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Copyright © 2017 by Vann Turner Opus 2

ISBN-10: 1541203348 ISBN-13: 978-1541203341

Cover design by Caligraphics https://caligraphics.net/

Prologus Agents of the Lombard King intercepted this letter in April, 593.

From Stola to Titus, her wedded husband.

You will have difficulty in reading this, beloved. I apologize. I cannot dictate it, but must write it the best I can myself.

First, I pray Lucius can deliver this letter into your hands. I also pray he finds you well in the great City. Are you still laboring with clay and lime and furnaces? I hope that is not the case. If he manages to return I will pry from him all the particulars of your life there.

I must unveil two losses, one widely known, the other veiled in shame. First, our loyal overseer, Demetrius, took to his bed at the end of winter and never arose again. He now awaits the Resurrection on the hill next to your brother.

To utter the second shreds my heart. You carried me into your home a chaste maiden, though perhaps now you ought to return me to my father’s house a soiled woman.

I have been defiled, Titus.

No one on the estate knows except my maid and Anna the healer. I had her concoct herbs so that I might not humiliate you by bearing a bastard in your absence.

It was Ratold, our Duke. He forced himself into me.

I am so sorry. I am ashamed.

Send word back with Lucius whether I should stay or return to my father’s house. Again, I am so ashamed.

I will obey you in all things, husband.

Devotedly, Stola

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Capita I T H E A T R U M P O M P E I R O M A E A N N O D O M I N I 5 9 3

Titus Tribonius sat in the half-light backstage as a hen’s foot swayed just feet before him. It swayed between Adria’s breasts. More than once he had cautioned her about that magical charm. In these modern times the only charms acceptable to the Church were medallions of saints, not those that harkened back to the fecundity of the earth—a dried hen’s foot with three ears of wheat, red, yellow and black. Those invited accusation.

“Adria,” he said, “hoist your tunic up lest they summon you to give answer.” He mimicked pulling his own tunic up toward his neck.

She nodded and—reaching behind her—tugged downward on the back of her tunic to raise the front. As she did, she puffed a strand of blondish hair from her eyes.

A delightful girlish thing, Titus thought, like puffing away the seeds of a dandelion. A basting brush in Adria’s hand now wavered before his eyes. It dripped little wet globs “I

made it with ground oats. Barba told me how,” she said. “Simple. You just boil them.” She smeared the warm glue onto his left brow, then pressed a bushy eyebrow—fashioned from a boar’s tail—into place.

“It’s not too late, Titus,” she said with steady pressure on the fake eyebrow. “You could still get a sudden stomach sickness, go home and have Atticus or somebody be King of the Revels.”

“We’ve talked about it, Adria,” Titus replied. His tone was, simultaneously, both a little petulant and clipped. “I can’t encourage them to go onto the stage and refuse to join them myself. They would ask me why I can’t. And I suppose you’d have me respond, ‘The stage is beneath my dignity?’ No, Adria. I owe them.”

“If you were still a laborer making bricks, it’d be different. But you’ve become an important man. You’re an Aedile now!”

A familiar voice—“Titus! A catastrophe!”—came to them backstage and a figure rushed toward them through the gloom. It was Barba, manager of the Manna Bakery and an ardent supporter of the theatrical entertainment. She hastened with forceful stride. “Flavian’s not coming! His father won’t allow it!” She stood over him, planted fists on hips, stood akimbo, awaited resolution.

“Now who’s Flavian?” Titus asked. “Flavian. You know, Cleo’s little drinking buddy…in the second skit…Love Finds the Deacon.

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His dad-dy says it may be just all in fun, but a vile nickname could stick to him for life! Over his grave will his son play a woman on stage! And so we don’t have a Big-Hearted Whore! And it’s all falling apart!”

“That’s the second skit, so we’ve got time,” Titus said. “We just need to find a new whore.” “Titus, please find one!” Barba pleaded. “It means so much to Gaius and Lentos.” A

woman’s compassion informed her tone. “Their little play must go on. Night after night I hear them rehearsing their lines in the apartment below mine. They are proud to take part and excited about it. It means the world to them.”

“Aren’t they the Deacon and the Bumbling Pimp?” Titus asked. “The Deacon, yes, but Lentos is the Oblivious Aristocrat.” “Oh. Hmm. A Big-Hearted Whore?” Titus mused. “Hmm. Someone who would know the

lines, or can give an approximation of them.” “Titus!” a man’s voice called. “The Archdeacon has ridden his horse right into the crowd.

And his guards, too! Better come!” It was Boastful who reported, calling out from the steps leading up to the stage. He was a spunky youth, tall, lithe, and almost drunk with the enthusiasm of youth. He was already bedecked with Commander Castorius’s bronze breastplate for his part in the first and fourth skits as the Boastful Soldier.

“Oh, hi! Barba,” he called. “Hi, yourself,” Barba called back, lowered her gaze and smiled. “I’ll be there,” Titus said to Boastful on the stairs. “But first find out what His Eminence

wants and come tell me.” “Io! Me talking to the Archdeacon! Wow!” Boastful exclaimed and left with cocksure stride. Turning his gaze back to Barba, Titus raised a finger, paused and said, “There’s our answer:

Boastful. At the end of Love Finds there’s a minor role for the Captain of the Papal Guards. Who’s playing it?”

“Elmo,” Barba said. “Elmo?! Didn’t the fires last winter take out Elmo’s entire block? And didn’t he find a room

in your building?” “Yes.” “Well, then, he’s overheard the whore’s lines time and again just as you have. He’s our new

whore and Boastful our new Captain.” “Yes, Boastful! He’ll be a great Captain!” she exclaimed. “Barba, go find Elmo. Get him to the costume women for a dress and boobs and to Porcia for

make-up and wig.” “He’ll do it! Or he won’t get any more of the monks’ bread for little-or-nothing,” she said,

stood from her squat and rushed away. Without speaking Adria dutifully smeared oatmeal glue onto Titus’s right brow and pressed

the other bushy eyebrow onto it.

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Titus thought the air pregnant with anticipation. As she waited for the glue to bind, she finally said, “Well, we found a new Big-Hearted. Now

we need a new King of the Revels. Don’t demean yourself before the whole city. Please, Titus. You’re an Aedile. You’re important.”

He considered the matter over several silent moments. Adria thinks an Aedile important? My wife up in Verona would also advise against it, though she wouldn’t call the Aedileship important. I’m just a fee collector and in charge of ladders, shovels, carts and men. But that last item elevates it a bit, makes it a little noble—my working with men of dirty hands and simple hearts. But important? If I had ever divulged the high dignities I held under the Lombards, they all would have shunned me.

“Titus!” It was Boastful’s voice again, again from the steps. “I was nice to him! Really was! I asked if he wanted to sit with the Pope’s niece, but he just bellowed he has new conditions. The cocksucker!”

Titus sighed in annoyance. Still seated, he shimmied into his buttock padding in order to give him a bulbous appearance, like a pear. He stood up, cinched the padding at the waist and—without taking off his woolen tunic—lifted his arms over his head. With Adria’s help, he slithered into his costume. It was the traditional costume for the King of the Revels, a ridiculous long-sleeved tunic, a patchwork of squares red, blue, pink, gray and a disgusting yellow.

“Boastful,” he said. “Second play, the Deacon? You will have to play the Captain of the Papal Guards at the end.”

“Great!” he replied. “I’ll have them falling in the aisles! It’s a good line: But I love her, too!” Adria handed Titus his plaster crown. As he passed Boastful on the steps he placed the crown

jauntily on his head. The onslaught of bright sunlight made him squint and for some moments his eyes bleared.

“Welcome to my court!” he effused to the audience. The Archdeacon and his guards had indeed ridden their horses right into the theater, causing

those who awaited a place to sit to scrunch together and huddle like corralled cattle. The number of them astonished him. They had anticipated filling the first three rows of seats with a couple of hundred—family and friends—but word of mouth and two dozen posters had summoned many hundreds, maybe a thousand or more. Stagehands were busy at work with shovels and straw brooms to make usable additional rows. They were clearing away the evidence of neglect that had accumulated over centuries, the dirt and weeds.

Titus continued to address the audience with a full voice and an arm that arched through the air. “I’ll not call you mere subjects, but guests! And I am heartily glad to see you. You honor your king by coming!” He bowed to them, a long, courteous bow. “For those who have not yet eaten, I assure you the wenches offer only the tangiest sausages, the sweetest oranges and the most rollicking beer. They assure me their prices are cheap! And if not, I order them to be so! So eat! Drink! And in just a bit, laugh with us! This is the day He has made. We will rejoice in it. We will honor Divinity by laughing and rejoicing!” At those final words his eyes locked onto the

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Archdeacon in challenge. A slave placed a stool next to the Archdeacon’s white stallion for him to dismount. His four

guards in their blue and white livery remained on their horses. Dismounted, the Archdeacon climbed the eight stairs up onto the stage. The audience became

still, as if eager to witness a real life drama. He was a tall, thin man, gray at the temples, narrow face, prominent nose, thin lips, narrow shoulders. His silken tunic, golden in color and glistening in the afternoon light, drew the gaze to the discord of a bulbous belly. Perhaps a demon planted a tumor to gnaw on his insides, Titus thought. If so, the day will come when weakness will confine him to his bed and circumscribe his zeal.

A voice came from the crowd, “Must be twins!” And another, “Two boys in one night does that!” Other voices followed, “Justinian ordered a swig of molten lead!...Any wench selling lead?” It was common knowledge that the Emperor had prescribed that for men who lay with other men.

Titus raised both arms in an effort to quiet them. From the safety provided by the anonymity of the crowd, another called out, “Hypocrite!” And another, “Hush!...Obey the king!”

Titus knew the danger that lay in antagonizing the most powerful man in Rome. While the Pope managed the Church far and wide, to the Archdeacon fell the administration of the city with all it entailed: the distribution of the food dole, the collection of fees, the hiring of workers, and the punishment of sins through his Tribunal of the Holy Life.

Quiet ensued and Titus dutifully bowed his head in respect. The Archdeacon ignored him, walked past. From the edge of the stage he cast an impervious stare over the crowd. From left to right his eyes accused one by one those who had assembled for a bit of amusement. His lips pursed.

The first to leave was the merchant who, in the porticos leading to St. Peter’s basilica, sold medallions and holy relics to the constant stream of pilgrims. His wife, with children in tow, scurried out behind him. Policius followed, a rich man, the sole purveyor of charcoal, a necessity for every kitchen in the city. Other merchants followed his lead. Titus knew them, the wine seller, the importer of fabrics, the perfumer. He knew the craftsmen too, the rope maker, the locksmith, the barber. The seats they vacated were quickly taken by those awaiting a place to sit.

Those who were not shamed by the threats inherent in the Archdeacon’s stare were the common laborers, on whose shoulders the entire edifice of the city rested. Good! Titus thought. Don’t cower. Without you the optimates would starve to death in their palaces.

Titus approached the Archdeacon and said, “Your Eminence, apparently you told Boastful you have come to impose new conditions, something not previously required. Did I understand that correctly?”

“Did that silly boy really expect I came to wallow in the vulgarity of the stage? That I might sit with the Pope’s niece? I presume the single chair with the side table is designated as the place for her?”

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“Lady Tarsilla spoke fondly of the theatrical performances of her childhood, and all this has arisen from her initial suggestion. And yes, we hope she will attend.”

“With the world retching in its final agony, that noble lady would never sully herself in worldly mire. At this moment I suspect she is at St. Peter’s listening to her brother unfold the meaning hidden under the prophet Ezekiel’s words. All were invited to imbibe instruction, you know. Everybody is always invited. But look at them.” He paused and in silence made a grand sweep with his arm over the audience, universally drab in appearance, mainly day laborers with their families, a few soldiers from the Theodosian Regiment, beggars, the infirm and elderly. “Some are keen to hear the words of eternal life. Others—even though they are invited—are not interested in sitting at his Holiness’s feet. Some He created as sheep and others as salacious goats. Into which category would you say these impenitent belong? Sheep or goats?”

Titus felt his back straightening and anger constrict his throat, flush his face, clench his fists. It was Adria’s voice: “We’ll start a spirited prelude to the festivities now.” With her flute in

hand, she approached but did not pause. Crossing behind them to the other side of the stage where musicians were already gathered, she said as she passed, “Would a lively Farmer’s Fat Daughter be a good start?”

Rescuing me! Titus thought. No one knows me better, reads my every gesture. A hasty word from me, one not duly circumspect, could bind me to a burning stake. He released the clench in his hands. To the back of her head he called out, “Or maybe The Monk’s Lusty Plowboy?”

Under the ridiculous boar’s tail brows he winked at the Archdeacon a big theatrical wink. He decided he would clown and effervesce and entertain with dramatic flourishings and gesturings. He would go as far as he could without crossing the line into mockery of the Church. In clear clarion voice for all to hear he said, “Sheep?” He tossed his right arm upward. “Goats?” His left arm went upward. “Hmm?” His right hand went to his forehead as if considering some weighty matter. “Papa Gregory’s words are an eternal thing…Shall I call them eternal words?..Celestial words?..” He jumped into the air which caused his plaster crown to fall from his head. “Beatific even!” He scrambled over to retrieve his crown. With pouty face he fingered where a finial had broken off. The audience was howling in laughter. Careful. The Bishop may hear mockery of him in my mockery of eternal words. Don’t cast scorn on him, just on those around him.

“How blessed are those who today will sit at his feet.” He crouched down low. “But he will have a scribe—Will he not?—close by, recording in shorthand what he says? Tonight much oil will burn in the papal scriptorium, so busy they’ll be in making copies of eternal words. One copy will go tonight into the papal archives so that all posterity might read those eternal words.—Oh, but you pray for the end of it all. Do you not, Archdeacon?”

He sat down on the edge of the stage with his feet dangling over and put on a sad countenance. “So these children here are the last children the world will ever see? Only a numbskull would think it smart to preserve something that nobody will be around to read. But then most of them can’t read. Nobody’s bothered to teach them!” There was venom in those words. “But be that as

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it may…” He jumped to his feet, resuming the antics. “In the morrow other copies will be dispatched to

his friends. High friends, important friends. Holy friends. Oh, so holy!” He sucked in his cheeks to mimic emaciation, lowered his eyelids in contemplation and touched fingertips as if in prayer. With mincing steps—as if sleep-walking—he circumnavigated the Archdeacon.

“A saint among us!” someone shouted. “Naw! An eater of funny mushrooms,” another. “Transported in ecstatic vision!”

He threw his arms upward in glee. “But in just two days the booksellers and Trajan’s library will have copies for us!” He made a grand gesture with his arms like the spreading of a peacock’s tail. “Perhaps we’ll ingest his words of life in the library like good goats grazing on wholesome words. Or maybe we’ll eat the paper!” His hands held an imaginary lamb shank and his mouth gnawed on it ravenously.

The audience erupted in hoots and yells. The veins on the Archdeacon’s neck protruded and his head flushed. For some moments his

nostrils flared. Finally he said in a voice so loud it was almost hoarse, “There is an additional requirement…”

Titus frantically motioned for the orchestra to start. Come on! Loud! Drown out his words. Don’t let him squash all our hard work. The band started, just in time, with a loud and lively Fat Daughter.

“I require a full listing of all those involved in these decadent festivities.” So that’s why you’ve waited till the last moment to issue a new condition. You want to intimidate the

performers, make them fear, threaten their livelihoods and families. You want them to scurry home in dread of what you might do. And without performers there can be no performance. Devious!

“Our license from the Pope does not stipulate a list.” Titus spoke in his normal, professional voice, inaudible to the audience. “It requires there must be no women on the stage, no licentiousness and no mockery of the Church or the Emperor. With that we will comply.” He turned away from the Archdeacon to face the musicians and signaled with a waving of hands to stop the music. They did. He resumed in dignified voice, taking care to project it to the furthest in the audience. “I have backstage the Papal license if you need to see it. Above his seal and in his own hand His Holiness, the Bishop of Rome, Patriarch of the West and our one true shepherd, Pope Gregory wrote, ‘I wish you all a joyous time. Papa.’”

Again the audience erupted in applause but he looked immediately to Adria and the musicians. He’ll be spewing threats now. I need to shield the people from them. With frantic upward motions of his arms he encouraged them again to play. They started The Fat Daughter a second time.

A dozen of the actors, with Boastful in their midst, were clustered together and peering from the wings, straining to hear.

“I myself impose this requirement,” the Archdeacon shouted over the boisterous music. “I don’t need his Holiness’s permission. Care over the city is my charge! And won’t you stop that infernal music!”

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“No. I wear the crown on this stage,” Titus shouted back. “You must provide me full information on everyone involved.” He held a hand out to the

slave who accompanied him and received into it a wax tablet. “On this you will record the full name, their role in this, their neighborhood, and if regularly employed the name of the employer. First thing in the morning you will put the information into my hands. I will do with it whatever maintaining the piety of this city requires me to do.”

Now I must counter him with a show of my own authority. He pulled himself to full height, squared his shoulders, spread his legs, placed both hands commandingly on his hips and held his chest before him like a shield. He knew from his years as chief magistrate for the Lombard King how to strike a pose that spoke of authority. He just wished he was not bedecked for a comical role with the eyebrows and gaudy tunic. “The listing ought to come to you by way of my employer, Liberius. That would be proper protocol. He’s the Regionarius of this region. He’s the President of the Senate. And he paid the Imperial Legate the fee for today’s use of this theater. I will provide it to him. And he will do with it as he sees fit.” Under no circumstance will I compile such a list.

The Archdeacon exhaled and said, nearly shouting, “First thing in the morning! Or you yourself will face the Tribunal!” He passed the tablet to Titus and turned.

Once the Archdeacon had mounted onto his stallion, Titus looked at Adria and made motions with his hands like waves. She stopped the band and restarted with a popular ballad that featured her on the flute, The Dialogue Between Sea and Wind.

Titus continued to watch the Archdeacon to the musicians’ undulating strains. How damaged a soul is yours! You fear Gaius’s six little Maltese dogs dancing on their hind legs. You fear the people’s applause for a rope walker’s skills and detest the laughter the joke-tellers rouse. Early on, the citizens hurled an accusation against your ilk. Haters of humankind they dubbed you. There is truth in that. You loathe the people’s frailty and can’t stomach the pastimes that brighten their faces. Our faces. Again his fists clenched. The muscles of his back knotted. Hate as you will! Hate all that is human in us and fragile and dear! Hate us, but we still have our lives to live! He hurled the wax tablet downward. It crashed on the patterned marble floor below the stage. It shattered. He watched its three components scattering, sliding, skidding here and there.

Under the pieces, radiant in the bright sunlight, lay the floor. While Adria’s flute warbled in The Dialogue and the low brass undulated like waves, he studied the floor. It had been inlaid with green and white marble in a geometric pattern. That pattern was softened by the swirls in the stone itself. It was good that the stagehands had spent four evenings cleaning it, first shovels to remove six inches of dirt and weeds, then brooms, then buckets and scrub brushes, and finally rags to polish it. Much has been lost over the centuries. Too much. While there no longer exist artists or artisans capable of creating a floor of such subdued beauty, we in the modern world can, at least, clean it.

A young woman scurried over to the broken pieces of the tablet, first to one, then to another. Greedily she scavenged them, clutching them tightly to her breast. Her dress—a tunic that

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reached nearly her feet—was ragged on the bottom edge but a modest kerchief covered her hair. Still crouching, her eyes met Titus’s on the stage. She startled as if with guilt, but pleaded with her eyebrows as she pointed to herself, then to three young boys. Without sound she mouthed, “I want them to learn to read.”

There is another who has not been hoodwinked into believing the end of the world is here, he thought. Hers is a mother’s heart and her aspiration noble. With his eyes locked onto hers, he nodded slowly, sadly, gravely. He pointed to her and then to himself, mouthing, “Come to see me.”

She nodded.

