The Seventh Scroll of Demetrios

The Seventh Scroll of Demetrios

The Australian version  is in 1st Draft.

                                               

                                                                             

Bithynia, Asia Minor 182 BC

My dear Polybius salutations. My  friend, as I begin to write, it is cold and my fingers ache. There was a time when I eagerly welcomed the winter months. However, these days, my tired body longs for the warm sun, golden sand, and the crystal blue water of my birthplace, beautiful Isthmia in Greece. As you are well aware, I had left Isthmia and my grandfather sometime during my seventeenth year. The exact date escapes me. I can only tell you what I remember. Therefore, I will say in my scroll that it was summer; I can clearly recall the stifling heat and the sticky humidity that had plagued me on the day of my departure. And also the only distinct image of my grandfather. In my dreams over the years, I have seen him shielding his eyes from the glare of the morning sun with the back of his left hand, waving goodbye with my mother and father by his side many times. Polybius, do you not remember? I had told you about his calm disposition, how he intimidated people with his tall lean frame as he spoke. I have become much like him in my old age.

Polybius, I miss our talks by the  campfire, drinking warm wine, and  laughing with friends as the first winter snow slowly fluttered down on us from the heavens. There will be an early spring on the Alps this year. However, I shall not see this spring nor any another. Thus, I shall entrust into your care seven scrolls, six of which are the scrolls' of your brother, Artemius. The seventh scroll is the story of my life. Polybius, you know there is only truth in my words. Even so, I am certain my death sentence will be swift and quiet; unlike the fate of my companions, dragged behind chariots' in chains through the Forum Magnum in Rome. There shall be no beating of drums, nor the loud peal of trumpets to announce my execution. 

Our companions' were not afraid to die on a Roman cross. Therefore, nor shall I be afraid of that same death. However, I will tell you this fact Polybius. If the Senate of Rome, believes the pain of a slow death on a cross makes up for all the suffering we have inflicted upon the Roman People, the senate will be sadly mistaken. The pain of a slow death on a cross in comparison is insignificant; in death, my pain will end. On the other hand, whenever a teacher retells the story of my exploits, Rome's pain will continue.

Therefore, I implore you to deposit the scrolls’ of Artemius in the great library in Alexandria. The scrolls’ will be safe there for many years to come. The fate of the seventh scroll is another matter. I will leave its fate to destiny itself.

                                                                                             

Alexandria 48 BCE

“Agrippa, did you know Rome crucified Hannibal’s teacher?”

"No Caesar, why do you ask?”           

"I found these seven scrolls’ under some debris, untouched by the fire which almost destroyed the great library."

"Shall we except full responsibility for that fire, Caesar?"

"Agrippa, how did the fire start?"

"Some merchant ships in the harbour had caught on fire during the battle with Achillas, and the Egyptian navy. Consequently, some of the burning embers drifted onto the roof of the library."

"Then, I shall take full responsibility for the fire. Let the Egyptians' say, Caesar burnt half of the great library to defeat Achillas."

"Why say anything. It is after all just a library, Caesar. Is it not?"

"My dear Agrippa, a library is a repository for the thoughts of men. Men such as Hannibal, or the thoughts of a Didaskalos called Demetrios."

"Every Roman knows the story of Hannibal, Caesar, but nothing of a Didaskalos called Demetrios. Who is Demetrios, Caesar?"

"Demetrios, was Hannibal's teacher, and he was right. He did not live to see the spring of that year or any other spring for that matter."

"How do you know all this, Caesar?"

"I've had the scrolls' translated in Latin, and as we sail to Cilicia, I shall continue to read his story. Perhaps, I shall learn some new battle tactic on the way."

                                                                                             

Chapter one

         I had embarked on an old Silesian galley with five other paying passengers. She was neither fast nor comfortable. Nevertheless, a new configuration on the rowing deck allowed fifty oarsmen to operate the oars, rather than the usual twenty-five. On the open deck, ten sailors worked under the vigilance of the ship’s captain. The same man I had argued with the previous day over his overpriced fare.

