I stood staring at the bare mound and thought, Is this all there is?
A heap of dirt that would not outlast next year’s harvest—was that what life was all about? Was there nothing else? For if all the laughter, hope, passion, and dreams, all the love and life ended in a dank hole in the ground, what was the use? It all came to nothing. In the end the grave loomed over everything—and even that did not last.
The grave swallowed everything. Greedy and insatiable, the grave devoured young and old alike. No one escaped. Death was the answer, the last argument, brutal in its irrefutable finality. Death conquered all, and it would take me as it took everyone else. There was no escape, and nothing I did would ever make the slightest difference.
Even as I stood contemplating this desolate prospect, I heard someone coming down the path. Thinking it was Decimus come to fetch me before time, I turned to wave him off and saw that it was not Decimus but a stranger. Dressed in a simple gray robe, like that of a provincial priest, he came ducking the olive branches and humming a curious tune.
A tall and very plump, round-shouldered man, white-haired but sprightly still, he walked lightly on the balls of his feet. His substantial girth was gathered in a plain leather belt, and though his clothing might have been that of a cleric, the sandals on his feet were those of a Roman soldier.
The happy stranger glanced up as he drew near, smiled cheerfully, and raised his hand in greeting. “So!” he exclaimed in a deep, resonant voice. “Back in the land of the living. Good.” He nodded with evident satisfaction. “Not that I had any doubt at all.”
He came to stand beside me and looked down at the graves. “Ah, well,” he said softly. He folded his hands before him and stood for a moment, bobbing his head. “Ah, yes, well.” He sighed and turned to regard me with eyes the same color as the sea. “How are you feeling?”
“You are the physician,” I said. “The one who attended me.”
“I suppose I am. Although, just between you and me and God, I have been accused of worse.” Nodding to himself, he said, “But I am no true physician. I know a little, and I am happy to do what I can. Sometimes it helps.”
“If you are not a physician,” I said, “who are you?”
“I am called Pelagius,” he said. “And, yes, I did look in on you a few times. I am leaving Aenaria in a few days, and I wanted to see you up and around before I left.”
“Pelagius,” I said. “I have heard about you.”
“Ah, yes, well.” He sighed again. “I suppose most everyone has by now. Still, I make no secret of it.” He peered at me amiably. “Do you have views?”
“None whatsoever,” I replied. “I have heard your name, that’s all—from a former friend of mine, a priest. He had views.”
The kindly man rolled his eyes. “Priests! They all have views.”
“Are you not a priest?”
“A monk of a sort, but not a priest. Never a priest.” He shook his head and looked at me. “Decimus told me you are British born.”
“Indeed.”
“I am a Briton, too,” he confided. He looked out across the sea. “We are both a long way from home, I think. But I at least will not see Britain again.”
“Why not?”
“I am bound for Jerusalem,” he said. “I have long wanted to go, and now the opportunity has come. I do not imagine I will make any more journeys after that.”
As he spoke, a fleeting melancholy tinged his voice. He paused, then said, “I only wanted to see if you were better.” He smiled again, recovering something of his former gladness. “And now that I have seen, I will bid you good day.”
“Why do they hate you so much?” I asked. The words were out of my mouth before I thought to curb my tongue.
He stared at me, his blue eyes narrowing with the quick intensity of his stare.
“I do beg your pardon,” I said quickly. “Please, I meant no disrespect, but as you are leaving soon and I may not see you again, I merely wanted to know. You see, I’ve heard the way they talk about you, but you are so unlike the person I imagined, and…”
“You wanted to know if what they said about me was true?”
I nodded.
“Ah, yes, well, it is not an easy thing to say,” he replied, scratching his white-bristled chin. “Am I a fomenter of spurious teaching? A snake in the garden of paradise? A heretic?”
“Are you?”
“Never anything so grand as all that,” he confided. “Still, I have made some powerful enemies, and your question is apt. Why do they hate me so very much?” He spread his hands. “That I cannot say. Truly, I find it incomprehensible.
“As to the charge of heresy, I have stood before the pope himself in Rome to receive his judgment. I defended my teaching, and I was acquitted.” Pelagius was no longer the jolly monk, his voice taking on the fire of conviction. “Their charges, their court, their council—and I alone, by myself without a friend in the room. The pope heard me out. The pope ruled: ‘I find no fault in this man!’”
Pelagius shook his head. “That should have been the end of it. But, alas, it was only the beginning.”
“That is the way of the world,” I said.
“The way of the world, yes,” he agreed, “but not God’s way. Truth against the world—ah, now, that is God’s way.”
At his use of the term, I heard the echo of a time so far removed from me it seemed as if it had happened to someone else. “Truth against the world,” I replied, unable to keep the sneer out of my voice. “You speak like the Ceile De.”
His white eyebrows rose in merry amazement. “You know the Ceile De?”
“I do—in fact, I once considered myself one of their number. At least I wanted to be.”
“Once? What happened?”
“I grew up,” I replied bitterly. “I got true wisdom. I learned how little it matters what a man believes. Whether a man prays to Zeus or Mithra, Christ or Apollo—no god is ever going to come to his aid; there is no help in trouble, and in the end nothing is going to save him.”
