Our return to Rome was hastened by consul Lucius Cornelius Cinna. Fearing that Sulla’s victories in the East would obstruct his own ambition, Cinna raised an army and drove them hard to meet his enemy before Sulla could once again set foot on Italian soil. But the Italians thus conscripted had no stomach for the hardships of a forced march across the mountains of Illyria. Facing Sulla’s seasoned legions with no prospect of booty held less allure than the thought of returning to their farms. Which they did, but not before stoning the despotic Cinna to death. When news of the consul’s fate reached Sulla, it inflamed that which Cinna had feared the most: Sulla’s lust to don the mantle of dictatorship. He took five of his seven legions, marched through fallen Athens, past Corinth and northwest to Patrae, dragging his spoils behind him.
In those three weeks, except for the occasional snarl over a maggoty hunk of bread, or an ineffectual attempt at comforting a terrified child, none of us ever spoke a word to each other. Ever. We could barely look each other in the eye. From Patrae, we sailed to Brundisium, and as I stepped blinking from the dark hold, I set foot for the first time in Roman Italy. It looked liked any other country on the Adriatic.
But it was not.
•••
The moment Rome learned that Sulla had landed in Italy without disbanding his troops was the signal for civil war. There were many battles waged on our march toward the center of the Western world, and Sulla’s senatorial antagonists, especially Marius the younger and consul Gnaeus Papirius Carbo knew that after what they had done to any friend of Sulla they could catch, they were fighting for their lives. There would be no quarter. And there was not. Carbo was eventually cornered, but managed to escape to Africa. Then, three day’s march southeast of the city, Sulla gave Marius a furious thrashing and sent him and what was left of his army running back to Praeneste.
Sulla pursued him and laid siege to the town. Since we were to rest there for some weeks, we were brought to the baths and given fresh tunics. A medic came and applied some greasy salve to the sores on my ankles, but my chains were left in place. I was given the first piece of goat’s cheese I had had in a month. Then, as a special gift to the company of legionaries behind whom we were dragged, my cart-mates and I were each assigned to an eight-man
contubernium
, or squad, one of us per tent.
I don’t know what happened to the others, but my new life depended upon a single and all-consuming duty: to service the needs and whims of these sweaty, filthy and exhausted men. When stripped to their tunics, you could hardly tell us apart. Yet if I was not quick enough with water, if I did not scrape the mud from the soles of their
caligae
to their liking, if I was not pliant or willing enough in the dark, I was beaten senseless. It was then I wished that death would come, but I had neither the will nor the courage to take my own life. On those few nights when my rest was brief but uninterrupted, I dreamed of Athens and the Academy. Each dawn I returned to Hades. The days passed like this, one after another, for over a year.
My life was taken from me, and often were the times when I pondered the irony of taking it back by ending it. Suicides among new captives could reach as high as twenty of every hundred. Were these men and women the brave ones, and we the cowards? I would not presume to judge them, but I chose a different path. To live - not to thrive or protect family or leave something of value for the next generation - but simply to take the next breath and the one after that, I submitted to abuse of any kind, allowed my spirit to crumble to dust, knowing all the while I was crippling my soul for eternity. Yet I was unable to bring an end to it. I clung to a life which was no life. I rose each morning in a stupor, with barely the strength to wish that this day would be my last. Is it cowardice to choose life? Any life at all?
I slept outside my legionaries’ tent, a thin, tattered blanket my only shield against the chill. One morning, well before the
cornicines
had sounded the call to awaken the camp, I was disturbed by a noise and rose shivering to one elbow, hoary rime clinging to my hair and blanket. Two soldiers were dragging a body by its heels. It was just light enough for me to see the slashed wrists from the man’s upturned hands, his arms trailing above his head in a jostled pose of surrender. Blood still leaked from the wounds, leaving slug-like trails, black in the pre-dawn light. As they passed close by, I recognized the suicide: he was one of the six other men in the first cart that had taken us from Greece. The two Romans, whispering happily about the end of their watch, would take him outside the gate and dump him into one of the defensive ditches surrounding the camp. I strained to see the dead man’s expression, hoping foolishly to find the trace of a smile, or at least the hint of a look of peace. There was nothing. There was no expression at all. It was just a corpse.
It was in that moment that I decided to choose life. I set my heart and mind on living with an act of determined will. And to justify that choice, to suffer all the degradations that lay ahead and the sorrow of remembering the life left behind, I chose to believe that those of us who survived did so not out of cowardice, but for the slimmest and most fragile of unuttered hopes that one day our lot would improve.
I was to discover that even when such miracles are granted, and life’s burdens lighten, hope comes not as a solitary friend, but is joined by confederates of guilt and shame that sit like harpies in judgment over every goodness that fortune bestows. I survived, and some would say I flourished. But never think for an instant as this tale unfolds that mine has been an easy life. Even in the best of times in the house of Crassus, even after I had opened the smallest of places in my heart where I secretly, silently call him ‘friend,’ he was still and forever my master.
82 BCE - Fall, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo
Sulla’s enemies fell one by one. He commanded the bulk of his legions to abandon the siege of Praeneste in a final push to win his civil war at the very gates of Rome. But the general’s dream of dictatorship was almost crushed at the base of the city walls. All would have been lost if not for Marcus Licinius Crassus, only thirty-three years old, who with 2,500 Spaniards fighting on Sulla’s right broke the flank of the defenders at the Colline Gate. The city was now Sulla’s. He had paid for it with the lives of fifty thousand Romans. The peaceful life of study and contemplation I had hoped to live was buried beneath an avalanche of carnage. I watched the ashes rise from the pyres that burned for weeks about the city and mourned not only for the Athens I would never see again, but also for the lives of these strangers who choked the air with their ascent into a foreign sky.
