Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part I-Antony, page 26
The Avernus was well inland, sheltered from view from the sea where Sextus’ ships prowled, surrounded by high, forested hills, which supplied the raw materials for a new fleet. It was a massive undertaking, taking more than a year before the fleet was completed, but Agrippa was not content with just building a fleet, he had to learn how to command at sea, having never done it before. Therefore, using the lake, he trained his men and ships relentlessly. Meanwhile, Antonius decided to use his time to help himself, and more importantly the rest of the army in Syria, by recruiting more Legions, which he was allowed to do by the terms of the pact made at Brundisium some time before.
In my own little world, I received a letter from Rome containing the names of the men who were now working for Antonius to find recruits to fill the Legions. I did not know any of them, though I was familiar with the names of a couple of them, but certainly not to the extent that I felt comfortable sending them a letter asking them to refuse to enlist my nephew. Blocking the enrollment of an otherwise eligible man into the Legions is a serious offense, though like everything in Rome that meant only that it would be expensive to accomplish. Nonetheless, approaching a virtual stranger to ask him to take that risk was not something I was willing to do for a variety of reasons. I suppose that at the heart of it I was angry with my sister for implying that while a career in the Legions was good enough for me, her only brother and surrogate first son, it was not for her son by blood, so I did not try all that hard to stop it.
During this time, I took a woman, the first semi-permanent liaison I had since Gisela died, and though I was fond of Miriam, I did not love her the same way as I did Gisela, at least at first. I met her while browsing in the market for some new reading material; such was my boredom that a job that I had previously left to Diocles I now pursued with a passion. What was a chore before, doing it only because my job had required it, had now become my primary leisure pursuit, and I think that in many ways Scribonius had much to do with it. He had not only been literate when we were tiros, he had always read for enjoyment, spending much of his fortune on books, many of which he lent me as my love of reading increased. In truth, I felt the need to read as much as I could because I was tired of Scribonius thrashing me when we would spend the evenings debating all manner of things. While my tastes still ran towards reading histories and military treatises, I was forced to expand my horizons in order to give Scribonius a battle during our conversations.
The day I spotted Miriam, I was looking for some texts on geography that Scribonius had mentioned reading some time before that discussed the terrain that we would be marching through. She was shopping in the stall next to the one where I was browsing, and at first glance, she was not much to look at when compared to the women of Gaul. Where Gisela had been coppery fire, with curves in the places where a man expected them, Miriam was dusky and slim, her face dominated by a nose that bespoke her Semitic heritage. Still, there was a flash in her eyes as I saw her looking sidelong at the huge Roman that must have reminded me of my wife, for she was the first woman who I ever turned to examine in anything other than an appraising manner as someone suitable for a night of rented passion. She was not wearing a veil, though her hair was hidden by a scarf, a sign that she was no longer a maiden but was unmarried and belonged to no man, which intrigued me as I wondered what her story was. Our eyes met briefly, then as quickly she looked away, turning her attention back to the pile of dates that she was standing in front of as she picked up a few. She began haggling with the merchant, while I turned my attention back to my own business, though I kept glancing over to see what she was doing. Then I got absorbed in examining one scroll in particular, which I ended up selecting, along with two others, and when I turned around, she was gone. I paid the man who ran the stall, a bearded older Jew who exuded a quiet dignity that not even the presence of a Centurion of Rome could shake, before turning to survey the crowded market. Heading to the left would take me back to camp, and it was a temptation because I was eager to start reading one book in particular, but before I did, I took one last look off to the right, telling myself that I had nothing special in mind. Spotting her moving through the crowd, her drab brown dress and robe could not hide the litheness of her movements.
On an impulse, I turned right instead, as I continued lying to myself by thinking that perhaps there was another bookseller that I had not seen yet. I walked without any real haste, knowing that my long legs would cover twice the distance as hers with every step. Keeping my eye on her retreating back, I pretended to look at the various wares for sale along the dusty street, ignoring the pleas and cries of the merchants who knew that a Centurion of Rome had money to buy anything they had to sell. When she would stop to examine something, I would suddenly become interested in whatever some crone or old man was thrusting at me. I had reached the part of the market where the sellers of potions and cures was located. In front of one stall in particular, I noticed that the old woman was leering at me, though I did not think anything of it until she spoke.
“Ah, Centurion.”
Her Latin was heavily accented but understandable, while I just grunted in response, which she apparently took as a sign that I was interested in what she was offering, because she let out a coarse chuckle, then said, “Having problem with your vitus, neh?”
I looked at her curiously, whereupon she made a gesture with her hand as it hung down in front of her that needed no translation.
“It’s gone soft, neh? Do not worry; I have just the thing for you. It will make it as if it is made of iron.”