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Capita II T A B E R N A F O R T U N A E B O N A E A D P A L L A C I N A S

Along the base of the Capitoline Hill and gradually inclining upward, Pallacinae street ran from the theater district to the Via Lata and Trajan’s Forum. Along its route was the Good Luck Tavern, occupying half of the bottom floor of a five story building, with rental apartments and rooms above. This evening the tavern’s affluent clientele—craftsmen and merchants, pilgrims, ship captains and the occasional cleric—were not present because Senator Liberius had booked it for a celebratory party.

It was now late and the party just dregs of its former self. Cast and crew now slept with arms and heads recumbent on tables, torsos and legs sprawled across the floor, many still in costume, a few still awake, these brick makers, grain grinders, lime burners, road patchers, and laborers hired out for whatever task the day might bring.

Titus, still in costume but without the humorous padding, half-standing, half-sitting with one buttock on the edge of a table, mused to himself. I wish you had come with us, Adria. It’s been a good party and if you were here, outside of the crunch of things, maybe I could have made you understand. You see, I couldn’t insult them. I was just going to help organize it but they asked me to take part. I couldn’t let pretenses get between us. When I first arrived in the city—freshly beaten, cut, bruised and robbed just miles from here—they took me in, summoned the Doctor, fed me, protected me and, when I was strong enough, got me a job working alongside them in the factory. But somehow somebody must have found out who I am. How else to explain my being snatched from baking bricks and being appointed Acting Aedile?

He studied the frescoes on the tavern’s walls. They depicted the glory days when Rome was in the ascendency and her population in the millions. The flames of the oil-lamp chandeliers lit them well and the artist had rendered them with bold strokes and bright colors: a gladiatorial combat, a triumphal procession, a ship buffeted by wave and wind, a sculptor at a block of stone, an orator in the old forum. It was shocking, Titus thought, the contrast between then and now, between those who strived and those who awaited the End.

“We did good, didn’t we, Titus?” It was Boastful’s voice, still in the breastplate of the Boastful Soldier. He was sitting on the bench below Titus and had to tilt his head sharply to the side and look upward past his brows to see him.

Titus, nodding, reached his hand down and mussed the young man’s hair. For having been cast out onto the streets, he thought, you’ve turned out fine. Any man would be proud to call you son.

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A man barged into the open front door, almost breathless in panic. From the large brass medallion on his chest and his bald head Titus recognized him instantly—Cotta Cornelius, president of the Pallacinae neighborhood. “Everyone! Big news! Scary stuff!” he announced. “Hundreds of refugees are camped in the dark just outside the walls at Porta Flaminia. The guards refuse to admit them until morning. The Lombard army is amassing at Tivoli! War comes to us! Again war! Tell everybody!” He left immediately.

As he was speaking the somnolent were rousing themselves, rubbing eyes, poking those adjacent awake. Titus felt a cold sweat chill him. His bowels growled. If the Lombards take the city, if the walls do not hold or the resistance of the people falters, my life is over. I need to get home to Adria. She might still be up. Endless chores she calls them. While he expected Cotta’s announcement to stir panic—shouts and lamentations and cursings—what he saw instead was silent resignation. Person looked to person. No one dared to speak.

At last Lentos, who had played the Oblivious Aristocrat, said, “So? Someone will rule. Somebody always does. Doesn’t matter who. Our lot never changes.”

“People end up eating people in sieges,” one of the stagehands said. Unchecked, their reasonable anxieties could grow into a dangerous beast. Maybe I can allay some of

their fears, then home to Adria. “I am sure Papa Gregory, Commander Castorius and His Piety the Emperor have matters in hand. We’ll be okay.”

“His Piety can suck my dick!” No one countered with a ruder remark. The people were dumbstruck and fearful and just

looked at one another. A few clutched their holy medallions in tight fists. “Okay, Boastful,” he said quietly. “Are you sober?” “Of course. You’ve drunk only spring water all night. I couldn’t go that far, so I had lemon

and honey put into my water. You see, I listen to what Doctor Copiosus says about stuff.” “I’ll say a farewell and we’re off to home.” Boastful sprang to his feet and used the theatrical voice he had practiced for the stage. “One

and all, pay heed! Let all attend, both great and small, to the words of our King!” He was grinning broadly and dimples brightened his face.

There was a smattering of polite applause. As the people roused themselves a little, Titus watched Boastful. With quick nods and hands bouncing in encouragement, Boastful tried to push him into a theatrical mode. So spunky and enthusiastic. I wonder if I was ever that effervescent.

He stood and looked over the cast and crew, some of whom worked for him. They were clearly illumined under the multiple chandeliers. Their faces were blank, stunned, blanched of color, each of them locked in personal fears. When he spoke, he used his normal, conversational tone. “I personally know the Lombard King.”

The people stirred, sat upright, and listened intently. “He stripped me of everything I knew and loved.” Ah’s and Oh’s filled the room.

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“But he is not a beast.” There was absolute stillness throughout the room, so quiet the sputtering of the oil lamps

could be heard. He continued in his normal voice, but made long pauses between his phrases that the people

might grasp the meaning. It was a technique he had mastered while he was Gastaldus (chief jurist for Roman matters) in the Lombard Kingdom. “When he banished me, he was newly selected, hand-picked by the dead king’s queen…But the army had not ratified his elevation to kingship…He was not certain he would become King…His selection was tenuous and he bent to the royal advisers.”

Throughout the room there were Ah’s, suggestive that they understood the implication of bending to others.

“Since then till now King Agilulf will have learned how to be a king…He is not a savage…Don’t let baseless fears castrate you today. Troubles come…Jesus told us they will come. But they haven’t come today!”

He was building to high drama. “Today has been the day He hath made!...It has been a good day! And we have rejoiced in it!...Our audience rejoiced, hooted, cheered and laughed! The first theater in Rome in over fifty years and you did it!...You, here among us, you did it! Give yourself a hand!”

Loud clapping and smiles ensured. “What work you did. How funny the skits! How talented the solo acts, the singers, the

jugglers. How gifted you are! I am honored to call you my friends, even though in truth I don’t know all of your names.”

There were joyful nods. “And what a lot of work, the scenery, the posters, cleaning the theater, the rehearsals, the

costumes, the props, the music. And you did it! You’ve never done it before, but you succeeded on the first try. More than succeeded, you triumphed!...Stand up and give yourself a round of applause because you did it!”

Some stood. All hooted in joy. Over it, Titus shouted out the components. He did not want to leave anyone out. “Four skits, three joke tellers, the jugglers, the contortionists, the ballad singers and the quartets, the conjurer, the tightrope walkers, the dancing dogs, the boxers, the musicians, the stagehands shuffling scenery, organizing props and creating thunder, the ladies who helped with makeup and costumes, those who sold refreshments, and those who painted the posters and scenery. Wow! It really was something! It came together! And it is you who did it!”

As the self-satisfaction sunk in, the hoopla began to quiet and the people looked at one another with approving smiles and nods. “Barmaids?” Titus called. “Don’t be stingy with the beer! And let wine flow!”

The people settled back into their places, chatting with one another as barmaids carried pitchers around the room.

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“Just one further word: Veni! Bibi! Ludi! (I came! I drank! I partied!)” Both arms punched the sky, triumphant and joyous. Some mimicked his action. The room erupted in laughter, just as the audience had at the conclusion of the show.

He resumed a conversational tone. “What a good day! It was a great performance and a memorable party. It had its rhetorical moments, Julian,”—He pointed.—“You almost made me cry. And comic interludes, Cleo, Secunda. And shocking buffoonery, Giganticus! Oh my, Giganticus. Oh, my!...Remember this rollicking party too!...Now…Senator Liberius, my employer, rented the theater for us and is paying the bill for this grand establishment. So please mention him in your prayers to whatever saint you pray to. And, it is doubtful you’ll see him, but if you do, thank him for his generosity. Good night.”

“No! You mustn’t go!” a woman’s voice. “It’s dark!” another. A chorus of women ensued, one after another, some positing new facts, others competing statements from the common lore. “Demons prowl the dark for souls to infect…And Larvae of the vengeful dead…Mephitis eats the flesh off corpses…And gapes into the other world open up in the dark…And people stumble into them…Lost forever!...Never to find their way back to this world again.”

“Ladies!” Titus said. “The dark is fearsome!” a couple of women said simultaneously. “Ladies! What you are saying is all true. But I have the Boastful Soldier to protect me just as

he will assuredly protect you and Rome. Good night.” How he wanted to be in Adria’s presence. On their way to the door, they stepped over the hairy legs of the Rich Adolescent. They sidled

between the Clever Slave and the Bumbling Pimp.

S

Capita III I T E R S U B O B S C U R U M N O C T I S D O M U M

While behind them was light and the murmur of pleasant conversation, beyond lay the darkness, something almost tangible, as if it were a veritable thing or a breathing presence. It veiled the city, obliterated landmarks and pressed in to the light from the doorway.

As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, Boastful said, “What you said in there? You know I will. I’ll protect the city and maybe someday they’ll sing about Boastful, the Protector of Rome.”

“I pray the Lombard King retreats and it doesn’t come to that,” Titus said. “War is a crime against the common people. From their palaces the optimates (best people) send the little people out to die. Do the common people perform acts of selfless bravery? Yes. But I’d like you to name three heroes who have died in battle, not generals, but common soldiers. Name three.”

Boastful made little grunting noises as he considered, finally saying, “I can’t name any.” “So what does that tell you?” Titus asked. “You won’t find them celebrated in books either.

The optimates write the histories. In them they extol their own heroics, sagacity and cunning, while the common people are just there to do their bidding, rather like Gaius’s dancing dogs.”

There was a tugging on Titus’s sleeve. It was Giganticus, the red headed dwarf who had had buffoon parts in three of the skits and who had served as foil for the jokes Titus had told to fill the space between acts. “You wouldn’t mind if I tagged along, would you?” he asked. “I’ll be safe once we get to the Via Lata because there’s always comings and goings up there, and demons and ghosts avoid lots of comings and goings.”

“Is it true?” Boastful asked, “What they all said in there? About the demons and all?” “True as shit stinks,” Giganticus said. “Both of you have to understand how women exaggerate things,” Titus said. “The frequency

of demonic attacks is far fewer than they would have you believe. But true? Yes, I’ve had encounters with the Haunters of the Dark.”

“What did they do?” “Standing here on the edge of obscurity is not the place to recount what I’ve witnessed…Let’s

get home.” Boastful reached behind him to take the torch from its sconce. It was guttering feebly,

dropping embers, nearly deplete of its resin. “I’ll lead the way because I have the torch.” “Boastful, put it back,” Titus said.

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“It doesn’t matter, Titus. They won’t even know it’s gone till morning and I’ll put it back in its place on my way to work. No harm done.”

“See that you do. I don’t want to hear complaints that we damaged or stole things. Let’s make haste. The dark is no place to dawdle.”

At a considerable clip the three of them followed the gentle incline of Clivus Pallacinae up toward the Via Lata. To their right lay the steep wooded slope of the Capitoline, crowned still with the Temple of Jupiter the Best and Greatest. It glowed faintly in the gloom, with the moon just a sliver, like a wedge of cantaloupe. An owl hooted and fireflies danced in their game of hide-and-seek. On their left once fashionable apartment buildings lay foreboding and desolate. Titus had seen them often, although never before at night—Clivus Pallacinae being one of the neighborhoods in his charge.

“Beggars used to live here when I was a little boy,” Giganticus said. “Now nobody lives here.”

Is that a confession that he had lived here and that his parents had been beggars. Boastful replied in his show-off way, “No one lives here now because no aquifers flow here.

There are only three working ones still left, and so there’s no good water close by. Ad Elephantos where I used to live—Titus used to live there too—doesn’t get aquifer water either but we had the spring of Juturna, really sweet water.”

A woman’s voice from somewhere ahead on the left screamed out. “Help! Anyone! Send a mid-wife! Hurry! A mid-wife!”

They stopped, peered ahead. Even if they heard, no Christian soul would venture out, Titus thought. Their doors are all tightly barred against the nightly threats, both human and demonic. “Can you tell where that’s coming from?” he asked.

“I can’t see anything,” Boastful said. “She needs a mid-wife. Why don’t I run get Doctor Copiosus—it’s not far. He’d know what to do.”

“Demons are crafty. It could be a trap,” Giganticus said. There came a scream which echoed against the Capitoline Hill, reverberated up and down the

street, fractured the night. Hair on the back of Titus’s neck stood upright. “I’ll get the doctor. He knows me,” Giganticus said and his short legs were hastening back

down the incline. “Do you think he’ll come back?” Titus asked. “Don’t know,” Boastful said. “Where’s it coming from? Scan the buildings. It’s some ways up, second or third floor.

Look.” “A midwife, Titus. She wants a mid-wife. You’re not one. I’m not one. So what can we do?” “True, I’m not one. But this is what Existence Itself has presented to you and me on this

night, in this place. We’re here for a reason, Boastful. And I’ve tagged along twice when the Doctor was instructing students. I’ve seen live birth and I’ve heard what he said. We’ll do what

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we can until the Doctor gets here.” “If he gets here.” Again the voice. Not as loud, but pathetic, almost whining. “Somebody! Please. Up here! A

doctor, lest my sister die! Somebody!...Someone?” She’s resigned, accepting that no help will come. She’s given up. “There!” Titus pointed. “That

faint light, third floor window. Let’s go!” he said and began running toward it, Boastful catching up beside him.

The building’s door had been battered in years ago but still lay as shattered planks of lumber shoved against the jambs. The odor wafting from inside was of mold and urine. This had once been a pricey building to live in: All the apartments opened onto the central unroofed area.

“I’ve got the torch. I’ll go up first,” Boastful said. “Then go! Get up there!” There came another scream, so vile, surely the mother’s death scream. Once before had Titus

heard such screams. It was in the Baths of Diocletian when the monks roasted a witch to death in their brazen bull.

“Watch your step, Titus. There’s trash on the stairs, can’t tell what. Be careful.” As fast as possible, but still slowly because of the treacherousness, they climbed upward, the

resin torch dropping glowing embers on the way. Things scampered on the floor below and cobwebs annoyed their faces.

Finally, on the landing above, the third, a ghostly figure stood in the darkness. It was only the spectral light from the apartment that gave hint of her presence. “You’ve come too slow and too late!” she said. “Death beat you to her.”

“I am the Aedile. Take me to the woman,” Titus said in commanding voice. “The dead have no need of Aediles!” the woman said, scorn in her voice. Boastful—now on the landing with her and with Titus just behind—said in theatrical voice,

“Stand aside, woman.” He had said those same words in the skit hours ago. She started to do so, then was swinging her arms and hitting Boastful. “I need a doctor and

you bring a clown!” Boastful pushed her. She crumpled down on her back, struggled to her feet, swung arms. He

stood as blockade as Titus entered the room. There was a small table with a single candle and one goblet. One window. A hutch against the

wall. A narrow bed, and on it, half on and half off, a naked, bulbous body. Her breasts were full, hanging to the sides.

Bending over her he held an ear over the woman’s nose and mouth. He waited. “No breath,” he reported. He pressed his ear onto her chest. He heard no thump. He sat up and shook his head no. But in the meager light of the candle, saw—or thought he did—slight movement under her belly, like a chick struggling to get out of its shell. He directed all his attention to that spot, a second movement, three upward pushes. The little dear is struggling to be free! And he heard again

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Doctor Copiosus’s instructions to his students as clearly as if he had actually been in that vile room with them. As last resort, you can incise downward from above the belly button down to the pubes, making many shallow cuts, lest you cut the fetus itself. As you go separate the flesh so you can see. But time will be of the essence and you must act quickly and decisively. In this way you might be able to save the little soul. I myself have done it successfully twice.

“Your knife, Boastful!” he shouted, extending his right hand behind him. “And light! Hold the torch close!” His hand received Boastful’s knife.

“Io!” the woman howled with fury. “You will not butcher her! Get out! Out! Somebody, help!” She pummeled Boastful, who held the torch in his left hand and battled her with the right.

Titus inserted the tip of the blade a hand’s width above the navel and incised downward. “More light!”

Into the cut already made Titus again stuck the tip of the blade into the abdomen and holding it with two hands again incised downward. Then a third cut. He slowed, bent close, and, using fingers and the knife, separated flesh and tissue. There was little blood.

With the woman wailing and screaming he reached into the cavity and, head first, brought forth a child, a girl, her entrance into the world marked by a wet sucking sound.

He sat on the floor with her. And just as he had seen the Doctor do in the two live births, he held her by the feet—still attached by umbilical—spanked her, turned her over, stuck his fingers in the mouth and flicked mucus onto the floor. There was no movement of breath. He did not know what to do, except to share his breath with her. He pressed his mouth over her mouth and nose, blew sharply into it, then pulled back, watching.

There was no response. Stillness. Saints and martyrs, gods and spirits and kindly shades, hover around us! Be present in this, our need!

Again he smacked her and again cradled her and blew into the tiny mouth. Fury had left the woman and she was quiet. Titus, still sitting on the floor with the newborn in

his arms, sought her eyes. A glint of candlelight caught a tear as it moved down her cheek. Her lips quivered.

And the child gasped, then coughed, then wailed. He laughed. “Be praised!” he said aloud, then to the woman—with joy in his voice—“See if

you can find something to wrap the little dear in.” “Boastful!” a voice called from outside. It was Giganticus’s voice. “Bring the torch down to

us so we can get up.” Boastful looked to Titus, who nodded. Leaving, he cautioned the woman, wagging a finger in

her face, “He’s the Aedile, so you behave,” and went out and down the steps. As the woman pawed at the hutch for something suitable, Titus—with the infant in his arms—

entered a time and place that never was. He imagined that on the eighth day Stola would place their child at her feet and he would step

forward to pick her from the floor and claim her as daughter. They would then sit together on the

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bench in the atrium as friends, clients and former slaves came to congratulate them, to bend over their child and say how much she looked like them.

He needed to force the hand of Fate. He could sneak into the Lombard kingdom and from there make his way with Stola across the Alps into northern lands. Or he could convince King Agilulf to rescind his Interdiction of Fire and Water by offering…He had nothing to offer.

Unless some Divinity intervenes into my petty affairs, unless Jupiter the Best and Greatest, or Hecate, or St. Mary Ever Virgin, or Hercules Unconquered, or Jesus or God Almighty…but unless there is some intervention into my world, I will probably never see my wife again. I will never hold my own son or daughter, never be a father unless some Divinity should intervene. Existence, hear me!

The woman was proffering a yellow shawl just as Boastful entered, followed by Doctor Copiosus and Giganticus.

The Doctor still wore his long nightshirt. In it and with his beard and long gray hair he looked more like a wild follower of Diogenes than a respected doctor and philosopher. Titus noticed him bend over the body, inspecting the incision he had made.

“There was very little blood,” Titus offered. “When the soul departs the body, the blood doesn’t flow. I am convinced the heart has

something to do with it, but my idea is scoffed at by my peers…Now you have to sever the umbilical cord.”

“Thank you so very, very much, Doctor, but I’ll let you do that,” Titus said and passed up to him both knife and child. He pushed himself up from the floor.

The Doctor knelt beside the body, placing the child on the bed. “Find me a piece of string or twine,” the Doctor said. “And I’ll need light.”

As the Doctor was severing the cord, Titus pulled a skein from the yellow woolen shawl, using his teeth to sever it.

While the Doctor tied the cord, he asked, “Titus, just how did you know what to do or how to go about doing it?”

“I was in the doorway to Laetorius’s wife’s room when you explained the procedure to your students.”

“I don’t recall you there. I’ve only managed this twice in all my years and you managed it on the first try. You probably should have become a doctor yourself.”

He did not respond, but passed the Doctor the shawl. The Doctor wrapped the newborn, then stood up, holding her. “I never tire of this.” He bent

his head close to hers. “Funny plump little face.” Then, lifting her heavenward, as if he were making the child an offering to Existence Itself, he pronounced with ponderous solemnity, “To such as these belong the Kingdom.”

