To Forestall the Darkness: A Novel of Ancient Rome, AD 589

LIBER I

Capita I

Verona, Italia

dies Solis, a.d. VII Id. Oct. MCCCXLII a.u.c.

Sunday, October 9, ad 589

Putrid! Titus said, sniffing the air and curling his lips in revulsion. What’s that smell? he asked Pertinax.

Pertinax shrugged. Could be a dead dog or something.

Foul, Titus said, but commented no further.

As they continued to walk the boulevard leading into Verona, he saw Hadrian’s Gate, a huge monolithic structure, appearing a soft gray in the morning fog. Although the locals had called it a gate for nearly twenty generations, it lacked any massive doors to bar against an invading army; it was in fact not a gate, but a grand triumphal arch erected centuries ago when Rome was strong and the Empire prosperous. Titus noted that over those centuries dirt, smoke and bird droppings had commingled to darken its once glistening marble into an unhealthy gray.

Our ancestors could build such a thing, and we can’t even muster the gumption to clean it, Titus said.

Again Pertinax shrugged. It’s a different time now.

Remind me to address its cleaning with the Prefectus the next time we bump into him.

Although they could have ridden their horses through the streets of Verona to the Cathedral, Titus had left them at the stables outside the gate, because their Germanic overlords had forbidden ordinary Romans to own or ride horses and Titus Tribonius was wary of flaunting his privileged status among the citizens.

The rhythmic plod of their footfalls found punctuation in the soft thud of Pertinax’s sword against his thigh. Titus glanced at his black companion—not only companion but friend, assistant and confidant—and wished he could have worn what Pertinax wore, leather breeches with woolen tunic and belt. That was the garb most common in these modern times. But he had an official function to perform later that day, the verification of a slave merchant’s charter to sell within the Kingdom. That function required him to wear the formal, old-fashioned toga that there be no mistake of his office, Gastaldus to the King.

They had not gone a dozen paces farther when they stopped—both men together—to gasp at the alarming visage before them. Titus stood breathless, mouth agape. Among the sun bleached skulls that had vilified Hadrian’s Gate since the coming of the Lombards were heads, fresh heads, dozens of heads, men, women, children, hair matted with black blood, eyes dangling from sockets on reddish cords, mouths contorted into the final rictus of scream. As Titus gazed—paralyzed, stone-like—the gate dissolved into the severed head of Medusa. Her head was huge, the size of the gate; blood streamed from the severed veins of her neck to form a foaming red torrent which flooded and roiled toward them on the road. While her eyes were opaque in death, her mouth assumed a grinning snarl and the snakes writhed and arched and hissed her malignancy at them.

He felt Pertinax’s hand grip his arm—his dependable, no-nonsense friend—and the apparition dissolved back into the polluted gate. He did not dare ask if he too had seen Evil manifested. As he gazed meekly into Pertinax’s one brown eye, he assured himself that what he had seen had arisen in primitive imaginations that had been passed down for generations until ultimately the poets had added frills. Medusa had never been real—for Existence was kindly—and fables of her arose from imaginings. What actually cried out to him from the gate, however, was evil without the poetry.

On the flagstone pavement to the left lay an infant’s head where it had fallen. Titus could not tell if it had been a boy or a girl, it was so small. Two crows were pecking at its eyes.

In words half-choked Titus asked, Wouldn’t you have thought Verres would have forewarned us as to what lay ahead when we left the horses with him?

Yes, if he had known. Would you like me to go back and question him about it? Pertinax said.

Yes…Well, no…We’ll do that together when we leave. But who are they, or who did they used to be when breath and soul animated them? Where did they live? What was their crime?

Pertinax said, With just the heads, there’s not much to provide answers.

We certainly know who did it, else they wouldn’t be displayed as trophies or warnings.

The stench is making my stomach queasy.

Mine, too, Titus said. But what am I to do about it, Pertinax? What would my father have done or my grandfather?

They lived in different times, Titus. The only thing you can do is report it to the King.

But the well-being of the Romans is entrusted to me.

The King has given you perimeters.

If I’m to report to the King, I’ll need details of what happened, the who, the when, the where. I’ll ask the Abbot if I can speak to the people after Mass. Somebody must know something, and that something will lead us to other bits of information.

You know now where it will lead, Titus. It leads to the Duke. You implied such yourself.

I should resign my office if I can accomplish nothing of benefit.

You wouldn’t live too long, my friend, if you did that. A person doesn’t tell the King, ‘No, I won’t do it.’ Your life, your wife’s, would be taken, and your estate would be confiscated. Your slaves would enter a harsh world they have not known. To refuse the King would bring on disaster on all the people you love, Pertinax said, then gestured toward the infant’s head on the flagstones. I wonder whose child it was.

Titus studied his friend’s face a moment, one brown eye looking at him, the other hidden under the blue kerchief he always wore. And I’m wondering what a baby could possibly have done to deserve that, Titus said.

