Androcles

By Michael W. Platt

Androcles and the Lion, the story made most famous by Sir George Bernard Shaw, has remained untainted for centuries. Now, for the first time, a glimmer of disagreement has appeared. Off the coast of Samnos, a Greek island in the eastern Aegean Sea, south of Chios, north of Patmos and the Dodecanese, diving expeditions have produced evidence of a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957781204

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Copyright © 2022 by Michael W. Platt.

ISBN 978-1-957781-19-8 (softcover)

ISBN 978-1-957781-20-4 (ebook)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter I

The backpacks themselves were of significant weight, but even more unbearable under the intolerable heat of the midday sun. Now going up the steep, sloping hills, struggling over wet, slippery, grass-covered slopes so incredibly so, angled as such that no way to ascend without steps. These hills proved to be the toughest going. Still, his brother Marcellus, older by ten years, insisted. This is faster, you’ll see. We’ll beat all those fools once south of Ameria, then on to Tudor, the other side of these hills. All those people packed down there like hogs in a pen.

Looking back, the road was essentially motionless. Instead of going into the town of Carsulae, they traversed the hills thinking it a quick-cross the map indicated. But in fact, well short of Ameria by about three miles. Four miles of wretched man-traps. Thick, prickly bushes piercing mercilessly, crags and steep crevices on sharp-edged rocks. Not a place to get injury. Going was just as slow.

Not a good map. Heavily wooded small trees grabbed and slowed every step, no paths, not cut roadways, no animal trails.

But to low-boughs like Andros and Marcellus, a maze unconquerable.

Marcellus, now well ahead of Androcles. Andros of course had all the metal pots, iron cross-bracings for bearing several small pans, kettles over a fire at a time on his back. Wooden buckets and utensils for eating, clothing, bedrolls, medical, all shoe repair equipment while his older brother, Marcellus—so named by his father after the famous general Marcus Claudius Marcellus, five-time consul who fought unsuccessfully, being killed accidentally against Hannibal in the Second Punic War—he was laden with items such as bedrolls, skins of wine, lots of wine.

Cut meats and condiments, medicinal herbs, and poultices, other material needed for avoiding scamming junk joints along the way. Forcing all those seeking protection from the elements, end up sharing three to a bed, just to keep out of the rain, avoiding assault, injury, broken bones, robbery, infection, or disease, which are prevalent in these inns.

Refreshments were brought while the brothers purchased other things as needed. They had expandable ex-military utility cots to keep off the ground. Andros pulled a makeshift wheel cart, small, tiny wheels, but bearing most of their goods, poles tied to his waist. He wished he’d have stayed on the Flaminian Way.

The Old Flaminian Way, as said before, now permanently left behind, was utterly swamped with jammed up traffic for miles: horses, wagons with tents, food carts, slaves, all racing at a snail’s pace to get their spot of dirt in Rome’s vicinity.

Some made preparations already for the rapidly approaching night, thinking it would be a cake walk. As slaves struggled moving elevated carriers of the rich, then wagons driven by teamsters loaded with travelers ferrying people to the city. Just wait till they see the prices for a loaf of bread in the city.

Moneymaking profits increased tenfold in some cases, legally. While the liquor and available alcohol was of specious quality. Self-reliance on residence, food preparation, finding the lowest costs in each town, all kept the coinage going out to a minimum, all was up to the individual.

I’m coming, I’m coming, labored Andros, fighting trees, bushes, deeply hidden ravines, heavily wooded and thick grasses. Hoping not to turn an ankle, or any injury would be devastating.

The worst kind of trees existed here—small, thin, and highly leafy saplings with low branches about the knees.

I can’t see you, slow down, as Andros rested, dropping the pack off his shoulders.

When finally recovered enough, catching up to his brother, they’d travelled another two miles as two squiggles together, indicating small hills, not the precipice riven location that was at times grass then impassable woods.

Here, over here, shouted his far-ahead brother. Then a pastoral paradise, a pond with birds dipping in and out, an artesian aquifer spring, supplying fresh water. Still, they were three miles from Tudor.

Here, a space, nice and flat, not too far from the water, a short walk, even in the dark. The night was closing. Thick mulberry bushes behind, leaves and thickly covered ground behind, offering good security.

Sliding down, he delicately walked around the pond, suddenly dropping into water, it’s edges not defined. It’s a good place. C’mon, I’ll show you.

Unoccupied, it was rocky, uneven, and uncared for. Barely passable on foot. Accessing the road to Ameria through Tudor could offer quick access to Rome, as they had a luxurious room waiting. Andros said nothing.

He didn’t even want his brother to come. His presence was needed at the farm, the land while he was away, the thought of action, provided by the big city kept him afoot.