My grandfather, saw to it that I would sail for Rome on the next tide and, on that pirate’s ship. Any recollection of that conversation has long been erased from my memory. I only recall the captain’s willingness on the following day in accepting only twenty silver pieces on my departure, and  another twenty, when I disembarked at Ostia, the harbour of Rome.

As the large white sail began to unfurl on the main mast, I quickly ran to the stern railing of the ship. It still shames me to say, as much as I loved grandfather, I did not shed a single tear as the ship began to sail away. As I waved him farewell, I was too excited and happy. I was finally on my way to Rome and to my new life as Didaskalos, a teacher.

The galley soon rounded the last treeless headland. She rolled, pitched and yawed as she entered the deep water of the open sea. I began to walk  around a cramped overloaded deck. They had stacked bales of grain up to the height of a man. You could not see the other side of the galley. I peered down into the dimly lit rowing benches below. I saw men straining every muscle, as they pulled at the oars in a rhythmic steady pace.

There was a strong smell of urine mixed with body odour below. It  permeated up through the small  stern hatch. It mingled with the slightly cooler air and swept the tiny seeds of grain off the deck.

My stomach churned, and I felt violently ill. I was a wretch in Poseidon’s eyes, and he was punishing me for not offering him sacrifice before my departure. I quickly managed to lean over the starboard handrail and purged the contents of my stomach over the side. The warm breeze sprayed it all back onboard, and onto another unfortunate wretch who had also fallen out of Poseidon’s favour.

I had first felt a weakness in my legs, now it is in my eyes. They struggle to remain open. The warm air has dried my mouth; the clamminess on my skin, feels the same as the skin of a fish just out of the water. My eyes open and close with ever sound, but for only a few heartbeats. My breathing feels laboured as the offshore breeze tries to caress and cool my skin.



The captain's lips move too quickly, yet I can see his black rotting teeth as he berates some of his men. The laughter comes from the portside of the deck. His men are laughing at  three other passengers retching over the portside railing. Poseidon is cruel indeed.

I heard a tiny voice say in Greek. “Lie down, and close your eyes! Try to think of something else!” I kept my head still, whenever I moved it, I would retch. My eyes tried to follow the voice as it again said, “Greek! Lie down, and close your eyes! Try to think of something else!” The taste and smell from within my mouth was like an open sewer. “How do you feel when you die? Is it easier than this?” I said softly. There was more laughter. Once more the tiny voice said. “Greek! Go to sleep! Try to think of something else!” I looked in the right direction, and my eyes met his gaze. The voice belonged to a small Egyptian boy. He was the lookout, high up above the main mast. I smiled and slowly raised my right arm in acknowledgement. I lay on the deck, with the sun scorching my back. I felt a slight pressure on my back and on my exposed legs. It felt like a rough blanket. I moved my head to see that it was a piece of torn canvas. I closed my eyes and thought of my grandfather just as my stomach once more began to feel uneasy. I remembered the last conversation I had had with him. I was in more pain, but not from the pain that Poseidon had inflicted. My tears quickly mingled with the slimy crusts of salt on the wooden deck.          



“Pappos, I will teach our native tongue to rich men, powerful men who live within the greatest cities of the known world, not within small fishing villages. In return for my services, they will pay, not with an occasional rabbit, or squid caught during the winter months. They will pay me with coins’ of gold. I will be able to buy you anything you want, and only the very best for you grandfather. With enough gold, you can have your our own ship."

"I would be happy with a rabbit and some squid, boy. Besides, what would I do in Rome? I do not speak their language as well as you. I do not  know their customs."

"Pappos, listen to me, you know a great secret. The Romans do not know how to build hundreds of identical warships. When they see what you can do, they will treat you like a god. Building warships for Carthage will now pose a serious risk. When Rome invades, do you think for one moment, that the Carthaginian admirals will allow the secret of their shipbuilding to fall into Roman hands? Every Arhitekton (master carpenter), in Korinthos will have eyes burnt and tongue cut out before the Roman warships touch land. Is that what you want? Pappos, will you come with me? There is still time.”