Pertinax nodded.

As they approached to pass under the arch of the gate into the city, Titus’s eyes flitted among the heads. Was this one once a farmer, that one the baker’s wife? Maybe a young mother here and there a shepherd? Although he was Gastaldus for Roman Matters, he had never felt as insignificant as he felt then. Those blind eyes watched him move. They accused him, him who was responsible for shielding the native Romans from abuse by their overlords. Although the King had entrusted him with the office and responsibility, the King had given him no authority to redress wrongs.

I accept the post, my Lord, but you must give me authority to act, Titus had said.

To you, a Roman? Authority over us! You just report to me, and I’ll do any acting, King Autari had said. But let us discuss the matter again some months hence.

Too often, reporting to the King proved a futile waste of parchment and couriers. The King did not act. Titus’s office was a sham. Maybe, he thought, it had been consciously designed as a sham to start with.

He was mute as they walked the half-mile to the Cathedral. If he knew what action his father would take, or his grandfather, would he have the courage to take such an action himself? Did the same blood flow in him as it had in his forbearers? And if he did find it in himself to take some action, would the Fates grant favorable outcome?

He noted that the buildings they passed on this major boulevard in once grand Verona were old and tired and dirty. A couple of generations ago, Flavius Theodoric Rex had proclaimed this city the jewel of Italy, building a palace here. His father had told him that with pride in his voice. But in the decades from then until now there had been no construction in the city, and it was no longer a jewel, for neither the citizens nor their rulers cared.

A black and white pig crossed the boulevard before them, closely followed by two others. The buildings—two and three story townhouses—left and right looked battered, as if an army had pillaged and ruined. But it had not been an army; it had been time and exhaustion and loss of will that had rotted from within. That rot in the soul, like pus rising from a boil, now manifested as shutters hanging askew, railings to steps broken, roofing tiles fallen and shattered in the street. It manifested as kitchen refuse tossed into the street.

Even in the fog and morning coolness, wasps and bluebottle flies hovered over that waste as a buzzing cloud. That impression of an enlivened cloud brought to his mind a passage in the Christian Canon, a passage read in the Cathedral every Easter, the passage about the Spirit hovering over the waters. How different the ethereal potentiality implied in that and the reality we touch, he thought.

Titus had counted the flower pots on stoops as they walked the Via Secunda from Hadrian’s Gate. Only three houses out of the couple hundred houses had geraniums in ochre pots set out on the steps. He wondered how sick in heart a woman needed to be for her to forsake a delight in flowers.

Ahead lay the Cathedral, his destination, sitting just a little higher on its incline. The Cathedral was a squat solid edifice, with a large round window on its façade and six small rectangular windows on its flank. Built a hundred and fifty years ago, the Cathedral had been the pride of the city; but now portions of its salmon colored marble had fallen away to reveal the brick and mortar of its construction. Its circular window central over the door, having lost a third of its filigree, was now a portal for bats. The bronze doors that had once blazoned the miracles of Jesus Christ had long ago been smelted into armaments during the Gothic Wars. Timber now boarded up that expanse, with only a small wicket door leading within to salvation.

Titus noticed that there were people ahead who were congealing around the edge of the plaza instead of progressing across the square to the Cathedral. He and Pertinax took their place among them, in the rear of the conglomeration. He scanned over his people. They were colorless, wearing gray, dun, fulvous white and tan. Gone with the centuries and the glory of Rome were the pastel greens and blues, pinks and lavenders that had once graced city life. Gone were the courage, vision and gumption that had elevated Rome from its origin as a small village on the banks of a small river to become the ruler of the world.

Titus wondered why the people were bunching together, just standing there. What was delaying them? Perhaps a procession? He knew the Queen was in the city. He pressed forward to get a better look. The crowd was unusually quiet, not even the hushed titterings of gossip to be heard. Perhaps the priests could be heard conducting rites outside today as at Easter. He stretched his neck up to peer over the heads. Neither priest nor monk celebrated rites on the salmon marble landing that stretched the breadth of the building.

Another one, Titus! Pertinax whispered.

Another what? He also whispered, lest he disturb the hush that surrounded.

Head. A man’s head. He pointed. There!

Titus craned his neck and saw yet another head that had been severed. It lay on the marble pavement with face averted from the Cathedral, staring directly at the amassed citizens of Verona. Its eyes were surprised eyes, wide open; its hair was Roman blue-black, jaw unshaven.

Above the head stood a wild woman. She was frozen in place, her hair tangled and snarled, a knife in her right hand, standing still over the head, facing the Cathedral, gloating like a boy triumphant over his first rabbit.

As the monks within the Cathedral began their chant, Titus whispered, sotto voce, Hecate, shield us! Then he pushed and shoved and shouted, Out of my way! Move!

Pertinax assisted. Make way for Titus! Move! Way for Gastaldus! Make way for Gastaldus!

