The Roman sotk-2

by Mika Waltari

  They admitted that innermost in every person lies a longing for

  God’s clarity, but then they began to dispute about whether this same longing was to be found also in stones, plants, animals and in all higher developments of original forms. Dionysius said that Paul possessed a surprising amount of secret knowledge on the spiritual powers, but seemed to believe that he himself possessed even greater knowledge of the mutual order and rank of the spiritual powers. To me, such talk was like running water.

  I made a habit of bringing a little present for Damaris, flowers or preserved fruit, a cake or pure violet honey from Hymettus. She received my gifts looking straight at me with her clear experienced eyes, so that I felt young and clumsy compared to her. I soon noticed that she was constantly in my thoughts and that I was only waiting for those moments when I could go to her again.

  I think that during our conversations she taught me more by her behavior than by what she said. Naturally the moment came when I was forced to admit that I was blindly in love with her. I longed for her, her presence, her touch and her kiss, more than anything I had ever longed for before. My earlier love affairs seemed quite insignificant compared with what I could find in her arms. It was as if everything within me had been burned to ashes by thinking about her.

  I was appalled at myself. Was this then my judgment, that I should be in love for the rest of my life with a Hetaira who was twenty years older than myself, conscious of all the evil she had experienced? When I realized the truth, I should have liked to Bee from Athens but could no longer do so. I understood the wise men who had sighed for her, and I also understood the philosopher who had committed suicide on her threshold when he had seen the hopelessness of his desire.

  I could not flee. I had to go to her. When we again sat together and I looked at her, my lips trembled and hot tears of desire rose in my eyes.

  “Damaris,” I whispered. “Forgive me. I’m afraid I love you beyond all reason.”

  Damaris looked at me with her clear eyes, put out her hand and brushed my hand with the tips of her fingers. No more was needed to send a terrible shudder rushing through my whole body, and I heard myself give a sobbing sigh.

  “I was afraid of this too,” said Damaris. “I have seen it coming. At first it was an innocent cloud on the horizon, but now it is a black thunderstorm flashing inside you. I should have sent you away in time. But I am only a woman, despite everything.”

  She rested her chin on her hand to smooth out the wrinkles on her throat and stared straight ahead.

  “This always happens,” she said sadly. “The mouth dries up, the tongue trembles and tears come into the eyes.”

  She was right. My tongue was trembling in my dry mouth so that I could not say a single word. I threw myself down on my knees in front of her and tried to put my arms around her. But she turned lightly away from me and said, “Remember that I have been offered a thousand gold pieces for a single night. Once a newly rich man sold a silver mine because of me and had to begin his life all over again from poverty.”

  “I can get a thousand gold pieces,” I promised, “yes, two thousand if you give me time to speak to the bankers.”

  “Sometimes a violet has been enough, if I’ve taken a liking to a handsome youth,” she said. “But we shall not talk about that now. I want no gift from you. I shall give you one myself. That gift is the inconsolable knowledge which all my experience tells me, that physical pleasure is a torture, that it is no real satisfaction, but constantly rouses a desire for an even more terrible satisfaction. Plunging into physical love is like throwing oneself onto red-hot charcoal. My fire is extinguished. I shall never again light the sacrificial flame for someone else’s downfall. Don’t you see that I am ashamed of my former life?”

  “You touched my hand with the tips of your fingers,” I whispered, my head bowed and the tears from my eyes falling onto the marble floor.

  “That was wrong,” admitted Damaris. “But I wanted to touch you so that you would never forget me. Minutus, my dearest, desire means so very much more than fulfillment. That is a painful but wonderful truth. Believe me, Minutus my dear, if we part now we shall remember nothing but good of each other, and then we’ll never think evil of one another. I have found a new way. Perhaps your way will one day lead to the same eternal happiness as mine.”

  But I did not want to understand her.

  “Don’t preach at me, woman,” I cried, in a voice hoarse with desire. “I have promised to pay whatever you want.”

  Damaris stiffened and gazed at me steadily for a moment. Then she slowly turned very pale and said disdainfully, “As you wish then. Come back tomorrow evening so that I have time to prepare. And don’t blame me afterwards.”

