“We may not have Greek tutors and carriages,” I allowed, “but we have a bathhouse.”
“That is why it is the duty of every noble citizen to offer aid and comfort to the soldiers who protect us from the brutal savagery of the wild barbarians.”
“And the soldiers respect you for it, too. I know I do.”
“There. You see? A real soldier would not have had the least idea what I was talking about.”
“Well, I am not at all certain I understand either.”
“Oh yes you do,” she proclaimed triumphantly. “You’re more like a magistrate.” The delight she took in having correctly defined me was a pleasure to behold. Her long slender body seemed to tremble from head to toe, and her countenance lit with a sudden and winsome splendor. “You understand me perfectly.”
“That I truly doubt.”
“You do!” Oriana insisted. She flitted down the hillside and perched on the edge of the stone trough. “Now, let me see…” Chin on fist, she narrowed her dark eyes as she studied me. “Your father was a legate or a procurator or something, and he was killed in battle leading the militia against the invaders who attacked your city. You were just a small child but grew up swearing vengeance against those who killed him. When you grew old enough to enlist, you joined the legion, and you’ve been fighting barbarians on the frontier ever since. One day,” she confided in a low voice, “you will return to your estate to take control of your lands and raise a family of sons who will also become great soldiers.”
I regarded her closely. She had struck nearer the truth than she could possibly have guessed.
“Well?” she demanded.
“You are right, of course,” I answered. “But then you knew that already.”
She regarded me skeptically. “Truly?”
“You are indeed a wonderful soothsayer.”
“You don’t really think so,” she said, growing petulant. “You think I’m just a foolish girl.”
“Well, since you know what I think, is there any reason to deny it?”
Instantly angry, she jumped up from the edge of the trough. “Hmph!” she snorted as she flounced away. “You’re just like all the others!”
I watched her go, vastly enjoying the sight and wondering: How did she know about me? Her speculation was extremely close to the mark. I pondered this as I resumed filling the trough—until I remembered that the family often took meals with the priests. She had probably got most of what she had guessed about me from Julian.
This was the first of a lengthy series of sparring matches between Oriana and myself. Why she picked on me, I cannot say. Perhaps, as she had suggested, she found me different from the other soldiers and determined to make of me a pet she might groom and primp. I found her curiously amusing: charming and flattering one moment, outraged the next—there was no possibility of predicting what she might say or do. Pampered from infancy and indulged by a blindly doting father who obliged every whim, her life a daily round of privilege, comfort, and ease—she knew nothing of want, adversity, or distress. Oriana was a flower raised in a walled garden, protected from every errant wind, grown to grace the palace of some rich and powerful Roman aristocrat.
As the long journey proceeded, the stringent barriers between the soldier escort and the rest of the traveling party gradually broke down. I often rode with the vicarius, the bishop, or one of the priests. With nothing else to do, we talked—often about nothing in particular. Occasionally, however, something of larger import surfaced.
One day I found myself riding behind Bishop Cornelius and Lady Helena, who had exchanged her place in the carriage for Julian’s saddle; they were deep into a discussion which I overheard in snips and snatches—nothing that interested me, but apparently it exercised them greatly. All at once the bishop turned in the saddle, saw me, and said, “Look, here is Succat. Let us see what he thinks.”
“Very well,” replied Helena, glancing over her shoulder, “ask him.”
“Succat,” called the bishop, “come up and join us. I want to talk to you.”
I obeyed, reining in beside him. “I am at your service, Bishop.”
“The question is this: Do you think it advisable for priests to marry?”
“Why ask me?”
“Your grandfather was a priest.”
“He was, yes.”
“So you must have an opinion on the matter.”
“It is my opinion that if priests were not allowed to marry, I would not be here. Therefore I am inclined to regard priestly marriage in a favorable light.”
“Well said,” replied Helena with a nod. “I have been telling this puffed-up priest much the same thing myself. It is not for priests to play God when they know so little about being men.”