"When Rome invades, I will know what to do. We have built Carthaginian warships for decades, and no Arhitekton has ever sold the art to a rival army. I will not be the first one to do so."

"Rome will not allow us to build anymore warships for the Carthaginian navy.The Romans will burn Korinthos to the ground. So listen well - if you do not wish to profit from your knowledge, so be it. But someone will profit from your knowledge, sooner rather than later. I promise you."

I never saw my grandfather again. I imagine he would have left Korinthos the following spring. After the Roman's invaded Korinthos, they put every Arhitekton to the sword. Twenty-five men died. Their funeral pyre burned  all through the night and into the following day. However, their secret was safe-for a while.                   



               

**** **** **** ****

         
My journey to Rome continued, as did my seasickness. The bad weather made the voyage almost unbearable, but there was no turning back. After that voyage, I was never seasick or afraid of a storm at sea again.



The first month was the hardest in Rome; nevertheless, I had enough money to rent a modest but clean room at an inn just a short walk from the docks in Ostia. It did not take me long to make friends with the captains of the barges which sailed up the Tiber River. I was learning the Roman way of life fast, and after my sixth month, good fortune smiled. Thus I began to teach Greek to the children of Philo, the oil merchant. On a small hill, not far from the sacred boundary of the pomoerium and the city walls, stood the splendid villa of Philo. In return for my teaching services, the generous man gave me a room within his large estate, and paid me very well. My room, although rather small, had a comfortable bed and a deep metal washbowl. The room had belonged to the gardener of the estate. He had died, I was told before the Roman spring. His name was Artemius, and he was a native of Picenum. I knew his name and where he had come from only because of the message he had left inscribed on the room’s western wall. He had deliberately inscribed the message beside a small window which faced six rose beds.

“Look after my roses, do not allow them to die. If you do me this kindness, the goddess Flora will always bless and protect you, Artemius of Picenum.”

In the middle of the western wall, on one of the stone blocks, he had also inscribed the number six. I had no idea what the number represented other than the fact that there were six rose beds, and six terra cotta urns inside the small wooden garden which Artemius had built before he died. The two largest urns contained dried animal blood mixed with shredded bone. The rest filled with a mixture of fine volcanic ash, sheep and chicken droppings.

The six rose beds attracted the interest from many of the elderly rich in Rome; Artemius had found a way of growing roses made up of six different colours. There was a red, pink, yellow, white, peach, and lavender coloured rose. I had never seen any colour on a rose other than red or soft pink in Greece.

Since my arrival in Rome, I had acquired some very peculiar habits. I would spend my time watering or adding some sheep or chicken droppings onto the rose beds after sunset. And every morning I would wake before sunrise and walk around the city walls.  I would also stop to bathe in the hot springs near the Campus Martius, before returning home. I had never bothered to go on walks before, let alone bathe in hot springs, or look after roses; a dead man’s roses, for that matter. Even so, I found caring for the six rose beds, as well as the long walks stimulating.  Particularly, the long walk to Lake Regillus. I would spend a day or two with the shepherds from Latium there, and bring some of their tasty cheese and refreshing buttermilk back home. However, after spending time with shepherds, sheep and goats, the aroma of roses, like the summer rain, was always a welcomed relief.



Rain is truly a gift from the heavens; the roses thrived, even during Rome’s hottest months. If the heavens opened after a hot summer day, I also enjoyed the rains soothing chill. The impluvium used to collect the rainwater inside the villa was usually clean. Anyhow, in truth, I had a dislike to any type of bird that shared my drinking water. Therefore, every morning, after one of the house servants left a large terra cotta jug filled with the well water outside my doorstep, I would empty its contents onto the rose beds. There is a deep natural spring west of via Lata, rather than use the impluvium that serviced the house. I would refill the jug everyday with the cool spring water on the way home from my morning walks. Natural spring water tastes so much better, and there was no shortage of it around Rome.

