by Mika Waltari
“These are hard words,” they all said at once. “We must bear witness to our king and proclaim his kingdom. Otherwise we are not worthy of him.”
My father spread out his hands and sighed heavily.
“His kingdom is a long time coming,” he said, “but undoubtedly it is you who share his spirit and not I. Do as you wish. If the matter comes before the Senate, I shall try to put in a good word for you. But if you’ll permit it, then I’ll not mention the kingdom. That would only make you politically suspect.”
They were content with this and left just in time, for Tullia met them in the arcade on her return from her round of visits, and she was not pleased.
“Oh, Marcus,” she said. “How many times do I have to warn you against receiving these questionable Jews? I’ve nothing against your going to listen to philosophers. If it amuses you, you can help the poor, send your physician to the sick and give dowries to parentless girls. But, by all the gods, keep away from the Jews, for your own sake.”
Then she turned her attention to me, complained about my bad shoes, the careless folds in my mantle and my badly cut hair.
“You’re not among crude soldiers anymore,” she snapped. “You should take more care of your appearance for your father’s sake. I’ll have to send you a barber and valet, I suppose. Aunt Laelia is too old-fashioned and shortsighted to notice any longer.”
I replied sullenly that I already had a barber, for I did not want to have any of her slaves dogging my every footstep. It was true that on my birthday I had bought and freed a slave for whom I had felt sorry and I had helped him to set up on his own in Subura. He was already doing quite well, selling women’s wigs and the usual procuring. I explained too that Aunt Laelia would be deeply offended if a strange slave came to see to my clothes.
“Anyhow, one has more trouble than joy from slaves,” I said.
Tullia remarked that it was entirely a matter of discipline.
“But,” she said, “what do you really want to do with your life, Minutus? I’ve heard you spend your nights in brothels and neglect your studies with your rhetoric tutor. If you really want to read out your book this winter then you must keep your undisciplined body in check and work hard. It’s high time you made a suitable marriage.”
I explained that I wanted to make the most of my youth, within limits, and that at least I had not landed myself in trouble with the authorities for drunkenness and other things young knights were known for.
“I am looking around,” I said. “I take part in the riding exercises. I listen with the audience in the Praetorium if there is anything interesting. I read books. Seneca the philosopher has shown kindness to me. Naturally I am thinking of applying for a quaestor’s office sometime, but I’m still too young and inexperienced for that, even if I could get special permission.”
Tullia looked at me pityingly.
“You must realize that what is most important for your future is getting to know the right people,” she explained. “I’ve arranged invitations for you to good families, but they tell me you are sulky and silent and won’t meet friendship with friendship.”
“My dear stepmother,” I said, “I respect your judgment in every way. But everything I have seen and heard in Rome tells me to avoid binding myself to people who at the moment are considered the right people. Two hundred or so knights, not to mention a number of senators, were executed or committed suicide only a year or two ago, simply because at the time they were the right people or knew the right people only too well.”
“Thanks to Agrippina, all that’s changed now,” protested Tullia with perhaps too much eagerness. But my words gave her something to think about.
“The wisest thing you could do,” she suggested after a while, “would be to devote your time to the races and join one of the color parties. That’s a completely nonpolitical interest but will still lead to useful connections. You like horses.”
“One can have enough of horses,” I said.
“Horses are less dangerous than women,” said Tullia maliciously.
My father looked at her thoughtfully and said that for once she was light.
“It would only attract unnecessary attention,” she said vindictively, “if you set up your own team at once, presuming your father can afford it. I know it’s only a matter of time now before we can let the fields grow again as pasture land. Growing corn in Italy will not pay once the harbor in Ostia is completed. But you’d hardly make a good horse breeder. Be content with betting on the races.”
But my days were full enough without the circus. I had my own old house in Aventine, Barbus to look after, Aunt Laelia to appease, and I also had to defend my Gallic freedman when his neighbor accused him of causing an offensive smell with his soap making. It was a relatively simple matter defending him in court, for the tanneries and dye works caused far worse smells. But it was more difficult to meet the statement that the use of soap instead of pumice was weakening and against the will of our forefathers. The neighbor’s lawyer tried to have the manufacture of soap banned in Rome by appealing to the forefathers of our forefathers all the way back to Romulus, all of whom had been content to scour themselves with the health-giving and hardening pumice.
In my speech for the defence, I praised Rome as an Empire and world power.
“Romulus did not burn eastern incense before his idols,” I cried proudly. “Our stern forefathers did not have caviar brought from the other side of the Black Sea, or foreign birds from the Steppes, or flamingos’ tongues or Indian fish. Rome is the melting pot of many peoples and customs. Rome chooses the best of everything and ennobles alien customs so that they become her own.”
So the use of soap was not banned in Rome and my freedman improved his soap by blending perfume with it and giving it beautiful names. We made a small fortune from Genuine Cleopatra Soap, although it was made in a back street in Subura. I must also admit that his best customers, apart from Roman women, were Greeks and people from the East who lived in Rome. The use of soap in public baths was still considered immoral.