A couple fireflies, having entered the room, seemed to circle the child’s elevation. Titus knew they were evidence of the presence of Hecate. “Be blessed, my Hecate! Be praised, be glorified and magnified,” he muttered sotto voce, so softly only breath exited his lips without accompanying

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sound. But it was necessary to say the words and not just think them. “You are the only Titan who survived the revolt of the Olympians and it is to you alone the Olympians pray. You are the goddess of the three realms, sky, earth and underworld. You are the ensurer of the eternal cycle of things, birth, growth, thriving, decline and then entry and restoration in the unseen realm. Be blessed, my Hecate, be glorified and magnified. It is you who guided the blade in my hand. And through me you brought a new life out of a dead womb. Be glorified!”

“The little dear seems fine, Titus,” the Doctor said, “just as if she had had a normal, vaginal birth.”

Titus turned to the woman, saying, “For my registers I will need your name, the mother’s name and the name will you give the child.”

“I am not telling you my name, and you may name it anything you want!” “I do not wish to cause you trouble,” Titus said to the woman. “You may keep your name

private. There are some funds we can use for the mother’s burial.” “Use the money on yourself. You look like a drunken numbskull.” Giganticus spoke up, “He told lots of jokes about numbskulls. You should have been there.” Titus noticed his ridiculous tunic, its gaudiness. “I don’t usually dress like this. It’s a onetime

thing for the variety show. But as Aedile, I do have access to funds to bury the indigent.” “We have no need of your charity! We have a sister who has a job! She’ll know what to do and

who to contact.” I shouldn’t have used the word ‘indigent’. No one appreciates others mentioning their deficits.

Ashamed, he moved to look out the window at the faintest hint of graying dawn. From somewhere a dog barked, braving the perils of the demons and Larvae to protect his master’s property. Someday I’d like a faithful dog, but not here in the turmoil of the city, but in the country where thing are simpler and make more sense. I’d like to walk through the woods with him, but at night I wouldn’t set him out to face the hazards of the dark alone. He’d sleep beside my bed and we’d keep each other safe.

Voices were emerging on the street now and the first clunks of carts on the pavement. When he glanced back, the woman was moving toward the door.

Boastful darted over to block her path. “You can’t leave!” he said, gripping her arm. “Christ’s balls! I can and I will!” “What about the child?” Titus asked. “That thing killed my sister! So you tend it or sell it or eat it! I don’t care!” “But you will see to Christian burial yourself. Right?” “Virgin’s cunt, of course! She was my sister and my friend.” She jerked her arm to extract it

from Boastful’s grip. He did not release her. “Now, unhand me, unless you have coins for a fuck!” she spewed. Boastful pulled his hand back with the look of wide-eyed shock as if he were horrified. Now that’s not the first time you’ve been propositioned, Titus thought. You’re feigning an innocence

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that’s not yours. It must be for my benefit, or the Doctor’s. As she left the room, Boastful, still open-mouthed, looked to Titus for direction. He nodded as

if to say let her go, then turned to the Doctor. The child now lay on the bed. For some time they watched the Doctor milk the full breasts into a wooden goblet.

There were manly voices and heavy strides coming up the stairs. “She’s sending them to remove the body,” Giganticus said. “That’s what I think anyway.” “Probably,” Boastful said. “Doctor?” Titus asked, “what are we to do with the child? Other than Antelope’s wife, do

you know of a wet nurse?” Giganticus chimed in. “She’s already feeding two.” Both Titus and the Doctor nodded. “Inscrutable are the ways of God!” the Doctor said. “Yesterday Liberius’s wife suffered a

stillbirth. No one knows of it. Her breasts are full of fresh milk. If they will accept this babe, she will have a privileged home.”

“But do you think Senator Liberius and Lucretia will accept a whore’s child as their own?” “It would save him from the infamy of a second stillbirth.” Giganticus spoke up, “Two dead babies. If a man shoots defective seed, that’s what you get—

dead babies. They’ll laugh at him.” “And just where did you learn that bit of medical nonsense?” the Doctor snapped. “Everybody knows. Everybody says it.”

S

Capita IV PALATIUM LATERANENSUM DOMUS PONTIFICIS

The opulent second-floor chambers of a palace worthy of an Emperor’s mother—and such it had been—had cradled in regal comfort thirty-two previous popes, but Gregory, Bishop of Rome, considered it a prison and himself an inmate. His first act had been to have the bed removed—gloriously constructed of elephant tusks overlain with gold filigree—and replaced with rough travertine slabs. Straw was strewn on top.

While the clouds in the east glowed with the orange and red of the marigold Gregory stood on his balcony. Bits of straw clung to his hair and nightshirt, both hair and shirt the gray of charcoal ash. A network of small blue veins webbed at his temples and his ankles were red and swollen. He was watching the workmen arrive and listening to the ditty some were singing. Although he could not distinguish the words, it reminded him of a drinking song. It’s a catchy tune, Gregory thought. Perhaps in my sinful youth I had sung that same song to naughty words.

The doors opened and into his chambers, with subdued flourish, came a dozen monks, one with fresh straw, two with brooms, others with buckets and mops, oil for the lamps and an empty chamber pot. Archdeacon Peter followed them in, tall and pompous.

With painful steps Gregory moved from the balcony a dozen feet to his red marble desk and sat. On it still lay the petition from a widow of senatorial family who sought funds for the maintenance of herself and her thirty slaves.

The Archdeacon knelt to kiss his hand, then stood upright. “Did you sleep any, Papa?” Gregory dismissed the question with a limp gesture of his hand and asked, “We are to be

wakeful and watch. And I have too much work for sleep. What of the Lombards?” The Archdeacon opened his tablet. “First, the reports are confirmed of their amassing in

Tivoli.” “How many countryfolk have fled into the city?” “A couple hundred await entry.” “See that you add the families onto the dole register.” “Certainly. But first we must verify they are Christian.” “Add the families!” “As you wish, Holy Father.” The Archdeacon’s words were slow, each one weighted. He begrudges giving assent, Gregory thought. He has not fully repented since I chastised him last.

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Just as something hideous grows in his belly, so too something hideous grows in his soul. Zeal for the Lord has mated with his high position to engender pride within him. And that demon has strangled the infant compassion as she lay helpless in her crib. For the salvation of his soul I may need cast him from his pedestal and reassign him to some insignificant village in some remote corner of the Empire.

The Archdeacon’s finger traced down the tablet and said, “Second, the three thousand pounds of gold has arrived in Byzantium.”

“Like my predecessors I am charged with increasing the patrimony of St. Peter. To the glory of God and for the salvation of their souls noble families gave that gold. And what do I do? I strip our churches of it and ship it off to the Greeks!”

“You’re only trying to defend the Emperor’s property, Rome. That lies among your duties. We correctly read the signs, Papa, and the intelligence we received has proved correct. They are amassing for attack. The Emperor is fighting in the East. But the gold we’re sending might show His Piety how desperate our straits are and prompt him to send an army to defend us. If we attempted to raise an army ourselves, His Piety would see it as treason, and then we’d certainly have his troops at our gates, but not to defend us,” the Archdeacon said.

Gregory nodded gravely. “Worldly entanglements. Whatever I do, doubts haunt me. The Lord will soon return on the clouds to receive the Select unto Himself. He told me I would be alive to see that day. It cannot be long now. Such pain gnaws me, Peter. My ankles, my knees, my hands.” He sighed deeply. “What other reports do you have, task master? Any wondrous signs foretelling the End?”

“Yes, Papa, but first two more items about the Lombards. Their King has sent an emissary, a funny little man missing his right arm. He seeks audience.”

“Did you ask the issues for discussion? Maybe their unconditional surrender?” He gave a meager chuckle.

The sarcasm was lost on the Archdeacon. “He seeks permission for the King to pray at the tomb of St. Peter.”

Without any hesitation Gregory said, “We cannot refuse that. I don’t need to see him. Tell him the petition is granted for the next dies Solis. He and his whole court may pray and I will meet with the King. Better summon Commander Castorius. We need to plan for contingencies, should the King raise a siege against us…Now what new wondrous signs?”

“The last item touching the Lombards is the back pay due to the Theodosian Regiment. The Imperial Legate has pleaded poverty. I would like to approach Liberius for a loan and then seek to recover that amount from the Emperor for repayment.”

“I grant your request. Only strive to negotiate an interest rate less than twenty percent. Now what of the signs of the End?”

The Archdeacon’s finger moved slowly, item by item, down the lines on his tablet as he reviewed the facts. Gregory rapped on the table.

Finally he said, “In Sardinia a demon washed up on the beach, thankfully dead. It had the

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head, snout and tusks of a boar and the body of a shark. The priest there, a holy man, had the people gather drift wood into a pyre and they sent it back into the flames from which it had come. The next day the priest returned to the beach with holy water. When the first drops touched the ashes, sudden flame burst forth, singing the priest’s beard. The ground trembled and there came groans from deep within the bowels of the earth.”

“Ascertain this priest’s name,” Gregory said, “and save your notes. We may include this in the Dialogues to strengthen the faith of the people. It proves the power of holy water over demons. Thank you, Peter. You may go.”

“There is the scandalous issue of the happenings in the Theater of Pompey last night. I intend to summon many before the Tribunal of the Holy Life. I am awaiting the full list of those involved, but certainly Titus Tribonius, the instigator.”

“Tarsilla saw me on her way home from it. She couldn’t have been more effusive in her praise. It tickled her that God would hide such beautiful voices among the rags and dirt of the common people, and such athletic ability and humor. The show delighted her. Are you implying my niece delights in corruption?”

“The weaker sex needs constant instruction in what is sacred and what is profane. I intend to make an example of that Titus Tribonius.”

“Who is he?” “He is serving as Acting Aedile for Liberius, Regions Seven and Nine. The Lombard King

exiled him for gross crimes and spreading discontent. And now he is spreading his vileness here. Without intervention he will lead many to perdition. The riff-raff hold him in high regard, for whatever reason.”

“Could this Titus Tribonius…” His words trailed off and he stared in silence at his misshapen hands. His fingers ached as if shards of glass were imbedded in the joints. “Is he a scion of Justinian’s Tribonian who codified the laws for the entire empire? No small task.”

“He is. The grandson.” “And the Lombard King exiled him?” Gregory asked. “The King had him scourged at the stake. I hear that his back bears the scars.” “He certainly would have no love for the King. Hmm…Elevate him from Acting Aedile to

Aedile.” “Holy Father, I object!” “You stated he was popular with the people?” “Yes, to their perdition.” “If the Lombards raise a siege, there will be hardships. The people in their poverty will suffer.

We will elevate both Commander Castorius and this Titus Tribonius to the office of Consul. Together they will rally the people to defend the Emperor’s city, and do so in spite of their hardships and probable starvation.”

Capita V D O M U S S E N A T O R I S L I B E R I I A D A R A M P A C I S

Later in the day, approaching noon, in the neighborhood of the Altar of Peace, there came to Senator Felix Liberius in the silence of his peristylum the faint swishing and hissing of silken gowns. He stood. Tarsilla, the Pope’s elderly niece—three years older than the Pope—was leaving following her visit with his wife.

Attended by a female slave and brandishing an ivory cane—It’s no longer merely a fashion statement, Liberius thought.—she walked cautiously as if fearful of a fall. Yet still there was something of a spring in her step. Like cobwebs on a statuette, age was cloaking her beauty with numerous wrinkles, sunken cheeks and circles under her eyes. But her coiffure was still done in an elaborate piling of gray braids and jeweled hairpins, and her silk drapings flowed in subdued pastels.

“Oh, my dear Liberius, what sorrow tears at your poor wife!” Tarsilla said. “You must promise me you will be gentle with her. She is both angry and disappointed. She endured such agony in labor only to deliver a sorrowful blue corpse.” She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “Think of it, Liberius!”

“The baby girl Doctor Copiosus put into her arms early this morning ought to provide a solace and a joy.”

“She refuses to nurse it, calling it filth from a whore’s cunt.” “No one informed her who the mother was!” Liberius flared. “Often women just know, my dear Senator. As we speak a pretty slave girl is suckling it.” “I care not one whit whether she feeds it herself, but she will present herself to the people as a

jubilant new mother. I will not endure scorn hurled at me and my house. You must not divulge this second stillbirth, Tarsilla. Neither you nor that slave of yours. The mockery of wagging tongues could upend me and all our plans. They’ll whisper that my sins have risen up in accusation against me or that the Father Almighty has cursed me. They will alter my name to Infelix Liberius—a single syllable changing me from happy to unhappy, barren, desolate. Public mockery degrades a man’s stature. I cannot have it. We need the support of the people in order to throw off the Emperor, diminish the Church and reestablish the magistracies.”

“But there must be a place for the Church.” Tarsilla was defensive. “Of course,” Liberius said. “We’ll still have priests and monks, but they cannot dictate every

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aspect of our lives. Let the church rule our souls and a king and his magistrates our lives.” “If you could convince King Agilulf to suppress heresy and enter into true faith,” Tarsilla

said, “it might be possible to convince my uncle to hand Rome over to him, thus reuniting all of Italy.”

As she was speaking a male household slave approached and knelt. “I gave orders I was not to be disturbed. I am not available!” Liberius flared. “I will have you

flogged if the matter you bring is not of direst urgency!” “Domine, the man at the door said you would crucify me if I did not announce him. He said

his message is urgent.” “Did he tell you what this message is?” “Yes, Domine. He said to say, ‘A man with one arm delivers greetings.’” Liberius gasped. Wide-eyed he turned to Tarsilla, saying, “This is it. You must go.” “You will keep me informed?” she asked. “As our Savior lives!” “Come, Merica. Don’t let me fall. I’m trusting you.” Liberius, silent, watched Tarsilla depart toward the front of the house. When she had passed

the last of the marble statues—a nude Niobe in grief, one arm to her breasts, the other raised in unanswered entreaty—Liberius gave the slave instructions for his steward: Wine was to be brought and a platter of delectables; and slaves—newly purchased, ones who had not yet learned Latin—were to be posted at each entrance to the peristylum. No one, absolutely no one, was to disturb the meeting or to overhear the words said. “If the household cannot follow these orders and I am betrayed, I will take the lives of all two hundred of you before they take mine.” He glowered at the young man kneeling before him.

Mouth agape, face pale and eyes wide, the slave scarcely breathed. Liberius’s eyes darted to the marble statue displaying Medusa’s severed head. On the slave’s

face was that same fear. “Your name is Aegyptus, isn’t it?” he asked. “It is, Domine.” Your life now poses a risk to me. This very night I will have the steward see to the slitting of your

throat, he thought. “Tell the steward to hurry. By the time I’ve drunk this goblet of wine, everything must be in place and the messenger must be walking the peristylum toward me. And when our guest leaves, tell the steward I must speak to him privately. Go, Aegyptus. Hurry.”

“Yes, Domine,” he said, stood and—all legs and arms aflutter—scampered off to find the steward, slipping on the polished marble, catching his fall with outstretched arms, recovering and scurrying on.

Liberius filled his goblet to the brim and sat at the gilded bronze table, waiting. A yellow cat rubbed on his legs then jumped onto his lap. She curled and purred to the stroke of his absent hand. If Fortune should smile, I will soon obtain the titles my pedigree has prepared me for. They will call me Praetorian Prefect and Duke of Rome. In all the Kingdom I will be second only to a grateful King. He

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rehearsed in detail that pedigree, how his great grandfather, though of humble birth, had risen to become King Theodoric’s most trusted general, obtaining from the Ostrogoth King armies, offices, estates and the rank of patrician. His grandfather had been consul. And his father had made the family the richest in all Italy, with extensive holdings in Pannonia, Gaul, Spain, Sardinia and the Campagna.

With such a pedigree he himself deserved great things. To obtain them they only needed to throw off both Emperor and Church and restore civil governance. And he, Felix Liberius—already president of the Senate (such as it was, six men)—would be the King’s chief magistrate not only in Rome but throughout the Kingdom.

Their plan seemed simple enough. The Lombard King would attack the city, thus applying pressure from without. Simultaneously Titus Tribonius—an educated man but one who identified with the unwashed—would goad the people inside the city to clamor for a secular society: Enough of the Church’s stranglehold!

Simple enough, if they could get Titus to align with the King who banished him. Titus certainly had no love for the Church…

Just then the delivery of platters of snow studded with oysters broke his ruminations. And a man was walking through the peristylum toward him.

He did not resemble the picture he had cultivated of this moment. He was short, wore a floppy straw hat and a sordid woolen tunic, such as peasants wore, and—like the poorest of the poor—instead of shoes had rawhide tied onto his feet. But he was missing his right forearm. He had been told to expect that.

“A one-armed man delivers greetings,” he said while only half-way through the statue-lined peristylum.

“What did the eagle see?” Liberius asked standing. The cat scurried into the rose bushes. “Rabid dogs attacking a herd of sheep.” “Welcome. You are the one sent. I am Senator Liberius. By what name shall I address you?” The guest responded that his nickname would do, Scaevus (Lefty). Liberius asked him to sit

and poured wine for him. “A regal lady passed by—I presume Tarsilla,” Scaevus said. “She’s sprier than I anticipated

for a woman of her years. Did she enjoy the theater yesterday?” Those remarks, suggestive of a web of informers, alarmed Liberius. “We didn’t discuss the

theater. But she is privy and shares our goal. As a young girl she lived through those horrible decades when the Emperor reduced Italy to ruins following the death of King Theodoric. She has no love for the Greeks. She’s the one who located Titus and kept watch over him.” He chuckled. “He was the honored guest at her Lord’s Day literary club for ladies. The only male in attendance.” He again chuckled.

“Do I sense a disdain for the pinnacles of civilization?” Scaevus asked. “Not at all. Books are valuable assets. You can rip them apart and wipe your ass.”

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“On that the King and I differ from you. He has mentioned more than once a desire to compose an epic in Latin verse on the unification of Italy, the restoration of the republic, and the assuring of justice, liberty and prosperity under a silent King.” Scaevus paused to drink from his wine. “Did you hint at our plans when you appointed Titus an Aedile?”

“Not a word. He’s a hard one to figure. When I went to the Archdeacon to seek prior confirmation of the appointment I intended, he refused to grant it. But he seemed to know all about Titus Tribonius and his banishment. He did not explicitly deny my choice for the office, but cautioned me to watch for any agitation regarding the freeing of slaves. I then called Titus from the factory and informed him of his new job, Acting Aedile. I asked him what he had been banished for and he responded with only one word, stubbornness.”

“Stubbornness!” Scaevus chortled. “That sounds like him. I know him well and his wife a little. Let me paint you a picture. Whereas many feed the hungry because they have been told they should, Titus feeds them because his inmost essence tells him he must. He is totally himself, totally authentic. He will never bend the knee unless he himself wants to bend the knee. Stubbornness, indeed!”

“Wife?!” Liberius exclaimed. “You mentioned a wife? Then that magnanimous spirit is also an adulterous one. He brought a woman into the house I’m providing him.”

“To share a roof does not necessitate sharing a bed. Titus? I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. Too much of his involvement depends on his longing for the restoration of his wife and all he had before. Adultery? Him? No. Never.”

“The King banished him,” Liberius said in an offhanded fashion. “He must have had good reasons for that. Whimsy in high places makes everyone under him fearful. Has the King forgiven whatever Titus’s crimes were?”

“There were many charges against him,” Scaevus said, “but they were trumped up charges, except for freeing his slaves. That was a dangerous precedent, but, nevertheless, it was something that was within his rights. But Agilulf was not yet king, but King Designate. He had not yet been raised on the shield and he had to humor the late king’s court to retain their favor. He regrets what he did to Titus but he was forced to do it. Titus’s wife still lives on their estate. The King Designate could have confiscated it, but he didn’t, even though his queen, the vile Theodelinda, demanded it for herself.”

“So Titus still has an estate and wife, but is promise of restoration enough for him to forgive what the King did to him? He lost years of his life, his honors and all the accoutrements.”

“By itself restoration may not be enough,” Scaevus said. “But I know the man and for years he’s cogitated on the circumstances impinging on the King Designate and he’s come to realize how the King was played. But we have two other factors we can use to motivate him. He has unfinished business to bring to completion. He was working on a noble project, first for the murdered King and then for the Designate—a unified code of laws for both Lombard and Roman. As it is now the Lombards are governed by oral Germanic law and the Romans by the written

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Justinian law. In one form or another the Lombards are in Italy to stay. It just makes sense to have one law for all the people. That is a worthy goal. If Titus could achieve it, it would rival his grandfather’s codification for Emperor Justinian. He’s started it. He’ll want to bring it to completion. But even that may not be enough—his wife, estate, status and unfinished business.”

