Five Moral Tales

By Theodore Irvin Silar

“A fine collection of tales: shrewdly observed, witty, eloquent, dark, and different”
—Ruth Downie, Acclaimed New York Times Bestseller List Author of Vita Brevis, the latest installment in the Medicus series of novels about a reluctant detective in ancient Roman Britain.

"Cena with Tata"
An iron-willed matron of Ancient Rome tells of the fall of her once-great family, and of her relentless campaign to win back its former glory.

"Hunger and Thirst"
A plague of sadness, anxiety, and dread has infected every gathering place, every household, every heart. After discovering the cause, an altruist strikes blows to save the whole world.

"The Worst Day of My Life"
The bishop’s head torturer has all a man could desire: his job is interesting and profitable, his neighbors show him respect, and his family life is peaceful—until his scatterbrained daughter presents him with a thorny problem.

"Misericord"
Hospitalized with an allergic reaction, a man learns that:
A. his life is not as blessed as he thought, and
B. neither his loved ones nor his doctor have his best interests at heart.

"Found in a Cave"
A headstrong California woman writes in her diary about how she and her family have survived the collapse of society only to end up awaiting an uncertain fate high in the mountains.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theodore Irvin Silar
• Release date: Dec 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370804665

Theodore Irvin Silar

Among other pursuits, Theodore Irvin Silar has served variously in the capacities of bricklayer, auto worker, accountant, cab driver, teacher, historian, musician, composer, graphic artist, inventor, and writer. Holder of a Ph.D. in English Literature from Lehigh University, he leads an interesting intellectual life.

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Five Moral Tales

Theodore Irvin Silar

Copyright 2016 Theodore Irvin Silar

Published by Theodore Irvin Silar at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

Cena with Tata

Hunger and Thirst

The Worst Time of My Life

Misericord

Found in a Cave

About the Author

Other Works by the Same Author

Connect with the Author

Cover: View from Assisi across the

Chiascio Valley towards Perugia

Cena with Tata

I was young, the youngest of six daughters, but I remember everything, because it was the first time, the only time, Tata ever dined with us.

Tata had spent the day in his tablinum with his friends. My sisters may have been oblivious to the unease in the air, but I was not. They idled and giggled but I did not. I posted myself beside Tata’s door, arms akimbo, scowling fiercely, ostensibly playing at standing guard. Though I could not make out the words, the changing tenor of the discourse going on in there was unmistakable. There was flippancy, there was cajolery, there was anger, there was pleading, and in the end there was the swearing of oaths.

When their business was concluded, the men filed out in silence, nodding to Mamma at her sewing as they passed. At the front door, they crowded around Tata. There was much murmuring and handshaking, many shoulders were patted and searching looks exchanged, and then they were gone.

My sisters stopped giggling. Mamma put down her sewing. Even my little brother, the heir, stopped squirming around on the floor and talking to himself. We all watched as, lost in thought, Tata strode across the atrium to the wing where the ancestral busts were displayed. He went from one to the other, stroking them, nodding to them, mumbling to them, as if soliciting their blessings.

Gaius Julius Libo! he suddenly cried, lifting, and almost toppling, one of the busts from its pedestal, Ever-Game One, illustrious founder of our illustrious line, be so good as to join us for dinner this special night.

Xanthippe! he shouted.

Wiping her hands on a rag, out from the kitchen came the cook he called Xanthippe, though that was not her name.

Xanthippe, now you have pity on a poor old man and tether that agile tongue of yours for a moment.

It is tethered, Ere.

How are you coming along on our little you-know-what?

It is ready whenever you are, Ere.

In that case, my dearest wife and children, we had better race upstairs and settle ourselves at the table, because I have a feeling we are in for a big surprise!

My sisters and brother fell over each other in their haste. I pretended to run with equal enthusiasm, but I paused on the stairs and listened.

What is it, Lucius Julius? asked Mamma.

I will not temporize with you, Julia. Cato is dead in Utica, of his own hand. . . . They say he made a good job of it. Would that . . . .

I am sure that in the silence Mamma was stifling her tears.

There, there, my treasure. Nothing we have to fear is eternal, or even of long duration. Did we not anticipate this? As of now, my effects are in order and whatever security I could win you has been won. The rest is in the hands of the Fates.

I still did not understand, but I turned to ascend the stairs anyway, for, try as I might, I was not yet as good as Mamma at stifling tears.

