a narrow inlet.
‘That’s where Hanno ended up,’ the legionnaire said, looking down into the water. ‘Just two weeks ago.’
‘He drowned?’
‘He was drowned,’ the soldier said. ‘It’s not quite the same.’
Just then, the dorsal fin of a sea creature emerged on the surface of the pool.
‘What in the name of Jupiter is that?’
‘It’s a shark…look!’ (Another fin emerges). ‘They’ve seen us and think we are here to feed them. There’s the other one, now… There are three of them all together.’
‘By the hairy balls of Pan, look at those teeth!’
‘And that’s where Hanno is, you say?’ Gratio insisted.
‘If a slave misbehaves…’ the soldier said, leaving the sentence half-finished.
We gazed some more at the creatures.
‘See, we’ve built the channel in from the sea so they can enjoy the water but Jupiter knows what will happen when it turns cold. I expect they’ll be sent south again. But we’re having fun with them in the meantime…and that…just there,’ he pointed to a wooden platform under construction some two hundred paces away from the slopping waters, ‘is where the three of you are going to perform for his holiness’s delight.’
Gratio stood staring at the fins swimming round in circles till I had to pull him away from the spectacle. ‘You like sharks, then?’ I asked him.
‘No, I do not,’ he said.
Then we went back towards the main complex of buildings.
‘Who’s the old guy in the floppy hat?’ Gratio asked at one point, as we could see a chap riding around the grounds at leisure on a donkey.
(Laughter from the guide) ‘That is our emperor,’ said the soldier, ‘our god. But a god that ages. Thirty six years old tomorrow.’
"So Augustus was in fact, almost ten years younger than Gratianus, as it turns out, but maybe Gratio’s lassitude was an aid to conserving his youth, while being emperor took it out of you. And the poor August One was recovering from illness, of course, as we learned.
"We spent the night dining in a low hall with the lesser nobles, entertained by a wizened old African with a drum and flute, which he played while a maiden danced. It was engaging, yes, but your pal couldn’t take his eyes off them. It was as if he were hypnotised, clicking his fingers to some of the rhythms, which seemed very complicated to me.
"Then, later in the dinner, as we conversed in our mix of High Latin and our native accents, talk turned to the other guests. Such and such a bigwig was coming, we were told, and a grand general from Gaul…bringing some hairies with him, even, to perform some sort of submission ceremony. There was to be a speech from some old centurion who’d been through fifty seven battles…they normally die off by the age of thirty five, but by the will of the gods, some of them survive. ‘And, of course, Juba’, somebody commented. Again, your friends’ ears pricked up.
‘Juba?’
‘Why, yes…you are from Athens, you said? Juba is very well known to us Romans. As one of our highest-educated and most respected citizens, we are honoured by his presence.’
(’But Juba’s dead’ he would have been thinking).
‘But Juba died, did he not?’ Gratio spoke up. ‘Killed by his own slave in the end, I heard.’
‘Ah yes? Where did you hear this?’ One of the guests demanded to know. A burly bearded fellow lying opposite.
‘I think he means the old Juba,’ I said, to dig him out of an unwise political conversation. ‘They are speaking of another.’
‘Of his son,’ another effeminate diner added. ‘He is to be restored to the Kingdom of Mauretania, where he will return as ambassador, flying on the wings of the Roman eagle to seek peace for his people.’
“Gratio was trying to follow this conversation, understanding nothing, it seemed.”
(Once again I should note, young lad, that it seems the Greeks themselves knew not of his previous adventure in the Roman Army, either. It’s hard to keep a secret like that for decades, son, as you may one day have cause to find out. But let us hope not… So listening to these conversations, of course ‘Gratius’ was confused. He did not know that while he was scrabbling around in the desert after the fraudulent Hanno, Gaius Julius was making his nice, slow, triumphal way back from Africa and bringing back not only jewels, ships and elephants, but also the old ruler’s son. ‘Juba the second’, if you will.