Scaevus took from under his tattered tunic two pieces of paper. One was of coarse papyrus—such as fish is wrapped in—while the other was a piece of the finest rosy colored parchment. He placed both on the table.

Liberius noted the parchment had been carefully folded into a perfect square and sealed in the center with red wax with some embossing pressed into it. On it were the words From Stola to Titus.

Having placed the two papers, Scaevus was silent for moments, then dramatically tapped the folded letter, three solid, ominous taps. “Add to it revenge.” He tapped the letter again.“We intercepted this letter en route from Titus’s wife. The wax seal shattered under my fingers and I went through considerable difficulty having her seal replicated. You can read the copy I made for you on the cheap papyrus, but have the original delivered to him anonymously. After he has had time to fume, and blackest revenge strangles his heart—It’ll be a rage unfamiliar to him.—the King himself is going to offer him full restoration for his help in taking Rome.

“You see, not only does the King need someone within the city to rally the people to his cause, but he also needs to rid himself of his duplicitous Master of Horse. Among the queen’s many fornicators, he’s principal. But Ratold is a powerful man with powerful friends. The King cannot move against him alone. Such an act would ignite a civil war with some Dukes attacking the King and others defending him. But the King can help a nobody—like the banished Titus—bring Ratold down. And I’ll be glad for it. It was Ratold’s sword that shortened my arm! That’s what the King plans to set in motion, and that’s why he’ll sneak into the city to meet with Titus face to face.”

Liberius picked up the letter. “Blackest rage? Your words. Should I presume that Stola was wronged?”

“Raped, by Ratold. He’s not only Master of Horse but also the Duke of Verona. Titus’s estate is outside Verona. She had no one to report the rape to, no recourse.”

“And the letter speaks of this rape?” “Yes. I made you a copy.” “Dramatic,” Liberius said. “If my wife were raped, it’d boil my blood.” “Exactly,” Scaevus said. Liberius, detecting a huge measure of self-satisfaction in Scaevus’s single word, said, “Such

drama requires a dramatic presentation. I’ll conjure a way to deliver it to Titus in a manner memorable. He’ll forget neither the letter nor how it came into his hands.” He returned the letter to the center of the table and sat back. “Has the King arrived in Tivoli? Did he comment on the warehouses of food and weapons I laid up for him? Since early spring I’ve wagons hauling those

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provisions every day. It cost a fortune.” “Various Dukes expressed surprise at the quantity of provisions. But the King has been

delayed. He sent me ahead while he escorted his beloved queen. He is confining her in a nunnery just north of Milan. She’ll find little opportunity there to debauch herself or rouse the hatred of the Roman subjects. Can you imagine a soul so corrupt as to sever the left hands of mere children for the crime of picking roses in her garden? She did that and called it merciful because she took only their left hands, not their right.”

“Reports of such barbarism will preclude any hope of the people admitting the King into their city.”

“But if rumor does circulate, we can counter it with the truth. How the King granted all three families a perpetual annuity and showed no leniency for the perpetrator, the evil queen. I think it’ll sell.”

“You haven’t tried the oysters.” Liberius took one from its bed of snow, squeezed a wedge of lemon on it and slurped it into his mouth.

“I’ve heard of them but have never seen them. They look slimy, like what comes from my nose in the springtime. I’ll pass. But I will ask you to provide me suitable clothes. I couldn’t be seen leaving the Lateran Palace and arriving here. Disguise in rags was necessary.”

“You were at the palace and saw the Pope?” “I was at the palace and accomplished the mission without seeing the Pope. He will parley

with the King at St. Peter’s Basilica next dies Solis. To avoid my goings being observed, I discarded my equestrian tunic in the latrine next to the new Papal baths and started hauling cabbages.”

“Hmm. You may have attained the trust and confidence of your master, but in Rome we still have laws that punish masquerading a false rank. A slave pretending to be an equestrian would suffer flogging and a branding on the forehead.”

“Slave?! Huh! Let me disabuse you, Senator! I now hold the office Titus once held, Chief Gastaldus for Roman Affairs. And, like him, I’ve become something of an advisor to the King. He seeks my perspective on things. And besides the tunic, I’ll need a fine steed, good boots and the other necessities of travel. And you will also arrange for the removal of the mule and cart full of cabbages out front.”

Liberius did not like being told what to do, but he checked his irritation. “Of course. I’ll send a slave to give the cabbages away to the stagehands cleaning up after Titus’s theatrical production.”

“That’s interesting. Titus in theater. And actually on stage, I hear,” Scaevus said. “Interesting but not entirely surprising. He has a literary bent.”

“I myself financed the production because it’s a means of currying favor with the people. It’s also an irritant to the Church. If you don’t mind, we’ll announce that the cabbages are a gift from me.”

“No objections. Will I get to meet your wife? Lucretia, isn’t it? Has she delivered?”

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How even his wife’s pregnancy and name were known in the Lombard court alarmed him. He could not hide the annoyance in his voice. “She is not well today!”

They must not learn of her stillbirth, our stillbirth, another one. The second only to the King can’t be laughed at. I won’t tolerate a thousand cuts from clever mouths.

S

Capita VI D O M U S T I T I A D R I A N A E Q U E A D A R A M P A C I S

Adriana Caesatia stabbed the ground with a trowel. She had cushioned her knees with a padding of wool strips, and kneeling on the path to her door, hacked the soil mercilessly. With her left hand she grabbed a weed, yanked it out, and flung it over her head into the pile. With each fling bits of earth fell onto her bandana. Although she loved gardening, and although everyone complimented on how she coaxed the earth to blossom, today it received her vengeance. She scratched the earth with an iron claw. Frantic over Titus’s whereabouts, she wondered if she should abort her preparations for the dinner.

She had not nursed him through the plague to have him vanish into the dark. Probabilities flashed in her imagination: He had been arrested because the show’s comedy only thinly overlay its lasciviousness—Or some would say! Or perhaps he now lay, beaten and robbed, in some alley between ramshackle tenements. It was already mid-morning and he had missed the day-workers seeking employment. She told them that there were no new projects today. He had missed the petitioners—a woman with three young boys and Antelope from the swine market. After two years of restoring the house Antelope lived in, the Archdeacon’s brother was asserting ownership. She had asked the petitioners to return the next morning: Titus was confining himself within because of a churning stomach. In the five months they had lived in this house, he had never absented himself from the morning’s salutatio.

Another explanation for his whereabouts presented itself: His arms around some woman and her full lips seeking his! She thrust the trowel down into the Jezebel’s chest. A plume of yellow dust arose from the earth.

Into her fretting sneaked a jocular voice. She cocked her head to listen. It was a popular song, With a stagger or a swagger and an impish smile…Titus! She pushed herself up, threw the trowel onto the ground and marched the twelve feet to stand in the street. She recognized his gait.

While part of her wanted to rush to him, wanted to clutch him tightly, another part raged with fury. She fisted both hands and planted them on her hips. Akimbo, noting he had stopped singing, she watched him come up the street. She had often pondered that incongruity in his posture or gait, a disharmony of the parts. While claiming the center of the road as his portion and while his strides were measured and chest high, his head inclined to the pavement as if some shame or sorrow gnawed at his soul. And just what excuse can you offer for giving me a fitful night and fretful

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morning? she thought. “So, after a night of carousing you finally slither home,” she said while he was still yards away. Titus came to stand before her, the mid-morning sun on the right side of his face. He radiated

the clean scent of jasmine. His face was cleanly scrubbed, a hint of pink in his cheeks, and his sharp jaw line was shaved…closely shaved…professionally shaved!

She did not wait for him to speak. “And that’s not your tunic! I’ve never washed a tunic with fancy curlicues! Where’d you get it? What’s her name?”

“She doesn’t have a name…” “So it was a whore. You spent the night with a whore!” She grabbed his arm. “Adriana, I did not!” he said, twisting out of her grip. “First I was at the party at the Good

Luck, then at the Doctor’s house, then at Liberius’s, then at Laetorius’ Baths…” While she could tell that more gushing lay on his tongue, he suddenly paused. “Oh Adria, wait till you see it!...Posh!...The balneum Etruscani! Mosaics in the brightest colors, statues, fountains, musicians playing and I was the only one there! Senator Laetorius had them roused so that they would play for me. Just me. And the way his slaves tended me, you’d think it was I who wore the purple! Scraping me, massaging with perfumed oils, shaving. Even when I owned slaves myself, I never had them minister to me like that. Just wait till I take you, Adria! You’ll feel yourself an empress. And we are Laetorius’s guests whenever we go. Permanent. Anytime we want.”

“And just where’d you leave my brother?” she asked. Titus smiled a broad smile, with his boyish dimples and twinkles in his eyes, tiny crows-feet at

the corners. “Drunk at the Good Luck. He was still the Chaste Maiden, still in costume, still in the wig, sleeping on the floor with his head against the wall and a young sailor’s black curls on his neck and shoulder. He seemed blissful.”

“You both should have come home with me and Dido.” “And Boastful, too. Agreed. But then would the miracle have happened without things

unfolding as they did unfold? Would Existence still have brought it about without us being present?”

“Obtuse. That’s the word I learned from you last week, and that’s what you are now. What are you talking about?”

“About the dead bringing forth new life.” “Theology, philosophy, complexities built out of empty words.” “Not at all. This was in the flesh, Adriana.” “Well, there’s something else in the flesh that you’ve got to tend to.” She blew a stand of hair

from her eyes and jutted her chin. “You’ll find three hens on the counter and kettle of water on to boil. You told me you’d help and you’re going to help. So you pluck and gut the hens. Not only have you invited too many—not just the actors but the stagehands, the costumers, the makeup women…”

He interrupted her tirade. “With their families most of them can’t come.”

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“Titus, we don’t have enough food! Three hens, a few carrots and leeks, and you go and invite guests and we don’t have enough food for them. How embarrassing!”

“They all know we’re as poor as they are. The only difference between us and them is Liberius lets us live in this townhouse—I think that’s the word he used for it, townhouse. He called it dumpy, but to us it’s grand, isn’t it, Adria? And everybody is bringing a little something to contribute to the table. If everybody brings a little, there will be plenty for all. Honest. That’s how the Universe works.”

“I was hoping my brother would help me set up the tables first thing before going off to work.” “Adria, don’t worry. It will all come together not because of luck or prayer but because

sufficient work will be expended to achieve the desired result. And I believe you told me you have flute lessons scheduled for this morning. Go.”

“I’m late anyway. But maybe they waited, not the beginners but maybe the advanced students.” Those final words trailed off, getting slower and quieter. Past Titus, turning from the Via Lata onto their street, came five horsemen. They rode two on a side flanking the one in the middle. “Something’s happening...Titus, look. Blue and white livery. Papal guards, right?”

He turned. “Yes, with the Archdeacon,” he said. “They could be coming to arrest me, Adria, but we’re staying here in the street. We do not flee!”

Adria moved a little behind Titus, taking his hand. I don’t mind standing a little behind. This is the time-honored position for a wife to take. It feels right, and if people mistake me for his wife? Well, so? It’s just their mistake. How broad his hand is. Mine feels tiny in his, and how rough his calluses are, but not quite as rough as they were months ago.

The horsemen were not stopping but continuing on. “Adria, bow your head in respect.” She did but peeked from under her brows at the morning glories she had planted, the blues,

purples and crimsons. On twine that she had rigged for them they were growing up on four columns of the Portico Gypsiani just across the street. Their donkey, Dido—or rather she was Titus’s sole remaining possession from his life before—had good pasturage inside the rectangular portico. She was tended and pampered by the Simpleton. We do have a good life here together. If only he weren’t already married!

“Must be going to see Liberius,” Titus said, raising his head once they had passed. “Unusual. The Archdeacon generally just summons. Must involve preparations to face the Lombards.”

“The what! Here?” Adria exclaimed. “They are preparing to attack, Adria. Mustering their forces just up in Tivoli.” “Titus, no!” “If they enter the city, I’ll have to go into hiding or flee.” “Where to?” “Some little village in the mountains. Farming, I guess. I am primarily a farmer you know.

Though I didn’t do it myself, my slaves did.” “Then I’m going with you.”

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“Adria!” He turned to face her and cupped her face in his hand . “You have your life here.” “My life is protecting you, Titus. If you go, I go.” He nodded and his dimples emerged. “You haven’t commented a single word on the

production last night,” he said. “It was splendid. Everyone did a wonderful job. And the pacing of your words when you told

the jokes from the joke book was just about perfect. Really funny. It was splendid, Titus, everything...Maybe my students waited for me. I should go. We need the money.” As she spoke she yanked her bandana off, flapped it to remove bits of earth and bent to unwind the woolen strips on her knees.

“We do need the money, Adria. I will rush through my rounds of the markets, get back and set up the tables in the peristylum for tonight.”

“Make sure Boastful and Cleo help,” she said turning toward the house. “Oh, will you toss the weeds I pulled and sweep the walk?”

“Do you want them composted?” “If you don’t mind.” She was approaching the double doors. “The compost brings out the

colors in the flowers. I’d better hurry.” “The Temple of Flora isn’t that far,” he said, then called out in a louder voice, “I like the

honeysuckle on the trellis. Every morning when I pull open the doors for the salutatio, the fragrance greets me like a child’s laughter.”

She paused with her hand on the door. How I long to bear your children! She turned. “Yes, they are doing well and they give intimacy to the little bench under them. The marigolds and the daylilies could use some water. The iris are ragged, on their last day or two, but additional water today might freshen them a bit for our guests. And the gladiolus are finally starting.”

“I’ll bring a couple of buckets from out back and water them.” She entered the house, saying something which he could not hear, except for the last word,

team. He supposed they did make a good team, although his wife Stola would never believe that he would haul buckets of water from the back of the house to water flowers out front. At their estate the Steward directed the maintenance of all things concerning the villa and the Overseer saw to things concerning the farm.

I am sure Stola could never imagine how different life is for me here in Rome. It is harder here, definitely harder, always with something to be tended. Harder, yes, but it’s not burdensome. Matter-of-fact, I’m rather content. No. There’s no rather about it. I am content. His gaze lingered on the door for some time after Adria had closed it behind her.

He studied the dual doors. They were finely carved into eight panels each. Flanking them were statues of Tritons, minor gods of the sea. In the morning sun, the marble was stark white. He wished he could afford to have them repainted. But even in their whiteness, they were so lifelike—with veins on the biceps of one, and what appeared to be water dripping from the hair of the other—that he had often thought the sculptor had used actual athletes as models.

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As he went toward the door to get a broom, he noted that Adria’s flowers could indeed use some water. At least the house was supplied from the Aqua Virgo. Because of some underground plumbing problem that he did not understand, the water flowed only into the trough out the back door. The trough supplied his donkey, Dido, the hens and them.

At the door he noticed wasps were again building a nest under the chin of the statue on the right, the one with the cleft chin. He told himself he needed to bring a torch out after dark to burn the nest way.

Just within the door he noted more tiles from the inlaid mosaic had come loose, although a portion of Diana and a couple stags could still be made out.

This was once a grand mansion where aristocrats had conspired to rig the outcome of trials and to plot affairs of state. Now it’s crumbling. But still, we call it home, Adria and me…All in all, it’s a happy home.

S

Capita VII P A P A E C U B I C U L U M P R O S P I C E N S O P E R A R I O S

It was mid-afternoon. Pope Gregory had celebrated mass, confirmed a Frankish bishop, received a Saxon delegation, castigated an abbot, scrutinized the expenditures from the patrimony of St. Peter, and had returned to his chambers for a nap before dining with beggars. But instead of napping he was again on his balcony to watch the workmen complete the new Papal Baths.

He was disappointed that the crane had been moved into place. For days he had noted the progress in constructing it, how oxen had hauled carts laden with heavy beams, how axes had hewn out notches, and how rope was used to lash together the beams. He was curious how the engineer would manage to raise it from its side and push it into position. He did not get to witness that, but it was in place towering ten feet above the pinnacle.

Below him some workers were putting their tunics back on for the trek home, others were queuing up to receive their day’s pay and others were gathering in groups to watch the final task of the day—the hoisting by crane of the archangel. Six workers had not been released for the day, three working the rope and three on the rooftop. All of them were girded only in loincloths and boots, bare-chested, sweaty and soiled with the day’s labor.

The foreman shouted orders. The pulley on the crane screeched and the archangel began to rise—his robes of blues and

greens, his wings white and gray like a dove’s, with a red shield, golden shoulder-length hair, fine facial features and tranquil countenance. The contrast between the begrimed workmen and the exquisite angel struck him. His heart went out to the workmen and he questioned whether the divine ordering of things lacked love.

Is God just in preselecting a few of us for salvation and condemning the rest? Bishop Augustine of Hippo had argued such, but it does not seem to be justice to me. But who am I to question the justice of the Almighty? In the hierarchy of things—Thrones, Dominions, Principalities, Archangels and Angels—I am but a worm. Perhaps someday the Lord in His goodness will explain to me and the other Select how His precluding many shows them love. When God explains, I hope I can assent Yes! It is good.

The men on the roof and working the ropes have little hope of salvation. They do not despise their lives. Jesus himself had said that was necessary. Happiness in this world is the most they can hope for, and then an eternity of agony and regret. I pray that God has granted each of them a wife to return to at day’s end, children to play with in the street, enough to eat and maybe a talent to share—maybe drawing, or singing

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or running fast—but some talent to share to the delight of their friends. One of the men atop the roof was crouched down, working a trowel to spread gray mortar,

while the other two dangled to pull the archangel toward them. They acted precariously, he thought, intent on completing the final task of a hot day, careless of their own safety. Yet there they were—for a day’s pay—dangling, reaching, stretching, their muscles and sinews glistening in the afternoon light.

Then without fanfare or warning it happened. One fell. Seagulls squawked, pigeons took flight and Gregory gasped. Glistening red paint now streaked one of the crane’s uprights. Hair and part of the workman’s

scalp clung to it. Dozens of workers rushed to his aid. They stood over the twisted body. Manly voices shouted

and called. Others looked toward the balcony, to Gregory, the Vicar of Christ. He stood mouth agape. It was first one voice and then many that began to cry out to him in pathetic entreaty,

“Papa?...Papa?” Their hands reached toward him pleadingly. Who am I to rewrite the will of God? Undo what’s been ordained? He sighed heavily. Thy will,

Lord. Thy will be done. Cupping his mouth with an arthritic hand, he shouted down to them, “I’ll send my personal physician! Lower the Archangel! Put it inside! Not on the roof!”

I hope, my son, that you have many brothers who will gather around to help feed your family during your convalescence, if the Lord permits a convalescence. With heavy heart he turned to enter his chambers.

To his surprise the Archdeacon had been standing just feet behind him. “You startled me,” Gregory said. “Did you see?”

“Yes, Papa, from over your shoulder,” the Archdeacon replied. Gregory could detect no emotion in his voice. “Have you summoned my physician?” “Not yet.” Gregory felt his lips clenching, his brows raising in anger but said not a word. While the Archdeacon went to the door to speak to attendants stationed there, Gregory moved

to his marble desk and sat. He felt a throbbing at his temples. Anvils pounded in his ears. He called across the room, “What interest rate did Liberius accept?” Returning, the Archdeacon said, “That issue is now moot, because he refused even thirty

percent. I took upon myself to seek the funds for the Regiment’s pay from Laetorius. He also refused. He said with siege imminent and uncertainties looming he could have no assuredness you could or would repay.”

Gregory asked, “Then do you suppose Commander Castorius has the sway over them to prevent them from deserting at our time of need?”

“The Commander is staying but…” “What do you mean, staying?!” Gregory interrupted.

