Life Stories

By Lenore Stephenson

The private lives of people we have met or think we may know well are a source of endless curiosity, and surely this is also true of the people in our history books. The reader may find someone amongst the small vignettes and glimpses offered here whose experiences remind them of someone they know, or think they know. But life is full of surprises.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Oct 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781787103665

Lenore Stephenson

The author is a sometime art teacher of both adults and youngsters, and has fulfilled a role as Communications Officer for the local fire brigade but is now retired..  She has lived for the past thirty-five years on a secluded bushland property, and is passionate about the environment, the native animals and tree-planting

Book preview

A Roman Ending

A lamp-lit procession clings to the side of the hill, its members struggling to maintain their footing over rough terrain. An unseasonably cold, gusting wind tears at the guttering oil lamps, momentarily plunging the scene into total blackness as those holding the lamps turn their backs for protection.

Justin watches from the top of his garden wall and belches behind a polite hand. He has eaten too much; it is after midnight and his dinner guests have all left – except for Marcus, who is on a brief visit to Rome before joining his army legion on their northwards march in a few days. He joins Justin now, wine in hand.

What fools are those? he asks peremptorily. Who would be outside the city at this hour?

I do not know. I will send Demetrios to ask, since my curiosity is piqued also. Justin summons his secretary, whose eyes flare with quick apprehension when told his mission; but he leaves immediately. No matter how privileged his position, it is not for him to question; even a valued secretary’s life may be forfeit should he refuse a command. Demetrios knows that any right of appeal he may theoretically have is a mockery of the law. It is far better to risk the moonless, wind-tortured hillside across the valley.

He returns quickly. Sir, it is a funeral.

How can you know already? Skilled you may be, Demetrios, but you cannot yet fly like a midnight owl. Justin chuckles at his own wit and winks at his friend, Marcus.

Sir, I had no need to go further than the gate. The general’s guardsmen have already questioned those people as they passed and were kind enough to inform me of their findings.

Well, out with these findings! Let us hope, for your sake, they are correct. Justin makes the veiled threat but he is secretly relieved his faithful retainer has had no need to undertake a dark and dangerous assignment outside the city. Except for Marcus’ presence, he would not have asked such a thing. Even in these modern times wolves were occasionally seen, and desperate bandits were everywhere. Servants and slaves were easy to come by, but not of Demetrios’ calibre; he had been offered his freedom after twenty years of servitude and had asked to stay on as Justin’s secretary. Whether he was freedman or slave, neither man had ever bothered to clarify, for although it remained unspoken, the two men loved one another. Demetrios was beyond value.

They are burying the old man from the Street of Exiles, sir. He died two days ago but his mourners were unable to obtain permission for a proper cremation.

Thank you, Demetrios. Go now.

The hillside procession has stopped and the oil lamps are clustered against the fearful darkness. The two men watch until chill needles of driven rain force them to retire to the dining-room where somebody has laid out fresh fruit, cakes, wine and water, no doubt at Flavia’s command, since she knows that the general and her husband may well stay talking all night.

Old friends who do not see each other often: their association goes back to youthful days as fellow soldiers nearly forty years before. After the obligatory sixteen years’ service, Justin had taken his rightful discharge and retired to a life of farming on his allotted acreage. His was such good land that he had soon been able to build a large townhouse and leave most of the farming business in the hands of servitors. But for Marcus, soldiering was all. He had stayed in the army and worked his way up through the ranks to senior command. He was unusual in the forces, since the jealousies and insular squabbles between senators and policymakers who surrounded the emperor would normally proscribe such ambition; but it was precisely because Marcus’ ambitions were only to serve, not to command, that he had succeeded. The fact that, after all, he commanded was incidental. Such an irony was lost on him but not on his old friend Justin who followed his career with great interest.

Marcus settles himself with a fresh cup of wine and stretches a hand to the brazier. This is a poor start to the summer, I must say. Perhaps we should make further propitiation to the gods, Justin.