Pointing to the graves at our feet, I said, “God’s way? I can tell you that from here it looks like God’s way is death and corruption in a never-ending parade of brutal and senseless destruction.”
“You are bereft,” Pelagius told me gently. “It is natural to feel this way in times of grief.”
“Grief only sharpens a man’s vision,” I snapped. “But, no, I have felt this way for a very long time.” Indicating the graves once more, I said, “And this—this is merely the final confirmation of a long-held belief. Nothing I have ever seen argues otherwise.”
Pelagius was silent for a moment, contemplating the graves at his feet. He nodded to himself, then said, “It is true that we live in a world that does not love us. Our great mother has a voracious appetite for her own offspring, and she will kill us if she can. And, yes, I suppose she will kill us anyway in the end. Our bodies may be dust, but”—he raised a finger to point skyward—“our spirits were made for heaven.”
I complimented him on this well-spoken sentiment and said, “Yet if that is the end, why not just lie down and die and save ourselves all the heartache and trouble?”
“Ah!” He brightened. “It is the trouble that makes it all worthwhile.”
“Spoken like a true son of the church,” I scoffed.
“Do you doubt it?”
“I do.”
He regarded me with kindly indulgence and said, “Give me your hands.”
I stared back, uncertain that I had heard him correctly.
“Your hands,” he said, reaching out, “let me see them.”
Thinking only to humor him and so cut short this increasingly irritating interview, I did as he asked. He held my hands and gazed at them for a moment, as if judging the worth of a pair of gloves. He turned them over and examined the backs, then peered into the palms.
I stood there, awkward in this posture, and wondered how long I must endure his peculiar inquisition.
“They ar
e good hands, strong hands,” Pelagius declared at last. “I can see that from a young age you have had to seize whatever has been given you in order to survive. You have done well; you have succeeded where others would have failed, and you have done it by the strength of your hands alone.”
My throat tightened with the knowledge that, inexplicably, he spoke the truth.
“Ah, yes, but now”—he continued gazing at my hands as if at a map or chart of an unknown island—“you have reached the limit of what human strength can achieve. You look upon the work of your hands and see how worthless it is. For unless it is allied to something greater than itself, your achievement will not outlast the hands that framed it.”
He raised his eyes to mine and saw the confirmation there. “I see that this is so.”
Unable to dispute his conclusion, I merely nodded.
“Ah, but see! Your labors have not been in vain,” he assured me. “It is a great and wonderful gift you have been granted: Now you know a truth that it takes some men a lifetime to understand—and many never learn at all.”
He released my hands, and the spell was broken. “A dubious gift, it seems to me,” I muttered, finding my voice again.
“Never say it,” he retorted gently. “Truth against the world, remember. In truth is freedom itself. Dwell in truth and the things of this world can no longer enslave you.” He smiled suddenly, “And you know something of being a slave, I think, yes?”
Again I merely nodded.
“Wealth, power, fame—all those prizes for which other men strive so ardently—none of them can ever hold dominion over you again. You are free to pursue the things that last.”
“What things are those?”
“The things of God.”
He genuinely meant it, but I stiffened at this prosaic pronouncement. How little he knew if he imagined I would find any comfort in that quarter.
Before I could protest, he touched my hand again and said, “You have learned what a man can do in his own strength, yes? Perhaps now it is time to learn what God can do with a man who knows the limits of his strength.”
He smiled and held his head to one side, as if considering a view he found mildly amusing. “Do you mind if I pray for you in the days to come?”
“Not at all. But why not use your breath for whistling? It will do as much good.”
He looked around at the olive grove and the flat, motionless sea glittering beneath the sun. Finally he said, “Ah, yes, well, I have inflicted myself upon you long enough. I must go. I will say farewell, Patricius.”
It is an ordinary word, patricius; it means nobleman. And I thought nothing of it at the time. I wished him well on his journey and bade him go in peace. He lifted a hand in parting and walked back up the path, humming as he went. In a little while I was alone again, and more bereft than ever.
I visited the graves every day from then on. Each day the despair in me grew. Morose, heartsick, I sank down and down into a black, airless abyss: trapped. There was no consolation, no way out. Dea fussed and worried over me, and Decimus tried to interest me in running the estate. It was a gesture of kindness only; he needed no help from me.
Instead I sat in the olive grove and watched the days pass, sinking deeper and deeper still into a grim and solitary hopelessness.
Then one evening I returned to the house to find a courier waiting for me—a young soldier wearing the blue belt of the scholae, or imperial bodyguard.
“Greetings, my lord,” he said courteously. “I bring a message from Rome.”
He opened the dispatch box at his belt and drew out a small scroll. Thanking him, I accepted it and set it aside. “You must be tired from your journey. Stay here tonight if you like; I will have the housekeeper prepare a meal for you.”
I dismissed him then, but he did not move.
“Was there something else?”
“Sir, if you please, I am to watch you read the message and return at once with your answer.”
“Of course,” I said. “Then we had both better sit down. Dea, bring us some wine and give this hungry soldier some of your good cakes.”