  Her promise made my head reel, although the words had an ominous ring to them. I left with trembling knees and, consumed with impatience, I wandered about the city, climbed up to the Acropolis and looked at the wine-dark sea to make the time go by. The following day, I went to the baths and loosened my limbs with exercises in the gymnasium, although every violent movement sent a consuming flame flaring through my body at the thought of Damaris.

  At last the dove-gray dusk fell and the evening stars came out. I knocked hard on Damaris’ door, but no one came to open it. My disappointment was overwhelming as I thought she had changed her mind and broken her promise. Then I felt the door and noticed to my delight that it was not locked, so I went in and saw that the reception room was lit up.

  But my nose met an unpleasant odor. The couch was covered with a ragged coverlet. The lamps had sooted the walls. The smell of stale incense was suffocating. I looked incomprehendingly around the formerly so beautiful room, but then banged impatiently on the gift tray. The sound rang through the whole house. A moment later, Damaris came into the room with her feet dragging, and I stared at her in horror. It was not the Damaris I knew.

  She had smeared her lips stridently, her hair was tangled and untidy like a harbor girl’s, and she was dressed in a ragged gown which smelled of wine and vomit. Around her eyes she had drawn terrible black rings and with the same brush emphasized every line in her face, so that it was the face of a depraved, decrepit old crone.

  “Here I am, Minutus. Your Damaris,” she said dully. “Here I am as you would have me. Take me then. Five copper pieces will be enough in payment.”

  I understood what she meant. All the strength left my body and I fell to my knees in front of her, bowing my head to the floor and weeping over my impotent desire.

  “Forgive me, Damaris, my dearest,” I said at last.

  “You see then, Minutus,” she said in a gentler voice. “That was what you wanted to do to me. That was what you wanted to bring me down to. It is the same thing, whether it happens in a sweet-scented bed or among stinking pigs and urine with my back against the wall down at the harbor.”

  I wept my disappointment out of me with my head on her lap, no longer desiring her. She stroked my head consolingly and whispered tender words to me. Finally she left me, went away and washed her face, put on clean clothes and came back with her hair brushed. Her face was alight with such pleasure that I had to smile back with trembling lips.

  “Thank you, my dearest Minutus,” she said. “At the last moment you understood, although you had the power to trample me back down into my past. All my life I shall thank you for your goodness, for not taking away the happiness I had reached. One day you’ll understand that my happiness in Christ is more wonderful than any earthly happiness.”

  We sat hand in hand for a long time and talked like brother and sister, or more like mother and son. Carefully I tried to explain to her that perhaps only what we see with our eyes is real and everything else nothing else but illusive games of imagination. But Damaris just looked at me with her softly shining eyes.

  “My mood alternates between deepest despondency and ecstatic happiness,” she said, “but in my best moments I come to a rejoicing which surpasses all earthly boundaries. That is my grace, my truth an
d my mercy. I need neither believe nor understand anything else.”

  When I returned to the inn, still paralyzed by my disappointment, knowing neither what to believe nor what to hope for, I found one of the Pannonian soldiers from my escort waiting for me. He was dressed in a dirty cloak and had no sword. I could imagine how he had crept in terror past the innumerable idols and statues of Athens, super-stitiously terrified of the world-famous omniscience of the Athenians. When he saw me he at once fell to his knees.

  “Forgive me for disobeying your express command, Tribune,” he cried. “But my friends and I cannot stand the life in the port any longer. Your horse is pining from sorrow and has thrown us every time we’ve tried to exercise it as you said. “We keep quarreling over the provisions money with the harbor garrison. But most of all it is the cursed Attics who rob us, so that we are like trussed sheep in their hands although we’re hardened to swindlers in Corinth. The worst one is a Sophist who has fleeced us to our bare bones by proving to each one of us quite convincingly that Achilles can never defeat a tortoise at running. We used to laugh at the conjurors in Corinth, who hid a gaudy bead under three wine mugs and let people guess which one of them it was under. But this terrible Attic is driving us mad, for who wouldn’t bet that Achilles could run faster than a tortoise? But he divides the distance in half, and then in half again, and so on and so on and proves that Achilles has always a little bit left to go and cannot get there before the tortoise. We ourselves tried racing against a tortoise and of course beat it easily, but we could not find fault with his evidence, although we hunted him out and laid bets with him again. Lord, in the name of all the Eagles of Rome, take us back to Corinth before we go out of our minds.”

