mine.”
But I did not want to understand her.
“Don’t preach at me, woman,” I cried, in a voice hoarse with desire. “I have promised to pay whatever you want.”
Damaris stiffened and gazed at me steadily for a moment. Then she slowly turned very pale and said disdainfully, “As you wish then. Come back tomorrow evening so that I have time to prepare. And don’t blame me afterwards.”
Her promise made my head reel, although the words had an ominous ring to them. I left with trembling knees and, consumed with impatience, I wandered about the city, climbed up to the Acropolis and looked at the wine-dark sea to make the time go by. The following day, I went to the baths and loosened my limbs with exercises in the gymnasium, although every violent movement sent a consuming flame flaring through my body at the thought of Damaris.
At last the dove-gray dusk fell and the evening stars came out. I knocked hard on Damaris’ door, but no one came to open it. My disappointment was overwhelming as I thought she had changed her mind and broken her promise. Then I felt the door and noticed to my delight that it was not locked, so I went in and saw that the reception room was lit up.
But my nose met an unpleasant odor. The couch was covered with a ragged coverlet. The lamps had sooted the walls. The smell of stale incense was suffocating. I looked incomprehendingly around the formerly so beautiful room, but then banged impatiently on the gift tray. The sound rang through the whole house. A moment later, Damaris came into the room with her feet dragging, and I stared at her in horror. It was not the Damaris I knew.
She had smeared her lips stridently, her hair was tangled and untidy like a harbor girl’s, and she was dressed in a ragged gown which smelled of wine and vomit. Around her eyes she had drawn terrible black rings and with the same brush emphasized every line in her face, so that it was the face of a depraved, decrepit old crone.
“Here I am, Minutus. Your Damaris,” she said dully. “Here I am as you would have me. Take me then. Five copper pieces will be enough in payment.”
I understood what she meant. All the strength left my body and I fell to my knees in front of her, bowing my head to the floor and weeping over my impotent desire.
“Forgive me, Damaris, my dearest,” I said at last.
“You see then, Minutus,” she said in a gentler voice. “That was what you wanted to do to me. That was what you wanted to bring me down to. It is the same thing, whether it happens in a sweet-scented bed or among stinking pigs and urine with my back against the wall down at the harbor.”
I wept my disappointment out of me with my head on her lap, no longer desiring her. She stroked my head consolingly and whispered tender words to me. Finally she left me, went away and washed her face, put on clean clothes and came back with her hair brushed. Her face was alight with such pleasure that I had to smile back with trembling lips.
“Thank you, my dearest Minutus,” she said. “At the last moment you understood, although you had the power to trample me back down into my past. All my life I shall thank you for your goodness, for not taking away the happiness I had reached. One day you’ll understand that my happiness in Christ is more wonderful than any earthly happiness.”
We sat hand in hand for a long time and talked like brother and sister, or more like mother and son. Carefully I tried to explain to her that perhaps only what we see with our eyes is real and everything else nothing else but illusive games of imagination. But Damaris just looked at me with her softly shining eyes.
“My mood alternates between deepest despondency and ecstatic happiness,” she said, “but in my best moments I come to a rejoicing which surpasses all earthly boundaries. That is my grace, my truth and my mercy. I need neither believe nor understand anything else.”
When I returned to the inn, still paralyzed by my disappointment, knowing neither what to believe nor what to hope for, I found one of the Pannonian soldiers from my escort waiting for me. He was dressed in a dirty cloak and had no sword. I could imagine how he had crept in terror past the innumerable idols and statues of Athens, super-stitiously terrified of the world-famous omniscience of the Athenians. When he saw me he at once fell to his knees.
“Forgive me for disobeying your express command, Tribune,” he cried. “But my friends and I cannot stand the life in the port any longer. Your horse is pining from sorrow and has thrown us every time we’ve tried to exercise it as you said. “We keep quarreling over the provisions money with the harbor garrison. But most of all it is the cursed Attics who rob us, so that we are like trussed sheep in their hands although we’re hardened to swindlers in Corinth. The worst one is a Sophist who has fleeced us to our bare bones by proving to each one of us quite convincingly that Achilles can never defeat a tortoise at running. We used to laugh at the conjurors in Corinth, who hid a gaudy bead under three wine mugs and let people guess which one of them it was under. But this terrible Attic is driving us mad, for who wouldn’t bet that Achilles could run faster than a tortoise? But he divides the distance in half, and then in half again, and so on and so on and proves that Achilles has always a little bit left to go and cannot get there before the tortoise. We ourselves tried racing against a tortoise and of course beat it easily, but we could not find fault with his evidence, although we hunted him out and laid bets with him again. Lord, in the name of all the Eagles of Rome, take us back to Corinth before we go out of our minds.”
His flood of complaints did not give me a chance to say a thing. When he had finished, I reprimantled him sternly for his conduct but did not attempt to solve the tortoise riddle for him, for I was not in a mood even to be capable of it. Finally I let him take my luggage on his back, setded my bill at the inn and left Athens without saying farewell to anyone, and in such a hurry that I forgot at the wash two tunics which I never saw again.
We left Piraeus in such a state of despondency that it took us three days to do a stretch I could have done alone in a single day. We stayed overnight in Eleusis and Megara. The men, however, cheered up so much that they were singing noisily when we eventually arrived at Corinth.
I left them with the senior centurion at the barracks. Commantler Rubrius received me with his gown wet with wine and a vine-leaf wreath crookedly perched on his head. He was not entirely clear who I was, for he kept asking me my name. He explained his absentmindedness away by saying he was an old man and was suffering from the aftereffects of a skull injury received in Pannonia, and was now just waiting to be pensioned off.
Then I went to the Proconsulate, and Gallio’s secretary told me that the inhabitants of Delphi had appealed to the Emperor over their land dispute and had paid the appeal fee. The people who lived on Artemis’ votive land near Olympia had on their part sent a written complaint that I had insulted the goddess and thus caused the owner’s death. This they had done to save their own skins, after sharing out the votive lands between them and letting the temple fall into disrepair. There had been no report from Athens on my conduct there.
I was despondent, but Gallio received me kindly, embracing me and asking me at once to share his meal.
“You must be full to the brim with Athenian wisdom,” he said, “but let us talk about the affairs of Rome.”
As we ate he told me that his brother Seneca had written to say that the young Nero was daily developing and conducted himself so respectfully toward the senators and knights that they all called him the delight and joy of humanity. Claudius had married him to his own eight-year-old daughter Octavia, whom he had had by Messalina, in order to please his dear Agrippina even more.
Legally speaking, this marriage constituted incest, for Claudius had adopted Nero as his son, but this legal objection had been set aside by a senator who had kindly adopted Octavia before the wedding.
Britannicus did not show the same signs of development as Nero. He was often ill, usually stayed in his own rooms in Palatine and was cold toward his stepmother. The one-armed old warrior Burrus had been appointed sole commantler of the Praetorians. Burrus was an old friend of Seneca’s and held Agrippina in great esteem in her capacity of the daughter of the great Germanicus.
“The Emperor is well,” said Gallio, glancing at his letter and at the same time spilling wine from his goblet onto the floor. “He behaves as majestically as before and suffers occasionally from a harmless throat burn. The most important financial news is that the harbor in Ostia is complete and the grain ships can now be unloaded there. Millions of gold pieces have been buried in the mud and sandbanks of Ostia, but that means that Rome need never again fear disturbances because of delayed grain supplies. Once a crowd of angry citizens crushed Claudius so hard against a wall that he had the fright of his life. The price of seed from Egypt and Africa will fall and it will no