“‘Puffed-up?’” wondered Cornelius. “I hope you don’t mean that. I simply put forward the observation that unmarried priests may devote the greater portion of their earthly allotted time to the pursuit of higher things.”
“Come now, dear Cornelius,” protested Helena lightly. “Priests are mortal men, are they not? Without the abiding presence of a good woman to help and guide, men quickly descend to the unfettered indulgence of their baser ambitions.” Her lips curved in a sweet smile as she delivered her killing stroke. “The only things I see pursued by priests are wealth and power. I strongly suspect that the reason for the church’s present aversion to marriage is so that you priests are free to do as you please without having to explain yourselves to anyone.”
Turning to me, she said, “Tell me, Magonus, what sort of priest was your grandfather?”
“I honestly have no idea,” I told her. “I remember him as a stern man much given to clouting people with his stick when they transgressed.”
“Good!” She laughed. “I would have liked to have seen that. It makes a change from the usual sanctimony and simpering.”
Cornelius grimaced but held his tongue.
“My grandfather thought his flock weak-willed and largely unworthy of the honor God had paid them in dying for their sins. He always said that men loved sinning more than they loved virtue; otherwise we would have seen the Heavenly Kingdom established long since.”
“He sounds like a man who knew a thing or two.”
“He sounds, my dear friends,” huffed the bishop, “like a true Pelagian.”
“Oh, Pelagius again!” scoffed Helena. “You think everyone who disagrees with you is a Pelagian. Tell me, if you can, what you find so repugnant about this poor man that you should persecute him so.”
“No,” replied Cornelius crisply. “No, I will not be drawn into that discussion with you. These are weighty matters and not to be bandied about for the sake of idle amusement.”
Helena refused to be put off. “You don’t like Pelagius,” she declared, “because he dares to question the practices of a priesthood grown too fat and lazy for its own good.”
The bishop frowned. “Lady Columella,” he said, “one would almost think you a follower of the noxious monk yourself.”
“And what if I were?”
“I would pray for you, of course—that you would soon realize the error of your ways and renounce his infernal teaching.”
“It is true I have heard him speak,” confessed Helena. “His greatest concern was that the high and mighty who came to him should daily practice the faith they professed in their assemblies, lest the name of Christ become an emblem of shame and derision. I found him refreshing—inspiring. A more intelligent and humble priest I am certain I have never met.”
“The devil himself has the power to beguile, Lady Columella.”
“You condemn him, Bishop. Yet you have not elucidated what you find so offensive in his teaching.”
“I do condemn him. For a start he advocates preaching the Gospel of Christ to barbarians—an enterprise fraught with danger to all concerned. As we know—and as our Holy Father the pope has decreed—to enlighten barbarians to salvation merely makes them ripe for damnation.”
“Indee
d, Bishop?” I countered. “How so?”
“My son, it is obvious, is it not? The barbarian mind is not sufficiently developed to appreciate, much less understand, the loftier concepts that faith naturally entails. Lacking the humanizing influences of civilization, barbarians are foredoomed to remain savages. Introducing them to a faith they can neither comprehend nor honor is cruelty itself, for once the Gospel has been heard, men come under its judgment. The judgment for all who fall short is eternal damnation.”
“Suppose they heard and understood,” I said, “repented and went away rejoicing. What then?”
“No better,” sniffed the bishop. “They have no cities, no government, and thus no way of ensuring a dependable propagation of correct doctrine.” He shook his head gravely. “Even if it were somehow possible that they might be persuaded of the truth of the faith, they would soon be floundering in error of every kind and wholly unable to extricate themselves.”
“Better they should die in ignorance,” I replied, taking up the thread of his argument, “than grasp at a salvation they can never possess.”
“Precisely!” said the churchman. “Some vessels, as we know, are made for destruction.”
“I beg your pardon, Bishop,” I said, “but you know precisely nothing about the barbarian mind. You have no idea what they may be capable of comprehending.”