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“After the two refusals, Holy Father, I thought I’d beg the funds again from the Imperial Legate. He is paying them personally this evening, all three months in arrears. When the city gates close at dusk, Commander Castorius is calling a mandatory formation. Once each gets his pay the Legate is selecting four hundred of them to escort him and his secretaries to Ravenna.”

“Then he leaves only a hundred behind to defend the city?!” Gregory bellowed. “Yes, and some of those are in the infirmary and so are useless. But the Legate offered to

escort you and the entire papal household to safety.” Papa’s words started full throated, “With twelve miles of walls to defend…” but grew quieter

and slower as resignation set in, “…and he leaves us only a handful?” “Yes,” the Archdeacon said without further comment. “He is, in effect, handing Rome over to the enemy and heretic.” His words were merely a

whisper. He then sat regally upright. “Does Emperor Mauricius know of the Legate’s plan?! Just abandon the city? That’s treason! Doesn’t that amount to treason?!”

The Archdeacon knelt beside his chair and gently took Papa’s hand, which he enfolded with both of his hands. “Papa, without defense, we should go with the Legate. From the safety of Ravenna we might be able to mount a counter offensive and retake Rome.”

“The world falls apart,” Gregory said in meek voice. “Disasters on every side. Not just rumors of wars, but war at the gates of the Eternal City. The End is here.”

“We all pray for that, Papa.” “In the day’s correspondence did anyone mention a new sign foretelling the End?” “There was one in a letter addressed to me, from a friend who sits in the Curia of Palermo. It

seems that a woman there gave birth to a demon with body like a buzzard, with red eyes and tail like a scorpion. It issued from her womb in a yellow cloud of sulfur. It first sat on her head and, as it fanned its feathers to dry them, the woman’s body dissolved into a swarm of worms, which the demon ate. It then flew over the city and swooped three times in attack on the workers on the scaffolding at the Basilica you are building. One of them, a free Roman, was struck by the scorpion tail, which caused him to fall to his death.”

“Just as one fell here,” Gregory reminisced. “Yes. The demon was last seen flying toward Mount Aetna.” “I will instruct the Bishop of Palermo to provide an annual stipend to his widow. That will

bolster the status of the Church among the simple. We must show them that those who battle fiercely with demons receive the gratitude of the Church.”

“My friend did not write that the worker battled the demon in any way, just that the tail struck him and he fell.”

“But he did!” Gregory said. “Time and again he slung a grappling hook in attempt to kill the demon. He fought courageously. Make it so, Peter! And make his heroics known. With the same heroics we will battle the Lombards. We will not entrust the tomb of St. Peter to heretics!”

The Archdeacon stood. “Papa, I ask you to reflect. There was an earthquake that toppled four

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columns in the Basilica of St. Peter. There are demons loosed first in Sardinia and now in Sicily. The Lombards are nearly at our gates. We have had all these since you curtailed the Tribunal of the Holy Life. The city has become infested with sin, Papa. God Almighty disapproves of the toleration you have commanded toward the common people.”

In meek voice Gregory said, “And I worry more about gross sin disguising itself as ostentatious piety. I worry about the clergy and the monks. Who knows what goes on behind their locked doors?”

“We must root out sin wherever it lies. To turn a blind eye provokes the Lord’s anger. I humbly ask that you allow me to reconstitute the Tribunal and bring before it Titus Tribonius, the ringleader of corruption in the city. What we do to him will become a warning to others.”

“He’s now a full Aedile, right?” Gregory asked. “Withholding his elevation makes legal proceedings against him easier. I haven’t delivered it

yet. Just let me summon him before you, Papa. You will find him a man obstinate, unpliable and insubordinate. I had ordered him to provide a listing of all those involved in his show last night. I was to receive it today from his employer, Liberius. When I asked Liberius for it, he told me that Titus had not given him a list.”

“You know how careful jurists can be. Perhaps he takes after his grandfather and wants what he provides you to be absolutely accurate and full.”

“He has no intention of complying with my order, Holy Father. And pedigree cannot be an excuse for disobedience or for sin. Again I ask, let me summon him before you. I will question him in your presence and you will see what we are up against.”

“But he’s popular with the people?” “Yes, dangerously so. I overheard a couple of beggars fretting over the Lombards. They

mentioned Titus by name, one of them saying, ‘Titus says the King’s not a beast.’” “Hmm,” Gregory said and pondered in silence. “I will reflect as you suggest and will let you

know in the morning my mind both on reestablishing the Tribunal and on summoning Titus.” “Also reconsider seeking safety with the Imperial Legate.” “You may go.” The Archdeacon crossed the room but paused with his hand on the door. “Is suicide ever

justified, Papa? Safety is offered to you—Ravenna. Would you stay and die at the hands of a heretic? Castorius and one hundred troops cannot fight off a whole army. Isn’t suicide a sin? Papa, the Church needs you.” He closed the door behind him.

“Yes, my dear Archdeacon, but what do the people need?” he said to himself. In the silence of his chambers he looked at his hands, how misshapen they had become. A demon of deformity was in them. He rested his forehead in his hands.

Never should I have accepted my election. I long for the quietude of the cloister. Lord, cares for Your Church have stripped me of all the peace I had when a monk. I’m not meant to rule over the clergy and the people, or to contend with the Patriarchs over silly theological points. I am not constituted to wage wars.

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I would be happiest alone on a tiny island with only the waves, the breezes and You, God. A quiet life. And maybe a crab or two. They are funny little beasts, the crabs. And Lord? Will you inscribe the name of the workman who fell today into the Book of Life? He fell for

the sake of a day’s wage, Lord. Grant him more than that. Lord, I am unworthy. Lord, I do despise my life.

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Capita VIII C O N V I V I U M I N P E R I S T Y L I O T I T I

Compared to Liberius’s regal peristylum, Titus’s was tiny. It had just four columns on the longer sides, those columns no thicker than a maiden’s thigh. But as he sat at table with his dear friend Adria on his right, he was sure the Senator’s mansion had never hosted a party more delightful. While the anxiety of his guests about the approaching Lombards was almost palpable, no one had yet mentioned it. He presumed each of them wanted to maintain a sense of normalcy in their lives—although dinner parties were not normal for them. In all his years in Rome he had neither attended nor given a dinner party and no one had ever mentioned one to him. They certainly had been anticipating it. During the day’s cursory rounds of the markets several in attendance had shouted out to him what their wives were preparing for them to bring.

With full belly and Adria’s hand on his knee he watched several of the stagehands return to the food table to load fresh trenchers with second helpings. Giganticus on the other side of the greenery steadied himself with a hand on Doctor Copiosus’s shoulder as he climbed up to stand on the bench. “I’ve got a couple of new jokes,” he broadcast. The clusters of conversation quieted and faces turned to look. “A priest, a soldier and a numbskull walk into Sylvia’s Tavern. And they see this donkey there. He’s standing at the bar and drinking from this BIG golden goblet…”

Titus’s guests were tightly packed together. He guessed about twenty on a side, but the trestle tables and benches—constructed from scavenged doors, planks and bricks—served well. Besides Adria there were three other women present, all three seated together—Barba, Porcia, and Antelope’s wife, whose name he had never been told. I wonder why my eyes latch onto women first. Is it that they need our protection or that we need their nurturing and guidance? Or perhaps…to be honest…a baser reason? That I’m not built to live in the celibacy of a monk?

Adria bent to his ear and whispered, “A few weeks ago Porcia told me that Senator Laetorius asked Antelope’s wife if she would nurse their baby boy. He must be about three months old now. Antelope’s wife told him no. Can you imagine refusing a senator? But then with those tiny breasts I’m surprised she has enough milk to feed two.”

Titus nodded in reply, then said, “I think he’ll be four months old now. I watched his delivery.”

“You did?!”

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“Yes, I just blended in among Doctor Copiosus’s students and stood in the doorway. What I learned that day proved to be important, although I had no inkling then that it would be. I guess it was just Divinity’s way of getting things into place,” he said and studied Antelope’s wife. She was suckling two infants at the same time, cradling them to her black breasts. She was a tall, erect woman with sea shells fastened into her black hair. Her husband on the right was several degrees blacker, also tall. His face was festooned with raised scars in swirls and stars and maybe constellations. Like Titus, he also worked for Senator Liberius. He was the manager of the swine market.

While the open air room howled with laughter after Giganticus’s joke, President Cotta—of the Pallacinae neighborhood—stood at his place. “I heard the Regiment has a formation when they close the city gates in a couple of hours.”

“Some rustics have set up camps at Agrippa’s stagnum (pool).” Titus could not see who the speaker was because Adria’s gardenia bushes blocked the view.

“If the Commander calls on us to man the walls, will he pay us?” That was Elmo’s voice, four or five persons down from Titus.

“Days ago I invited Commander Castorius to come,” Titus announced. “He accepted, but that was before the current crisis emerged. I hope he at least makes an appearance. He could answer a lot of our questions.”

Doctor Copiosus stood up in his place, saying, “Senator Liberius invites you to join him in celebration. His wife has given birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl.” There was general applause and Titus poked Adria with his elbow.

“What?” Adria asked quietly. I want to tell her but do I dare? Titus thought. With the way women chatter, she might tell. I’d better

keep the origin of Liberius’s daughter to myself. “Nothing,” he said. The Doctor continued, “After their pain last time with the stillbirth they have not waited the

eight days to claim her and name her. She is called Donata, with its true meaning, ‘the girl who has been given.’”

From here and there were varied comments on how pretty a name that was, Donata. As the Doctor sat, Titus said, “I too have an announcement. It too stems from Senator

Liberius, but he didn’t mention this was in celebration, but it may be. All of you, of course, will have noted the mule and wagon parked out front, with a burly guard watching them. The orange and white you saw him wearing are the new colors of Liberius’s private guard.”

“Weren’t they orange and black?” someone asked. “Yes. He has changed the livery. He is offering the mule and wagon free to whoever would like

them. Now note, a mule is a lot of responsibility. I know because of my Dido. And so anybody who would like wagon and mule, stand and we’ll do a round robin straw pull to winnow down to the winner.”

Antelope stood. Heads were shaking no, and there was quiet muttering. “Anybody else?” No

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one else rose. “Well, Antelope, congratulations on the wagon and mule. The Doctor thinks the mule to be four or five years old—many years of usefulness left. But treat him kindly. My Dido is all I have left from my life before. She’s stood by me all these years, a trusted friend.” He paused.

“Now…” And again he paused. “One more issue before we get to the Lombards…More than a few have spoken to me about doing another show. Some have asked about doing it on a recurrent basis. Lady Tarsilla mentioned that her uncle might be amenable to granting a charter for a permanent troupe and suggested doing a real play by one of the comic playwrights.”

The room erupted in cheers, exclamations of excitement and questions: “Would he really?...But what will the Archdeacon say?...Who’s going to ask?...Maybe Tarsilla herself?” Titus was gratified with their response. He needed to offer them a future beyond the looming hardships. If he could help it, these people would not perish for lacking a vision. It wasn’t much of a vision, just a play, but it was something.

He watched Boastful with virile grace extract himself from the bench. He offered Barba his arm for assistance. She swung one leg over the bench and lifted high the other, snagging it on Porcia’s arm, almost falling, catching herself with a sudden hand to Boastful’s shoulder. She smoothed her dress, composing herself.

Seldom had Titus witnessed an act so devoid of grace. He hid his smile with a hand and suppressed his chuckles.

Adria squeezed his knee to whisper, “Nice looking couple, Barba and Boastful. I wonder if she lightens her hair. Doesn’t matter, she’s pretty and she’s the perfect age for him, seven years older. Early on he’ll learn to rely on his wife’s more mature judgment.”

Titus punched his knee against hers, chortling. “She won’t be his wife until they marry.” He thought of Adria’s own age, thirty-six, and still unmarried. Not much time remains for you to become a wife and a mother, he thought.

Barba and Boastful walked in opposite directions, him toward the kitchen, she toward the beverage area. She wore a peach-colored dress and a necklace of polished, irregularly shaped, black stones. There were faint purple stains on her dress and the hem of it was torn, jagged, threads of it straggling along the floor.

“I bet you thought I just provided the trenchers,” she announced to the room. The peristylum quieted. “But you’re wrong. I brought something delectable, too.”

“Damn good trenchers!” Someone said. It was the stagehand whose major role had been to operate the thunder-maker. “Wish you could teach my wife to make ’em like that.”

Others assented. “Thank you,” Barba said. Tell your wife they need a bit more salt, a scant fistful to a measure of flour. It’ll take more time for them to rise, twice as long, but you’ll taste the difference…Now just wait till you try these.” She pointed to Boastful who was carrying—laboring under the weight—a huge silver tray, humungous. On it lay brown buns. The scent arising from them made Titus think of Nativity and Easter on his estate.

“We call these Sticky Buns at the bakery. The delectable scent and taste in them is from a stick

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called cinnamon that we grind into a powder.” There was silence in the room. Heads turned and all eyes were on Barba. She took a jar from

the tray and began to drizzle a thick amber liquid on the brown mounds. “Yes, it’s honey, but I warmed it to make it pour better. I hope you like them but they are nasty on your hands. I think there should be enough for two each. But they are messy.” She took one end of the large tray and together with Boastful they began the circuit of guests offering them. “We make this same quantity for the Pope’s niece, Lady Tarsilla, e-ver-y sin-gle morning. Don’t know who eats them all except the nuns who live in the palace with her. Pretty high livin’ for a nun I’d say.”

She was struggling with the weight of the platter. Cleo—Adria’s brother on Titus’s left—spoke to the man accompanying him. “Proteus, it’s too heavy for her. Get up and help.”

A well proportioned, muscular man rose to his feet beside Cleo. He alone did not wear a tunic but was bare-chested, shaved hairless, with a leather strap from right shoulder to waist where it joined a wide military belt. On his right shoulder was a tattoo, ad gloriam Herculei (To the glory of Hercules).

As Proteus strutted to the other side of the peristylum, Cleo stood up—in same yellow dress he had worn as the Chaste Maiden, complete with his wig. “If there’s anybody here who doesn’t know, this is my friend, the famous charioteer Proteus.”

Cotta said, “I’ve bet on him twice and won both times.” “I have also won a handsome purse on him,” the Doctor said. “What of the papal decree that prohibits racing in the city?” Porcia asked. She was a

hairdresser like Cleo, but with her face marred by the ugly remnants of childhood acne none of the city’s matrons would patronize her. Cleo had her do the wigs brought to him, one of which she now wore, an elaborate concoction with paper flowers and butterflies.

Bald Cotta answered her.“It’s not in the city, Porcia. The races are held in the old Circus of Hadrian across the river. There are always ways of seeming to bow to authority without giving up what we like. But with the Lombards pressing down on us, we may have to forego such pastimes for a while.”

Throughout the room there was a stirring and calls for hearing more about the Lombards, what hardships they would be facing, how they should prepare and what to pray for.

Several men got up from the table to replenish their gourds with beer—everyone had remembered to bring something to drink from.

Titus raised an arm to elicit attention. When they quieted he said, “If we do form a theatrical troupe, we will need to present along with our request what we propose as the charter for our guild. We can probably find an old one to use as a pattern in the archives above the Roman Forum.”

“But first don’t we need to come up with a name for ourselves?” It was Porcia who asked. “I visited Naples two summers ago,” she continued, “and saw a comedy. They called themselves The Plautus Players of Naples. We need a name too.”

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Heads nodded. “Love the buns!” someone remarked. “A name just popped into my head,” Boastful said, seated again with Barba at his side. “What

do you think? The Imperial Players.” “How about Queen of Cities Theatrical Guild,” offered Giganticus from across the greenery. “Those are good,” said Porcia. “But they don’t have as much music as The Plautus Players of

Naples.” “Mysterious Mirror,” Julian offered. He was a stalwart youth with prominent ears who lived

in the ad Elephantos district, in the same building where Titus had rented a room. He managed the tool shed for Titus and Liberius, dispensing implements to the workers hired for the day. He had painted some of the scenery and had helped out both with the thunder-maker and with jostling the scenery into place. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? A reflection of us? Mysterious Mirror?”

“I like it,” Boastful said. “Me, too, but can we add Guild to it?” another voice said. “If we add Guild, let’s add Theatrical, too. The Mysterious Mirror Theatrical Guild.” “Yes! That’s good,” one said, then another until there was general assent. “That’s settled, then,” Titus said. “Henceforth—provided our Bishop approves—we shall be

known as The Mysterious Mirror Theatrical Guild.” “Shouldn’t we add ‘of Rome’ to it?” Titus looked from face to face. Some were nodding, some shaking their heads. “That’s a good suggestion,” he said. “But it is getting a bit long. If we ever start taking our

shows to the neighboring cities, they’ll of course know we’re from Rome. But before we do that, we’ll need a cart, and support wagons, and so that’s a ways off. For now, let’s stick with The Mysterious Mirror Theatrical Guild. Will that suit everybody?”

There was general assent and a bit of hubbub as they congratulated themselves on fashioning such a fine name, The Mysterious Mirror Theatrical Guild.

From deep within the earth came first a groaning, then a shaking of floor and table. People grabbed one another’s shoulders, clutched their goblets or gourds. Wide-eyed, with stilled breath, they listened. As the groaning and shaking abated, someone said, “Just boati.”

“The earth must have eaten the sausages at Sylvia’s Tavern,” Giganticus joked. A vaguely familiar voice—with the quiver of age but measured—came from the area of the

barrels of beer. “That is a good name, The Mysterious Mirror.” All heads jerked toward that direction. “Papa! Papa!” everyone exclaimed and bowed their

heads. He leaned heavily on an ornate Shepherd’s crook and two guards in the papal pale blue-and-white stood just behind him.

Gregory continued, “I will send secretaries to scout out previous charters for you to use as a pattern.” He looked directly at Titus who was still standing. “Now which of you is the Aedile Titus Tribonius?”

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Titus bowed his head. “I am, Holiness.” He stepped back from the table, swinging a leg over the bench and bracing on Adria’s shoulder. He was not frightened, but apprehensive. His hands were sweaty.

“You look exactly as I had imagined, the wavy hair, the jaw, the broad shoulders.” “Making bricks pumps you up,” someone said. “Humbly, I must offer correction, Holiness. I am Acting Aedile.” “Then my Archdeacon still has not delivered your elevation I granted this morning?” “Your Archdeacon doesn’t like us, Papa!” some guest cried out. Titus did not know who had said it and he was astonished at the forwardness of the remark.

Such brazenness did not occur in the Lombard Kingdom. But then from the founding of the city, the optimates—kings, magistrates, consuls, dictators and emperors—had all needed to contend with the voice of the people.

“I do apologize for my deacon. His zeal for the Lord makes him harsh, not compassionate, but he means well and does take many cares off my shoulders.”

“To our harm!” someone shouted. “I am weary, and…” Gregory said. Titus interrupted. “Boastful, run upstairs and get His Holiness the arm chair from my desk!” Instantly Boastful was on his feet, excusing himself past the Pope, through the guards, toward

the stairs and up to Titus’s room. “That is kind of you, Aedile.” He made a sweeping gesture over the room with his right hand.

“And I had almost forgotten how people gather together in holy friendship to drink a little beer…”

“Sometimes it’s wine!” a voice. “But it’s too expensive,” another. “Yes, it is.” Gregory said, “But still you find happiness in one another, eating a little

something together, sharing some jokes and news about your children or your plans or, sometimes, your ailments. Oh?...Does anyone know the outcome of the accident that happened today at the construction site for the new Papal baths?”

President Cornelius said, “The funeral is tomorrow evening, Holiness.” “May the Lord receive his soul and spread his protecting wings over his family.” “Thank you, Holiness,” Cotta said. “I will deliver your words to them.” “That’s kind of you…Surely you have heard of the Lombards nearly at our gates. I am

meeting with their King on dies Solis. I ask you to join me in prayer that we can avert war. But if war comes to us according to His will, I beseech you now that to cooperate willingly with Commander Castorius. Hardships may come, my children. Food may become scarce. The demon Plague may wander among us again snatching whomever he will. But hold tightly onto your faith and help the Commander however he directs…And Titus, I ask you—I’m not summoning you, I’m asking as one does with a friend—I ask you to come to see me the first of the week after I’ve

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met with their King.” “You will find him to be gracious and civilized,” Titus said, “the type of man you could see

yourself sitting at table with, drinking wine and engaging in pleasant conversation. Papa, you will not be meeting a barbarian. He’s not a beast. I don’t think he’d say the same about me.”