  His flood of complaints did not give me a chance to say a thing. When he had finished, I reprimantled him sternly for his conduct but did not attempt to solve the tortoise riddle for him, for I was not in a mood even to be capable of it. Finally I let him take my luggage on his back, setded my bill at the inn and left Athens without saying farewell to anyone, and in such a hurry that I forgot at the wash two tunics which I never saw again.

  We left Piraeus in such a state of despondency that it took us three days to do a stretch I could have done alone in a single day. We stayed overnight in Eleusis and Megara. The men, however, cheered up so much that they were singing noisily when we eventually arrived at Corinth.

  I left them with the senior centurion at the barracks. Commantler Rubrius received me with his gown wet with wine and a vine-leaf wreath crookedly perched on his head. He was not entirely clear who I was, for he kept asking me my name. He explained his absentmindedness away by saying he was an old man and was suffering from the aftereffects of a skull injury received in Pannonia, and was now just waiting to be pensioned off.

  Then I went to the Proconsulate, and Gallio’s secretary told me that the inhabitants of Delphi had appealed to the Emperor over their land dispute and had paid the appeal fee. The people who lived on Artemis’ votive land near Olympia had on their part sent a written complaint that I had insulted the goddess and thus caused the owner’s death. This they had done to save their own skins, after sharing out the votive lands between them and letting the temple fall into disrepair. There had been no report from Athens on my conduct there.

  I was despondent, but Gallio received me kindly, embracing me and asking me at once to share his meal.

  “You must be full to the brim with Athenian wisdom,” he said, “but let us talk about the affairs of Rome.”

  As we ate he told me that his brother Seneca had written to say that the young Nero was daily developing and conducted himself so respectfully toward the senators and knights that they all called him the delight and joy of humanity. Claudius had married him to his own eight-year-old daughter Octavia, whom he had had by Messalina, in order to please his dear Agrippina even more.

  Legally speaking, this marriage constituted incest, for Claudius had adopted Nero as his son, but this legal objection had been set aside by a senator who had kindly adopted Octavia before the wedding.

  Britannicus did not show the same signs of development as Nero. He was often ill, usually stayed in his own rooms in Palatine and was cold toward his stepmother. The one-armed old warrior Burrus had been appointed sole commantler of the Praetorians. Burrus was an old friend of Seneca’s and held Agrippina in great esteem in her capacity of the daughter of the great Germanicus.

  “The Emperor is well,” said Gallio, glancing at his letter and at the same time spilling wine from his goblet onto the floor. “He behaves as majestically as before and suffers occasionally from a harmless throat burn. The most important financial news is that the harbor in Ostia is complete and the grain ships can now be unloaded there. Millions of gold pieces have been buried in the mud and sandbanks of Ostia, but that means that Rome need never again fear disturbances because of delayed grain supplies. Once a crowd of angry citizens crushed Claudius so hard against a wall that he had the fright of his life. The price of seed from Egypt and Africa will fall and it will no longer pay to grow grain in Italy. The most farsighted senators have already gone over to catde breeding and are selling their field-slaves abroad.”

  As Gallio talked on in his fatherly way, my own anxiety dissolved and I realized that I need not fear a reprimand for my delay in Athens. He looked searchingly at me nevertheless, as he went on talking in the same light tone of voice.

  “You are pale and your eyes are blank,” he said. “But studying in Athens has confused many other honorable Roman youths. I have heard that you have received instruction from a clever woman. Such things arc naturally physically strenuous and also somewhat expensive. I hope you are not up to your neck in debt. Do you know what, Minutus? A little sea air would do you good.”