I had much to do, but nevertheless it happened that at night, just before falling asleep, I often wondered about the meaning of life. Sometimes I was pleased with my little successes and sometimes I was depressed because it all seemed so meaningless to me. Chance and fortune ruled over one’s existence, and death was sooner or later the hopeless lot of every person. I was, of course, both happy and lucky, but every time I achieved something, my pleasure became clouded and I was discontented with myself again.
At last the day I had so eagerly prepared for arrived. I was to read my book in the lecture hall in the Imperial Library on Palatine. Through my friend Lucius Domitius, Emperor Claudius himself sent a message to say that he would be present in the afternoon. As a result, everyone who sought the Emperor’s favor competed for a place in the hall.
In the audience were some officers who had served in Britain, members of the Senate committee on British matters, and Aulus Plautius himself. But some people had to remain outside the doors, and complained to Claudius that there was no room for them despite their enormous interest in the subject.
I began my reading early in the morning, and regardless of my understandable excitement I read without faltering and was myself kindled by my own reading, as is every author who has taken great pains to polish his work. Nothing disturbed me, either, except Lucius Domitius’ whisperings and gestures as he tried to indicate how I should read. A far too sumptuous meal was brought, which Tullia had arranged and my father paid for. When I continued afterwards about the religious customs of the Britons, many people were nodding, although I thought this the most interesting part of the book.
Then I was forced to break off when Claudius arrived as he had promised. He had Agrippina with him and they sat down on the bench of honor and invited Lucius Domitius to sit between them. The lecture hall was suddenly crammed full, but to those who complained Claudius said firmly, “If the book is worth hearing, it can be read again. M
ake sure you are there then. But go away now. Otherwise the rest of us won’t be able to breathe.”
Actually, the Emperor was slightly drunk and often belched loudly. I had not read more than a few lines when he interrupted me.
“I’ve a bad memory,” he said. “So allow me, as first citizen, due to my rank and age, to tell you where you are right and where you are wrong.”
He began to give his own long-winded interpretation of the Druids’ human sacrifices and said that in Britain he had sought in vain for the large plaited wicker baskets in which prisoners were placed before being burned alive.
“Of course, I believe what reliable eyewitnesses tell me,” he said. “But I rely most on my own eyes and so I can’t swallow your statement whole. But please go on, young Lausus.”
I had not read much further when he again interrupted with something he had seen in Britain and considered it necessary to discuss. The audience’s peals of laughter confused me somewhat, but Claudius had some knowledgeable remarks to make about my book.
Finally, in the middle of it all, he and Aulus Plautius became engrossed in a lively discussion on the details of the Emperor’s campaign. The public encouraged them by calling out “Hear, hear,” and I was forced to stop reading. Only Seneca’s calming influence made me suppress my irritation.
Senator Ostorius, who seemed an authority on all matters British, joined in the discussion. He maintained that the Emperor had committed a political blunder by breaking olf the campaign without suppressing the Britons.
“Suppressing the Britons is easier said than done,” snapped Claudius, justifiably affronted. “Show him your scars, Aulus. That reminds me that everything in Britain is in arrears because I’ve not had the time to appoint a Procurator to succeed Aulus Plautius. There’s always you, Ostorius. I don’t think I’m the only person here who is tired of hearing how you know best about everything. Go home and prepare for your journey. Narcissus will write out your letters of authority today.”
I think my book had already shown the audience that it was no easy task civilizing the Britons. Everyone laughed, and after Ostorius had humbly left the hall, I was allowed to finish my reading in peace.
Claudius kindly allowed me to continue by the light of lamps as it had been he who had interrupted me and caused the delay. When Claudius began to applaud, the whole audience burst into loud clapping. No more corrections to my book were forthcoming, for it was already late and everyone was hungry.
Some of those who had been listening came back with us to my father’s house, where Tullia had arranged a banquet, for her cook was famed all over Rome. My book was not talked about much more there. Seneca introduced me to his own publisher, a fine old man, pale, bowed and shortsighted from so much reading, who offered to publish my book in an edition of five hundred in the first instance.
“I’m sure you can afford to publish your book yourself,” he said kindly. “But the name of a well-known publisher increases the sale of a book. My freedmen have a hundred experienced scribeslaves who on one dictation can copy any book swiftly and without many mistakes.”
Seneca had praised this man, who had not abandoned him even when Seneca had been in exile but had faithfully supplied the bookshops with the many writings he had sent to Rome from Corsica.
“Naturally I earn most from translations and revisions of love stories and travel books from the Greek. But not one of Seneca’s works has yet made a loss.”
I understood the implication and said that naturally I should be glad to pay my share of the cost of producing the book. It was indeed a great honor for me that he set his respected name as a seal on the quality of my book. Then I had to leave him and speak to some of the other guests. There were so many that I was quite confused; I also drank far too much wine. Finally I was filled with despair when I realized that none of those present in fact cared about me or my future. My book to them was only an excuse to eat rare dishes and drink the best wine of Campania, study and criticize each other, and secretly marvel at my father’s success, for which he, in their eyes, had no personal qualifications.