“Does he speak any Latin?” Gregory asked. “Fluently,” Titus answered. Gregory pursed his lips, nodding as if processing the bits of information. Boastful, hauling a chair, was excusing himself through the guards. “Thank you, my son,” he said to Boastful. “But I will not linger. I thank each of you for

reminding me of the intricate web of interactions among the people that give you such happiness. I too had once known such joy.” He raised his right hand. All heads bowed. “May peace be on this house and all herein. May He fill you with faith and love, and may the blessings of God Almighty be upon you, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” the people said. Gregory turned and with slow steps—evidently painful—left. While the guests all sat in stunned silence that the Vicar of Christ himself would visit them and

would call Titus his friend, his voice came again. “Titus? Your big black bronze statue? It’s funny. Reminds me of King Midas. He also got everything he wanted but couldn’t enjoy it. Poor guy!”

“What’s that?” Adria asked Titus, twisting her neck to look up at him. “He’s making himself seem like one of us by using colloquial speech. He doesn’t use it in his

homilies, but does in his Dialogues. I’ve read a portion…” She interrupted him, “No, what’s he saying?” “Oh, Big Boy standing over the reflective pool in the atrium? He’s so well endowed, no

woman could possibly accommodate him. Forever making love to himself alone. Poor guy.” She elbowed his ribs. “Titus!” He addressed the room, “Well our fears seem to vanish under Papa’s leadership. Let’s give

thanks for that and for him. But it is approaching sunset and I’d like to be confident that each of you will reach your home safely. There are unspeakable things that roam the dark.”

“Yes!” Porcia said. “They say the Larvae of the vengeful dead are the first to arise from their graves.”

“But true demons don’t come out until midnight,” Barba added. “Everyone?” Adria said. “If you’d kindly gather the dishes you brought things on and take

them home, it’d save me washing them all and figuring out whose is whose.” “As you pass by the beer,” Titus said, “fill your cups for the walk home.”

S

Capita IX I N A T R I O D I S C E S S U S H O S P I T U M

He and Adria followed some guests, accompanied others, into the atrium. The guests were loud, high spirited and the air throbbed. That the Pope himself had visited them, that he was solving things for them, that he found the pornographic statue funny, all garnered remarks. Many, having said their thank-you’s, paused on the way to the double doors to gaze up at the larger-than-life bronze statue. It was of a mature naked male who stood at the narrow end of the impluvium, the traditional small pool in the middle of the atrium. His head was bowed downward to look at his penis—long, thick, fully erect, its head pushing through the foreskin, wearing that foreskin like a cap. It was truly an enormous member. Titus could never decide if the expression the sculptor had given the man was one of amusement, perplexity, awe or fear.

The people universally now thought it funny, whereas on arrival some had spoken to Titus quietly. They questioned if it would not be wise remove it, or at least to drape it, lest he be summoned to answer accusation.

Now they all appreciated the humor. Someone said, “Papa’s like us, red blooded. If the Archdeacon saw it he’d be gasping for air.” It was Julian’s comment, who had first suggested the name Mysterious Mirror.

“The medical term for that gasping would be apoplexy,” the Doctor, just behind, said to him, “And yes, the Archdeacon would be.”

Through the double doors Antelope had climbed onto his new wagon for the half-mile ride to his home in the ad templum Florae neighborhood. His wife, carrying two infants, was seated beside him. Two robust slaves positioned a sedan chair to take the Doctor to his home in the theater district.

There were still at least a score or more guests within hearing when Titus called out, “It was a good party!”

“Thank you all so much for coming,” Adria said. “We’ll do it again. We have to do it again,” he called out to them. “Be safe going home,” Adria added. With a cocky smirk he asked her, “Do you think anyone is leaving hungry?” “Okay, Titus. On this you were right. I’ll admit it.” She puffed a strand of hair away. Dido brayed from the little yard out back, “Asking to be tucked in,” he said.

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Giganticus came barging past them on his short legs toward the doors. He was carrying a small bundle.

Titus thought it contained leftovers. If true, that adds a little credence to my presumption of your being born to beggars. Hard life.

“Still love your Big Boy, Titus,” Giganticus said. “If you gotta dream, dream big!” He caught up with Porcia who had paused just inside the doorway.

Barba and Boastful were the last to leave. Titus overheard him ask Barba to wait while he put the silver tray in his bedroom, which opened onto the atrium.

“Your sticky buns were a hit,” Adria called to her. “A lot said they liked them. Some asked if we sell them at the bakery. We don’t, just for Lady

Tarsilla. But maybe we’ll make a few to see if they go over. They’d be kinda pricey, and so I don’t know.”

Boastful re-emerged from his bedroom, saying, “I’ll just sling the tray over my back. It won’t be a problem and you’ll have it first thing in the morning.” Hand in hand they went out into the dimming light.

“With luck, Titus, we may be celebrating a wedding before fall,” Adria said. “Possibility.” With the last of the guests departed, Titus and Adria continued to stand together for some

moments, content with the success of the dinner party. “I had my doubts, Titus,” she said, “but the trestle tables and benches worked well.”

“I don’t know why that urge struck me months ago and I went around scavenging old doors and planks from abandoned buildings. In hindsight I see the reason. Tonight was the reason, Adria, and my urge was a prompting of Existence or of the Holy Spirit—whatever name you want to give it. It was to have things in place for this dinner with friends. When I started my scavenging there hadn’t even been talk of a theatrical production, but Existence foresaw it and foresaw this evening and, in advance, prompted us to have things in place. And you see, we didn’t need the head table you wanted for us, the Doctor and the Commander. Such would have been a pretense of superiority. Only the insecure need such trappings, like the red silk slippers the deacons, priests and imperial family wear. It is by law that they alone—and a few imperial functionaries—can wear red silk shoes. Ridiculous! Not only that, but it is an affront to our common humanity.”

“I’ve learned a lot from you, Titus.” “It goes both ways, Adria, and I from you.” She busied herself with some thread on Titus’s tunic. “It is not possible, Titus,” she said,

“but I do sometimes wonder. If your wife were to die—Heaven forbid! I pray it doesn’t happen for your sake and for hers, and maybe also a little bit for the salvation of my own soul—but if Stola did die, I wonder if you would consider me as a shabby replacement for her?” She smiled sadly and lifted inquisitive brows.

The question struck him with alarm. Stola gone? Asleep until the Resurrection. The bride he

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courted and loved and honored no longer in this world? Gone? Stola? “It was a delightful gathering,” he said. He was dumbstruck. He moved to push the front

doors closed. He lifted the heavy wooden beam and jostled it into place on its brackets. How to answer? He expected one day to return to Stola, his estate and the life he had before his banishment. Without Stola to greet him at the guard house…Without Stola to receive him into her arms…Without Stola to mother their future children…Without her, what lay ahead?

He studied the wood grains in the door. An owl hooted…An errant rooster crowed…An owl hooted.

He turned slowly to face Adria but she had slipped away. An owl hooted. I should have taken her hand, should have spoken of my deep affection and my dependence. But a

solemn vow stands between us. Would telling her that have consoled her? That I hold my vows firmly, would that be solace to her?

The skylight above Big Boy showed a sky almost dark. Cicadas had begun their racket and frogs their croaking. Dido, in the enclosure out back, began to bray in an incessant call to him. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Slumped, he walked toward the kitchen. The peristylum tonight smelled of beer, not of Adria’s sweet gardenia. The steps leading down into the kitchen seemed unusually steep. Among the pots, knives and utensils on the counter he spied the goodnight snack he had saved for Dido. She expected something special from him every night and he never failed to oblige.

When he pulled open the back door, Dido’s large head greeted him, her black muzzle, brown eyes and long pointy ears, like a rabbit’s. At the sight of him she shook her mane and twitched all over in joy. Tonight she had roses tied into her mane. Tiberius the Simpleton would have been the beautician responsible. He was the one who protected her from thieves as she grazed in Agrippa’s field. Perhaps he should have invited the club-footed, stuttering Simpleton to the dinner party.

“Look what I have for you tonight, my queen,” he said, raising a drooping carrot green. Dido stretched her neck forward and he fed her the greens, dangling each in the air, one at a time, her neck reaching upward, lips twitching and tongue lapping at them. This inarticulate but sentient beast was his sole link to the past he had left behind. Only she knew the sweetness of that spruce scented air or the glisten of dew on those verdant hills.

The sound of flute music wafted downward from Adria’s room on the second floor. He moved out of the doorway and past Dido to stand at the water trough that he might hear the strains more clearly. There was a sweeping upward from a low note to high one, and from soft to loud, where it paused, lingered and diminished almost to silence. Then came a loud burst on that same note, almost a wailing, and a languid slipping downward by degrees and slipping again into silence. He recognized the tune, Leda’s Lament. Her teacher, Androcles, himself had told Titus that he had never heard any woman, except Adria, who could capture the heartbreak in the tune with authenticity and not cheapen it with blatant melodrama.

As he created in his mind the usual accompaniment—trembling strings, and an occasional

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upward swoop on the harp—he admitted to himself that he had responded clumsily in the atrium by not answering Adria’s question about a hypothetical possibility.

Dido nudged him for another green and he laid his head on her neck, her hair coarser than a horse’s, sharp and bristly, her scent a pungent earthiness, almost a mustiness.

If Adria had not ministered to him body and soul in that cheap room overlooking bronze elephants, he would no longer be in the world. Many died in that outbreak of the plague, but her steady care had preserved him. While thousands died, he had lived. Why? Perhaps Existence needed him to be here among these people in these days. Perhaps Existence had placed him on Clivus Pallacinae to hear the woman’s call for a midwife that he might extract a child from a corpse and breathe his own breath into a new soul. Perhaps the Child was the summation of it all.

The flute now became more lively, embellished with frills, like torchlight reflected in a pond. I’ll tuck Dido into her stall then knock on Adria’s door. I hope she lets me in. I need to make amends. If Stola should succumb—as all must one day succumb—and the bride I carried over the threshold should lie on the consecrated hill beside my brother, you, Adria, would be my choice.

I can’t say that to her in words, lest the spirits of the air overhear. But perhaps I can make amends without uttering it aloud.

S

Capita X V I L L A T I T I S T O L A E Q U E V E R O N A E

That same night on an estate outside a city bordering the foothills of the Alps, Stola Tribonia sat hunched over financial registers at what had been her husband’s desk. The flickering light of four oil lamps brought into prominence the fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.

Sitting with her in an adjoining chair was Hæmon. In years past he had been a household slave. He was now a freedman—by Titus’s manumission—and was still the household steward of what remained of the estate. The fingers of his left hand moved down the column of numbers and his fingers of his right hand shifted beads on the abacus.

Such computation by simply moving the right number of beads on the right wire was mysterious to Stola. But Hæmon—like Titus before him—had assured her it produced accurate totals.

“The surgical instruments do not bring in the revenue the scriptorium did, Patrona,” Hæmon said. “We cannot pay the hired workers for more than a few weeks longer. I suggest you ask Pertinax to bring several gold bars from their hiding.”

“Is there no other way? If Titus had that gold upon his return, it’d make it easier for him to leap over the collapse of things. Could we sell the remaining horses to the King?”

“If we made such a offer, we’d demand a higher price than before. The talk in the city is he is preparing to take Rome itself. If half-drunken tongues can be trusted, the King has assembled forces for the final conquest. All of Italy, save Ravenna, will be his.”

“War! Men certainly love their wars!” Stola cried, “Did you know Titus lost his father fighting with the Goths against the Emperor?”

“Yes, Patrona. I think all the people on the estate and in Verona know that. That may have influenced King Agilulf into letting you retain possession of the estate.”

“It seems an everlasting night since my husband’s departure. If I had known that Titus would have been yanked from me, I would have been a better wife. I would have spent less time in penance and more time being his woman. Three years away! The Lord certainly dawdles in answering our prayers. He may have eternity. We don’t. The end of my childbearing years approaches, Hæmon. I don’t want to be known as Poor Barren Stola.”

“All of us have been praying for his return, both the freedmen and the free Romans who have left Verona and relocated here. A few more arrive daily,” Hæmon said.

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“The little town senate keeps me informed. I regret I can’t offer as much guidance to them as Titus would. We all need him back.”

“Don’t divulge that I told you, Patrona, but some of your erstwhile scribes are working by candlelight to produce a radiant Psalter. Every third page has a glorious illustration depicting the life, miracles and passion of our Savior. The brilliant colors in which they are done gleam even by candlelight. They intend to present this Psalter to you that you might present it to the King with a petition for his return.”

“How thoughtful of them and kind!” She stroked her temples gently with a couple of fingers. “I didn’t see it when he freed them, but he was right in allowing all to have their dignity.” She pursed her lips, then said, “He’ll rebuild the scriptorium when he returns. Of that I’m sure.”

“If Lucius hasn’t found his way to Rome by now,” Hæmon said, “he will never get there. The journey has perils at every turn. Decius, with his greater cunning, should have gone in his stead.”

“Lucius has been neither enslaved on his way nor killed. A woman just knows such things. He’ll get through. He must get through. He is carrying an important letter. He’ll deliver that letter. I know because I prayed over the letter and moistened it with holy water. And I know as a woman knows, he’ll return to deliver Titus’s answer. But I do wonder, Hæmon, in such a great city as Rome how would anybody locate one particular person?” She flicked away a moth circling in the light of the lamps.

“I understand the population there is nothing like it was. Someone said it wasn’t much larger than the population here, Verona, or at least what it was before the flood and fire. If he reaches the great city alive, Lucius will find him. There can’t be that many brick factories in Rome.”

“We can pray so. And on his return Titus must have the gold to work with. In the morning send word to that duke in Verona”—there was virulence in those words—“that we wish our King well in his conquests. And to aid his expedition we are willing to sell him our remaining horses. But not Gracchus, Hæmon! And maybe one other for a companion. Titus loves that horse.”

The gong at the guardhouse sounded. They both startled in alarm. Hæmon rose, plunked the abacus onto the desk. “The villa is dark! We must have torches! I

must rouse the household!” He was rushing toward the door into the peristylum as he called, “Household! Awake, everyone!” He paused in the doorway, turned to Stola and said, “Whoever comes must not think we dwell in darkness and desolation!...Awake, all!”

Stola caught Hæmon’s urgency, turning left in the peristylum toward her room. “Couldn’t they have informed us they were coming!” she screamed.

In her chambers she shouted to her maid, “Tertia! Fetch me a mantle!” As Tertia stirred from her cot, Stola sat at her vanity. “Candles! Hurry!” She opened a jar of

rouge. When the candles arrived and were set one left, one right, she looked into the polished silver

mirror and saw a butcher’s wife looking back at her. In horror she replaced the cork on the jar, lest in her haste in applying it she were to achieve not beauty but a grotesque effect. “Do something

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with my hair and quick. They’ll laugh at Titus. They’ll tell everyone he married a hag!” “No, my lady. Not at all,” Tertia said. She pulled out the two decorative combs above Stola’s

temples, picked up a brush, smoothed out the front, and replaced the combs with jeweled ones. She dabbed her palms with a few drops of Flora’s Blush and applied it to her neck. “Stand up now.” She adjusted how the folds of her Greek palla fell from bodice into belt, and draped the embroidered mantle over her head and onto her shoulders. “There, my lady. Just carry yourself with your usual upright dignity, and whoever has arrived will think you a queen.”

“Thank you, Tertia. What would I ever do without you?” “You’d manage, my lady. I like tending you. You need tending.” After putting a reassuring hand on Tertia’s shoulder, with aristocratic bearing she went

through the atrium and onto the pillared front porch. Hæmon was already there, placing a torch into the sconce to the right of the doors.

The moon, just days past the new moon, was a sliver of light above the buildings of the grange. Fireflies traced erratic paths in the darkness. Along the drive a solitary horseman approached carrying a torch: a Lombard! That martial bearing! That proud steed! She knew it was a Lombard because Romans were not permitted to ride horses, Titus being excepted because of his office as Gastaldus.

Behind him came a cart, crunching on the gravel, its axle squeaking, a rear wheel wobbling precariously. As it neared, Stola could make out the mismatched team pulling it, a mule and a horse. The horse limped with head down as if each step were painful.

The Lombard, arriving before the cart pulled up, said in reasonable Latin. “I am the Acting Commander in Verona. Before Duke Ratold left, he gave orders that if the plague arrived, those inflicted were to be removed from the city and delivered to the Monastery of St. Zeno.”

“You missed your turn,” Hæmon said sarcastically. The commander ignored the remark and watched as the cart laboriously approached from

behind. It stopped. In place of the squealing axle Stola now heard a persistent rumble of coughs and moans. She

glanced warily at Hæmon who shrugged noncommittally. The commander lifted a bouquet of fir and jasmine to his nose. It hid his mouth as he spoke.

“Abbot Memenius refused to accept the sick and directed their delivery here. He said to tell you he is delivering to you God’s treasures for safekeeping.” He chortled to himself. “You can expect more.”

Stola, feeling her stomach knot, moved from the portico onto the gravel. How she had been duped by the Abbot’s pretense of piety, all of it designed for the accumulation of wealth! Titus had forbidden the Abbot to search his estate for the bones of a hermit, a grazier, that he might weave fables of miraculous power emanating from those bones and thus make his relics into a destination for pilgrims. There was profit in that. After her husband’s banishment, the Abbot’s monks, hidden by night, had burned the scriptorium and the pagan Pantheon, even though that

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temple drew only a handful of worshipers. Titus had been right about the Abbot all along. Her gullibility had almost destroyed their marriage. In her piety she had ignored the Scripture that women ought to be guided by their husbands.

Drawn by coughs and gurgles she looked into the bed of the cart. Sprawled upon one another, legs upon torsos, heads upon ankles, arms askew, among rags and the buzzing of night flies, was the detritus of humanity. A miasmas—as fetid as a pig sty, burning the nostrils—arose from them.

One accursed woman, with lips moving silently, kept her eyes wide-open, staring upward toward her brows. Those eyes then locked onto Stola’s and a palsied hand was reaching toward her. Under her, a man coughed violently, his fingers black with gangrene.

“I am to remain here,” came the voice of the carter. He too coughed, a deep hacking cough, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his habit. “Reverend Abbot commands I stay to escort each of them into the Afterlife.”

“Stola!” Hæmon cried, grabbing her arm, “with this gift the Abbot sends the plague upon us! Again the plague!”

“I will need help in getting down,” the driver said. They ignored him and Hæmon asked, “Shall we send the cart to the lepers’ village and have

the accursed tend the dying?” Stola did not answer but looked at the bearded commander on his proud steed. He was too

young, Stola thought, to be in command of men. Again Hæmon spoke, “Patrona, would you rather we send them to the House of Healing for

Anna to tend?” “No,” she said, pulling herself to full aristocratic height. She would show the acting

commander what stuff Romans were made of. When she spoke her words were resolute, decisive, not admitting discussion: “One, summon Anna, the Healer. “Two, summon Decius, the Overseer. “Three, ask Crispus, the Christian Leader, to solicit volunteers. “Four, have Tertia take Rufus’s boys to Bibula at the Giggling Pig. Ask her to take care of

them there until I send word that they may return to the villa. “Five, command the household servants to arrange the eastern triclinium with many beds. We

will nurse them here in the villa because these are indeed God’s treasures!” Her final command did not elicit from the young commander the astonishment she sought to

elicit. “More will arrive tomorrow,” he said and at a slow walking pace retreated back down the

drive into the darkness. “I still need help getting down,” the ancient monk who had driven the cart said. “You will first deliver our thanks to Most Reverend Abbot,” Stola said. She paused as she summoned the wherewithal to speak in an acerbic tone—as Titus would

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have done. She spewed dignified venom. “Tell Reverend Abbot the House of Titus Tribonius thanks him for entrusting the most

humble to it! “Tell him to send more of my brothers and sisters. Send them until the city is emptied of souls

and his monastery is destitute of monks! “Tell him he will have full recompense. “For to such as these belongs the Kingdom!” Open-mouthed and slack-jawed, the ancient monk marveled. “Go!” she ordered Hæmon. “Call Decius and the others!” He dashed into the villa calling names and shouting orders. She stood a moment, amazed at

her own decisiveness, and listening to the sounds of night, the chirr of cicadas, the croaking of frogs, the chirping of crickets. For another moment she stood breathless and enchanted by the serenity of the stars and the silent revels of the fireflies. Then slowly she allowed herself to ease onto the comforting ground. Silence is never an absence of sound, Stola, Titus had said to her one night much like this one. It is a quietness that allows you to hear what sounds there are. A rooster called, far off, maybe at the house of one of the free Romans she hired as guards. Funny at midnight to hear a rooster.

