The Fire Waker

by Ben Pastor

  Nine years after Julius Caesar's death, his heir Octavian Augustus occupied the Pannonian capital ofSiscia, and for the following fifty years the region alternated between peace and impossible revolt. Under the deified Vespasian and his sons, Pannonia saw a permanent assignment of legions, and the first organization of the Limit, from which the great Dacian campaigns of Trajan and Hadrian would be launched. Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher prince, wrote his Meditations while in Pannonia, dying soon of the Great Plague that all but depopulated the Empire one hundred twenty years ago. Severus and his dynasty brought unprecedented prosperity to our region. Between then and now, barbaric raids, warfare, and two Pannonian-born emperors (Decius and Probus) typified our history. Seven years ago Pannonian soldiers, reputed the best in the Empire, were chosen to fight the victorious Persian campaigns.

  Presently Pannonian cities and peaceful settlements face an array of threatening hostiles from beyond the river: Quadi, Marcomanni, Goths, Sarmatians and their Roxolani allies, Gepids, Suebi, Vandals, and more.

  It made sense that, if the Danubian provinces were their goal, in order to avoid the higher mountain passes between Italy and the east, Agnus and Casta had separately sought the low road. Traveling the same route with his Guardsmen and the units from Mediolanum, altogether the strength of a thousand soldiers, Aelius retraced the fire waker's possible itinerary. Pons Aureolus, Bergomum, Brixia ... At every stop, if there was an occasion, he asked about the state of inquiries on religious charges. In Bergomum he was told of a riot among the "orientals," that is, Christians and Jews, on account of a false prophet and his claims. No word on who the prophet might be. Two men had been killed in the disturbance, and arrests had been made among the Christians.

  Two more dead, and arrests likely to result in the death penalty. By this time, whatever role the itinerant preacher might have played in fakery, incitement to riot, and even murder, Aelius's desire to expose him had grown past curiosity. Beyond His Divinity's magnanimous permission to ll learn more about the superstitious practice of so-called resurrection operated by Agnus or Pyrikaios or fire waker, as he is also known," he wanted to confront him face-to-face. The likelihood of such an encounter ran against all odds, but when, during an overnight stop at the army post in Brixia, he heard details about the Bergomum riot, Aelius was certain that Casta's teacher had been involved somehow. The controversy centered on a sick boy, son of a Jewess and a lapsed Christian, whose healing in Treveri had been differently reported to the local Jewish and Christian communities. Cross-charges of chicanery and claims of a miracle had resulted in violent disorders. Out of the incident, for the first time, Aelius received a description of the fire waker: more than one, in fact.

  It came in the form of a report by the commander of the unit dispatched from Brixia to Bergomum to quell the riot. Although supposedly the healer had passed through recently, the soldier had not seen him in person, but interesting details about him had emerged from those who had. The impression was of a man absorbed or distracted by ideas; he did not look at an interlocutor directly but "as if searching above the other's head, or to the side of him, for presences or signs." He let no one touch him, no one come closer than five feet to him. He slept alone, and no one saw him eat or drink; many believed he never partook of anything, "being somehow maintained by the flame of his own spirit." Long-haired and unkempt, he walked barefooted regardless of weather or terrain, yet his feet did not appear wounded or worn by his wanderings. His nakedness no one had seen, either, past his hands and feet and head to the neck, because he wore a long-sleeved tunic, black in color. This, according to one description. Others said that he was in no way distinguishable from other men, wore everyday clothes appropriate to his age, trimmed beard, short hair. How else could he pass unobserved through provinces where the authorities were on the lookout for religious fanatics?

  The report mentioned no assistant, female or otherwise, a circumstance that only confirmed that Agnus and Casta traveled separately.

  The army's advance across northern Italy continued, at the mercy of weather that alternated between blizzards and clear days of breathtaking cold. Curius Decimus and his Mediolanum friends formed a tight group, nearly impermeable to the rest. Whenever they arrived at one of the army towns or forts en route, they had errands to run and acquaintances of their own to see. Occasionally, Aelius sought the aristocrat's company.