I longed for Claudia, who, I thought, was the only person in the world who really understood me or cared for me. She had naturally not dared come to my reading, but I knew with what excitement she was waiting to hear about it, and I suspected that she had not had much sleep. No doubt she would be outside her hut, looking at the stars in the winter sky and staring toward Rome as the vegetable carts rumbled along and the cattle lowed in the distant silence of the night. I had become so used to these sounds during the nights with her that I loved them. The very thought of rattling cartwheels brought Claudia to life so clearly in my mind that my body began to tremble.
There is no more depressing scene than the end of a large party, when the torches smolder and reek in the arcades, the last guests are helped by their slaves into their litters, the lamps are extinguished, spilled wine wiped up from the glossy mosaic floors and the vomit washed from the marble walls of the water closets. Tullia was of course delighted with the success of her party and talked excitedly with my father about this and that guest and what he or she had said or done. But I felt quite outside it all.
Had I been more experienced, I should have realized that this was due to the after-effects of the wine, but young as I was, I did not. So not even the company of my father tempted me when he and Tullia refreshed themselves with some light wine and fresh marine fruit while die slaves and servants cleared up the great rooms. I thanked them and left alone, without thought for the dangers of Rome at night, only longing for Claudia.
Her hut was warm and her bed smelled sweetly of wool. She filled the brazier so that I should not be cold. At first she said she had not expected me after such a grand party and the success of my book. But she had tears in her eyes when she whispered, “Oh, Minutus, now I know that you really love me.”
After a long spell of joy and a brief period of sleep, the winter morning crept into the hut. There was no sun and the gray winter felt like an ache in the soul as, pale and tired, we looked at each other again.
“Claudia,” I said, “what will happen to you and me? With you I seem to be beyond reality, as if in an alien world beneath the stars. I am happy only with you. But it cannot go on like this.”
I suppose I was secretly hoping she would hurriedly reply that things were best as they were and we could go on as before, for we could hardly do otherwise. But Claudia let out a great sigh of relief.
“I love you more than ever, Minutus,” she cried, “because you have brought up this delicate subject yourself. Of course things cannot go on as they are. As a man, you can’t possibly understand with what awful fear I await every monthly change. Neither is it worthy of a true woman to do nothing but wait until you feel like visiting me. In this way, my life is nothing but fear and agonizing waiting.”
Her words hurt me deeply.
“You’ve managed to hide those feelings very well,” I remarked harshly. “Up to now you’ve let me believe that you are happy simply that I come to you. But have you any suggestions?”
She gripped both my hands hard and looked straight into my eyes.
“There’s only one possibility, Minutus,” she said. “Let’s leave Rome. Abandon your career. Somewhere in the provinces or on the other side of the sea, we could live together without fear until Claudius is dead.”
I could not meet her eyes and drew my hands away from hers. Claudia shuddered and looked down.
“You said you enjoyed holding the lambs while I sheared them,” she said, “and fetching wood for the fire. You praised the water from my spring and said that my simple food was better than ambrosia in heaven. We could find the same happiness in any corner of the world, as long as it is far enough away from Rome.”
I thought for a moment and then said seriously, “I neither deny nor take back my words. But such a decision is too far-reaching to be decided on the spur of the moment. We can’t just go into voluntary exile.”
Out o
f sheer malice, I added: “And what about the kingdom you’re waiting for and the secret meals you partake in?”
Claudia looked downcast.
“I am still committing a sin with you,” she said, “and with them I no longer feel the same glow as I used to. It is as if they could see right through me and were grieving over me. So I’ve begun to avoid them. My guilt feels all the worse each time we meet. You’ll take away both my faith and my hope if everything goes on as before.”
When I returned to Aventine it was with a feeling that I had had a bucket of water thrown over me. I knew I had behaved unjusdy by using Claudia for pleasure without even giving her any money. But I thought that marriage was much too high a price to pay for mere sexual satisfaction, and neither did I want to leave Rome when I remembered how I had longed for it as a boy in Antioch and as a man in the winters of Britain.
The result was that I went to see Claudia less and less often and found all kinds of other things to do, until the unrest in my body once again drove me back to her. After this we were no longer happy together except in bed. Otherwise we constantly tormented each other until once again I left her in a fury.
The following spring, Claudius banished the Jews from Rome, for not a day had gone past without fighting breaking out, so that the disunity among the Jews caused unrest throughout the city. In Alexandria, the Jews and Greeks competed at killing each other and in Jerusalem, Jewish firebrands caused so many disturbances that finally Claudius tired of them all.
His influential freedmen were in complete agreement with his decision for they could now sell special permits for high prices to the richest Jews who wished to escape exile. Claudius did not even submit his decision to the Senate, although there were many Jews who had lived in Rome for several generations and attained citizenship. The Emperor considered that a written edict was sufficient, since he was not robbing anyone of the right to citizenship. A rumor had also gone around that the Jews had bribed too many senators.