There were eight rooms within Philo’s villa. A narrow pathway separated my room from the main house, which offered me a little privacy from the twenty or so servants, slaves, mainly, who worked and slept inside the main house. The pathway led directly to the main entrance of the estate and to the road below. I was fond of my tiny room; the message left by Artemius always moved me. Somehow, even though I did not know the man personally, the message on the wall, kept his memory very much alive in my mind. In addition, the room had a definite advantage over the other rooms. Apart from the privacy it offered me, the view from my front door was truly spectacular. On a clear day, I could see the many barges that sailed up and down the Tiber River, as well as three of the seven hills around Rome. The Caelian hill was the furthest, and in front, the three peaks that belonged to the Palatine and Esquiline hills. Several rows of tall poplar trees obscured the temple of Jupiter on Capitoline hill. All around the Aventine, Quirinal, and Viminal hills, insula, of up to eight apartment blocks jutted out into the Roman skyline. These buildings, three storey’s high, made with timber and mud brick, dominated the many fig, almond, and olive trees that struggled to compete over the ever-increasing number of white and reddish brown buildings. The estate of Philo had many fig, and almond trees. When I first arrived, I could not help but notice the lack of olive trees around the estate. Philo was an oil merchant after all. When I asked him why one day, he said to me with complete honesty. He hated the look of the damn things, and that they reminded him too much of work. I had a good laugh; I liked his sense of humour, considering how much money, the damn things, as he called them had made for him over the years. To the northwest, across the Campus Martius, Philo owned the largest olive groves in Italia. He hated looking at his olive trees. I hated looking at the numerous wooden crosses, clearly visible on a hill called Vaticanus Mons beyond the olive groves. It was a grim reminder not only for me, but also for anyone willing to incite the Roman People to anger.

Philo had two very attractive sixteen-year-old twin daughters, Maia and Minerva. I must say the two young girls were very slow learners. They had other thoughts on their minds, namely boys. The only Greek words they remembered instantly where the parts of the male anatomy. Their mother Libintia in looks was quite plain really, a tallish woman in her middle thirties with auburn hair and sharp birdlike features. Philo had divorced her when the girls were infants. Philo was indeed a generous man; his ex-wife also lived in his large villa. She was much like her two daughters slow in mind and very interested in anatomy, my anatomy. It must have been only two days after I moved into the estate when she first knocked on my door. As soon as I opened my door that morning, she introduced herself, and walked straight inside. She dressed like a typical patrician woman. Her words, however, exposed her poor plebeian education. She circled around me like a buyer in a slave market, and I must admit finding it quite stimulating, so much, so that my short tunic betrayed my thoughts to her.

I realised then why her husband divorced her. She quickly responded by asking me if I wanted to play, bedroom games. When I asked what games she had in mind, she took hold of my erection. She squeezed and pulled on it so hard that I immediately felt as if my knees were about to buckle. A sudden rush of pleasure erupted throughout my body and my seed into her right hand. When I asked her if she wanted to wash her hands, she began to laugh aloud. She untied her blue sash from around her thin waist, removed her dress and threw it onto the floor. Her auburn hair was not only on her head. As she stood naked before me, she continued to rub her small white breasts twisting and tugging at her pink erect nipples. When I tried to take hold of her, she pushed me away. “The thrill of a surprise is truly lost the moment you open the gift box and see the gift,” she said. She put on her light green dress, and as she tied her blue sash behind her waist, she stepped into her brown sandals. She walked out of my room, and said, “I shall be your teacher, would you like me to return with a few more surprises?”
As I softly said yes, she turned and walked away. My eyes followed her every move as she made her way towards the atrium and inside the house.

Libintia became my teacher for three years. It wasn’t long before both Maia and Minerva played bedroom games with me. And, although I loved the way they played together, I was becoming bored with Rome, bedroom games. I had an argument with Libintia; she had bought a young sixteen-year-old Nubian boy at the slave market. She saw him as just a new toy and a surprise for me. I lost my temper and told her that I preferred to copulate with her two daughters. I longed for a change in my life; I had another skill I could call upon if needed other than teaching Greek. The skill of a carpenter, the skill my grandfather taught me when I was just a boy.