The dying in the cart coughed, cried, prayed and moaned. She listened to their suffering. And she began to sob, gently at first, then more violently. They

began to wrench her. Have I been foolish? Was my decision to house the accursed in the villa for the benefit of those dying? Or was it to vaunt my own piety. Look, commander! Look Abbot! Look how holy I am! Titus would have ordered a large tent to be erected on the lawn to receive them. In so doing he would have avoided introducing the plague into our home. How I need the guidance of my husband! In big decisions and small ones I need to talk things over with him. But in this matter I have spoken. I must live in a house of plague!

She pressed herself up from the gravel, her mouth still contorted in the agony of shame or inadequacy. But she had to be resolute. She had spoken.

She foresaw how her clients—formerly her slaves—would respond to the situation: some with lukewarm enthusiasm, some with indifference. Even so, she must caution each of them that they must avoid eye contact with the afflicted. The demon Plague leapt from one to another through the eyes.

She looked at the thin crescent of the moon. Below it, coming up from the buildings of the grange, was movement and the light of torches. Some were responding to her summons. From the speed with which the one in front was running, she knew Pertinax—Titus’s friend from childhood—was hastening to her aid.

Am I inviting them to join me in death? I have already looked into the eyes. Lord, protect each of them from the demon!

And in your mercy preserve me as well! Let me live to welcome my husband home, Lord. And let me

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live to bear Titus a son! Be merciful, Lord. Lord, have mercy on me a foolish woman!

S

Capita XI I N V I A L A T A A D P I S T R I N U M L I B E R I I

The morning air had a crispness to it, a gift from the night’s thunderstorm. As Titus took Dido’s saddle from her stall, he puzzled, cocking his head, at the greater rumble in the city. It was like the rattle of bare tree limbs in a winter gale in Verona. He hoped Stola’s harvest would be bountiful this year and he was glad Adria’s hurt feelings had been assuaged. She never should have uttered aloud that horrific question—a question premised on the eventuality of Stola’s death.

He bent to secure the saddle in place and recalled sitting in Adria’s room last night where he had explained things to her more fully than he ever had before. He had said that her question came at him unawares, that their marriage had some strained years and was not perfect but still Stola was his wife, and that Divinity would be offended if he considered alternatives to her while she lived. “I cannot allow myself to ponder your hypothetical question, Adria. Thinking along those lines might, in some inscrutable way, influence the Fates. And if it did, would her blood—my wife’s blood—be on my hands?”

She had responded by squeezing his knee and saying, “By honoring her you honor yourself, Titus. If you were my husband, that’s how I’d want you to respond to such a horrible question. I’m sorry I asked. Truly sorry.”

He walked Dido through the gate and used a granite bench to assist in mounting. He progressed only a few yards on the street before he stopped to observe the source of the rumble—the unusual traffic on the Via Lata. Whole families were trudging under the weight of bundles. There were farm wagons with tethered goats, and slaves with bald heads carrying their masters in litters with the curtains closed. The great and small alike were refugees fleeing the countryside.

At a firm squeeze of his knees Dido proceeded. He trusted that under Papa’s guidance and with Commander Castorius’s leadership things would return to normal in short order and those fleeing the Lombard onslaught could return home. But until that unfolded, there were the issues of where to house them and how to feed them. He needed to discuss matters with Liberius, but for now, he would direct the poor to the Baths of Agrippa where they could set up camps in the open space around the stagnum.

He stopped again at the intersection with Via Lata to observe what he presumed was a whole, extended family. A young man lumbered along with an old woman on his back. Her head rested on his shoulder and her arms—mere sticks—encircled his neck while her legs clutched his torso.

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Maybe mother and son? Behind him a woman, with hair matted with sweat, pushed a wheelbarrow. In it was a slatted cage jammed full of chickens and on that was a bundle fashioned from a blanket. Rattling sounds came from the bundle. The wife with kitchen wares? Behind her two boys, years from puberty, trudged along hauling two long sticks on which was tied another bundle. From that bundle no rattling issued. The sons with clothing and bedding?

He recognized a man’s distinctive gait, how broadly he swung his arms. It was Elmo who had worked alongside him in the factory and now worked for Titus repairing roads. He was also coming from the Flaminian Gate.

Elmo waved, called and ran across the street to speak. “Wonderful party yesterday, Titus!” “It was fun. We will do it again, but in the hubbub of things yesterday I never got a chance to

tell you what a riotous Big Hearted Whore you made.” Elmo nodded many quick nods and smiled broadly, revealing the gap in his front teeth. “Lots

told me that. Thanks, but do you know the Archdeacon himself and monks are at the gate?” “What for?” “Seems they are making everyone recite the Pater Noster (the Lord’s Prayer). Not really

everyone, just the poor folks. If they get anything wrong or stammer or mispronounce something, they are being herded to the Baths of Diocletian.”

Titus turned his head to the right to look upward and in back of him. The Baths of Diocletian, the largest and most ornate of any bath ever constructed, stood perched on the highest point in Rome. In his first weeks in Rome, somewhat recovered from the beating he endured in the robbery, he had gone to see those Baths, now falling into ruin. On the wall that surrounded it he had stood to gaze over the city and to his amazement had glimpsed the sea twenty miles to the west. He had never been to the seashore—neither here nor anywhere—even though he had promised Stola that sometime they would make a trip to the shore and maybe glimpse a dolphin or maybe gather some shells.

“Thank you for informing me,” he said to Elmo. “Diocletian is outside my jurisdiction. It lies in Region Six. But I’ll go up there to find out what’s going on. If you haven’t lined up work for today, I have a job for you.”

“Sure! Anything!” Elmo said. “Don’t bother with those who look like they have means behind them or status, they’ll have

places to go. But I want you to ask the people who look poor and scared if they need a safe place. If they do, direct them to the grounds of the Baths of Agrippa. Tell them they can set up camps and I’ll send wagons of bread. And tell them about our rules regarding public defecation. Tell them to use the latrines. If they are going to be in our city, they have to follow our rules.”

“My president has fined me three times. I won’t be fined anymore, because I’m using the latrines.”

“Good,” Titus said. “And make sure they understand there’s a latrine for men and one for women. They must use the right one—else our Archdeacon will be apoplectic.”

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“Huh?” Elmo said, tilting his head and scrunching his face. “Just the Archdeacon won’t like it, Elmo.” Titus suppressed a smile and went on to tell him

that he must stay at his task until the gates closed at sunset, so his pay would be double the daily rate. Elmo was enthusiastically agreeable.

With gentle pressure of his knees Titus urged Dido forward, turning left onto the Via Lata where he caught up with the man carrying the old woman. He directed him to turn right at the next street and just a little ways down would be the stagnum where he could set up a camp until further arrangements could be made. The man thanked him effusively.

As Titus urged Dido forward, he puzzled why the Archdeacon had chosen to test the faith of the refugees rather than help them. He certainly could have mobilized the hordes of sub-deacons and possibly the monks. I wonder if his failure stems from what the stagehand had blurted out to Papa last night—‘He doesn’t like us.’—or is it more nuanced as Papa had started to explain—‘His zeal for the Lord…’? Regardless of the explanation, I am the Aedile in this Region and the State has a responsibility to act. So I’ll tend to things. He decided he had business—procuring bread—at the largest bakery in Rome, the one Barba managed.

He rejoined the progression both of refugees and pedestrians who were familiar to him. Women in kerchiefs carried cloth bags in which they hauled loaves of unbaked bread. They had let the loaves rise overnight and they were now ready for the oven in one of the many bakeries. A schoolmaster with staff in hand was making the rounds to lead his students to a portico for the day’s lessons. The boys followed behind him in a single line.

Over the past months Titus—in brown leather breeches, linen tunic and mounted on his donkey—had become a dependable figure in Regions Seven and Nine. With a wax tablet hanging by cord from his neck, daily he rode by the porticoes where merchants, farmers and private citizens set out their wares for sale. Whereas the people had free use of the Circus Flaminius and of the Baths of Agrippa, the Emperor in Constantinople charged rent for the commercial use of his porticoes. That rent Titus collected and Liberius used to pay for the upkeep of the roads, sewers, temples, shrines, altars, porticoes, forums, basilicas, libraries, arches, stadiums, amphitheaters, circuses, baths, monuments, gardens, parks, fountains and the three remaining aqueducts.

The meager revenue he collected could not arrest the forces of decay, but the people appreciated both where they lived and what they lived among. They cherished their heritage resplendent all around them. Seldom was there protest over the nominal rental fee, one denarius a week.

Titus did not regard his daily rounds as a monotony, but he looked forward to them as an excursion into a living gallery of majestic architecture, art and history—all with the added bonus of beautiful vistas. In spite of Rome being sacked four times in the last hundred fifty years—by Alaric, Genseric, Ricimer and Totila—the majesty and beauty of the city was, while in places decrepit, basically intact. The barbarians who took the city by force had never sought to raze or

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burn it. Instead they just carried off portable loot because they too were awed by its beauty. Besides collecting fees, it was also his job to oversee the upkeep of his regions, by identifying

repairs to be done, prioritizing them and hiring workers for the day. Of necessity much went untended. At first even the tools dispersed to the workmen he hired went missing by day’s end. He solved that problem by having the manager of the equipment warehouse, Julian, also serve as the day’s paymaster.

The Via Lata, which ran from the Flaminian Gate to the Imperial Forums, was lined with box and pine and overarched with oak and laurel and sycamore. To his left were the stately columns of Gypsiani’s Portico, the same portico his house faced. Originally it was called Vipsania’s Portico, but the corruption in the language had transformed its name. Not until this morning had he noticed that Adria’s morning glories were also growing on the Via Lata side of the portico. But there they were, blocks from their home, climbing up twine she had rigged for them. She was a surprising woman.

On his right was Augustus’ Altar of Peace. It was a rectangular enclosure, open to the air, with finely rendered bas relief all around. He had not been privileged to see the altar itself, just the enclosing wall, because the Church had bricked over the entrances. He noted poison ivy was again climbing up the southern wall. He would speak to the team of gardeners about it. Although it was not a pressing issue in the upkeep of the city, the marble carvings, done six hundred years previous, were too finely rendered to suffer the degradation of vines.

Beyond the Altar, a little closer to the Tiber River, pointing heavenward, was the Egyptian obelisk of Augustus’s sundial, its tip sheathed in gilded bronze. Titus’s return route would take him directly past it and he would again see either an elderly man or his grown son sweeping the circular plaza or polishing the brass inserts in the pavement. He had once asked why they were doing it, and had been told that Augustus himself had entrusted his family with its maintenance and that they had been doing so for centuries and would continue to do so until the End of Days. The people prized their city and their heritage.

From his vantage, he could see all the way to the Tiber, tinged yellow this time of the year. Between it and him were green parkland, gardens, and fields used for exercise and childish games. There was the red of tile roofs and the white and gold of public buildings, the Temple of Venus the Victor atop the Theatre of Pompey, the Porticoes of Phillipus and Minucia, Agrippa’s Baths and his domed Pantheon. Titus had heard gossip that the Church had intentions of confiscating the Pantheon from the people. Yes, that’s a pressing need. With only thirty thousand people in the city, another church is definitely what’s needed.

The Via Lata narrowed just ahead as it passed under the Arch of Claudius. It was not a self-standing triumphal arch, but an elaboration of the arcade of the Aqua Virgo which flowed above it. Property along its route was the most desirable in the city, and Titus thought himself fortunate to have a house supplied by it, or at least the water trough out back was supplied.

In contrast to Claudius’s sapless arch, ahead loomed the impressive Arch of Diocletian. A

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lightning strike had damaged it on the northwest corner and his men had placed scaffolding for repair work. The arch was adorned with large round medallions and was captioned in gilded bronze letters affixed to the marble. The histories described it as it being topped with the Emperor in a chariot with four rearing horses. During one of the sacks of Rome that triumphant bronze sculpture had been hurled from its height, smelted into bars and hauled away as spoils of war. He had no idea which invader was responsible: Secular histories were no longer written, only histories of the Church.

To his left, broad marble steps rose sixty feet up to the Temple of the Sun, now missing eight of its deep purple porphyry columns which had been scavenged by the Greeks to adorn Saint Sophia in Constantinople. Even with the loss of half of its colonnade it was still impressive in the direct morning light, its grandeur diminished but intact. He stopped to look. There was a large altar out front, at least twenty-five feet in length. He could imagine how beautiful the marble carvings had been before Christian sledge hammers had defaced it. Broken bits of marble still lay on the steps where they had lain for hundreds of years.

“Titus!” a man said, grabbing hold of Dido’s bit. It was Atticus, previously the foreman of his team at the factory. “Just left the old forum! The Imperial Legate is leaving the city! All of them. The slaves. His secretaries. Their records. Chests of money. Eight carts filled with stuff. And on top of that, he’s taking most of the Regiment with him! He’s abandoning us!”

“Commander Castorius? What about him? Is he leaving?” Titus’s words were panicked. “No. Staying but with only a hundred troops.” He felt his heart pound and the blood drain from his face, but he needed to present a calm

response to the alarming news. “Well…Hmm? Well, Atticus, you heard Papa last night. He’ll work things out. And with Castorius here, we’ll be okay. Let the Legate go. Good riddance. Who needs him or the worthless Emperor?” He checked himself and gasped. “I didn’t mean that last bit, Atticus! Don’t tell anyone I said that! It was in ignorance. We owe him allegiance. To His Piety, allegiance!”

Atticus smiled a conspiratorial smile, partially hidden under his facial hair. “You’ve heard me say worse!”

“Well don’t. And I won’t. With the enemy approaching, charges of treason can come quick and the executioner’s sword is sharp.”

“I’ll watch it. But there’s other big news, too. A slave killed a Syrian over in Fourteen.” “Was he a slave trader?” Titus asked. Glad it wasn’t in one of my regions. “Probably. They didn’t say, but the Arabs, Jews and Syrians all live there. They’re the slave

traders. But I’ve gotta spread the word about the Legate leaving.” “Be sure you tell them Castorius remains. That will reassure them.” “Okay, I will,” Atticus said and was off at a clip, retracing the route Titus had taken. Titus needed to hasten on too. Like yesterday’s hasty rounds, today’s will also be sloppy. I don’t

have the time to see if each seller of goods is current with the Emperor’s denarius. I need to talk with

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Liberius about the refugees. And talk with Commander Castorius. With most of the Theodosian Regiment yanked away, he’ll need live bodies on the wall. He kneed Dido forward.

Young workmen or their wives—some with children—formed a line in the street up to the doorway of Saint Mary’s Diaconia in Via Lata to receive their bi-monthly allotment of wheat, oil, and vegetables. A subdeacon stationed next to the doorway checked names off a list. To each he gave a colored tile to indicate the number of allotments to be given.

The most odious of Titus’s duties was editing those lists each month, marking off the deaths, adding the births, eliminating those who have moved, adding those who have come in. He obtained the updated information in personal meetings with his Region’s twenty three magistri vici (presidents of their neighborhoods, the only officials who were elected). The lists went back to the Office of the Deaconate where X’s would be put next to the names of those no longer in good standing with the Church. They would remove the X’s once reconciliation had been made.

Manna’s Bakery where Barba worked was just ahead at the crossroads of Via Lata and Pallacinae. He tethered Dido to a branch of lilac, walked to the backside of the building and entered. Eight slaves were kneading dough in a granite trough. A couple of slaves were using a balance to weigh a quantity of flour. Others were mixing flour and water in a cistern nearly as tall as a young boy. Titus spied Barba who was counting cloth bags of flour stacked against the wall.

He called her name and crossed the room toward her, speaking as he went. “What do you do with the unsold bread?”

“We certainly wouldn’t put it on the shelves for a second day! We have our reputation, Titus! So we let the monks and nuns buy it for little to nothing.” She wore a coarse gray apron, tied in the front and extending from neck to feet. A kerchief covered her hair—though several blonde strands revolted—and on her left arm a black strip of cloth was tied into a bow.

“Today I want you to have no bread left for the monks. Hundreds of free peasants are streaming into the city.”

“I’ve heard,” she said. “I’m sending them to Agrippa’s Baths. I need you to load the leftovers in a wagon and have it

taken there. You do have access to a wagon, don’t you?” “Of course. We have a wagon. Several, in fact. We haul flour and salt and oil and dried fruit

and firewood and all types of things from the warehouses every day. But I can’t personally take it there. I have a funeral to attend.”

“Whose?” he asked. “My youngest sister’s. She died in childbirth two nights ago. It’s taken us this long to arrange

everything with the Funeral Guild.” “Would you like me to accompany you? And Adria?” “No. Just Adria. A little bit ago I sent a slave to your house to ask her. We didn’t have the

details last night. For mourners it’ll just be the hired mourners, me and my sister who still lives and maybe Adria. But back to the leftovers: I don’t know if Liberius would want to just give it

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away.” He thought of the cabbages that had been given out to the stagehands stripping props from the

theater in order to leave it in orderly condition. He had been told how the slave mentioned to each and every recipient that the cabbages were a gift from Senator Liberius. “I’ll clear it with him after the fact. Just make sure the people know it is Liberius who is giving it to them.”

“I can have a big sign made and attach it to the wagon. We make signs daily.” “Good idea,” Titus said, “but I’m not sure how many of them can read.” “Pericles can draw too. We’ll put a picture alongside the words. With that, plus being told,

they’ll know it’s coming from the benevolence of the Senator. And Pericles can handle driving the mules over there and back. He’s trustworthy. We don’t even need to chain him at night.”

Titus thanked her. “Oh! Two bits of news, Titus. First, the pilgrims are being told to leave the city. No real

danger, they’re saying, but for their own safety they should go. That isn’t good for business! And have you heard the Legate is leaving? Commander Castorius is staying, but nobody knows where he is.”

“I heard about the Legate and the Commander is probably inspecting the ramparts. There are twelve miles of walls. It’ll take some time to walk them.”

Two slaves carried a large metal sheet over to a cooling rack. The aroma—caraway—arising from the buns made his mouth water.

“Onion rye buns, Titus. That’s a recipe Mother taught us girls.” “They smell wonderful.” “And they have crunchy salt crystals on top.”

S

Capita XII E X T H E A T R I S A D S T A G N U M A G R I P P A E

Titus rode Dido down Pallacinae Street toward the river. In spite of the multiple issues impinging—potential retribution by the Archdeacon, the Lombards amassing, the influx of refugees, the order for the pilgrims to leave, the loss of four-fifths of the Regiment—he was still relatively calm. Papa Gregory will work things out with the King, he thought. Things will continue on as they are, so there’s no need for me to flee to the mountains. Though it’s not as grand as it was in Verona, I do have a life here.

He bit into Barba’s onion rye bun. He munched it. Surprisingly, coarse salt adhering to the crust gave it first a crunch and then a burst of flavor that combined perfectly with the rye and onion and caraway. It was delectable. He resolved that someday he would take some home to share with Adria.

On his left lay the steep wooded incline of the Capitoline and on his right the solid wall of tenements, the home to cats and spiders, bats and decay. He suspected demons also dwelt within and two nights ago he had been in one of them. It was here he had shared his own breath with a newborn.