The silent men, women, children and slaves complied complaisantly, sidling aside to let him through. Once past the thronged citizens of Verona, Titus strode with commanding steps through the open space toward her. Pertinax followed.

Slowing his pace as he approached, noting the blood on her night tunic—it was now blackening with time—he positioned himself directly before her. His back was to the Cathedral, the woman before him and people beyond in clear sight. With every muscle of his body tensed, alert of any possible lunge with the knife, he observed her. He applied his jurist’s eye for detail.

A handful of hair had been ripped from her scalp, leaving an angry red blotch above her left eye. Blood oozed from it and down her left cheek, dripping onto the thin linen night-tunic covering her bosom, her nipples erect in the morning chill, her feet bare. Although the woman’s eyes were open, he detected no sign that she was aware he stood before her.

What is your name? he asked in voice commanding but melodious, and of a loudness so that all in the plaza could hear. There was no response.

He asked again.

He bent down, looking close into her face, putting both hands on her shoulders, and asked as gently as if he were coaxing information from a child lost in a marketplace, Woman, won’t you tell me your name?

I am Eula! she shouted. A vehement shout.

Titus flinched backward. From the corner of his eye he noticed a man sprinting alongside the Cathedral and he saw that Pertinax had moved to the crowd to speak to an adolescent.

Although for a woman with so slight a frame it seemed an impossible task, he was obliged to ask about the heads on Hadrian’s Gate. Eula, did you kill all those people?

I killed my defiler. The rapist! Him! she screamed. Her voice held a self-satisfaction, as if her accusation pardoned her crime.

Titus addressed the crowd, Is there any here who brings charge against this woman? In the enmeshing silence, the only sounds were the cooings of pigeons and the faint splashes of the Athesis River against the footings of the Marmoreus bridge.

No one spoke. He needed accusation. Although he was not formally trained in the law, following his appointment as Gastaldus he had read extensively in Roman law, especially Ulpian, and his grandfather’s Institutes, and he knew that except in cases of crimes against the State—treason, conspiracy, lèse majesté, or desertion from the army—Roman law did not permit a magistrate to bring charges himself. Without someone speaking up, he would have no legal grounds to take the woman into custody.

A man was making his way through the crowd. It was Manlius who sometimes served as Titus’s lictor—that is, on high official occasions he would carry the fasces, that bundle of rods with ax heads protruding which symbolized the power of the State. Titus nodded a quick nod at him. He was pleased that the son of the stabler was showing initiative in stepping forward to support him in the conduct of his office. Manlius—with his Roman dark good looks—had a strut to his walk as he came to stand behind Titus, between him and the Cathedral.

I will make accusation! It was a voice coming from behind Titus. He turned his head to see who had spoken. It was Tullus Salonius, a balding man with double chin. He was astride a black stallion, coming from alongside the Cathedral. Although he held no office, Titus knew Salonius was highly favored by their overlords, the Germanic Lombards. They had granted him the sole license to raise horses for the Lombard cavalry.

Meet me at the Tribunal forthwith, Titus said to him.

Sextus’s head! Her knife! It’s obvious! Salonius said in a chiding voice.

His son! His son! the woman shouted, pointing the knife at Salonius. My husband’s brother raped me! He incest-ed me! His son! Her eyes radiated hate and her lips loathing.

Titus looked between the wild woman, Eula, and the pompous Salonius.

Get Castor! she shouted. Somebody find my husband! I need my husband!

Again Titus looked between them, then said to Eula, You will have to come with me until we sort this out. Hand me the knife. The tone of his voice was as pleasant as a nanny speaking to a child in tantrum, but then he violently gripped her arm and jerked it toward him. The fierceness of the motion caused the knife to fall onto the pavement with an audible clunk. Pigeons startled to wing.

Lord Jesus, help me! she shrieked.

Pertinax emerged from the spectators, pulled her arms back and bound them with rope.

Shades of my ancestors, defend me!

You will come with me now, Titus said, gripping her arm with his left hand. He called ahead to Manlius, We’re taking her to the Tribunal Office!

With Manlius walking ahead and Pertinax as rear guard they went alongside the Cathedral toward what had been Verona’s old basilica. It was behind the Cathedral on the road that ran beside the river. Duke Droctolf had refashioned the basilica to be a stable but had designated a room in the very back, past the piles of composting manure, that could be used for Roman Matters, if such were ever needed. Titus was sure the location had been selected to be both demeaning and easily monitored.

A crowd of busybodies, mainly curious women and a few rowdy adolescents, followed them, apparently—Titus thought—to gather the details, as if they were herbs, to spice their chatter amid the drudgery of days.

From his steed Salonius, with his double chin and translucent skin, glowered down at them. His lips curled as if a fetid stench had enveloped him.