                   

****  **** ****

         
When I arrived in Rome at the tender young age of seventeen, the Roman republic was at war. The Romans and Carthaginians had continually been at each other’s throats for more than fifteen years. However, neither side had managed to seize and control of the principal islands on the Italian Peninsula, Sicily, Corsica, and Sardinia. The Roman Senate, nevertheless, had continued to press for a quick end to the fighting. The way at first had seemed easy enough. Throw all the resources the armies of Rome could muster against the largest, as well as the richest of the three - Sicily. If the Carthaginian armies could be defeated, the rest of their island strongholds on the Peninsula would soon follow. Even so, after fifteen years of bloodshed nothing had really changed that was of any significance or detrimental to the other. The Roman army along with her allies still had control of the east, whilst Carthage had to be content with the north, and west.

The tenacity of the Roman Senate would see a final victory over the Carthaginian menace soon enough. The Senate finally had realised that long sieges waste a great deal of the money, and a continual burden on the limited resources. Thus, the new tactic Rome would employ was a little over ambitious perhaps, considering her ineptitude at sea. And, everyone knew it was never going to get any easier to destroy the Carthaginian fleet and prevent the Carthaginians from building more ships.Without a rival on the sea, Rome would achieve naval superiority, and call the sea (mare nostrum), our sea.


Once Rome's legions arrive on the North African coast, the war with Carthage would be over in a matter of days. It was a cheaper alternative to be sure, and the cost in Roman lives and material an acceptable risk  the Roman people would be prepared to take, if it meant the total destruction of the Carthaginian menace. On the sea, and on land, Rome would be unopposed to develop trade with no interference. The grain supply from Egypt and Sicily would then always arrive on time. The Roman navy acting as an escort would guarantee there would be no more famine in Rome. The Roman republic could finally break out of Italy by sea. There would be no army large enough to stop her. Romulus, the first king of Rome, had said to the Roman people, "Jupiter’s prophesy would come true in time. The legions of Rome will carry the standard of the Roman eagle, across the entire world." However, the senate had also realised, even with Rome's many legions, Rome would also need some help from the gods for the prophesy to come true.

As the war with Carthage dragged on every citizen in Rome became more and more restless. The Herald of the senate, always the harbinger of bad news, whether it was another catastrophe at sea, or the heavy losses suffered by the Roman forces in Sicily. In Rome, many people could neither read nor write. Thus, on many occasions, I would spend an entire day listening to all the rhetoric. It was the quickest way to learn what was happening in the country, and in the small provinces around the Roman occupied quarter in Sicily. The Herald became my teacher so to speak. Furthermore, spending my free time around the Comitium helped me to gain clients. If some new arrival had the need to interpret the Latin words written on the wall near the rostra, they were sure to comprehend the official written language of all people, Greek. After gaining the fat and balding Philo as a benefactor, I had more than enough money to live off. From the many speakers, I did learn a great deal about Rome and the country in general. The most worrying aspect of all was the fact the young Republic was in trouble. The campaign in Sicily was at a stalemate. The Roman navy was losing far too many young men. The Roman senate had avoided the need to call The Roman people together for some time. However, now, it had little or no choice in the matter. The Herald of the senate abided their request by following the ancient protocol, by calling them to gather in the language of all the thirty-five tribes, which made up the Tribal Assembly. The People of Rome would be satisfied everyone comprehended the same realities of war.

The date chosen by the Senate, and announced by the Herald, was the morning of the eighth day after the Ides of Martius. The Senators chose this day to reassure themselves as well as everyone else within the city of Rome. The gathering would be peaceful, and without any of the confronting discourse usually associated with the Speaker’s platform. The Roman people had come to the Comitium, their meeting place, since the reign of kings. To listen to an oration by some senator, curule magistrate or the rhetoric of any other speaker deemed to be important, for that matter. The small amphitheatre could no longer accommodate the large crowds. If you arrived late, it was standing room only. It did not matter whether you were from a noble patrician family or simply a working class plebeian.