He had Dido hug the side of the street, while four mules pulled a large wagon filled with firewood up the incline. A smaller wagon behind it hauled charcoal. He continued on. And there, bounding down the stairs from the rooms above the Good Luck Tavern and joining four other young men already in the street, was one of the joke-tellers. Someone in the group called to Titus, Ave, Aedilis! and another, Ave, amice Papae! (the Pope’s friend).

How quickly news spreads, but then Romans are certainly a talkative lot. Titus thought, raising his right hand to acknowledge the men as he continued on the Clivus at a slow walk.

“We’re going to Saint Peter’s on the Vatican Hill.” one of the men called, a different man, the timbre of the voice was different.

Titus squinted and recognized him as one of the jugglers from the show. He stopped. “Papa wants the entire place cleaned like it’s never been cleaned before,” the juggler

continued to shout. “He wants it as resplendent as heaven. That’s the word, resplendent. Seems he’s meeting the King there on dies Solis.”

“Good!” Titus shouted back. “That’ll be several days’ work for you.” The joke teller—the one who had bounded down the steps—left the group and ran up to him.

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“Someone just said they found somebody’s head in the stagnum.” He pointed toward the dome of Agrippa’s Pantheon. “It was floating at the outflow. You know, where women wash clothes and all.” His most distinctive features were his cleft chin and wavy black hair.

“I’ll get on up there and find out what can be found out,” Titus said. A decapitation was troubling. There were gangs who robbed, but they seldom killed. And decapitation? He had heard of not a single decapitation in all the years he had lived in the city. “They found just the head—no body—just the head?” he asked.

“That’s what I hear. How does it feel having Papa stop in to visit you?” “Word spreads fast,” Titus answered. His grin coaxed his dimples to reveal themselves. “The whole city knows, Titus! You’re famous. Everybody was saying the Archdeacon would

be coming down hard on you, and what happens? Papa visits you! Papa summons people to him. But with you he goes a-calling! Only you! And I bet you didn’t make that list for the Archdeacon either, now did you?”

“How’d you know about that? I thought the music was so loud no one could hear.” “You didn’t count on lip-reading, now did you?” “No. And no, I didn’t make a list.” The young man called to his friends, pointing at them, “You see?!” then again to Titus, “I

had fun telling my jokes and all. Any chance we can do it again?” “Yes, we will do it again. And yes, we want you back. You were a big hit.” “Thanks!” he exclaimed, all smiles and animation. He turned to the other young men. He did

not walk toward them, he strutted, saying to them, “See? I was good! You should have come!” Titus urged Dido forward. Oh, the potentialities in that strut. It reminds me of the bright colors and

strong strokes in the murals in that tavern. The Romans of today could also achieve. They have the talents and abilities but at every turn the Church castigates them. Sinner, sinner, sinner! Pray for the world to end! To thrive again the people need some opportunities and someone to encourage them.

Directly ahead lay Rome’s first permanent theater, that of Marcellus. He turned right, passing three porticos, those of Phillipi and Octavia on the right and on the left that of Minucia, where Cleo dressed hair. Only a few merchants had set out their wares and some of those were already repacking them. On his left was the smallest theater, constructed by Balbus. The Crypt—the section behind the stage and bordering the street—was now used to confine the insane.

The most elaborate and refined of the theaters lay just ahead on the left, the Theater of Pompey where they had performed.

In this section of the city—the theater district—the grand public buildings abutted houses of the affluent and the shops that catered to them. On the right, in what had been a perfume shop, slaves were removing straw from wooden boxes to extract fine dinnerware, brightly painted and gilded. They were placing plates, bowls and platters on newly painted shelves. Next to the shop were the homes of Doctor Copiosus and Senator Laetorius. The Doctor was coming out of his home, accompanied by half a dozen young men in good attire.

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Titus raised his hand in greeting to the Doctor who raised his in reply. He assumed they were off to some patient’s home where the Doctor would treat his patient and teach while his students observed and asked their questions. Several times he had followed along, observing.

Across the street, on his left, was Laetorius’s Etruscani Baths, before which several litters with their attendant slaves waited. They found a head without its body. That isn’t something a Roman would do willy-nilly. Decapitation is un-Roman in every way. But it is something the Lombards are fond of. They are fond of it because severing the head from the body deprives the ghost its ability to come back to torment and haunt. It’s a precaution against the ghost’s revenge. I doubt any Roman would be behind this...except maybe an infiltrated spy...Or maybe Roman with Germanic connections.

Ahead several carts were parked and slaves were carrying things out from the mansion. They’re leaving, he thought. Many of the more affluent will leave to seek safety elsewhere. The humiliores (little people) don’t have such an option.

A large farm wagon pulled by mules approached. A middle-aged man—standing with a hand on the wagoner’s head, and motioning toward the portico of Pompey’s theater—shouted out to those seated in the bed descriptions of the architecture and bits of history. This was a tour wagon, probably returning from the Basilica of St. Peter across the Tiber. The pilgrims wore awestruck expressions, eyes wide, mouth open, necks craning, fingers pointing.

I’ll tell them the Church has requested that all pilgrims should leave the city. “It was here, in that very portico that Brutus and Cassius and the other conspirators killed the

great Julius Caesar. Oh, the irony of it all!” the commentator said with dramatic effect, “to die under a stone statue of Pompey, your defeated enemy! And look! There! On your left! Like Caesar, he too is a man of the people!” The commentator was pointing to him, to Titus. “Rome still produces greatness! That is Titus, amicus Papae! His Holiness goes himself to Titus’s home to visit with him and seek his guidance! And like Papa and Saint Lawrence and the great Caesar, he too loves the people!”

“And like our Lord, he too rides a humble donkey!” one of the women exclaimed. Titus lowered his head, spurred Dido on and did not speak of the Church’s request that

pilgrims vacate the city. He squeezed between the carts half-full of household furnishings and the tour wagon. He needed to get away. He wanted no such association with populist instigators. The optimates always crushed populist leaders such as Caesar. The optimates had the power, the connections, the prestige and the resources. The people only had the numbers. Even comparison to a populist leader was hazardous.

The complex Agrippa built was just ahead on the right. The domed Pantheon was on every pilgrim’s must-see list. But it was the stagnum that the people appreciated most.

Titus rode Dido on a well-travelled path through the overgrown garden, nearly a woods now. He crossed through the open space around the stagnum and dismounted at the outer wall of the unused Baths. A huge sycamore grew there. As he tethered Dido to a green shoot of that tree—the shoot as thick as a man’s arm—people were rushing toward him. He recognized some of

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them, young men who had found no work today, children, young mothers, old men with canes, youths with acne.

Each had something important to tell him. One told him there was supposed to be a cache of weapons hidden in the gardens of Sallust. Another told him how even the Imperial Legate was too frightened to stay here; another, how with the newcomers comes murder; and theft, another added; and how there wouldn’t be enough food for them and the country hicks.

Titus listened to them, first this one, then that one, nodding, pursing his lips, giving each speaker his undivided attention. He had learned in childhood from Demetrius, the overseer, how by just listening intently respect flows back to you.

He glanced over to where a number of the rustics had set up their camps and spied a small wagon loaded with watermelons. Finally he raised both arms and the people became still. By gesture he called over to him one of the men he sometimes hired to patch roads. As he spoke into the worker’s ear, he was simultaneously unhitching his coin purse containing fees he had collected on previous days. “See if you can buy all the watermelons.” He put the purse in the man’s hand. “If you can, ask the farmer if he and his family would help you push the little cart over here and help you distribute the melons. No need to hitch up their mule. Push it.” The worker nodded and ran toward the family’s little encampment.

Titus addressed the crowd around him. “I hear your fears and your anxieties…” He paused. The crowd was expectant. “And they are justly founded fears.” He paused as the crowd congradulated themselves. “You resent the added burden of the newcomers.”

The crowd loudly affirmed that statement. “You fear starvation if the worst comes.” Again they affirmed it. “Last night, as his Holiness was visiting me in my home, he assured me the warehouses were

filled to overflowing.” He was lying. “He spoke about possibly cleansing the Temple of the Sun with holy water and incense and using it to store the overflow. That would also create many jobs in hauling the grain up and down those mighty steps.”

“Yeah, I’m still strong enough. I’ll do it.” The man who spoke had gray at his temples and in his beard.

Titus’s worker—along with the farmer, his wife and four children—had the little wagon almost to them. The farmer’s eldest son, a stalwart youth, bare-chested and well tanned, served as their mule.

“And if worse comes to worst, and there comes a siege…and the siege stretches into months…or stretches into years…” All the eyes were on him. No one dared move. “If the worst comes, we could grow food right here, if we knew how. There are open spaces in the city. Those could be turned to cultivation—the gardens, the exercise fields, the Circus Maximus and such. Who among you knows how to farm?”

He got blank stares and shakes of the head.

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“We will need farmers, those who know. Watermelons are not an easy crop, and just look at those beautiful melons. That takes skill.” He addressed the farmer. “How many types of worms attack the watermelon vine?”

“Well, first you get the little green ones…” Titus interrupted him. “How many types?” “Three.” “And how do you stop them from eating your vines?” “Well, you pick them off, of course. My girls have keen eyes and get every single one. But you

have to be careful with the striped furry ones, they sting!” “Thank you.” He again addressed the people. “You see, that’s just one crop. Each crop is

different and you have to know what to do, when to do it and how to do it. And on top of that you have to be willing to do it. If worse comes to worst, we will need the skills the rural people possess.”

There was begrudging assent. “And if we are besieged, who will defend us? The Emperor has left us only a hundred troops.

The newcomers are fleeing here for safety. We, here, also need safety.” He again addressed the farmer. “If there is need, are you and your first-born willing to serve on the walls to protect us?”

“Yes! We’ll do whatever it takes to keep us from being enslaved or killed,” he said and looked to his wife and children. “We’ve got too much to lose. Right?”

His family nodded in assent. Titus noticed that, except for the oldest son, they were barefoot, his wife and three of his children. He studied their pile of belongings in the spot where he had first seen the melons. Some farm tools, some baskets, several pots. He owns almost nothing, but has too much to lose. What they do have is what is most dear, their relationship one to another and to the others in whatever hamlet they had fled. That web of relationships is most precious of all. The philosophers misspeak in their exultations of liberty or virtue as the greatest good. Most praise-worthy is the intricate web of relationships. It is a terrible thing to be torn from that web. I know. And it takes time to forge new ones to add to the remote ones.

Titus continued to speak to the people. “You have family. You have friends and there are twelve miles of walls. The Emperor leaves us only a hundred soldiers. Do any of you think that is enough to safeguard family, friends and neighbors?”

The people were shaking their heads no. “If the worst should come, we will need to man the walls ourselves. The newcomers provide

reinforcements for us. If the worst should come, we will need every man to serve. ” “The monks, too? Them too?” someone asked. “Monks, rustics, us. Everybody. But we are getting ahead of ourselves. His Holiness is

meeting with King Agilulf in a matter of days. They will resolve things. They are both reasonable men. And King Agilulf is not a beast. Let it rest in their hands for a bit. But now, to the matter at hand, take me to what drew me here, the decapitated head.”

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“I think it’s Commander Castorius. Same wavy hair and beard,” someone said. Titus gasped. To face the Lombards without the Commander? And with only a hundred troops?

Commander Castorius was well regarded by the people. He had earned their respect. He could rally them. Without him, who? He cleared his throat. “Will one of you show me where you found the head? The rest of you help yourself to the watermelons and then search for the body.”

“And pray,” a woman said. “Shouldn’t we pray?” “Yes. The women can pray. You men, eat quick, then search. Search everywhere. The body

must be somewhere.” He and the road worker left the group and headed toward the stagnum. “Is the Funeral Guild

here yet?” Titus asked. “We need them to reunite body with head once it’s found.”

S

Capita XIII S T O L A E E P I S T U L A S U B A R B O R E M S Y C O M O R A M

Titus walked past wicker baskets piled with laundry toward the stagnum Agrippae. The stagnum was a large outdoor swimming pool fashioned of concrete which was green with algae. He remembered how soft, squishy and pleasant the algae felt under his toes. Broad steps led down into the water and open parkland surrounded it, bordered with overgrown gardens. It was a popular gathering spot. At the end of the day workmen would bathe in its sun-warmed water while their children played games on the grass. The source of its water was the constant outflow of the Aqua Virgo, and its water was clear. In the early morning, before use disturbed its surface, fish over a foot long could be seen swimming below. Children had named a particularly large one The Gorgon. Women would wash their laundry at the spill where the outflow of water would carry any filth—as from swaddling clothes—over the spill, into a stream, down to the Tiber and out of the city.

A man’s head was bobbing against the spill. Titus moved close, to the very edge, bending over, bracing himself with hands on knees, trying to get a good look, but it was still ten feet from him. Only the back of the head was visible, its dark curls seeming to sparkle in the sunlight. Now and then the head would lilt slightly to hint at a black beard. Small fish nibbled on the red sinews streaming out of what had been the neck.

“What’s keeping the Funeral Guild?!” Titus said to his worker whose name he could not recall. “Find me a long branch or stick.”

“You’re not going to touch it, are you!” “Not me. Just God’s stick.” While the worker hastened to the overgrown gardens, Titus squatted on the grass, watching

the gentle motion. He restrained himself from endorsing any conclusion that this was the head of the Commander. He had no evidence. Many men had a fine head of hair. Castorius was not the only one. He did not want to consider the implications of it. If it truly were the Commander, things were dire.

He tried to put such considerations away as he watched dragonflies hovering over the pool. One landed on the head, its body an iridescent blue, its wings clear with delicate filigree as in an oak leaf. Its black eyes bulged. He thought it beautiful in its own way. Crows were squawking and songbirds chirped their morning hymns of praise. He heard the tiny tinkling of bells.

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That would be the warning the Funeral Guild gave to the citizens to keep distance from them, lest they pollute themselves with the uncleanness of death. The Guild tended to the recovery of bodies for the city. And for a fee from the family they tended the corpse—the washing, the anointing, the wrapping, the processing, the wailing, the interring—just as they had before the Church arrived. Death, birth and marriage were still the province of the family, not of the Church. The only change since the arrival of the Church was that the prayers and hymns the Guild used were Christian words set to the ancient tunes.

He wondered where his worker was with the stick he had sent for. But it would be just as well to wait a little longer and let the Funeral Guild retrieve the head. In their possession he could safely determine whether it was Castorius—but he would wait until they had closed the eyes lest he look into them. If it were the Commander and with the Imperial Legate gone he wondered who would pay the Guild for their services. Probably Liberius would pay. This was Region Nine, one of his.

President Cotta was coming from the woods toward him with forceful strides and the worker he had sent for a stick accompanied him. I have to find out his name without asking him. I should know it.

“They found the body!” Cotta called while still at a distance. Titus stood from his squatting position as they approached. “The squawking of crows led them to it,” Cotta continued. “I was here early, Titus, one of

the first. Honest.” From his defensive tone of voice Titus assumed he expected chastisement. Cotta continued, “But I had to go outside the walls to summon the Guild.” There were beads

of sweat on his bald pate. “Is it the Commander?” Titus asked. Cotta nodded. In his hand was a folded letter with its red wax seal unbroken. “Fetching the

Guild took longer than it should have. With the Lombards pressing in, the Guild insisted on moving their families inside the walls. I told them they could use the Castra Praetoria. Nobody lives there or even close by. We should be safe from their pollution and them safe from the enemy. Did I do right?”

“You were presented with a problem and on the spot you made a decision. That’s leadership. But neither you nor I have any authority in Region Six, so I can’t authorize what you did. But it sounds reasonable. If you like, I’ll explain it to the Regionarius of Region Six.” He put a firm hand on Cotta’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

Cotta may had nodded but it was not a definitive nod. He continued, “Titus? You may want to have the Regionarius look into whatever is going on in Diocletian. Screams were coming from it. I think it was children crying and other voices telling them to shut up. And all this was while monks were chanting. Something’s not right up there.” He pointed.

Titus looked up and over his shoulder to the Baths of Diocletian perched high on the Viminial

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hill. Earlier in the day Elmo had spoken about how the Archdeacon and monks were sending to the Baths those newcomers who failed the religious test of reciting the Pater Noster. “You’re the second who’s spoken about Diocletian today. I’ll go there this afternoon, and—if warranted—I’ll seek out the Regionarius of Six. I’ll tell him about Diocletian and about the Guild now inside the walls. But is it Commander Castorius?”

“It is,” Cotta said. “And he had this letter hung on a string around his neck. Or what used to be his neck. It is addressed to a Titus, but which one?” He looked at the folded parchment in his hand. “I know dozens of men named Titus. And nearby they found this armband on the ground. Show him, Publius,” he said to the worker.

Finally I’ve learned his name. It’s Publius. Publius held it out, a wide strip of orange flanked on the edges with white. Liberius’s newly

adopted colors. But what would that be doing near the body? It could signal there had been a struggle. Or it could be a means of Liberius claiming the deed. Or it could have been placed there to cast blame on him. Its significance is unclear.

“Have you opened the letter? Have you read it? Who’s it from?” “It’s sealed. I haven’t opened it,” he said. “On the outside it says it’s From Stola to Titus. Do

you know anyone named Stola?” He passed it to Titus’s hand. His smile emerged like a sunburst as he read the names for himself. Amidst all the turmoil

posed by the Lombard threat came this beatific link to what was most real. “Stola’s my wife, Cotta! It was still cold with morning frosts and I was still making bricks when her last letter found its way to me.” He pressed the letter to his chest.

“But how did the Commander get hold of it?” Publius asked. “Do you want me to show you the body?” Cotta asked. “In a moment, yes. And Publius, wait here for the arrival of the Guild. Point some of them to

the head and then lead the others to the body. But for now give me a little time to read my letter.” He clutched it tightly to his chest, covering it with both hands. Slowly he meandered over the

grass to where Dido was hitched under the sycamore tree. He noticed how the air was clear, the sun bright, how birds sang in the bushes, how children had begun to run around in their games. A solitary eagle soared high overhead.

“Look, girl!” he said to Dido. “Look what we got!” As he held it before her, her long pink tongue reached for it. “No, no, no! You can’t eat it, but I’ll read it to you.” He leaned against Dido’s neck—warm and comforting—as he slid his thumb under the seal. Bit of brittle red wax fell to the grass. He unfolded it, breathed in deeply and began to read aloud.

From Stola to Titus, her wedded husband.

You will have difficulty in reading this, beloved. I apologize. I cannot dictate it, but must write it the best I can myself.

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First, I pray Lucius can deliver this letter into your hands. I also pray he finds you well in the great City. Are you still laboring with clay and lime and furnaces? I hope that is not the case. If he manages to return I will pry from him all the particulars of your life there.

I must unveil two losses, one widely known, the other veiled in shame.

He stopped reading aloud. In silence he heard Stola’s words.

First, our loyal overseer, Demetrius, took to his bed at the end of winter and never arose again. He now awaits the Resurrection on the hill next to your brother.

To utter the second shreds my heart. You carried me into your home a chaste maiden, though perhaps now you ought to return me to my father’s house a soiled woman.

I have been defiled, Titus.

He gasped, stretched an arm over Dido’s neck to hug her close. His lips began to quiver and he read through blurry vision.

No one on the estate knows except my maid and Anna the healer. I had her concoct herbs so that I might not humiliate you by bearing a bastard in your absence.

It was Ratold, our Duke. He forced himself into me.

I am so sorry, ashamed.

Send word back with Lucius whether I should stay or return to my father’s house. Again, I am so ashamed.

His face twisted into a tragic mask.

I will obey you in all things, husband.

Devotedly, Stola His forehead inclined to rest on Dido. He felt his features go slack. He was light-headed and the periphery of his vision darkened. His fingers wadded the letter in his fist and then other fingers were unwinding Dido’s rein from the green shoot of the sycamore. It flopped downward, dangled. It remained there. His feet turned him toward the street. Then came a slow trudge.

“Titus, where are you going?” Publius called. “Aedile! Aedile! We need you.” It was Cotta’s voice. With shoulders hunched and head inclined, his legs carried him with plodding steps over the

grass toward the pavement and home.

to abandon rome

77

Dido followed.

S