  Because his personal relations had thus far been characterized by remarkable openness of intents, Aelius was at first troubled by the idea of frequenting his colleague because of his suspicions of Decimus regarding Marcellus's death. Life during an army march being what it is, however, soon he was telling himself that polite officers could hardly avoid one another. For his part, Decimus seemed singularly pleased with the development: even amused. He likely credited his own brilliant company for Aelius's change of heart. True, at the beginning he'd remarked, "There's a distinct scent of smoke in the air. Where's the fire?" But Aelius pretended not to understand.

  South of Lake Larius, on a spectacular morning of bright sun, when the chains of high mountains to the north were blinding with snow like a barrier of mirrors, Sido and a retinue of speculators, fur-caped, overtook the army units at a trot. Gravel and bits of ice shot around under the horses' hoofs. One of the twins—Dexter or Sinister—barely kept his mount from shying. He cried out loud, "Son of a whore!" in Sido's shimmering wake.

  "A lucky son of a whore," his brother, half-laughing, specified contemptuously for the benefit of their colleagues. "I say it's a timely thing that Marcellus croaked before bribery charges made him lose his police post."

  Aelius, who was riding ahead of the group, fell back a little, to hear more. All he caught was Decimus's repartee, in a merry voice. "Why credit Sido with killing the judge? Give credit where credit is due."

  Nothing was added, but the Romans laughed as if it were a joke.

  Verona, 7 January 305, Sunday

  As sometimes happens, the letter his mother had sent before the one he had already received reached Aelius on the sixth day out of Mediolanum, in Verona, where the army stopped to get supplies and equipment at the local weapons factory, and was then delayed a full night because of a snowstorm.

  Aelia Justina to Commander Aelius Spartianus, love and greetings.

  Dearest son,

  I am writing to you in hopes that these lines will reach you wherever you may be, and find you well in body and spirit. It is primarily to make you aware of a fortunate event that befell us that I communicate with you without waiting for your father's slight indisposition to pass.

  You remember that when your father acquired this property six years ago, in anticipation of his retirement, he did so through the estate of a distant relative, who died leaving no legal heir. He was in turn the nephew of that Resatus whose property was destroyed by the barbarians forty-four years ago, during the war that devastated our province, and the man and his entire family exterminated. Such was the disorder in those sad days (I remember well, although I was a child), the burned and collapsed house was left in the state it was in, with the corpses inside where they had been murdered. There was a story in the settlement that Resatus's house was haunted, and in fact we children were not allowed to go play around the ruined place. Not only that, even the stretch of country lane that had once led to the unfortunate place had the reputation of being visited by ghosts, both at noon and in the middle of the night. Now they are all buried in a spot which is at the very corner of our property. No doubt you remember it, because you used to hunt lizards there, and badly scraped your knees there once, falling from Resatus s monument.

  At the time of the invasion, your maternal grandfather served at the Ala Nova camp, and my sisters and I grew up here. I perfectly recall old man Resatus and Blanda, his wife; less their children, who were older than I. But Blanda I can see in front of my eyes today as she was then, on the day we girls brought fresh eggs to her as a gift to thank them for some courtesy they paid to us.

  Wel
l about two weeks past — it being the anniversary of the attack so many years ago, which I always observe by bringing the appropriate libations to their graves —I was wondering to myself whether these graves, which we kept as carefully as if they had belonged to our own parents, will receive similar upkeep after your father and I are gone. An old woman's thoughts, you will think, but there are days when I look at the workers laboring on our house and grow superstitious, lest some misfortune should befall us or our children. In fact, at times it seems to me that I can imagine a time when none of these settlements and communities will be left, and either the woods and the animals will take over again, or new people, strangers or barbarians, will dwell here in our place. And I cannot help thinking, what — if anything — will they think when finding the solitary brick or discarded jar or whatever else that marks our passage in this place? They will know neither our names nor what mattered to us, whom we loved, what we cared for, what gods we believed in and revered. But such are the thoughts that come to mind when one sits down to consider what I write below.