The best seats in the small amphitheatre were directly in front of the arched speakers' platform. The bottom of the rostra was the place to be if you wanted to make a quick exit to avoid an overzealous plebeian mob. If the mob decided it wanted to pummel the speaker with stones, going through the arches and up to the stairs, and through the temple of Castor and Pollux, provided the quickest exit from the lower Forum. However, no one threw stones any more, not even the children. They left the coloured stones on the Altar of the black stone. Once used by the first kings of Rome to offer sacrifice to the gods. Children now used the paved area around it for play. It was better than the dreadful smelling marshes around the Comitium where the children used to play. It was the idea of a young Augur, a young priest I recall, and his idea prevented many children from becoming sick and die from the marsh fever. There was no pungent smell of stagnate water or even the many black mosquitoes that plagued the temples within the Forum. Rome was becoming civilized, after all.



There was a light drizzle at daybreak. It was the day of the gathering, the eighth day after the Ides of Martius. The blue dyed sailcloth my grandfather fashioned for me as a wet weather robe served me well yet again. It kept me dry as I made my way through the Forum. The procession of litter bearers carrying the colourful Lectica of the noble families as well as the rich snaked its way through the Roman Forum. The slaves, much to their owners’ displeasure had to leave the area around the Comitium. Many of the rich and even some of the noble slave owners had the left metal earring of their personal slave removed, in order to hide their property. There was some risk involved. The ever-watchful eyes of the vigilis urbani (the city police), always posed a threat. If they caught any offender, the slave owner suffered a fine of five hundred silver coins. It was payable directly to the court prefect, who had the power to confiscate any slave, if the owner neglected to pay the fine. The slave would have his earring replaced and then interned in a holding cell in the Tullianum, (the prison) near Capitoline hill, and only released when the slave owner bought back his property at the next slave market sale. The State always made good money; slaves remained in prison for only a short time; the market interval was only eight days.Therefore, they sold them very quickly, and at a much higher price than the market value. Most slaves received only meager rations from the State, thus any expensive body servant had his food provided by his benefactor.



Whilst I made my way through the Forum, it was quite evident this day was anything but a normal day. It was too quiet. The usual cacophony of voices coming from competing market vendors, rendered silent by the empty street stalls and closed shops. The annoying local hucksters and street entertainers, thankfully absent from my view as I made my way down the wide Sacred road (Via Sacra)  along with the large crowd. Throughout the city, this day was different. Passers-by walked quietly along, their silver and gold safe from the many pickpockets that frequented the crowded Forum. The Senate chose the right day; the day of the dead was a time for only contemplation and mourning. The entire city was in a state of bereavement. All private businesses, bathes, and brothels closed for the day. The house of Cornelia, my favourite brothel included. Only three businesses were the exception to the religious edict. In the poorest quarter of Rome, the Sabura, the three oldest bakeries would continue to provide bread. The rest had to close from dawn, until middle night. The mob of the Sabura needed little excuse to riot in the city. I saw little evidence of this, but by all accounts, they had done so on many occasions, always over the bread ration and the ever-increasing number of holy days. The Senate was smart enough to, not only increase the bread ration of the city from two loaves a day to four on religious days, but it also promised to keep the bakeries working in the Sabura to feed the poorest people as well as the Roman garrison. They, the conscript fathers, the senators of Rome did not need the Roman garrison rioting with a bunch of poor plebs over bread. The holy days, nonetheless, was bad news for some people. The men and women that frequented the countless brothels in the city, myself included, hated the holy days. In Rome, the brothels closed on holy days, and to make matters worse, the brothel owners on the Aventine, charged desperate clients five times the normal rate. On the day of the dead however, soldiers, citizens, or even foreigners for that matter would not dare to enter a brothel, let alone pay for services. Their bodily urges, was not any less during the holy days. They were just too afraid to upset any lemures(unpurified spirits), as well as the heavy fines if caught.

