THE WRITER
By Gary J Byrnes
Story also appears in HISTORY TRILOGY and THE WRITER AND OTHER STORIES.
Copyright 2013-15 © Gary J Byrnes.
The right of Gary J Byrnes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright & Related Rights Act, Ireland, 2000. All rights reserved.
Cover photo: "Boulanger-gustave-clarence-rudolphe-french-1824-1888-the-slave-market" by Gustave Boulanger - https://peripluscd.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/boulanger-gustave-clarence-rudolphe-french-1824-1888-the-slave-market.png. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Boulanger-gustave-clarence-rudolphe-french-1824-1888-the-slave-market.png#mediaviewer/File:Boulanger-gustave-clarence-rudolphe-french-1824-1888-the-slave-market.png
In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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THE WRITER
Rome, The Empire - 40 CE
Rats feasted on a dead drunk, but out of sight. A heavy evening after the scorched afternoon; late summer, the month of the God Emperor Augustus. The air glowed, smoke from thousands of oil lamps and open fires catching the sun's fading power.
The writer's eyes burnt as he stood on the balcony of his family domus on the Palatine Hill, watched the murmuring city stretched out below. He acknowledged a peculiar beauty in the wide sweep of wretched humanity huddled together; slums and tenements hugging the banks of the Tiber, hill after hill to the glimpse of distant, burning sea.
Time passed. Abstract forms took shape. His heart leapt, giddy.
Later, a fat moon rose from behind the imposing home, cast its cold light over the dead day, the greatest city in history, the worried man. But the writer had a fire in his belly, a new idea burned, became alive. At last, his simmering anger had found a purpose, some kind of direction.
'Beautiful, isn't it?' said his mother, touching his elbow and rubbing it fondly.
'From up here, yes. But it is a different life in the slums,' he answered. 'It stinks like a dead dog.'
'It's said there are a million souls in the city now, Marcus. A million. They are here by choice. This is the Golden City of Dreams. Dreams of wealth, success, excitement. You cannot blame our Senators or our Emperor for the squalor that success inevitably brings.'
'Especially since we have a Senator as guest this evening, mother?' quizzed Marcus, worried for his father.
'We must be gracious. Anyway, Maximus has been very kind to us. And he's your father's best friend in the Senate.'
'That's a very beautiful stola you're wearing, mother. Where did you get it? And is that black wig from India, perhaps? Has generals' pay risen again?'
She didn't answer, just stared at the city in silence until a servant announced the Senator's arrival.
'I will welcome our guest. Please, for me, be happy.'
'I'll try,' said Marcus, as if to himself.
His mind flew: filled with conflict, many emotions, passion. In recent months, he had begun to question the society in which he enjoyed a privileged place. The vast majority were poor or enslaved, while he had enjoyed a Greek education, the spoils of Empire and the stability of position. But it wasn't enough. Not anymore. Not since he'd started hearing the stories, the stories he'd begun to write down and share, in Greek so that they could be read throughout the civilised world.
Would his stories bring any fairness to the casually cruel and biased system that controlled so many millions of lives? Probably not, but he knew that was not reason enough to abandon his project. The simple act of writing would purge his own guilt and, like a pebble in a pond, who knew where the ripples would end up? His heart beat louder as he lost himself in the structure, the plot, the drama. He was truly lost to it.
He heard his mother calling his name repeatedly.
He drained the goblet of wine and took a deep breath. He turned from the glorious musings, hesitated, went to the dining area. During the hot summer season, evening meals were taken in the peristyle, the open garden in the centre of the domus. The servants waited in the shadows while oil lamps on the pillars illuminated the guests. Two child slaves were tasked with using ostrich feathers to keep flying insects away from the diners. The centrepiece was an innovation: a long oak table which overflowed with gold platters of grapes and bread and many jugs of wine. The guests were seated on plush, high-backed chairs, rather than the typical lounges.
'Mother, your generosity is unequalled in all of Rome,' said Marcus, touching his lips and bowing deeply. He turned to the guests. 'I welcome you, Senator, and all our guests on behalf of my father.'
'Indeed,' said his mother. 'He risks his life blood in Gaul so that we may enjoy the fruits of the Empire.'
'I thank you for your welcome, Marcus,' said Senator Maximus, resplendent in his purple-trimmed Senatorial toga. 'In these difficult times, the welcome of friends is indeed a respite.'
Other guests. His mother's current artist-in-residence. The wine merchant who lived next door. The merchant's wife. To Marcus, the artist was a pompous man whose ability didn't match his ego, a frighteningly familiar idea for a struggling writer. The merchant couple were wealthy, overweight and vulgar in all their habits. Bacchus was their favoured god. So they called for more wine. The servants filled the wine goblets with mulsum, honey wine. All present stood and drank in honour of their hostess, her courageous husband and the House Gods.
For the first course, a plate of mixed salad with olive oil dressing was followed by sea urchins marinated in liquamen, the sauce made of salt and rotten fish. Salt was ubiquitous, Rome herself having been founded on a salt mine. The finest spices from Ephesus were passed around the table. Praise flowed and Marcus was happy for his mother and thankful for his fortunate circumstances.
The talk was of politics, of course. There was discussion of little else at Roman dinners, Emperor Caligula having recently returned from Gaul with cartloads of seashells and thousands of slaves. Now, the Emperor was reimposing his will on the city at the centre of the world.
'I know Tiberius put the last independent legions under imperial control and will be remembered for not much else,' said the merchant, 'but I preferred him to Gaius Caesar Germanicus Caligula.'
'Little Boot has increased the free flour ration and the games are becoming more bloodthirsty,' said Maximus. 'So the masses are happy enough. But I must warn you all that he is seeking to replenish the state treasury.'
'How?' asked the merchant, worried. 'More taxes?'
'Worse,' said the senator. 'Extortion and confiscation. He has demanded tribute from many wealthy citizens. Failure to pay has led to confiscation of estates.'
The merchant became pale and quiet, calculating how much he could easily offer the Emperor should the agents come knocking. He decided to lead the discussion away from the disturbing topic.
'Yesterday, I saw two gladiators fight a lion,' he exclaimed. 'A lion! It managed to gore one of them before they dispatched it with a dagger in the ribs. It was truly a spectacle. The mobs lapped it up. But think of the expense in bringing a lion to Rome from the furthest part of Africa.'
'The servants are talking about his plans to make his favourite horse a senator,' said Marcus.
'Nonsense,' retorted Maximus. 'I fear these whispers are being put about by someone who sees opportunity in our emperor's madness.'
'Such as?'
'Claudius, perhaps.'
'Claudius does have the loyalty of the Praetorian Guard,' said the merchant. 'And Little Boot executed Naevius Sutorius Macro of the Guard after he ascended. So there will be no love lost there.'
'The Guard may yet save us all,' said Maximus.
The discussion was interrupted by the head servant, a Greek, who rang a beautiful gold bell to signify the arrival of the main courses. A full roasted pig, assorted baked fish, a roast pheasant and copious quantities of wine soon covered the table. The guests rejoiced and praised their hostess.
'Did you hear about Caligula's little episode in Jerusalem?' asked the artist, a self-obsessed man who observed his reflection in anything shiny at every opportunity.
'Please go on,' said the merchant's wife.
'Well, I have it on good authority that he wants to put a wondrous statue of himself in the Temple at Jerusalem.'
'How do you know this?' asked the merchant.
'My very good friend is the sculptor. The statue is almost complete. Fortunately our puppet there, Herod Agrippa, won't allow it. He thinks it'll drive the locals mad. They've been very restless in Judaea,
The Writer - A Short Story Page 1