Maybe—Titus was unsure—but maybe Manlius nodded obsequiously to him as they passed. Curious, he thought. Perhaps just the son of the stabler acknowledging his betters, or maybe something more. Manlius was strikingly handsome, and rumor was that Salonius had Greek proclivities. But that was their business, he conceded, not his and not the State’s, though the Church would certainly make it theirs.

The observant, silent watchfulness of the following busybodies gave way little by little to a whisper here, a remark, a comment there. Soon it became a garrulous rumble filled with suppositions, conspiracies, explanations, and accusations. Titus well knew how public discourse commented on every nuance of private lives. Wagging tongues spared no one, except maybe babes still at the breast.

In that din of meddlesome gossip Titus himself became a subject. He tried to pick them out.

Maybe he does have balls…You should see his huge estate…Doesn’t challenge them...Vile, pagan rites…Doesn’t have children…Why bring children into a world that’s dying?

He wondered again about the infant lying on the pavement.

They approached the boulevard that ran between the Cathedral and the river, Eula on his left, Manlius before, and Pertinax following. Even before they reached the turn Titus could see the Bishop’s palace, empty these last few years, ever since—according to the Lombards—he had been assumed into Heaven, or—according to the Romans—he had been murdered. Next to it, and slipping into view, was the palace Flavius Theodoric Rex had built for himself of glistening white marble, not the local salmon colored marble. The Lombards had adorned it to their taste, painting it with brightly colored tendrils of vines and flowers, with stags, wolves, bears, ibex and fantastical beasts that Titus presumed arose from their northern mythologies.

More to his taste was the white pillared temple across the river on the hill, surrounded with the deep green of fir and spruce. Although its clean lines were unpretentious, it seemed almost alive, sleeping peacefully in eternal tranquility and breathing forth the fresh scent of evergreen to proclaim the rightness of the world. No longer did devotees bring offerings to the goddess of that temple, Ceres, a few grains of wheat or spelt. That is all the ancient gods required, he thought: a moment of acknowledgement and a pittance in offering. How different from the onerous levies that the Church now demanded. The group reached the back portion of the Cathedral and turned right.

Before them, spanning the boulevard, blocking the way, stood twelve black horses with twelve Lombards astride. Titus saw Manlius dash for the protection of the Cathedral wall.

The Lombards were in black battle dress. Their cuirasses over chests and backs were made of thick, wide overlapping leather strips; their black boots were high, ensheathing calves and fastened with crisscrossed laces. Today, against prey so slight, they did not wear helmets, but let their golden locks stream onto shoulders. Each cradled a heavy cudgel in his lap: Battle clubs were a sure sign they were not out to capture, but to kill. Titus noted each horse was a stallion. These were the Elite Troops.

The sudden sight of them elicited gasps and shrieks from the busybodies who had been following. Then shoes, boots and sandals pattered away on the flagstones, getting fainter with distance, and finally, in the distance, the shrieks modulated into piercing (though faint) wails. With barely a turn of his head, Titus glanced behind to see that the adolescent boys remained. Foolish, he thought.

He recognized the soldier in the middle, the one with the black bushy beard instead of the golden flowing beards, the one brandishing not a cudgel, but a battle mace with iron spikes protruding. His name was Ratold, the Master of Horse for Duke Droctolf.

Ratold, this is a Roman affair, an occurrence involving only Romans. As Gastaldus for Roman Matters, I assert jurisdiction, Titus said once, loudly and clearly.

Tullus Salonius has brought accusation, he continued. I am taking her to the Tribunal where she can be questioned as we seek to ascertain the facts.

Ratold said something in German to the mounted troops, making them laugh.

And Master of Horse, I would appreciate a moment of your time this afternoon. I need to ask you about the fresh heads on Hadrian’s Gate.

Again Ratold spoke to his troops in German. One of them on the far left spurred his horse, making is prance the line of them. His quips, in German, stirred general hilarity among them. All that was lost on Titus: He did not understand German.

As he waited for response from Ratold, he listened to baritone voices coming from within the Cathedral. They rose and fell in liturgical ebb and flow. Also in the air were the women’s faint ululations vanishing into the narrow streets of Verona. As another golden-haired Lombard pranced his steed before the squadron, singing some barroom-like ditty, Titus whispered aloud, but so softly—a mere susurration—that he was sure not even Eula adjacent to him could hear. "Oderint dum metuant. (Let them hate, as long as they fear.) We’ve learned our lessons well. At the mere sight of you women faint, fetuses abort and brave men quiver. But no more!"

Let us pass! he bellowed at the black line of soldiers.

"Eam necate (Kill her)!" Ratold commanded in perfect Latin. And knees and Germanic words and whips startled the horses forward.

The older boys who had accompanied the woman now scattered away at the sudden advance of the squadron.

At the barbaric battle cries and the looming onslaught of tons of horse flesh, Titus stood astonished, transfixed, his mouth open.