“I can see where you might hold such beliefs,” he said, taking on an air of superiority. To Helena he said, “Our friend Succat spent some time among barbarians. Such close familiarity has addled his perceptions.”
“If you mean I know how they think and what they might be able to understand, I do freely confess it. You will find among them men as intelligent and discerning as any to be found in the more civilized nations.”
“You hold a most passionate view,” remarked Lady Columella. “How long did you live among the barbarians?”
“Seven years,” I told her. “I was taken captive in a raid and made a slave to an Irish king.”
“Seven years is a long time, Bishop. It would seem our friend had ample opportunity to observe them in all their ways. Have you ever lived among barbarians, Bishop Cornelius?”
“Indeed no. I did, however, serve for many years in the north of Britain, where barbarians were not unknown.”
“I see,” replied Helena. “So it would seem that Centurion Succat’s convictions have a sound basis in experience, while yours are mere conjecture.”
“I protest,” the bishop spluttered. “I do think your assessment harsh and simplistic.”
“Be that as it may,” continued Lady Columella, blithely impervious to his objection, “it seems to me that you would do well to listen to this man and heed him.”
“I am happy to consider your views, of course, but you must admit—” began the bishop.
“Further, from what I have seen, the Christian priests of Rome are interested in nothing so much as protecting their lofty and influential position and fomenting nonsensical feuds with anyone bold enough to oppose them. I think they would be far better employed preaching the good news to the barbarians. They might even learn a useful thing or two.”
“You are entitled to your opinion,” declared the bishop stiffly, adding, “an opinion shaped by the rebellious Pelagius himself, no doubt.”
“You see?” crowed Helena. “I offer a contrary opinion and you instantly condemn the same as heretical simply because it differs from your own. That is hardly fair, I must say.” She turned to smile at me before directing a last blow to the bishop. “Perhaps you might cultivate some of the tolerance shown by our dear friend Succat. Of any of us, he alone would have ample justification and knowledge to judge the barbarians, yet he does not. I think that indicates an admirable fortitude of character.”
Her lavish praise embarrassed me. Regardless, I knew I had made a powerful new ally and friend. From that moment, I entered an exalted position within that family, one I could never have foreseen. In the Columellas’ eyes I could do no wrong.
Thereafter I noticed a distinct improvement in my rank within the traveling party. The Columellas invited me to join them at meals, and the vicarius sought my views on diverse matters pertaining to the provinces, especially Britain. In short, my star rose in the heavens of their good opinion.
By the time we reached Rome, I was almost a member of the family. Two months later I was.
FORTY-SEVEN
THERE IT IS, Succat,” said Vicarius Columella, indicating the gleaming bowl of the valley with a wide sweep of his arm. “The greatest city in the world.”
Leaning forward in the saddle, as if to bring the sight that much closer, I gazed upon the dazzling, sun-drenched sprawl—the deep, ruddy glow of tile and brick; the sparkling glint of whitewashed walls; the dull gleam of the Tiber snaking through…. All my life I had heard the word “Roma”—it had passed my lips a thousand times—but never once had I imagined that such a simple word could signify anything so staggeringly, prodigiously, gloriously vast.
“It is dazzling,” I said. “Truly dazzling.”
“Mother of Nations,” intoned Bishop Cornelius tartly. “Whore Queen, Bitch Goddess.”
“Come now, Bishop,” chided Columella. “Its glory may be somewhat tarnished, but it is never so terrible as all that.”
The vicarius pointed to the foremost prominence. “That is Capitoline Hill, and rising behind it is Palatine Hill; next to that is the Aventine Hill, with the Caelian just behind.” He shifted his hand slightly to indicate a broad plateau to the east with three projections like stubby fingers. “There is the Quirinal, the Viminal, and the Esquiline. You see? The famed Seven Hills of Rome.”