  Before I had time to make any explanations, he had raised his hand in warning to mc and said with a smile, “Your private life has nothing to do witli me. The important thing is that young Nero and the lovely Agrippina greet you warmly through my brother. Nero has missed you. One cannot do more than praise Rome’s Goddess of Fortune that such a strong-minded and truly imperial woman as Agrippina is standing at Claudius’ side, sharing his burdens. I understand you sent Agrippina a beautiful Corinthian bronze goblet as a gift from here. She is pleased with your attentiveness.”

  For a moment my mind was filled with longing for Rome, because life there seemed simpler and bound to a sensible routine. But at the same time I knew I could not rid myself of my troubles simply by changing my abode. My dilemma made me sigh heavily. Gallio smiled absently.

  “I understand you’ve quarreled with Artemis on your journey,” he went on. “It would be wise if you personally took an offering to her to the temple in Ephesus. I have reason to send a confidential letter to the Proconsul in Asia. When you meet him yourself, you should at the same time tell him of Nero’s incomparable talents, his humble conduct in the Senate and about how wisely Agrippina is bringing him up. Nero’s marriage to Octavia has a certain political significance which perhaps you will understand if you think about it. Of course they don’t live together yet, for Octavia is only a child.”

  But my head was as if full of mist, so all I could do was to nod foolishly in reply. So Gallio enlarged on the point.

  “Between ourselves, both Britannicus’ and Octavia’s origins are, to say the least of it, suspect because of Messalina’s reputation. But Claudius regards them as his own children and legally they are anyhow. Not even Agrippina would dare to wound his masculine vanity by touching on such delicate matters.”

  I admitted I had heard similar stories in Rome before I went to Britain.

  “But at that time,” I added, “it seemed as if someone were deliberately spreading these terrible stories about Messalina, and I could not take them seriously. She was young, beautiful and liked amusement. Claudius was an old man beside her. But I can’t believe the worst of her.”

  Gallio swung his goblet about impatiently.

  “Remember that fifty se
nators and a couple of hundred knights lost their heads or were permitted to cut their throats because of Messalina’s recklessness. And your father would hardly have otherwise received his broad purple band.”

  “If I’ve understood you correctly, Proconsul,” I said hesitandy, “you mean that Claudius has a bad stomach and a weak head. Some day he will have to pay the debt we all have to pay, however much we sacrifice to his genius.”

  “May it be as if you had never spoken those words aloud,” cried Gallio. “Despite his weaknesses, Claudius has ruled so well that the Senate can safely exalt him to a god after his death, even if it will rouse a certain amount of ridicule. A farsighted man should be quite clear in time who is going to succeed him.”

  “Nero imperator,” I whispered dreamily. “But Nero is only a boy.”

  For the first time, this possibility occurred to me. It could not but delight me, for I had been Nero’s friend long before his mother became Claudius’ wife.

  “Don’t be frightened at the thought, Tribune Minutus,” said Gallio. “But to make it known so clearly is dangerous so long as Claudius is alive and breathing. To sort and gather up all the threads of fate and chance would in itself be useful if the same excellent thought occurred in the ruling circles of other provinces. I should have no objection if you went from Ephesus on to Antioch. That’s your old home city. Your father’s freedmen are said to have accumulated great wealth and influence there. You should speak well of Nero, no more. Not a single mention of the future in so many words. Be careful on that point. Those you speak to can draw their own conclusions. In the East there is more calculating political sense than Rome usually gives credit for.”

  He let me think about this for a moment before continuing.

  “Of course,” he said, “you will have to pay for your journey yourself, although I shall give you some letters to take for the sake of form so that you can meet the recipients in an intimate way. But “What you say, you say of your own free will. Not at my bidding. You are open by nature and still so young that no one will suspect you of political intriguing. Nor is it a question of that, as I hope you realize. But there are exiled Romans who are suffering the agonies of banishment because of Claudius’ whims and suspicions. They have friends in Rome. Don’t avoid them, for when Claudius is dead, all exiles will be pardoned, the Jews too. This my brother Seneca has promised, for he himself endured eight years of exile. The Emperor’s stomach trouble you can mention, but never forget to add that it is probably only a matter of harmless vomiting. On the other hand, stomach cancer has similar symptoms. Between ourselves, Agrippina is deeply troubled over Claudius’ health. He is a gourmet and won’t stick to a sensible diet.”