  In the process of enlarging the house (we decided to build a porch and add two towers in front, to protect the property), some changes have to be made. Yesterday, before the workers came to start digging for the addition, your father said he was going to cut the shrubs to clear the mens way to the front of the house. They are — were — my favorite shrubs, so we had words over them, and after quite a row, a sudden rain made your father give up his intent for the time being. It was getting dark, too, so we went back inside and, without talking to one another any further, soon went to bed.

  Now, who should come to me in my dream butBlanda, looking precisely as I recalled her. It seemed to me that I heard knocking on the door, and found her on my doorstep, smiling. In my dream I did not recall that she was dead, you see, so it seemed natural to invite her to come in. I wanted to show her how we rebuilt the place that had been hers, and how well we took care of things. She, however, would not enter, and bade me not to embrace her. "Only, " she said, "make sure that before the workers come tomorrow you dig under the pear tree that casts its shadow over the little stone table in the garden. I hid my good things at its foot, they were never found, and I want you to have them. "

  Imagine how I felt, as I have heard that prophecies and the departed do come sometimes during sleep, but I never expected it would happen to me. Wondering how she knew of our work on the house (but that is silly, as the dead supposedly know all things), I thanked Blanda and asked her again whether she would not like to come in and sit a moment. She kept smiling, repeating that she would (or could) not enter, but rather that my husband would be soon bringing her a pair of earrings, which she described in detail.

  Well, dear son, this morning I awoke greatly confused. When I shared my dream with your father, he took it as a woman s sideways manner of admitting that I was wrong about the shrubs, using dreams to justify myself. Out he goes bright and early, and starts digging — first the shrubs, then precisely where I told him from my dream, under the pear tree. He has grown corpulent in the last couple of years, so I advised him not to strain himself, but as he never listens, I quit insisting after a while. Believe it or not, two spans down in the earth, his spade struck something hard. It was metal, a strongbox of some kind. He kept digging, more and more furiously, and at one point told me to send away the serfs and everyone else, which I did with some excuse.

  To make a long story short, he pulled out a box such as valuables are kept in, and when we opened it, with some difficulty, we found a set of silver vessels and two gilded cups, plus a small treasure in gold coins from the days of Our Lord Aurelian, and a few lady's jewels. Among these, fully recognizable, was the pair of earrings described to me in the dream. Your father went crazy with the find, and of course I was pleased, too, as they will make good gifts for you children.

  The only thing I am not sure about is Blanda's words about your father bringing the earrings to her. I don't want to be such an old woman and begin believing in all kinds of omens. . . Anyway, I suggested to him that we dig an inconspicuous little hole as close as possible to the lady's burial place, and place the earrings inside it. But my heart is not at ease. I tell myself that it is just because your father, who caught cold after sweating so much while digging, is running a fever this evening. As soon as he recovers, I will feel much better.

  Be well, my dear and only son. I pray Magla, Mammula, and the Pannonian Mother Goddesses to watch over you always.

  Written in her own hand at Aelius Spartus's property in the Savaria district, province of Pannonia Superior Savia, on the 19th day of November, XII day from the Kalends of December.

  It was perhaps the longest exchange his mother had ever had with him, in words or in writing. Aside from the strangeness of the letter's contents, Aelius appreciated the difference between his father's short and badly written notes and this attentive, lively, smooth way of communicating. He delighted in it. Why had she let him speak for her all these years? J am much more my mother's son, he found himself thinking, than my father's. News of the old man's indisposition was secondary compared to the discovery of Justina as an interlocutor.

