Roma.The novel of ancient Rome - Saylor Steven - Страница 114

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A fool, you mean-like you, thought Lucius. But he bit his tongue and said nothing.

129 B.C.

Lucius Pinarius took the letter from his mother’s trembling hand. It was written in Greek, on parchment of the highest quality. Lucius read slowly, paying careful attention to every word.

From Blossius to Menenia, greetings and deepest affections:

What a comfort your letters are to me, like salve on a wound!

Any day that a messenger arrives with a missive from you is a day of celebration for me.

I am glad to hear that you and Lucius are both in good health. I am glad that your son’s business prospers. There must be much money to be made as a state contractor, especially in the building trade.

Thank you for sending news of Cornelia. That she remains in mourning, three years after the death of Tiberius, is, in my opinion, entirely fitting. The nature of her son’s death, the desecration of his body, and the outrageous aftermath all justify a longer period of mourning than is customarily considered seemly.

But Tiberius’s brother, you say, no longer wears black. Well,

Gaius is a young man and must get on with his life. I have mixed feelings about his apparent decision to withdraw completely from political life, and to devote himself (like Lucius) entirely to money-making. In some ways, Gaius’s potential as a leader actually surpassed that of his brother. What a waste, that he should forgo the Course of Honor! But after seeing what was done to Tiberius, who can blame him for pursuing a different destiny?

I wonder, though, whether Gaius will not eventually find himself drawn back to public life. The lure of politics is so strong in his blood!

As for my career, I am proud to report that King Aristonicus takes me deeper into his confidence every day. Yes, I proudly call him King, though the Romans refuse to recognize his status and brand him a rebel. The will of the late King Attalus was rendered null and void when General Aristonicus claimed the throne of Pergamum by both force of arms and moral authority. How peeved the Roman senators must be, to see their dreams of laying hands on the treasury of Pergamum dashed; their greed for that treasure was one of their reasons for murdering Tiberius.

King Aristonicus is a remarkable man. I have every confidence that, with my counsel, he will attain the Stoic ideal of a just king. We speak often of the new capitol he dreams of founding-we will call it Heliopolis, City of the Sun-in which all men of all classes, including slaves, shall be free.

Aristonicus is also a military genius, thank the gods! He will boldly defend his claim to the throne of Pergamum against Roman arms. When he is seen to prevail, there is hope that other leaders across Asia and Greece will rise up and break the grip of Roma and its corrupt republic. The only hope for the rest of the world is to resist Roma’s domination at every turn.

But here I am, rattling on about politics! Forgive me, my love. Without you beside me, I have little else to think about. My life is out of balance; the part of me that is most essentially alive-a corporeal man capable of love, desire, tears, and laughter-is shriveled and withered, like a once sturdy vine ripped from the rich, moist earth. How I miss you! Your words, your face, the music of your voice, the warmth of your body! Perhaps, someday-in Heliopolis? — we shall be together again. But that time is not yet, alas!

As always, I urge you to destroy this letter immediately after you read it. Resist any temptation to save my letters for sentimental reasons. Burn them! I do the same with every letter I receive from you, though afterward my tears fall among the ashes. This is for your safety, not mine. We have seen, to our sorrow, just how ruthless the enemies of virtue have become, and how they can turn the words of the virtuous against them.

All my love to you….

Lucius lowered the parchment with a shudder. He was not sure which offended him most-the Stoic’s snide, backhanded compliment on Lucius’s money-making pursuits, his typically self-satisfied fawning over the upstart Aristonicus, or his salacious metaphors regarding himself and Menenia. A sturdy vine ripped from the rich, moist earth, indeed!

“Promise me, Mother, that you’ve done exactly as he’s instructed you-that you’ve destroyed every letter he’s ever sent you.”

Menenia looked up at him with tears in her eyes. She drew her eyebrows together. She shrugged with one shoulder.

“By Hercules and Hades! You didn’t burn them, did you? You’ve kept them.”

“Not all! Only a few,” whispered Menenia. “Only the most…personal. There was nothing in any of the letters I’ve saved that could possibly-”

“Any letter from Blossius is dangerous, mother. Don’t you understand? We must destroy anything that establishes a continuing link between him and us since he left Roma, and especially since he joined with Aristonicus. The content doesn’t matter-although this latest letter could hardly be more damning! Where are the letters you saved? Fetch them! Now! Do it yourself-don’t send a slave. Bring them here at once. I’ll stoke the fire in the brazier.”

Left alone in the garden for a moment, Lucius bowed his head and allowed his arms to drop to his side. His knees turned to water; for a moment, he thought he might collapse. For his mother’s sake, he had put on a mask, showing only anger, concealing the panic that had been welling up inside him ever since he crossed the Forum that morning and heard the news from Pergamum.

Aristonicus the Pretender had been captured. His forces were annihilated. The kingdom of the late Attalus and its immense treasury had been secured at last by Roman arms. The Roman commander Marcus Perperna was already boasting of the triumph he would enjoy when he would parade Aristonicus naked through Roma, publicly whip him till he begged to die, then strangle him in the dank prison cell of the Tullianum.

Hearing the news, Lucius rushed home, brusquely told his mother that Aristonicus was defeated, and demanded to see any scraps of correspondence from Blossius. He had not told her the news about Blossius. So far, either because she was too shocked or too frightened to ask, his mother had not inquired. How Lucius dreaded the moment!

Menenia returned with a few pieces of parchment. From their much-handled condition, Lucius could see that she had reread them countless times. Sighing, he took the letters from her.

“You’re certain these are all the letters, every one?”

“Yes, Lucius.”

“We must pray to the gods that Blossius did as he told you, and burned every one of your letters to him as well.” One by one, Lucius laid the letters upon the flames. He and his mother watched them ignite and then crumple into ashes.

“All his letters…all his words…gone,” Menenia whispered. She braced herself. “And Blossius?”

“Blossius is dead, mother. He did the wise thing, the dignified thing. If they had captured him…” Lucius quailed at uttering the words aloud: torture, humiliation, lingering death. He cleared his throat. “Rather than face capture, he killed himself. He died like a Roman.”

“He died like a Stoic.” Menenia closed her eyes. The heat given off by the burning letters-the last vestige of Blossius’s existence on earth-warmed the tears on her cheeks.

Lucius gazed at his mother. Whatever he had thought of Blossius, he was moved by her grief. As on the day Blossius left, Lucius felt no sense of vindication, only deep shame and sorrow.

124 B.C.

“When I was a boy,” said Gaius Gracchus, smiling at his listeners, “my old tutor Blossius made me read every line of Euripides. Dear old Blossius! Not much of Euripides has stayed with me, I’m sorry to say, except a few lines from his play The Bacchae:

The gods have many guises. The gods bring crises to climax while man surmises. The end anticipated has not been consummated. But god has found a way for what no man expected. So ends the play.

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