“You, too?” the tribune asked.
In as loud a voice as I could muster, I recited in perfect Latin, “’Education is an ornament in prosperity and a refuge in adversity.’ My lord,” I finished, “I am seeking refuge.”
The fat auctioneer interrupted his harangue when he heard me quoting Aristotle. The merchant had been selling a thin, dark Numidian, the plaque around his neck stating the man’s name and confirmation that he was free of epilepsy and had not tried to run away or commit suicide. He pointed a grubby finger at me and addressed the centurion. “I’ll give you 150 sesterces for this one. 200 for both.” Before our weary soldier could get the word “Sold!” out of his mouth, the tribune held up his hand, gave the auctioneer a fiery glance and commanded our centurion to cut the two of us loose. Our officer stood very still for a moment, as if weighing the odds of success in further argument. He fooled no one. Finally accepting his delay in obeying as his sole victory, he begrudgingly untied the lengths of rope around our waists. These had kept us bound in line, and we marveled at this tiny freedom. The centurion secured his slightly poorer inventory, grumbling not quite under his breath all the while.
“Where did you serve?” the tribune asked him as he bent to unlock our chains.
“With the third on the left flank. What’s it to you? Sir?”
“We were hard pressed on the left. How did you fare?”
“Three Samnites right up against the wall,” he said, patting his sword as he stood. “Then it got a bit hectic and I lost count.” The tribune motioned to our officer to toss him the lengths of rope that had held us in line. Pommels rose from both the left and right side of his saddle. To these he looped our ropes and let them drop on either side of his mount. Without being asked, I grabbed the nearest one and my new companion trotted around the horse to take the other.
“Do you understand what will happen if you let go?” he asked. We assured him we did.
“Good. I’ve seen men trampled by horses. Makes quite a mess. Many animals shy away from it. But Lightning here quite enjoys it. You there!” he said, turning to the auctioneer. “Pay this Roman officer the 200 sesterces you promised him.”
The auctioneer was dumbfounded. “But I… you…”
“General Sulla has asked me to repeat how much he deeply and personally appreciates your offering of thanks to his legions for your liberation and our victory over the illegitimate Marius, the traitorous Carbo and the vicious, godless Samnites.” The tribune turned back to our centurion who was now beaming and said, “Carry on, soldier.”
As we reversed direction heading back down the narrow side street that had brought us to the courtyard the tribune said, “One more thing: read and write, yes, in both tongues?” His right hand rested gently on the butt of his sword. I said of course, and assumed that on the other side of the tribune’s horse the other man nodded, for I heard nothing and the Roman continued on.
The tribune marched us through the Subura. Ahead, in the “v” of our restricted vision formed by the four and six story apartment buildings that looked as if they could topple down upon us in an instant, we caught glimpses of white marbled temples and basilicas of brick and stone. From a pack slung across his saddle, the tribune pulled a fair-sized hunk of bread, tore it in two and held his hands down at his sides. Miracle of miracles, it wasn’t even stale! I tried to consume it with dignity, but after one small bite manners were overwhelmed by hunger, even gratitude. The best I could manage was to be discrete while wiping away a tear that formed as I chewed.
“If Rome is the heart of the empire,” the tribune lectured unnecessarily, then the Comitium is the heart of Rome. There lies the Forum and the Curia Hostilia where the senate deliberates, and you should thank the gods you lived to get a glimpse of it.” Before getting any nearer, the Roman turned his horse sharply to the left. “Don’t expect to ever lay eyes upon it again.”
We had come onto a wide, flagstone paved street that sloped gradually uphill. “I would not stain the Sacra Via with your unworthy and pestiferous feet, but this is the shortest route.” I could not help but look back the way we had come to stare at the seat of Rome’s power, but my head was jerked around abruptly by the tribune’s pull on my rope. Clearly, my unworthy and pestiferous eyes had lingered long enough.
This new street was also lined with merchants’ stores, now deserted, but these were finer and no doubt traded in goods beyond the reach of any but the richest citizens. Well behind these single and two-story shops we could see the roofs of the homes where those wealthy patrons must live. To my right, a roughly rectangular hill rose a few hundred feet, its base graced by a grove of trees surrounding a columned, circular temple. The top of this hill was studded with many ornate villas, but several of these were now burning. Our route took us to the top of the Sacra Via on the hill opposite. The homes of the wealthy graced both sides of the broad street, but our view was blocked by high walls, broken now and then by the doors and displays of a tabernae catering to the richest Romans. As we approached a pair of tall, iron gates, two guards threw the bolt and gave us access.
It was as if we had passed beyond the veil of the living and entered a miniature Olympus, a place inhabited by immortals. I was at once dumbstruck, and almost immediately thereafter afraid. I did not belong here. The sight of such wonders could only bring misfortune, like Actaeon stumbling upon Artemis as she bathed. The Huntress turned him into a stag, then caused his own hounds to tear him apart. Our tribune broke this dreadful reverie by yanking on my rope to pull me forward into the grounds of the estate. We walked on white gravel paths through rolling greenery adorned by fountains, statuary and flower gardens, the sight of which would calm the most agitated eye. Though I remained uneasy, I was compelled to look. Yet it was not long before another sense conquered my fears and completed the seduction. I found myself stealing great breaths of fragrant air, saturated with a harmony of herbs and flowers that made my knees weak. Suddenly overcome, I fought to keep my eyes from welling.
The tribune led us down and around to the back of the home where we and the soldier’s horse were tied haphazardly to the same column supporting a semicircular balcony above our heads. He took our fragile hands, the ones that held the free ends of the rope, and with his own calloused, giant fingers squeezed with such force that my knuckles cracked. We were admonished in a low whisper that to move or speak was death. The fullness of my belly made me giddy; as the officer strode briskly into the house, I almost called out after him that we would do our best to keep his horse quiet. Sanity prevailed, but was soon to be abandoned.
Chapter III
82 BCE — Fall, Rome Year of the consulship of Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo
Several men and women were busy pruning and trimming the flowered garden that sloped gently down the hill that overlooked the way we had come. I almost smiled when I realized the view to the northwest looked directly down upon the Comitium. The tribune would have insisted that I avert my eyes. I took great pleasure in allowing my eyes to linger over every building and temple.