Don’t curse the rain, old friend. My steward tells me the corn is flourishing, and soon our store-houses will be full – in good time for your soldiers to have plentiful supplies of their precious porridge, I have no doubt.

And don’t you mock my infantry, old friend. Last summer in Etruria we could get no grain and the men were forced to eat meat, to their disgust. Brave and skilful they may be, but if they cannot have their porridge their performance suffers badly. We were forced to commandeer supplies from every settlement we passed through, which did the Roman cause no good at all. But there are few things worse to eat than an Etruscan pig, I swear.

Justin chuckles, remembering how the general had devoured roasted pork and turtledove just a few hours before. It is said an army marches on its stomach, so we can at least be thankful the roads are in excellent shape, even if the larders are not.

It’s a strange thing, I notice, marching about our empire, Justin. Certainly, the roads are supreme; nobody can build a road like we Romans, but so often we are forced to go the long way around. Even today our engineers are employing the same old methods their predecessors used. They make a beeline from the top of one hill to the nearest next and only change direction from that point. Many a time I have breasted a hill only to see the road veer off at a surprising new angle, aiming for the top of another hill, when many hours of marching could be saved by aiming directly from the first hill to the third. And speaking of hills, tell me more about this funeral business. Your secretary seemed to know what it was about. I daresay what they are doing is outside the law. I suppose they are infidels?

No doubt. The Street of Exiles is not far from here. It is full of such people, I believe, although I’ve never been there myself. One hears things, though.

"Your secretary said the old man, as if he was someone in particular. What do you know of this?"

As I said, one hears things. I suspect certain members of this household occasionally entertain themselves in that quarter. Flavia’s servants speak of this particular fellow. Apparently, he is the leader of some sect or other… possibly Jews. Their numbers are on the increase; they have not been raided in quite a while now. You were away when Rome burned three years ago… was it three years?

Marcus grunts assent. I was up north on the Rhine. Those cursed Goths were trying another of their dirty little skirmishes and our resident militia needed some reinforcement.

We had some dirty little skirmishes here too, under the auspices of the august Nero; thank the gods, he’s gone. It was strongly rumoured he started the fires but he blamed one of these outlandish sects. Christians, they call themselves. Nero set about cleaning them out, and his soldiers were not very selective about it. The massacre was widespread and the Street of Exiles was overflowing with refugees from his madness. Frequent reports of disease tend to keep the soldiers out of there. This particular fellow was some sort of mystagogue, I believe.

After more than forty years in the army, Justin, I have learned that such exercises must be carried out with utter ruthlessness if they are to work. Time and again I’ve seen dissident groups re-form because their core has not been completely destroyed. We Romans are too soft, too tolerant. Of course, I say this to you but I cannot say it outside this room.

Justin stares thoughtfully into his wine. I doubt if it can be achieved; the net cannot be made fine enough. These people have amazing zeal. They willingly sacrifice themselves, but there are always survivors. They go underground somehow and resurface when they deem it safe. Mind you, there was one campaign, if I remember my history correctly, that may have succeeded. Remember the story of General Crassus and his six thousand crucifixions?

Yes, my own forbears fought in that campaign. They maintained that Crassus was more of a businessman than a general; a rather insulting thing to say of a nobleman, I always thought.

Perhaps, but it may account for his utterly merciless destruction of the enemy.

What do you mean?

Justin smiles wryly. We Romans have always been great soldiers but we have no head for the ruthlessness of commerce. Perhaps we are too honourable. Crassus was a very rich man. When house fires occurred in his day he sent specially trained slaves to offer to buy the burning building. If his offer was accepted they put the fire out: if not, they allowed it to run its course. Not honourable, my friend, but it filled his coffers.

Hmph! You and your history tales. Our senators might do well to take a page from his book; so busy watching over their shoulders they have no time to make policy. What a dithering, frightened lot they are, Justin!

Demetrios sits slumped, almost asleep in the atrium, watching the hearth fire flicking its shadows up and down the blackened walls through slitted eyes, but he will not retire until