♦

Septima, adjured Mamma, you are not eating. I wonder how a few days without any dinner at all would whet your appetite.

Too overwrought to even think about eating, I was seriously mulling over Mamma’s suggestion when in swept Tata, humming a martial ode and carrying our ancestor’s bust, upon the bald pate of which tottered his rotten old corona civica.

May I join you? he asked, setting the bust on the table and taking a seat.

Now this was something new. Tata never took dinner with us. My sisters gaped in wide-eyed amazement, masticating their food like cows chewing cud. My little brother, the heir, unfazed, climbed onto Tata’s lap and gnawed at a quail’s wing. I straightened my spine as I had been taught and gave him my biggest smile.

Greetings, Pater, I said, in my best formal tone, To what do we owe this our good fortune? or words to that effect.

Meat and greens, he expostulated, Meat and greens. I am so tired of meat and greens. I need a change of pace!

At these words, in marched the principal slaves of the familia, each bearing a platter of exquisite dessert delicacies—currants, figs, pomegranates, and quinces, honey-dipped cheese, honeycakes, honey dates, and honeycombs, blackberry tarts and sweet buns, apricots and pears and grapes marinated in white wine—it was a child’s dream of Elysium. No sooner had they set the platters down than my sisters and brother had their snouts buried in them.

And as for me, Solon, said Tata, addressing the slave he called Solon, though that was not his name, the fine Falernian I think . . . and, just this once, unmixed, if you please. It is about time I indulged my genius.

My sisters and brother made pigs of themselves but I did not. No, I had actually heeded, when Mamma had tried to teach us of the frugalitas and severitas expected of a Roman matron. No, I sampled each sweet in its turn, praising Tata after every bite, while the rest gobbled. No, I made sure that he took pleasure in my pleasure, that he imbibed it like his fine unmixed wine, and that likewise it fortified him.

I have been a good paterfamilias, have I not? Tata suddenly asked.

My little brother, the heir, nodded fervently, his mouth full to bursting, his face smeared with blackberry, and my sisters mumbled something between bites. I was the only one with the self-control to answer properly.

The best, Pater, I said.

He tilted back his head and drank deeply of his Falernian. I remember watching the muscles of his throat laboring to swallow and thinking, How thirsty he must be!

And I have been a good citizen, too, eh, Gaius Julius Libo, Up for Anything. I was up for anything myself once—and it won me this oak-leaf crown, did it not? Have I ever told you, children, how I won the oak-leaf crown?

He had told us innumerable times.

Never, I said. Tell us, Tata.

His declamation was nothing if not well-rehearsed, and I thrilled once more to hear how my brave Tata had stood in the Pontic wilderness through three sleepless days and nights, guarding his wounded brother-in-arms.

The few stragglers I saw gave us a wide berth. The gleam of a Roman cuirass was enough to keep them at bay. My enemies were the hyenas, and the jackals, and the wolves . . . Did I not save the life of our dear friend and kinsman, Gaius Julius Libo? You would think he would show more gratefulness—although he has, at least, consented to be our executor. . . . Did not Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus himself, with his own hands, place the wreath on my head?

Tata lifted my little brother, the heir, off of the table, upon which he had been kneeling the better to access anything he had missed, and stood him upright.

As someday, Tata continued, taking the brittle old oval of leaves from our ancestor’s head and setting it on my little brother, the heir’s, head, a great general will crown you in the field, my son, my hope, my immortality. And then you will be paterfamilias.

Naturally, my little brother, the heir, immediately set in bawling.

Don’t worry, Tata, I said, going to his side, I will be paterfamilias.

Tata laughed and said, Perhaps you will, my little Hippolyte. And so you must wear the crown, whereupon he retrieved the discarded crown from the floor, placed it on my head, and took me up into his lap, while my little brother, the heir, made his way under the table and into Mamma’s lap, where he promptly fell asleep, sucking his thumb.

I was surprised that Mamma raised no objection to these goings on. Ordinarily, her objections would have been sustained and vociferous, but now she just sat there rocking my little brother, the heir, blind to our misbehavior, her eyes fixed on some distant horizon.

It gives me such great joy, Tata suddenly burst out, to have the whole domus all together at one time. It gave me such great joy to feel Tata’s warm, bittersweet breath winnowing my hair. I wanted to stay right where I was forever.

He motioned to the slaves bustling about the table to desist.

"Truly, my faithful servants, I know the Saturnalia is far off yet, but nevertheless, this is a special night, and so, if you please, allow me to serve you,