“It is wonderful,” I said, staring intently at the staggering immensity of the city spreading before me. A silvery haze of smoke and dust hung over the entire valley, causing the city to shimmer softly in the hard midday sunlight.
“Succat,” said Columella, “you are going to enjoy Rome, and I am going to enjoy showing it to you.”
He lifted his hand to signal those behind, and we started down the long, sloping road into the shallow Tiber valley and the sprawling city itself—so various, so grand, so impossibly opulent as to make every other place I had ever seen seem like a mud wallow.
The city had long ago grown beyond its protecting walls, and soon we were passing through a district of low houses and hovels: the dwellings of craftsmen, servants, and day laborers. Men, women, and children came running when they saw our company, offering us bundles of ripe figs, olives, and jars of wine. Vicarius Columella, out of the generosity of his rank, purchased figs, dried beans, and olives as we rode along, dispersing coins to the merchants and their ragged children.
Ignoring the cries of the street vendors, we pushed on through the clamor to the high, gated walls, joining the steady stream of carts, barrows, donkeys, mules, and foot traffic pouring through the Flaminia Gate and into the city. The noise was tremendous and the sights overwhelming. Everywhere I looked, some new wonder met my astonished gaze: theaters, palaces, villas, and houses without number.
“It is not what it was, of course,” said Lord Columella sadly. “The Vandali destroyed whatever they could not carry away. Much has been restored, but there is a very great deal of rebuilding to be done even now. One day, however, Rome will regain her former grandeur.”
The bishop overheard this and delivered himself of a hearty snort of derision.
“Oh, it is easy enough to scoff,” the vicarius continued. “But I believe that Rome has yet to reach her pinnacle.”
We rode for what seemed half a day before finally reaching the wide, rising street which climbed the slope of Palatine Hill, where the vicarius maintained his city residence: a grand domus, or town house, not far from the Curia Julia, where the senate met. The street was lined with princely houses of the principal families of Rome—all white stone and red tile, with ironwork at the windows, carved columns, and statuary in the pediments.
Domus Columella presented a plain, almost
drab, buff-colored exterior to the street; inside, it was a palace with mosaics in the vestibule and corridors of dark brown marble, walls painted red or blue or yellow or decorated with frescoes of country scenes: grapes ripening on the vine with Mount Aetna looming in the background, workers harvesting a golden field of grain, oxen pulling a cart down through an olive grove.
A rider had gone ahead to warn the household servants, so we were met at the door with welcome cups of cool, sweet wine and small parcels of ground meat wrapped in honey-glazed pastry. After eating a few of these, I was led by a servant to my room in a remote part of the house. Apart from the size, which was more than bountiful, the room was remarkably like the one I had known in my father’s house. The walls were dark blue below and pale yellow above, and the floor was covered with red-brown tiles over which were placed rugs of woven wool. The wall across from the bed was occupied by a single large window that was closed by sturdy, ironbound shutters. When I opened them, I found myself looking down into a tidy square courtyard containing a single tall pine tree in the center, numerous flowering plants in long stone troughs, and in one corner a large marble box into which water splashed from the mouth of a white alabaster swan spreading its wings from a blue-flowered niche above.
The day was hot, but my room was cool, and I instantly felt myself at home. I was born to this, I thought. I belong here.
Bishop Cornelius and his retinue did not remain with us; after refreshing themselves, they were conducted to the Church of St. John Lateran, where they were given lodgings in the extensive clutch of dwellings surrounding the great basilica. The soldiers were afforded quarters in the Praetorian garrison. I would have been happy enough to go with them—I was still a soldier under command, after all—but the vicarius wished me to remain with him. “I need you, Succat,” he told me, “and I will not have you out of my sight.”
“You are too kind, Vicarius,” I replied. “But it is my duty to report to the commander of the garrison.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “Yet since I, as Vicarius of Gaul and Germania, am your commanding officer, you may consider yourself under my authority during your stay in Rome.”