I quickly learned that in this place, treasure had no value unless it was accompanied by victorious war, political gain or domination over multitudes. Learning, education, philosophy – these things, pursued for their own sake were worthless. Strength, influence, power - this was the currency of Rome.
Which left me utterly destitute. Yet it was my education that saved me. Although the fighting was over, the slaughter continued. Before Sulla’s armies had breached the city’s gates, Marius the younger had sought to create a majority of senators and supporters by eliminating any voice that might be raised against him. Politicians and patricians known to be partial to Sulla were murdered in their homes and in the streets. Whole families were destroyed. The Forum ran with blood, festooned with the heads of those loyal to Sulla. In this Marius was much like his father, the elder Marius, who five years earlier sought to destroy the irrepressible Sulla when his duties as a Roman general called upon him to abandon the city to put down the rebellious king of Pontus. Two victims of that earlier purge had been Crassus’ father and his only remaining older brother.
•••
The officer of the century in which I served was gifted the captives from the ten
contuberniums
under his command. With the money he got for us at auction, he might buy drink and whores to last a week, and perhaps have a bit left over to replace his fraying belt. That is, if he could find a shop or a tavern that was open for business. The city was in chaos. Gone were the days when no armed soldier was allowed within the
pomerium
, the city’s ancient boundary, unless it was for the brief span required to celebrate a
triumph
. To my bleary eyes this was a celebration of slaughter, and those who did not take part stood vigil over a once great city devouring itself whole. Rome was ruled by gangs of vicious and undisciplined children playing at king-of-the-hill. It was a terrifying time, for these “children” had devoted, armored men at their backs, their swords bright and bloody.
The gates which Sulla’s army had fought so hard to breach were now barred shut. No one could leave, and the screams of those who had sided with the vanquished echoed all around us. We marched south, single file through narrow, stinking streets, our passage often made unbearable by the bodies through which we were forced to tread. In spite of my own chattering teeth, I thanked Athena that the fetid smell was blunted somewhat by November’s chill. Even so, all too often the ropes that bound us to each other would pull us off balance causing one or more of us to fall, wrestling for a horrid and frantic moment with the stiffening corpses. We struggled to our feet, Roman blood staining our faces and hands. As we trudged on, our ankles became spattered with a fruitage of butchery so copious at times it flowed in rivulets down the street’s central gutter. In the worst passages we gave up trying to avoid it; our toes were stained and slippery, our sandals sticky with clotting blood.
The centurion led us into a wider street, the Vicus Patricius, where we turned southwest and walked until we came into a crowded neighborhood - a valley called the Subura. That is to say it felt as if it
ought
to be bursting with people and activity, yet the street and alleyways were empty, save for the occasional squad of Sulla’s soldiers going about their grisly business, their captains gripping scrolls of the damned. It was oddly quiet here. Like birds calling to each other, the silence was pierced now and then by the cries of the dying. The merchant shops were shuttered; the apartments above full of fearful eyes. We could feel their stares upon us but could not see them, did not wish to see them. In our state, there was no gaze we were eager to meet.
I never made it to the auction block.
Soon we heard many voices raised, not in agony but in commerce. We turned into a wide courtyard where it was evident that the business of selling an endless, hapless multitude fallen to the lowest strata of human suffering was not only open, but brisk. Soldiers anxious to cash in on their human booty milled among the braver citizens hoping for a bargain. Other than legionaries, these were the first living Romans I had seen since entering the city. The wooden holding pens on either side of the single raised platform were full. The auctioneer and two assistants were quite well organized, moving people up one side of the auction block and down the other into their new owners’ care at a steady and rapid pace. Being the newest arrivals, before we were crammed into one of the cages we were greeted by a mercenary with a rusty, bent gladius and an armload of blank wooden boards. He began at the end of our line, questioning each captive, writing down the replies on the board, then hanging the identification plaques around each neck. Afterwards, he copied the information into a ledger and moved to the next man.
This efficient process was interrupted by the appearance of a lone mounted officer who rode into our midst with the casual confidence of the victor. The man was frighteningly magnificent in his gleaming armor, his red horsehair-plumed helmet blindingly bright when the sun momentarily sliced through the clouds and smoke hanging over the city. He sat with ease upon the largest steed I had ever seen, but was not dwarfed by it. I was toward the front of our miserable parade and heard him tell our centurion that he was looking for talent. Our officer, whose name escapes me, was still caked with the grime, sweat and dried blood of battle. I was struck by the difference in appearance between these two officers - it was as great as that between owner and owned.
Our centurion snorted a short laugh and wiped his arm across his nose with no noticeable improvement. “Talent?” he said. “Take a look. There’s no fucking talent in this lot. What’s he want with ‘em, anyway?” he asked with more impertinence than sense. For answer, the military tribune reined his mount and walked the huge horse down the line.
“Any of you Greeks speak Latin?” he asked in the language of Rome.
I barely hesitated. Before me stood the auction block with what horrid assortment of futures I could only guess. Finding a place where my education might be put to use had to be better than any other fate. To be given this choice, well, it was as close to freedom as I had had since my capture. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could utter a word the captive next in line elbowed me aside and rasped his assent. If the last four years had reduced me to a reed, this one was a blade of grass. And just as sturdy, for in his haste to edge past me his leg irons tripped him up. Breeding outraced the instinct to survive and I placed my hand on his elbow to steady him. He jerked his head toward me, ready to wrench free of my grip and strike me. Stunned, I let go of him. It had probably been the only non-hostile touch he’d felt in years; at first he could not recognize it. Understanding dawned. He gave me a quick bow of his neck, down and up, and as one we lifted our eyes to the glamorous and impatient officer.
“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. Startling a lethargic peacock draped across the white gravel path, we passed a spouting fountain, marble 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.