The Senates worry about rioting over bread, for the time being, was becoming largely irrelevant. There were signs of discontent among the Roman People over matters concerning the war for some time. The constant bad news over events in Sicily gave the plebs the excuse they needed. They regularly took out their frustration on senators, and magistrates, by throwing rancid meat or rotten fruit at them, whilst they spoke from the speaker’s platform. Men like these, along with the two elected consuls were responsible. They ran the war from the safety of the Curia Hostilia, the Senate House. Many of the men appointed to the Roman Senate knew little about Sicily, but they did know how to save Roman silver. I did not know or cared for any of the important senators who always had something to say when they spoke from the speaker’s platform. To a foreigner like me, these senators all looked the same, self-important, in their covered maroon shoes. The Roman People, to a certain extent, knew all along that these so-called representatives were somewhat out of touch with the soldiers who bled and died on the battlefield. It did not matter to the plebs whether these men wore the white toga, or the dull white one with the broad or narrow Tyrian purple stripe down the right shoulder. They all had to accept responsibility for the problems within the young republic and the ongoing war against Carthage, particularly north and western Sicily. It did not matter to the plebs if a senator or magistrate was a patrician or a plebeian conscripted or elected into the Senate. Within the words spoken in their rhetoric, they all meant well. The plebs living in the slums of the Sabura gave them their support; after all, they always had bread for their families. The rest of the plebs, on the other hand, considered them to be, pompous and vain. Only the rich and noble patricians fully appreciated them or their apparel. Furthermore, what it meant. To a patrician, the senators were not pompous at all; they were all proud as well as wise, fathers of the Republic. Vanity was not a sign of any weakness; it was rather a sign of wealth and prosperity. To be worldly, and at the centre of all the decision making of the young Republic was what every noble patrician strived for; it was also their birthright, to live as a Roman, but also if necessary to die like a Roman, with honour. There was no difference between patrician and plebeian, when it came to money, property, or even fame, for that matter. Military leaders recognized anyone who served. Patricians in the military would not hesitate to die for Rome. Plebeian soldiers would do also if the time came to make that decision. They would have the same military honours bestowed onto them in death. What was it that made them different? After all, they were all Romans. Even so, everyone in the republic knew there was a difference. At one time patricians could not marry a pleb or vice versa. There had been social reforms and not without loss of life. The changes took place over fifty years earlier, and the distinction between patrician and pleb had  become less important. Nevertheless, to a patrician, it mattered not how a plebeian toiled, or how well they fought, or even how many had died for Rome.

Today, on the day of the dead, however, it  mattered little whether you belonged to a patrician, or plebeian clan. Everyone was welcome.That is, everyone but a slave. The speakers wearing the dark purple mourning toga would speak from the raised wooden platform of the rostra. The Herald announced the name of the first speaker. The honour to begin the oration belonged to the senior Senator, Appius Vespilo. He was in his late sixties, I would say. A tall lean figure of a man, who looked strikingly similar in appearance to my grandfather. Perhaps that is why I always took an interest in what he had to say. As he made his way up to the stairs of the rostra, he carried in his right hand a scroll. It contained a list of names of the fallen. I was standing on the paved area of the Comitium, next to the black Altar stone, and besides a young family with two infant boys. Twins they were, identical in every way except in the colour of their small tunics. The young twins were around two or three years of age. The Gemini showed little interest in the games the other children played. They held onto their mother’s long blue tunica and said nothing. They hid behind their mother every time I looked and smiled. They did eventually smile back at me, which then prompted me to introduce myself. They kindly replied in unison - "Quintus, Lucius," after I asked for their names.

Their parents Publius, along with their mother Antonia also introduced themselves to me. In the usual Roman like fashion, the right hand placed over the chest and a lowering of the head as a sign of humility. Publius I noticed could be anyone except another man's suppliant; he looked straight into my eyes during the heartbeats that had passed. If there was any humility in Publius, he kept it well hidden - unlike his wife Antonia. His look was unemotional and unflinching.