  The following night—they'd left Cadianum behind, and taking advantage of clear weather the units had proceeded farther than they usually would—they were caught by dark still at a distance from the closest usable quarters. Pitching tents was no easy task; but it was accomplished. The officers sought shelter here and there in farmhouses, except for Aelius and Curius Decimus, who decided to rough it in the ruins of a homestead dilapidated by past wars and abandonment.

  It was one of those decisions taken by mutual accord, no reason given. They built a fire, munched on hardtack, and talked of things that apparently had nothing to do with the unrevealed aims each of the two had for the one-on-one conversation.

  Decimus took the long way in, discussing philosophy. "You say— with Seneca, if I am not mistaken— in regno nati sumus, by which I understand you to mean that one way or another we are from birth in a world that enslaves us with its rules. If it is so, Spartianus (and let us admit it, Seneca did not let his philosophy get in the way of his enriching himself and even becoming a tyrant's advisor), then I can only reply that no one can force us to remain in such a world."

  "True. But if every virtuous man took the way out, wouldn't it leave the world precisely to the sinful and the evil? I say that, conscious as we are of the difficulty of the situation, we have to face it, and do our best."

  "I was not thinking of suicide. Did I ever tell you what Medi-olanum's nickname is? Fat City, because it produces so much, and so many goods pass through its gates. It is like an immense heart and intestine rolled into one, pumping and excreting. Hardly what I'd call a city with republican ideals. Yet there is a reason why my friends and I regularly met in Mediolanum, Spartianus. As a historian, you no doubt remember that before the Ides of March, nearly three hundred and fifty years ago, Brutus held office in that very city. The Republic kept breathing there even after it ceased doing so in Rome."

  Aelius was careful to keep his attention on the fire, to show only so much interest. "It is, I assume, to Brutus the republican that you are referring, not to Brutus the assassin."

  "The tyrannicide, you mean." Decimus laughed. "Brutus was one individual, not several actors sewed up inside one skin. Quintilius Varus, he who led the owner of your beautiful helmet to die in Teutoburg Forest, was the son of one of the Caesaricides. Why, one of my maternal ancestors was at Brutus's side on the Ides of March. 'Assassin' is such an ugly word: We don't use it in my family."

  Aelius's answer, whatever it was supposed to be, did not reach his lips. He crouched by the fire and through the corner of his eye watched his colleague tease the flames with a long stick, whose tip burned bright. Was Decimus circling around the matter of murder, challenging him to make an issue of it in regard to Judge Marcellus? His statements were meaningful, political but not only that. Insecure, shifting darkness crowded in from the corners
of the room, a sooty dark like a presence. Through the rafters, the precipitous starry sky seemed wholly black, as if a sackful of burning twigs and logs were capable of turning off the heavens. Decimus's words were a kindling and waking of the fire as well. Whatever the pretense or desire to provoke, they also stirred and needled a concept of freedom Aelius's Stoic teachers interpreted so literally as to justify the taking of one's life before dishonor.

  Decimus read lack of critique in his silence. Lazily whipping the flames, he said, "Take Pertinax and Macrinus, historian: Did they not have a hand in freeing Rome of the monsters Commodus and Cara-calla, becoming emperors in their places? There will always be well-minded officers who gather— gather, not plot—to dash down the tyrant and save the country's honor. They will always be at risk of being discovered, accused, tried, and executed. Death in battle is not as noble as execution at the hand of a tyrant." The stick in his hand incandesced without catching fire. "You can't possibly approve of the way Rome is run these days."

  Weighing his words, Aelius found them difficult to handle. "Why, was Rome better governed in the days of the Republic? Social wars and civil wars abounded then. Powerful men had powerful private armies, which held sway over the City and its territories. They killed with impunity. I believe we invent a virtuous past in order to compare our present unfavorably with it. Nothing I studied in the great historians' works points to the excellence of the 'good old days,' Decimus. There were outstanding men in the Republic, as there are now. It may simply annoy you that never as now have men born of low state achieved so much, and climbed so high."