I should also tell you here, lad, that once in Rome, the second Juba – Juba’s son – was treated like a king, the plan being that he would return one day to subdue Africa for the Romans and do so happily. The truth is, he was a phenomenal young man. I met him once during some legal process. He wrote books, too…about archaeology…so he was quite well-known and highly regarded, but your great, great uncle knew nothing of this. As the stranger had surmised, his fame had not reached Athens).
Let’s let Phil get on with his story;
"The meal was over. A few were vomiting into buckets but most were content with what they had, and serving maidens began to bring in more kraters of wine for us to share among us, together with fresh figs.
‘Look, fresh figs from Carthage,’ someone joked to general laughter.
‘Finally, Cicero’s wish is granted and Carthage is no more,’ the effeminate noble said. ’We are dining right now in the land that was once Hannibal’s. It is now ours. And the last of the resistance was seen off on the north east shore of Africa. And since Caesar was wise enough to bring the second Juba to Rome and bring him up as a Roman citizen, we now have nothing to fear. Here’s to Caesar…"
Everyone drinks to the Great One’s health (though it was not specifically stated which of the Caesars), then another voice with another toast.
‘To King Juba,’ and all drank once more.
‘Speaking of Juba,’ yet another added, ‘an elephant has been brought over for him to ride. I saw it.’
‘I have never seen an elephant,’ one of the noblemen said.
‘We have had them in our armies,’ the bearded man informed us. ‘They have fought both on the side of the eagle and against us. This one is, I think, one that Gaius saved from the Battle of Thapsus. It may even have been Juba’s own.’
‘Why does he want an elephant?’
‘To take on his honeymoon with the Egyptian,’ another guest informed us before belching. ‘And if it is true that it is one of Juba’s beasts from Thapsus, then to take it back home too, since they are both from that part of the world. Next week he will sail directly from here to his new homeland, where he will rename his capital after Caesar.’
‘He has always been a great friend to Rome.’
‘One thing seems certain,’ a thin man on our left opined. ‘What with elephants and tigers, centurions and gladiators, before we leave this place we will have seen quite some spectacle.’
And at this all agreed.
And so the great man’s birthday arrived and, on waking, we were treated to another meal at table, during which a messenger with a thin voice read out the order of activities and spectacles. Today, there was to be a poetry recital in the courtyard, then a banquet at which Juba would make a speech. Towards evening we would retire to the area where the wooden skene was, where there were to be a series of entertainments. First some dancing from Zeus-knows-where then some title-dolin
g, ending up with the legendary centurion who was to receive his honour just before the three of us took the stage…first Gratio’s monologue, then the scenes we were to present before the emperor.
All went according to plan during the morning and in the early afternoon, the nobles, both true and false, were shepherded to the porticoes where the recital of poetry was to be given. The poem was read by Publius Virgilius himself. During all the name-throwing of princes and senators, nobody had seen fit to mention the great poet. Yet there he was suddenly before us, enrapturing us with his latest scribblings. This one was a poem he’d not been working on for long. We could see Juba among the big nobs behind the beautifully carved marble balustrade, head to one side, eyes half-shut, smiling with pleasure as he listened.
The poem started with a bang…the hero is on his way from Greece to fight the Trojans, but Juno does not like this as Carthage is her favourite place on earth and she knows that if Aeneas wins this battle, his descendants will destroy her city, so she goes to Aeolus to ask him to whip up a storm on the sea. And that – rather disappointingly – was all there was. ‘I have only written so far’, he said, but promised us ‘much more in the years to come’. People tapped their feet and waved their fans.
Then there was more food. I think it was during this second round of sumptuous fresh dishes that we all began to realise who we were among and the responsibility that this placed upon us. Not only was Augustus to be present, ruler of the known world north of the sea but also King Juba himself, who was about to become the most powerful man in the southern world. And here I was watching Virgil – a man whose name should echo with the birth of future generations – sucking on a lobster claw there, just twenty paces from us. And this evening, there were to be speeches from professors of rhetoric, some more animal shows, the Great Centurion and then…us! We were to close the stage show before the general music and dancing began as the torches and bonfires were lit, and more food and wine brought round.