by Mika Waltari
“Naturally,” she admitted. “Do you think they’d have dared touch a Roman otherwise?”
She knelt beside me and without shyness felt all over me before I could stop her.
“They didn’t crush your pouch-stones as they said, did they?” she said anxiously. “It would be bad if you could not make children with some noble Roman girl.”
Then I could no longer control myself. I smacked both her cheeks, thrust her beneath me and pinned her to the ground with my weight, although she beat at me with both fists on my shoulders, kicked me and bit my chest. But she did not call for help. Before I knew where I was, she had relaxed and she let me come. My life strength spurted into her and I had a feeling of such sensual pleasure that I cried out aloud. Then all I could feel was how her hands held my cheeks and she kissed me over and over again. Appalled, I drew back and sat up. Then she too sat up and burst out laughing.
“Do you know what has happened to us?” she said mockingly.
I was so terrified I could not reply.
“You’re bleeding,” I cried.
“I’m glad you noticed that anyhow, stupid,” she said shyly.
When I remained speechless, she laughed again.
“Petro advised me,” she explained. “I should never have thought of it myself. I didn’t like beating you so mercilessly. But Petro said nothing else helped with tough, shy Roman boys.”
She rose to her feet and took my hand.
“We’d better go to Petro,” she said. “He’s sure to have some wine and a bowl of flour ready for us.”
“What do you mean?” I said distrustfully.
“You’ve taken me by force, although I struggled as long as my self-respect demantled,” she said in surprise. “You don’t want Father to take his sword down from the wall and begin looking for his honor in your intestines, do you? He has a legal right to do so. Even the Romans respect that right. It would be in every way more sensible if we let Petro rub oil and flour in our hair. He can put a ring on my finger in the Roman way, if you insist.”
“But Lugunda,” I cried, “you can’t possibly come with me to Rome, or even London.”
“I’m not going to run after you,” said Lugunda briskly. “Don’t worry. You can come back to me sometime if you want to, but I might well tire of waiting, break my marriage bowl and let your name burn to ashes. Then I’m a free woman again. Doesn’t your good sense tell you that it’s better to follow our customs than cause a scandal that will be heard as far away as Rome? Violating a hare-priestess is nothing to play about with. Or do you deny it? You jumped on me like a rutting beast and crushed my resistance with brute force.”
“You should have called for help,” I said bitterly. “And you shouldn’t have stroked me so shamelessly when I was already in such a stunned state.”
“I was only worried about your reproductive capacity,” she lied calmly. “I couldn’t possibly know that the light touch demantled by the rules of the art of healing would make you blind with rage.”
Nothing could change my real regret. We went down to a stream and carefully washed ourselves. Then we walked hand in hand into the big room in the timbered house where Lugunda’s parents were eagerly waiting for us. Petro mixed oil and flour, rubbed it into our heads and then let us drink some wine from the same clay bowl, which Lugunda’s father then carefully put away in a chest. After this he led us to the prepared marriage bed, knocked me over on top of Lugunda and covered us with his big leather shield.
When they had all considerately left the marriage hut, Lugunda threw the shield on to the floor and asked me humbly to do to her, in all gentleness and friendship, what I had done in my rage in the forest. The damage had already been done and no obstacle stood in the way.
So we embraced each other tenderly after I had kissed her in the Roman way. Not until then did Lugunda get up and fetch healing ointments to rub gently on to my back. It hurt when I remembered to think about it.
Just as I was falling into the deepest sleep of my life, I remembered that I had broken my promise to Claudia, but I blamed the full moon and the magic of the Druids. Obviously no man could avoid his predetermined destiny, I thought, inasmuch as I had the strength to think at all.
The following day I tried to make immediate preparations to leave, but Lugunda’s father wanted me to go with him to look at the fields, herds, grazing lands and forests he was to set aside for Lugunda and her descendants. T his journey took us three days and when we returned, not to be outdone, I gave Lugunda my gold tribune chain.