Senator Appius Vespilo looked out towards the Senate House, and began to speak. Without a single murmur from a crowd of over three, thousand people. His booming voice began to quiver with emotion. The words that echoed around the Comitium as well as the Forum Magnum, expressed not only deep sorrow, but also pride. The rhetoric of this old senator reaffirmed the Roman belief. There was no greater glory for a Roman soldier and for his family. To die for Rome and the Republic, was the ultimate sacrifice. He paid tribute to the men that drew their last breath doing their duty, fighting for the young Republic in Sicily.

I saw tears well up in people’s eyes as they listened. Each senator in turn called out the names of the thousands that died on land and at sea. The lament of grieving lovers young and old echoed back up to the speaker’s platform and all the way to the Senate House. The entire Senate heard the mournful cries coming from families as they lamented the death of husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons. The tears that fell, soaked up quickly, whether they fell on the wet pavement or on the wet sandy soil, like the many fallen loved ones, never seen again.

The rays of the sun had pierced through the clouds. The sun was high in the sky, and the Herald announced the time of the day now that he could see the sun. The senators quickly retired to the inside of the Senate house. There they would refresh themselves, and have lunch. The bronze doors of the Senate house closed, as the People continued to mourn outside the Comitium. A dozen Lictors remained on guard outside the doors of the Senate house, each holding the Fasces, a bundle of white Birchwood rods and a bronze axe, all strapped together with red ribbon. It was the symbol of the Roman Republic and the symbol of Roman unity. To an outsider like me, only appreciative of the Roman sun warming my body, did not understand their grief. It was their choice to wage war on the Carthaginians. They, the Roman People chose to make war. However, I was touched, after a senator called out the name, Marcellus Flaminius Felix. I saw Publius let down his defences in front of me. The tears that streamed down his face, mingled with those of his wife and children as they embraced each other. The name was that of his younger brother. The tears began to well also in my eyes as I looked at the Gemini cry. At their young age, the loss of an Uncle or the reason for his death is hard to comprehend. Even so, they mourned his death with the same affection any adult would have for someone they had known for a lifetime. Watching this young family made me feel alone in this city. I had no one, no friends, and no family. I only had whores to share my pleasures with, and I was becoming one of them. I had to lie to clients about their beautiful and clever offspring, just as a whore praises a clients’ sexual prowess in bed, when nothing can be further than the truth.

I offered Publius and his family my consolations, and promised to sacrifice a white dove to their god Jupiter Optimus Maximus and to pray for the soul of his brother Marcellus. After three years of living in Rome, many people still did not accept me, nor did I care. I was truly surprised when Publius asked me if I needed work.     

Perhaps I was too hasty in judging these Romans. I was still comparing Rome with my small village. Everyone there accepted me as well as the many foreigners who laboured building the ships for the Carthaginian navy. How could I have been so foolish though, to compare the paltry seven-hundred people in Isthmia with Rome’s three-hundred thousand?

All around the Forum, people began to leave, I had never seen so many people crying and supporting each other as they made their way along the Via Sacra and out of the Forum. Across the road, between the new shops, I noticed Maia and Minerva waving to get my attention. Those two little nymphs seemed intoxicated.

“Demetrios, magister,” shouted Maia from across the road

“Call him in Greek Maia, maybe then he will answer,”

“No Minerva, you call out to him. You are the one who thinks he is Apollo”

“Maia you can be such a bore when you drink too much wine.”

“What is the word again? Didaskalos, isn’t it Maia?”

“Minerva, can’t you wait until he finishes speaking to those...”

Maia interjected, “Plebs I think, they don’t look like foreigners to me,”

I am glad I could not see the look of embarrassment on my face. Everyone around me heard the voices of Maia and Minerva easily enough.

Antonia inquired, “They called you magister, is that your occupation?”

“I must apologise for my students behaviour, some young people have no patience these days” I replied.

“I know those two girls. They are the children of Libintia and Philo, I’m sure,” said Antonia.

“You are very observant Antonia, I vaguely remember them. It has been at least ten years, since we last saw Philo and that slut Libintia,” blurted out Publius.

Antonia’s eyes narrowed instantly.

“Stop, it... This isn’t the time or place,” she murmured.