Pertinax lunged forward, grabbing the back of Titus’s head, knocking him to the pavement and covering him with this body. Hooves paused to trample around them. Horses whinnied and the stones under them reverberated. Titus felt Pertinax’s hot breath on his neck and felt his protecting weight. Then came more guttural shouts and the panicked shrieks of boys and young men, and the sounds of galloping away in sportive chase after the boys. And then silence.

Or at least the absence of noise. The type of silence that allows the hearing of what sounds there are. The percussive gallop of hooves getting fainter in the warren of streets, the splashing of the river against its bank, the monks droning, the squawk of a blue jay overhead.

At last Titus rocked his shoulders to prompt Pertinax to get off of him, rolled onto his side and sat up.

He saw Eula dead. Her feet were toward him, her head bashed away, only half of it still attached to her neck, the other half now a red and gray splatter several paces long. He breathed in deeply and held it as he looked into the face of his loyal friend, Pertinax, who faithfully had been with him in good times and bad. At length he exhaled. In such a moment there are no words sufficient. Titus nodded a Thank-you for shielding me, and his Numidian friend nodded in reply.

She was in our custody, he said, his voice quivering with incrimination. She was our responsibility. And now!

Don’t, Titus, Pertinax said. Don’t. You did what you could. He leaned over and for a moment placed his forehead on Titus’s.

You protected my head. How’s your hand?

It’ll be okay. Bruised knuckles are better than a cracked skull.

I suppose, Titus said and sat back. He noticed Pertinax’s blue kerchief had slipped up in the fracas to reveal the stitches that permanently closed his left eye. Pertinax readjusted the kerchief to hide it from view. His disfigurement was Titus’s fault, not intentional, but still he blamed himself for it. He remembered the two of them had been playing legionaries with wooden swords around the oak in front of the villa. All it took was a playful push of the swing to block Pertinax’s advance and his friend would be half blind for life.

They lumbered to their feet. Titus glimpsed someone dashing into the stables; he thought it was Manlius but the motion was so fleeting he was not sure.

Arms around one another, physically supporting one another, emotionally reassuring one another, they slowly trudged back down the way they had come. As they passed Eula’s body, Titus said, Do you think we should, uh, maybe move, uh?

No, Pertinax said. Let somebody else tend it. We can’t be seen when the Lombards return.

They plodded ahead and veered right onto the first street that intersected the plaza.

It’s a sham, Titus said.

What is? Pertinax asked.

Nothing. But you can’t tell them No. We need someone to come in and set things aright.

And who would that be? Pertinax asked.

Titus did not answer, but said, Why would they kill Eula? What’s their interest?

I don’t know, Pertinax said. To show they can? To diminish your standing with the people? To show there is no safety anywhere? I don’t know. Bibula won’t know either, but talk to her about it.

They took the second left, toward the back door of the Asphodel Taberna.

Without announcing themselves they entered the open back door into the kitchen portion of the taberna. Within, to the immediate left, was the stall for charcoal. Titus noticed it had recently been filled to the brim, its black, irregular shaped charred wood spilling out from the stall into the walkway. Farther in, a stout, rotund woman in pony tail stood at a counter cutting onions. In the days when Titus was yet a boy who sat on his father’s knee, Bibula had been a young girl who helped her own father in the kitchen.

Bibula, Pertinax said, Titus needs your wisdom.

Gizzards! What are you men doing here at this hour? she chided.

Do you know who the fresh heads belonged to? Titus asked.

What heads?

Then you don’t know?

I generally hear everything, sooner or later anyway. But I haven’t heard a word yet, so I suppose the people don’t know yet, Bibula said.

Titus nodded. There was an incident in the plaza this morning.

Do you mean the horses galloping through the streets a bit ago? Bibula asked.

No, or maybe, partially, Titus said. He noticed how flat his voice sounded, lifeless and without resonance.

Pertinax, my sweetness, cut up these onions for me, Bibula said, laying her knife on the counter. I see Titus needs a woman’s ear and smarts, and maybe a hug. You can cut them by just slicing them in various directions, but do it however you want.

I’ll give it a try, Pertinax said.

She removed her woolen apron and laid it alongside the knife. Make sure you peel them first, she added, then turned to Titus. Now I got no wisdom different from what other women have, but I’ll share what I’ve got.

She took two wooden tumblers from a shelf, ladled wine into them from a barrel, and topped them with water from a earthenware pitcher. Spring water from the spring beside Ceres’s temple, she said with pride. Titus nodded. She handed a goblet to him and said, Let’s go sit.

She preceded him from the kitchen into the public room, gloomy since the doors to the street had to remain closed until after Mass—the ecclesiastical law. Against the left wall were four small rectangular tables, with seating provided on the wall side by a long common plank, and on the other side by short, backless stools. On the right wall was a bar, but with only three tall backless stools. People generally stood as they ate or drank. Titus and Bibula sat on the stools.

Do you know a woman named Eula? Titus asked.

Umm? No, I don’t think so.

Perhaps related to Tullus Salonius?