Lugunda’s lather seemed to consider this an insignificant wedding present, for when Lugunda had put her hair up he took out a gold necklace as thick as a child’s wrist and put it around his daughter’s neck. Such necklaces are worn only by the queens and most noble women in Britain. From all this even I, numbskull that I was, realized that Lugunda was of more noble lineage than I had ever imagined, so noble that her lather did not even have to boast about it. Petro explained that if I had not been a Roman knight and son of a senator, I should have had a sword run through me and certainly not the family battle shield put over my sore back,
I had both my Iceni father-in-law and Petro’s position as sacrificial priest, physician and judge to thank for the fact that I escaped being accused of witchcraft as well. The noble British youth who had attacked me with his fists out of jealousy broke his neck that same moonlit night when his horse at full gallop shied away from some unknown animal and sent him hurtling headfirst at a stone.
Of course I was occasionally tormented by the thought of the promise I had given to Claudia and so reluctantly broken, and also by a painful feeling that Lugunda was not really my lawfully wedded wife since in my thoughts I could not regard my British marriage as legally binding. But I was young. My body, for so long disciplined, was completely bewildered by Lugunda’s caresses and tenderness, and day after day I postponed my inevitable departure to Colchester.
But one tires more quickly of an excess of physical satisfaction than of self-control. Soon we began to irritate one another, Lugunda and I, exchanging angry words and agreeing only in bed. When I at last began my return journey, I felt as if I had been freed from shackles or a spell. Yes, I flew like a bird from its cage and did not reproach myself for an instant that I had deserted Lugunda. She had only had her own way. She would have to be satisfied with that, I thought.
Vespasian excused me from military exercises and tribune staff duties, and I rewrote my book on Britain from start to finish. I had rid myself of the enchantment of that first summer and now described everything as lucidly and factually as I could. I no longer saw the Britons in the same rosy light, and even made fun of some of their customs. I acknowledged Julius Caesar’s contribution to the civilizing of Britain, but verified, for instance, that the god Augustus’ treaty with the Brigantes in the eyes of the Brigantes themselves constituted nothing but a friendly exchange of gifts. They considered they had received more than they needed to give, as long as they remained peaceful.
On the other hand, I gave Emperor Claudius full credit for leaving southern Britain in the Roman Empire, and Aulus Plautius for bringing about peace. Vespasian himself asked me not to say too much about his own merits. He was still waiting in vain for a new procurator or commantler-in-chief and did not wish to stir up ill feeling in Rome with praise of himself.
“I am neither clever enough nor deceitful enough to adapt myself to the changed circumstances there, and so would prefer to stay in Britain, without unnecessary reminders of my merits, than to return to my former poverty in Rome,” he explained.
I already knew that Emperor Claudius had not kept the oath he had once sworn before the Praetorian Guard to the goddess Fides, his right hand covered with a white cloth. Some months after Messalina’s death, he had explained that he could not live without a wife and had chosen the most noble woman in Rome as his consort, his own niece Agrippina, the same person whose son Lucius Domitius had once sought my friendship.
New laws
permitting incest were necessary for this marriage, but the Senate had willingly obliged. The most farsighted of the senators had begged Claudius to take back his sacred promise and benefit the state by marrying again. In Rome everything had been turned upside-down in a very short time. Vespasian was being careful not to burn his fingers in this mess.
“Agrippina is a beautiful and wise woman,” he said. “She will certainly have learned much from the bitter experiences of her youth and her first two marriages. I only hope she’ll be a good stepmother to Britannicus. Then she won’t abandon my son Titus, although I made the mistake of leaving him with Messalina when I went to war.”
Vespasian realized that with the completion of my book, I had had enough of Britain and was longing to return to Rome. The book had to be copied. I myself was restless and uncertain. More and more, as the spring in Britain bloomed, I was reminded of Lugunda.
After the feast of Flora, I received a letter in London, written on bark in faulty Latin. In it stood the hope that I should soon return to the Iceni country to take my newborn son on my knee. This astounding news terminated my longing for Lugunda abruptly, and instead roused in me a burning desire to see Rome again. I was still young enough to think that I could rid myself of guilt by changing abode.