Taking up the scroll again, I looked at the seal. It was a senatorial insignia, but I did not recognize the emblem. I broke the seal and unwrapped the tightly rolled parchment. “This is from Senator Graccus,” I said. “Did you know that?”
“Yes, my lord. The senator himself gave it to me.”
While the housekeeper scurried around preparing supper, I read the message from my friend and guide. His salutation was warm but subdued, and the reason became quickly evident: Word had come from Gaul that Vicarius Columella had been slain in an attack on Augusta Treverorum; the garrison itself had been lost. The senator apologized for having to break the news this way, but inasmuch as he had been reliably informed that Lady Columella and her son, Gaius, had died in the plague it was his duty to inform me that Oriana had inherited the family property. He was certain we would want to make arrangements to return to the city in due course to register our legal claim. Further, owing to the severity of the plague and the concomitant loss of seats in the Curia, he had been empowered to offer me a praetorship—the next office higher than a quaestor—effective immediately.
So there it was. Heir to a fortune and an eventual senatorship as good as secured. A glorious future beckoned, and all it had cost me was everything.
I read the words again, and they turned to ashes in my mouth. The futility! The insane futility of it all struck me as ludicrous and obscene. What was the use of striving, of trying to make a life, when death rendered every circumstance meaningless? Whether success or failure, happiness or sorrow—all was swallowed in the grave. In light of that, nothing mattered. Death claimed everything, the world moved on, and in time, whether good or ill, all was forgotten.
I sat staring at the scroll and felt the soldier’s eyes on me. I glanced up at him. “My lord?” he said. “What answer will you give?”
“Tell the good senator that Lady Oriana and her infant child have succumbed to the plague. Inform him that I also was taken ill but am now much recovered. Tell him that I am grateful for all he has done on my behalf, but that I am better occupied here, and therefore I regret to say that I will not be returning to Rome to take up the praetorship so kindly and thoughtfully offered.”
He rose at once. “I will tell him, my lord.”
“Sit down, friend. You will eat something before you go. The fate of Rome can wait until you’ve finished your supper.”
The soldier thanked me and resumed his place. Dea brought out bowls of fish stew and placed them before us. There was bread and goat cheese, along with some green onions fresh from her garden. I let the young man eat a moment, then asked, “Where is your home?”
“My family is from Lusitania, my lord.”
“How long have you been in Rome?”
“Two years.”
“Before that?”
“I was at Aeminium, not far from where I grew up.”
“Have you served long?”
“Four years,” he replied, adding quickly, “It will be five in three months.”
I shook my head. Less than five years and already a member of the scholae. But what of that? I myself had become both centurion and a quaestor in less than half the time he had served. The empire rested on such young and inexperienced shoulders. I wondered how long it could last.
We talked a little more, and when he finished, he rose and took his leave. “Stay here tonight,” I offered. “It is no trouble. The house is nearly empty. You can be on your way first thing in the morning. Senator Graccus will not mind, I assure you.”
“I thank you, sir, but I must return to the port. There is a boat waiting.”
“I commend you, soldier,” I said. “May your sense of duty serve you well.”
He departed then. I walked with him a short way down the path to see him off, then stood for a time looking at the evening sky and listening to the crickets in the tall grass. Rust-tinted clouds sailed l
ow across the dusky horizon. The dark branches of the cypress trees above me were alive with the twitter of tiny birds fidgeting and fussing as they settled for the night. The peace of the place was a balm to me, and I needed it. Let the world go its way, I wanted nothing more to do with it. Let it go—the rank, the wealth, the much-vaunted glory, and all the vain striving that went with it…let it all go. I wanted none of it.
Until I read Graccus’ message, I had not known what I would do. His question forced a decision, and as I read those efficient and well-ordered words, I knew that there was nothing for me in Rome that I desired. I did not want to be a senator. I did not want property and position. I did not want wealth, or power, or anything else that death would steal in a few years’ time.
What, then, did I want?
FIFTY-FIVE
AUTUMN CAME EARLY to the island. I watched as the harvest proceeded. Grain was reaped, threshed, and stored; fish and vegetables were dried and livestock fattened for butchering. The days drew in slowly, and more often than not, cold winds brought rain off the sea. Most days I sat in a chair beside the brazier in my room feeding twigs to the fire—much to the consternation of Dea, who brought meals only to take them away again cold and uneaten.
Graccus did not let his offer end with a single refusal. He sent two more couriers, each with slightly more urgent messages imploring me to return to Rome and take up my praetorship at once. Plague had devastated much of the city, the senator wrote, and there was a great deal to be done. A good man could advance himself with unprecedented swiftness. Come to Rome, he said, and on my return we would talk about my future, in which, apparently, the rank of vicarius was a juicy plum ripe for the plucking.
This last message was delivered in person. Senator Graccus, on his way to the emperor’s winter palace on the island of Capri, stopped by to persuade me to heed the voice of reason.
“I do not wish to be a vicarius,” I told him. “I do not wish to be anything—save, perhaps, left alone.”
“But you cannot remain here forever.”
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