Ah…That might be the name of Castor Salonius’s wife. You know, the wine importer right there on the plaza.

But you’re not sure?

Gizzards, Titus, I don’t know. I only saw Castor’s wife once or twice. He keeps her confined in the house. She never comes out, not even Mass. Slaves do the shopping and all the errands. Castor’s away now on a buying trip and has been for almost a month. But I’ve bumped into Sextus Salonius, Castor’s brother, three times already this week, drunk as always. What a wastrel, he is. A n’er-do-well party boy. Absolutely worthless. What’s this about Eula?

A man’s voice came from the dark corner of the room. Caesar ol’ boy! Out causing dissent in the Senate? Or are you through for the day? Titus recognized the voice, although in the gloom—only slivers of light coming through the chinks in the door—he could not see Marcus Galerius already ensconced at the first table closest to the door.

After the trauma of the visages staring at him from Hadrian’s Gate and then Eula’s murder, Titus did not appreciate the attempt at playfulness. He snapped, Marcus, aren’t you the Prefectus and in charge of running this city? Your streets are filthy! Are you derelict of duties?

Jesu Christe! So the streets are dirty! Who have we here, Pythagoras? Did you reach that conclusion by logical deduction or did you read that in one of those books of yours! It so happens that if Duke Droctolf would give me a budget to work with, I could hire freemen or lease somebody’s slaves to clean them. I brought in the pigs myself, and they eat some of the slop and garbage. But if I had a budget, I could even hire a Greek engineer to fix the aqueduct. Where the Lombards come from they don’t have cities, so they have no idea what it takes to run one. I tell them and they just shrug it off. But since you’re so buddy buddy with King Autari, maybe you’ll petition him for a grant to help us out here? Maybe? Or would that be too much effort for the grand Gastaldus?

Titus thought a moment about offering to finance the upkeep and repairs himself from the value of a single bar of gold. But, he thought, it would be dangerous to bring his wealth under the scrutiny of the Lombards. A flaunt of wealth would also drive a wider wedge between him and the people. This he could not risk. He would therefore not volunteer any financial assistance.

There are a lot of abandoned farmsteads… It was another voice coming from Marcus’s table, a voice with a lilting accent, a voice Titus did not recognize. …why don’t people move out there?

Who are you! Titus demanded. Come over here.

He says his name is Decius, Marcus said.

Bibula gripped Titus’s arm in a motherly calm-down type of way. That is Decius, she said, from Corsica. I brought him in here last night to sleep. He was all curled up under the steps of the Temple of Hercules, and that’s dangerous.

I told you to come here, Titus said again, and this time Decius complied, emerging from the gloom to the greater light that came from the open back door. Titus, ever the jurist, observed him closely. He wore only a frayed linen tunic, once expensive, cinched at the waist with red leather Moroccan belt, also expensive. He was barefoot, not even a flap of rawhide tied to his feet. The poorest of the poor used rawhide. His age was about twenty—a decade younger than Titus— and he was smaller and slighter than most men. Although he was smaller, he was perfectly proportioned. The size, shape, and symmetry of his parts—of his head, neck, shoulders, arms, chest, waist, hips, thighs, calves, feet—were so perfectly harmonious that he seemed larger than he was. And handsome. Short, curly black hair. Greek statue handsome.

What are you doing in Verona? Titus demanded.

Do you want what sounds good, or do you want the truth? Decius asked.

That would be different! The truth.

I’m looking for a place to make home.

Titus stared at him, silent, as Pertinax, ever attentive, came from the kitchen to stand at his side. He smelled of onions.

Titus believed the young man before him, his hailing from Corsica. It had the ring of truth to it, his seeking a place to make home. He nodded, and said, Very well. Why do you come here?

I’m from Corsica…

I know, Titus interrupted.

Well, a Byzantine merchant ship pressed me into service. They clobbered me, carried me on board and sailed. At Classis, the port outside Ravenna…

Ah, the ocean, Titus again interrupted. Then you have seen dolphins. Are they as graceful as they say?...But go on with your narration. How’d you get here?

Well, we were carrying amphorae of some expensive wine over a gang plank, and I took a big huge breath and accidentally fell into the water. I swam under the ship to the other side. When they stopped searching for me—it was on the wrong side, you see—I went up to the bank and sat under the pier ’til dark, then swam a long way up the coast, way past the buildings. Then all night I drudged in a foul smelling, muddy, disgusting swamp, with thousands of mosquitoes and biting flies, and I thought I’d never find dry ground again, and suddenly there was a road, not much of a road, but a road and I took it north. As morning light was coming, I saw a farmstead, all abandoned like the ones around here. I didn’t dare go into the house itself, but slept in a byre—at least that’s what we call them back in Corsica, you know, the shacks poor farmers erect out of some stray boards and broken limbs to give shelter to their cow. I pulled some cattails and ate the roots raw—bland, not very tasty, so don’t try it if you don’t have to—and found a patch of blue vervain plants, picked a bunch, and made a paste of it between flat rocks. I smeared that all over my bites, and they’re almost gone now. And then I slept—was I out! When night came, I continued north on the road until a better road veered left, and so I took that. And four or five more nights of walking, and…here I am! He raised his arms out to the side in a gesture of triumph, as if inviting applause from an audience.