Vespasian kindly gave me a courier’s plaque and several letters to take to Rome. Ignoring the high winds, I boarded the ship and on the journey vomited the whole of Britain into the foaming salt sea. More dead than alive, I landed in Gaul, and there is no more to tell about Britain. But I decided never to return there before it was possible to do so on foot. This is one of the decisions of my life I have been able to keep to.
Book IV
Claudia
It is wonderful to be eighteen when one has risen to the rank of tribune, feels loved by the whole world and can read faultlessly one’s first work to a knowledgeable audience. It was as if Rome, like myself, were experiencing her most wonderful spring; as if her poisoned air had been cleansed when the noble, elegant Agrippina had succeeded the youthful Messalina as Claudius’ wife.
Living a gay life was no longer fashionable. Morals had become purer, for it was said that Agrippina, whenever Claudius was capable of it, sent for the rolls of both knights and senators and ruthlessly struck off the names of all those who were known for their immoral way of life or were guilty in other ways. Claudius, as usual, saw to his office of Censor, sighing heavily at his duties but gratefully accepting suggestions from a good and politically experienced woman.
Thanks to her, Claudius also attempted to pull himself together. His freedmen, especially his secretary Narcissus and treasurer, Procurator Pallas, were once again in his good graces. Pallas, exhausted by the demands of his office, was forced to consult with the indefatigable Agrippina for nights on end.
When I myself met Agrippina again, I thought she had acquired a new gentleness and beauty. She took the trouble to take me with her to the school at Palatine, summoning Vespasian’s son Titus to her and caressing her stepson, Britannicus, gently on the head. Britannicus seemed sullen and withdrawn for his nine years, but that was not surprising, as he missed his beautiful mother a great deal and not even the most loving attentions from a stepmother could compensate. When we left, Agrippina told me that Britannicus, to the sorrow of his father, suffered from epilepsy and so could not do physical exercises. The boy was especially affected at full moon and needed careful watching.
Even more enthusiastically, Agrippina took me to a sunny part of
Palatine to see her own family, the handsome, dashing Lucius Domitius, and introduce me to his tutor. One of the first of Agrippina’s actions after coming to power had been to summon Annaeus Seneca back from exile and ask him to take charge of her son’s education. Seneca’s stay in Corsica had obviously done him good and also cured his tuberculosis, whatever he may have said about his exile in his letters. He was about forty-five, a plump man, who greeted me in a friendly way. I saw from his soft red boots that he had also been made a senator.
Lucius Domitius surprised me by rushing up and kissing me as if he were meeting a longlost friend. He held my hand and sat beside me, asking about my experiences in Britain and marveling that the Noble Order of Knights at the temple of Castor and Pollux had confirmed my rank of tribune so soon.
Confused by all this graciousness, I took the liberty of mentioning my little book and humbly requesting Seneca to read it, largely to improve the writing of it before I read it in public. Seneca kindly agreed to do this and I visited the Palace several times as a result. In his honest opinion, my presentation lacked fluency, but he admitted that there was a place for a dry and factual style as I was mostly describing the geography and history of the Britons, their tribal customs, religious beliefs and their way of waging war. Lucius liked to read my book aloud to show me how one should read. He had an unusually fine voice and such an ability to become absorbed in a subject that I too became absorbed, as if my book were exceptionally remarkable.
“If you were to read it,” I said, “then my future would be assured.”
In the refined atmosphere of the Palace I felt I had had enough of the dreary life of camps and the crude habits of the legion. I was delighted to become Lucius’ pupil when he wished to teach me the pleasing gestures suited to an author reading out his work. On his advice, I went to the theater and often accompanied him on his walks in the Lucullus gardens on the Pincian hill which his mother had inherited from Messalina. Lucius used to run along, chattering away, but always paying attention to his movements. He might suddenly stop, as if in deep thought, and make such profound remarks that it was hard to believe he was so young that his voice had not yet broken. One could not help liking him, if he wished to please. And it was as if he needed to please everyone he met after his joyless childhood, even slaves. Seneca had taught him that slaves were also human beings, just as my father had taught me in Antioch.