She turned to begin rummaging through the little vials sitting on her table, but before she found what she was looking for, I had beaten a hasty retreat, feeling the fire in my face as I worried that somehow this woman I was following would see me and misunderstand why I was talking to the old woman. I looked around, but she had disappeared. Cursing, I quickened my pace as I neared an intersection, trying to determine in which direction she had gone. I suppose at this point I probably should have just turned around and gone back to camp, but something kept me going. Instead, I chose to turn to the right, which I could see led away from the market into a residential area. The street I turned onto was less crowded, but I could not spot her so I walked farther up the street to where it made a slight bend, telling myself that I would turn and go back to camp if I did not see her by that point.
“Why are you following me, Roman?”
Almost jumping out of my skin, I whirled around as my hand unconsciously went to my sword, which is probably not the best way to make a good impression when meeting a woman, yet she seemed more amused than scared. She was standing in a doorway, her brown clothing blending into the darkened recess and door, and she stared up at me, one hand holding the cloth bag that carried her purchases, the other on her hip. As I said, she looked as different from Gisela as a woman could, but there was something in her posture, and the almost defiant expression on her face, showing no fear at all that wrenched at my heart in a way that I was not expecting.
“I wasn’t,” I stammered. “I was just looking for a bookseller that I heard was around here somewhere.”
I lifted my own bag of scrolls as proof before realizing how stupid that was.
“It looks as if you already found this bookseller,” she replied, lifting her chin and I could see the corner of her lip twitching.
I was struck by how full her mouth was, wondering what it would be like to kiss it.
That sudden thought shook me as much as the woman standing there, so all I managed was a shake of my head, along with a mumbled, “No, there was supposed to be another one somewhere, but I can’t find it.”
“I live just up the street.” She was very calm in stark contrast to my agitation. “And I can tell you that there are no booksellers up this way. They are all in the market.”
“Oh, er, thank you, then. I suppose someone told me wrong,” was all I could think to say.
For a moment, we stood there, neither speaking as she continued her frank examination of me, while I tried to think of something else to say.
Suddenly inspired, I blurted out, “This looks like a dangerous area, not safe for a single woman. Maybe I should escort you home to make sure you arrive safely. It’s part of our job to make sure that the city is safe for its citizens,” I added helpfully, trying to make it sound as if I was just doing my duty.
She laughed at that, but it was not a cruel laugh and she shook her head.
“Roman, I have lived here most of my life. I know this area better than you ever could. I assure you I am in no danger from anyone here.”
“Very well.” I tried to keep my voice level, yet her laughter had stung, striking me once again in her similarity to Gisela and her ability to cut me with her laughter and a few words. I turned to leave, just catching a look flashing across her face and she called out for me to wait.
“I am sorry, I did not mean to offend you, Roman,” she said softly, looking up at me.
As I looked in her eyes, I noticed that there were small flecks of gold in the brown, and I tried to remember where I had seen that characteristic before, then it came to me. Cleopatra had eyes like this.
“That’s all right,” I replied, and I was being honest. “I understand why you might not want to be seen with a Roman. I apologize for being so forward.”
“Oh, it’s not that,” she said a little too quickly, the transparency of the lie suddenly causing us both to laugh.
With that, I offered her my arm, saying in a joking tone, “Wouldn’t you like to start some tongues wagging? I’m sure there are some old women on your street that need something to gossip about.”
I did not think she would take my arm, but after perhaps a heartbeat, she gave a shy smile, then put her small hand on it, and we began walking towards her home.
“Do you read a lot?” she asked me after we had introduced ourselves, and I learned her name was Miriam, with a last name that my Roman tongue could not get around, though I tried a couple of times, making her giggle at my efforts.
I nodded in answer to her question, then realizing she was expecting more than just a simple yes or no, I explained how I had gotten started reading just for my duties, but how I had come to love it.
“What do you love about it?”
I considered this, for nobody had ever asked me the question before.
“I suppose that I love the idea of learning new things. It’s exciting in a way.”
She nodded at that.
“My father used to say that a thief can rob you of your fortune, a murderer can take your life, but no man can take your knowledge, whether they are a king or . . .” She suddenly stopped, looking embarrassed.
“Or,” I asked, but she was clearly reluctant. “I won’t be angry, I promise.”
“Or Caesar,” she finished, causing me to throw my head back and roar with laughter.
She looked bemused, but after seeing that I was truly not angry, she smiled, clearly pleased that she had made me laugh.
“Your father is a wise man,” I told her when I caught my breath.
“Yes, he was,” she said quietly, and there was just a glimmer of sadness flashing across her face.
“He died?” I asked, knowing that there would be no other reason for her to use the past tense, something that Gisela would have never let go by without a remark about my grasp of the obvious.
However, as I was to learn, Miriam was kinder than Gisela, though at least as intelligent.
She nodded. “Two years ago, of a bloody flux.”
“I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up a painful memory,” I said, wincing at how awkward I was sounding, but she did not seem to notice.
“So whose house do you live in now?” I asked as casually as I could, but she shot me a look from under her lashes, her expression both coy and amused.
“Is this your way of asking if I am married?” she asked me.
“Not at all,” I protested, lying through my teeth. “I know that if you were married you wouldn't be walking with me right now because your husband would never let you out of his sight.”