Titus silently compared the story and the evidence standing before him. He found it credible that Decius was looking for a place to relocate, and credible that he had escaped outside Ravenna and traveled to Verona by foot. His tunic, though dirty, worn, and tattered now, had been very expensive. It was of bleached linen, with gold thread embroidery. But it seemed less than credible that a young man, kidnapped from a prestigious family who could afford such garments, did not seek to return to his comfortable home, but instead sought a new place to make home. That did not make sense.

With arms raised in triumph, Decius’s smile widened to reveal dimples. Titus knew of no one who told the unvarnished truth consistently. Things were always shaded a bit so that they took on a favorable blush. After his years of involvement in the legal system, Titus still did not know if people were pathologically adverse to speaking the truth, or if people just had some innate need to see themselves in a favorable light, and that need—and not an attempt to deceive—colored their perceptions and their memory. He would give Decius the benefit of the doubt for the time being and receive him tentatively into his circle.

Titus smiled, chuckled, and clapped three slow claps. He knew Decius would see that as a sign of approval for his resourcefulness and for his heroic escape. He knew Pertinax and Marcus would see his clapping as a sign of tentative acceptance. Titus again criticized himself for his incessant analyzing of himself and others.

You do know what a kindness Bibula showed you in taking you in, don’t you? he said.

Yes, sir. It was goose-bumpy cold, Decius said.

Much more than that, young man, Titus said. In Verona, and throughout the entire Kingdom, homelessness is a threat to the established order. If a man is unable to feed and house himself, our Lords the Lombards see that man as favorably as a horse sees horseflies. His mere presence is a danger to the property of all respectable people. To be homeless is a capitol crime here, and they will remove you from the good streets of Verona to the salt mines for the rest of your life. Just be caught sleeping in the streets one time, and you’ll be gone.

Decius’s mouth was open, his complexion drained of color, and his breath stilled. I had no idea I was in danger, he muttered.

Bibula stood up, patted Titus on the arm, and said, I’d better get the vegetable stew going. Oh, if you’ll be around, Titus, I’ve got rabbit I can throw in.

Rabbit? Titus thought. His slaves were often served rabbit, but he had not had any rabbit since a hunting trip with his father when he was just eight or so. I may be around, Bibula. I have business at the slave sale. I need to make sure the slaver’s charter to sell has the King’s seal on it. But I also came early for another reason. You know how tongues must always wag about something.

I do, indeed, Titus. Gizzards! I hear a lot.

Well, I really wanted to have the people see me at Mass this morning. I thought if seeing me didn’t quiet the rumors about my being a pagan, it would at least make them question the truth of the gossip. And I was also going to see if the Abbot would allow me to speak to the people about the heads on the gate.

Don’t know a thing about the heads. Let me get that stew on, she said.

She had a foot in the kitchen door when Titus’s words stopped her. Before you get too busy back there, would you bring us fresh goat cheese, raisins, bread and a big pitcher of wine with that good spring water in it? Titus noted the huge smile engulfing her face at the compliment about the water. Women often delighted in expressions of appreciation for what they do. It pleased him to please her with something as common as a few words. He thought the gods must also be pleased when they witness little gestures of respect or kindness.

⁂

As Bibula left, Titus called Marcus over to join them at the bar. And Bibula, there will be four of us, Titus called after her.

As Marcus approached the bar, dressed in leather breeches and gray woolen tunic with sleeves to the wrists, he sought to puff himself up in the eyes of Decius by embellishing Titus’s explanation of homelessness and the salt mines. And of course the Lombards have constant need to replenish their workforce at the mines, for those mines provide them a major source of income, with shipments going throughout the Kingdom and even to Ravenna, Rome and Byzantium.

Titus was both amused and annoyed at Marcus’s need for constant loquacity. In effort to change the subject, he said, By Plato, you are correct. But why aren’t you at Mass?

I’ve remarried, Titus, Marcus said.

Strange. I hadn’t heard.

"Not a lot of people know, but the Church does. It wasn’t a formal patrician marriage, like the one I just ended with Marta—delightful package, horrible gift! It was just a plebeian coemptio. He looked at Decius. That’s a legal term, Decius, that actually means wife-purchase, but that term doesn’t do it justice. He looked back at Titus. She’s a lovely woman, Titus, and we care for each other. But the Church doesn’t want anything to do with me now, and so I don’t want anything to do with the Church."

Bibula returned with a platter. Titus was pleased her arrival terminated what he supposed would have been a laundry basket full of complaints about the Church. Titus probably shared most of them. He knew the Church was arrogantly monolithic—no tyrant had been more so—and would not listen to the simple, passionate, plain pleas of the people it purported to serve.