It was as if this same atmosphere had spread from Palatine over the whole of Rome. Even Tullia received me in a friendly manner and did not try to stop me seeing my father when I wanted to. She dressed carefully now, as befitted the wife of a Roman senator with legal rights of a mother of three children, and she wore far fewer jewels than before.
My father took me by surprise. He was much thinner and less breathless and moody than before I had gone to Britain. Tullia had bought him a Greek physician educated in Alexandria whom my father had, of course, soon freed. The physician had ordered baths and massage for him, persuaded him to drink less and do ball exercises for a short time every day, so that now he wore his purple band with considerable dignity. His reputation for wealth and good humor had spread throughout Rome, so that groups of clients and people seeking help crowded into his hall every morning. He helped many people, but he refused to recommend anyone for citizenship, although as a senator he had a right to.
But it is about Claudia I must relate, however reluctantly and guiltily I went to see her. Outwardly she had not changed a bit. Nevertheless, I seemed at first to be looking at a stranger. She gave me a delighted smile to begin with and then her mouth narrowed and her eyes darkened.
“I’ve had bad dreams about you,” she said. “I see they were true. You are not the same as before, Minutus.”
“How could I be the same,” I cried, “after spending two years in Britain, writing a book, killing barbarians and earning my red plumes? You live in the country as if on a duck pond. You can’t expect the same of me.”
But Claudia looked in my eyes and raised her hand to touch my cheek.
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Minutus,” she said. “But I was stupid to have expected you to keep a promise which no man could keep.”
I should have been wiser if I had been angry at her words, broken off with her there and then and gone my way. It is much easier to be angry when one is in the wrong. But instead, when I saw her deep disappointment I took her in my arms, kissed her and caressed her, and was seized by the need to tell at least one pers
on in the world about Lugunda and my experiences.
We sat by her spring on a stone bench under her old tree and I told her about how Lugunda had come into my life, how I had taught her to read and how useful she had been on my journeys among the Britons. Then I began to falter a little and look down at the ground. Claudia seized me by the arm with both hands and shook me, telling me to go on. So I told her what my self-respect allowed me to, but in the end I did not have the courage to tell her that Lugunda had borne me a son. In the vanity of my youth, however, I boasted of my manhood and Lugunda’s virginity.
To my surprise, Claudia was most hurt by the fact that Lugunda was a hare-priestess.
“I’m tired of the birds flying from Vatican,” she said. “I no longer believe in omens. The gods of Rome have become to me just statues with no power and I’m not surprised that in a foreign country you were bewitched, you with your lack of experience. But if you honestly regret your sins, then I can show you a new way. People need more than magic, omens and stone statues. While you were away, I’ve experienced things I’d never have believed possible.”
Unsuspecting, I asked her to tell me about it, but my heart sank when I realized her uncle’s wife, Paulina, had begun to use her as an intermediary between her and her friends, thus involving Claudia much more deeply in the infamous machinations of the Christians.
“They have the power to cure the sick and forgive us our sins,” Claudia said fervently. “A slave or the poorest of tradesmen is equal to the wealthiest and most important person at their holy meals. We greet each other with a kiss as a sign of our mutual love. When the spirit comes to the congregation, they are seized with holy ecstasy so that simple people begin to speak foreign languages and the faces of the holy glow in the darkness.”
I looked at her with the same horror as one regards a very sick person, but Claudia seized both my hands in hers.
“Don’t condemn them until you’ve got to know them,” she said. “Yesterday was Saturn’s day and the Jewish Sabbath. Today is the Christians’ holy day because it was the day after the Sabbath that their king rose from the dead. But the heavens may open any day and he will return to earth and found the kingdom of a thousand years in which the last will be first and the first last.”