As mawkish as it may have sounded, I could see that she was flattered.
“I live with my sister and her husband.”
We walked in silence then, ignoring the stares that inevitably came my way, something that I had long grown accustomed to, though it seemed to make Miriam uncomfortable. I could see her studying me out of the corner of my eye, but I decided to wait for her to continue the conversation. Finally, she seemed to make a decision.
“I was married. My husband was killed.”
I started to say that I was sorry, then shut my mouth, both because I was not sorry, but also because I sensed that there was something more to it. Instead, I stopped walking to look down at her, watching as she chewed her lip, clearly struggling with something.
“He was a soldier like you, but not an officer. He was just a regular soldier. He joined to provide for me. We had only been married a few months.”
I nodded, encouraging her to continue. She refused to look at me, gazing down the street as people walked by going about their business, oblivious to what was taking place between a huge Roman Centurion and a drably dressed slim woman. She took a deep breath, then blurted out what she had been struggling to say.
“He was with Quintus Labienus. That’s who he was fighting for when he was killed.”
As we finished our walk to her home, she filled in the story, which had obviously gotten my attention. Things had been very bad during the two years the Parthians occupied Syria, Miriam explained. There was no work as the local economy had come almost to a standstill. Then Quintus Labienus started recruiting, offering a cash bounty for men who would join his army and Miriam’s husband, who had been a stonecutter, jumped at the chance. It was a familiar story; a man desperate to provide for his new wife would not be thinking about the long-term consequences of his actions. I wondered if it ever occurred to him that even if Labienus were victorious, he would likely never have seen Miriam again for more than a few days at a time, for however long he remained alive. Men like Miriam’s husband are nothing but fodder for the swords of men like me, their lives on the battlefield generally measured in moments once the fighting starts, and I could not help wondering if I had anything to do with his death. Miriam did not know the circumstances of how he died, only learning about it from one of his friends who stopped long enough to tell her as he was fleeing after Labienus’ defeat. That was the other aspect of what Miriam’s husband had done that would have haunted him for the rest of his days, for if he had managed to survive the fighting, the instant Labienus had gone down in defeat, he would be running from Rome. In all likelihood, he would have been forced to go to Parthia, where he would undoubtedly have found himself with a wicker shield and a spear, standing once again as little more than glorified stalks of wheat waiting to be cut down. In short, the moment Miriam’s man made his decision his fate was determined by the gods, and it was not a happy one. I believe that men are born to the profession of arms or they are not; stonecutters, laborers and tradesmen are the chaff to be cut down by the swords of men like me. I never said anything of the sort to Miriam, not wanting to disrespect the memory of her husband, who she clearly had loved a great deal. I did not begrudge her that love, as I did not expect her to hold my love for Gisela against me, and in truth after that day, we never talked about our respective romantic pasts very often. When we reached her sister’s home, a two-room apartment on the second floor of a three-story tenement made of stone, she invited me in for a cup of wine, which I accepted.
“Wait here for a moment while I go tell my sister that we’re having company,” she said, running up the stairs to enter the apartment before I could even respond.
As I stood waiting, I kept asking myself what I thought I was doing, but I did not leave. A few moments passed without her reappearing as I began to wonder if she had changed her mind and had just decided that not coming out to tell me was the best way to handle things. Then I caught the sound of raised voices, and despite being unable to tell what was said, it was clear that they were arguing. I was beginning to think that this was a very bad idea so I was turning to leave when the door opened as Miriam came out on the landing with a bright smile, beckoning me to come up. I ascended the stairs, then stopped at the doorway, looking down at her.
“Are you sure it’s all right?” I asked. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble with your sister.”
“It’s not any trouble at all,” she insisted. “I just surprised her, that’s all. Please, come in.”
She motioned me in and I stepped inside, ducking my head to avoid the low ceiling. The main room was cramped, with a table in the middle of the room and benches on either side, a blackened fireplace against one wall with a large copper pot hanging over a smoldering flame. Standing over the pot with her back to us was a woman, dressed almost identically to Miriam, who only turned when Miriam called her name, clearly reluctant to face me. She looked much like Miriam, except there was a hardness about her eyes and mouth, as if she had experienced a lifetime of bitterness and disappointment, making her smile anything but warm. She gave me the ritual greeting of her people, welcoming me into her home, spitting the words out as if they left a bad taste in her mouth, which I pretended was offered graciously. Miriam’s sister pointed to the table, indicating that I should sit, which I did, unclipping my sword to lay it on the bench next to me in an automatic gesture that clearly startled both women and made them uncomfortable. A look passed between the two, and there was no mistaking the pain on Miriam’s face. I realized that she must have had the same thought as I, that maybe this very sword had ended her husband’s life. Shaking her head but not speaking, her sister brought a jug and two cups, setting them on the table while giving me a forced smile, then went to get a bowl filled with olives, placing it on the table between us. She turned to Miriam, saying something in her tongue, which I did not understand, whereupon Miriam turned to me, translating for her sister.