He silently congratulated himself on spontaneously having fashioned such a pleasant alliteration on the letter P: passionate, plain, pleas, people, purported. He supposed no one had noticed it and at the next moment was castigating himself for that unsavory whiff he detected in himself: false self-importance or -superiority. He needed to eradicate that from his soul and walk this earth equal to others, not superior to them. Roman society, though, nurtured from the mother’s milk a sense of superiority based on wealth. Their society was stratified into social orders, and the Church had adopted, unquestioningly, that stratification. He, though, was determined to walk this earth equal to each. He acknowledged to himself he had much pruning to excise from himself his own sense of self-importance. That was another alliteration, he told himself; this one on the letter S.

An unadorned plank of wood served for the platter Bibula had carried to the bar. On it she had placed a red earthenware bowl of soft goat cheese, a smaller bowl of olive oil, a fist-sized mound of raisins, four apples, sliced—Titus could see where she had carved out bruised sections—and a round loaf of bread a couple of inches thick. He appreciated that she had tried to arrange the food as artistically as time, her ability and the ingredients permitted, although the bread had the appearance of being coated with gravel. He bent to look closer at it. It was the grain, so imperfectly ground, that gave it the appearance of gravel.

I only have spelt bread left from yesterday until the baker’s slave brings today’s batch, she said by way of apology, and they can’t bring it over, and I can’t run down and get it until Mass gets out.

Then bakers are allowed to work on Sundays? Decius asked.

Yes, but only bakers, no one else. I’m not allowed to be back there cooking, but how am I supposed to have hot food ready? And Sundays are my busiest food days. The Church’s rules don’t accommodate mortal needs. I’ll get your wine, she said and left.

From his stool Titus could see her standing tip-toe, reaching for the wooden tumblers on the shelf. She cradled three of them against her bosom with her right arm and carried a large earthenware pitcher in her left.

There you go, she said, setting them down on the bar. You never did tell me why you were asking about Eula. But if I don’t get the charcoal blazing and the stew on, there won’t be any. And so tell me later about the wailing and the horses and Eula. How’s that?

Sure, Titus said.

Decius reached out to take some raisins, but Pertinax slapped his hand away.

What! I can’t have any? he said, a flare in his voice.

Wait! Pertinax said.

Titus stood, shrugged his shoulders, brought himself to full height, and slowly repositioned the back portion of his toga to cover his head. He raised both arms in the gesture of prayer. Although his lips moved, his words, so softly spoken, were inaudible to those surrounding him, for he addressed his words to the firmament, to Existence Itself, and not to the living who partook of Existence.

Decius leaned to Pertinax, stretching his face up toward his ear and whispered, Is he a pagan?

Pertinax yanked Decius by the arm, shoved him into the kitchen, and slung him against the pile of charcoal by the door. He glimpsed Bibula at the counter cutting something.

His black scarred face contorted in stifled rage, inches now from Decius’s, and when he spoke, spittle flew into the air and onto Decius’s face. That is the finest man you will ever meet! And you are now privy to something that must be kept secret! If you ever divulge one iota of it, I personally will wrench your head from your shoulders. Do you understand me, pretty boy?

Decius nodded brisk, frightened nods.

Pertinax cleared his throat, smiled weakly and extended his hand to help him stand upright. He adjusted the blue kerchief covering his scalp and left eye. Then, bending close into Decius’s face, asked, Then we’re understood?

Decius nodded.

With an assumed air of composure and with an amicable arm on Decius’s shoulder, Pertinax walked him back to the public portion of the taberna, Bibula’s eyes following them as they went.

Titus was concluding his prayer. He broke a bit of bread from the loaf, took two raisins, and reverently dropped them and the bread onto the floor in offering. He rolled his shoulders, readjusted his toga, and said, Let’s eat. Wine, everyone? He filled the three new tumblers and his from the pitcher.

All four men took their tumblers, but it was Marcus who was the first to utter the toast. To health and joy in our hearts. They raised their glasses and drank. In the distance was a faint clunking sound—like that of wagon wheels on pavement—and indistinctly heard commands to the mules. Marcus, just an idea that might have a bearing on cleaning the streets: You always see groups of older boys and adolescent men hanging around the square…

Why do you always call them that? Marcus interrupted, a chuckle in his tone.

I don’t know of any word that accurately describes them, Titus said. "Adolescent boys misses it, for that means a boy reaching the age of becoming sexually active. That can be eleven or twelve, and the boys/men standing around are much older than that. And you can’t use the term ‘young men’ because that indicates having reached an age when work, family and service to the State become important, you know, the age when you take your rightful place as a man among men, and become part of, and see yourself as part of something larger, a vital part of the community. That doesn’t usually happen until the mid-twenties or thirties. So what words do we have to describe