We’ll be in Rome tomorrow. Only forty more miles, and we’d have been there already, had we brought the horses, Marcellus said, criticizing his brother’s decision while spreading his bedding on the dry dirt, running rope hemp lines from the tree to tree, finally ending at the thick, thorny hedge bushes that ran in rocks behind. Good defensive position for a fire, protecting against animals—wild dogs, intruders, bears, other things.

What Marcellus didn’t realize was that in Rome, horses had to be stabled by law; costs would be astronomical, charging everything extra fee.

Fine, fine, I don’t care, said Androcles, thoroughly out of energy, taking off his heavy load, looking at the setting sun. They had come so far so fast, they stayed strictly on traveled roadways.

Look, said Andros, stringing rope, hanging blankets, setting up iron cross-bracings for fire and heating of pots, stacking rocks he could find. I don’t see what we’d do with them, where to get the money to stable, feed, and prevent them from being stolen or sold. It’s more convenient, but expensive. And in Rome? Oh, you couldn’t afford to put up a dog for less.

Where are we anyway. Almost to Rome, right? Andros, ignoring him, setting stones, mounting rods, and hanging pots, seeing the sun setting faster, utterly worn down carrying the ninety pounds, as opposed to Marcellus’s sixty pounds, whereas he optioned for this change of plans, making the trip significantly harder, longer, more difficult since the heat was increasing this time of year—middle summer.

Staying on the course we’d planned would have kept us stronger, more available to products, fresh food, meat, drink, and materials. Also up here, were not only wasting precious material were being delayed, since the smaller Roman constructed ‘Tudor highway’ you’re so pressed to get to is smaller and no less congested as it’s built in Roman fashion, single lanes each way, no passing, evading traffic and just as contested for room.

Marcellus shook his head, remarking while drinking, I’m sorry for this location’s difficulties, but I didn’t think the ‘squiggles’ meant such a remarkably difficult detour. Besides, I couldn’t take anymore wealthy carriages, slaves, whinnying horses, yelling roustabouts, all jostling, blowing horns, whistles, yelling to keep moving. Plus staying outside on the ground while the taverns have room and food, it just doesn’t seem proper, he continued, downing more and more gulps.

Take it easy. That wine has to last the night, at least until I filter the water from the spring, boil it down for cleanliness, but it seems fresh. Nice view from here of the north, the city of Volsinii in the distance.

Yep, said Marcellus, relaxing with his receding hairline, small stomach paunch that used to be rock hard, cut from stone. A far cry from the slender, master swordsman he’d seen and worshiped as a boy. So painful to see him leave home, forsaking his leadership for his father’s disdain.

Then came his single letter every year. His father only speaking to him when he needed things done, like money, or another letter from Marcellus in Rome, selling his father on the attempt to become a star.

Here, I got this today. You’re brother writes. Andros played the exited part, knowing what was coming.

Doing fabulously well, his father read, making friends, important connections, great roles in plays, experimental drama…critics rave! Performing Roman, Egyptian, Greek second or lead roles. Many popular performances. Making money, well enough to buy an apartment in the city while performing with the troupe in repertoire, traveling to the resort town of Terracina on the coast then the Campanian city of Neopolis, next month. Andros sighed.

Project $100,000 cash earnings. Wish me luck! Love and happiness to you and Androcles! Your son, Marcellus.

How Androcles relished these moments—all lies. He feared at first that his brother, after achieving selection for the military academy in Tridentum at such a young age, although proper legally, then immediately, dropped out after the first year. His excuse to father was failure in enduring severe scholastic agenda. I found out differently. He was discontented with a soldier’s life. He realized that it wasn’t what he hoped it would be at all.

Early rising, drilling, school work, abuse, hazing, then more running with sixty-pound military packs every day, setting up camps, striking camps. Taking orders over and over from men he felt were beneath him in skill. Then classes, followed by more of the same. Over and over, it went without change. That was the future.

He simply realized for twenty years that his father suffered broken bones, knees that swelled, a neck injury, his back breaking twice, enduring pain, stressful conditions, occupying lands who’s native inhabitants want you dead, and then there was the fighting itself. He hated every moment.

But that was just the beginning, the opening act, as it were. The money made was by the generals, the Equites, nobility of higher-ranking officials, politicians, and their relatives. They got the windfall of profits—booty and the choicest captured women and children for slaves to do with as they pleased, while men, starved for loved ones, could only envy.

Many were shipped to their very large estates to be worked to death when used up. To get promoted, you either achieved in battle or were related to a proper family or gens. An aristocratic family with ties and connections. With those connections, you rarely saw fighting.

He actually knew nothing of Marcellus. He never discussed his life experiences. So protective while being so gregarious, carefree.

Here, give me your shoes. Put on the other Calceus I brought along, ordered Andros. They were strap-on sandals where the toes were open to allow air and relaxed movement. Andros had prepared them for the journey, thickening the soles, making them enduring with heavier leather to withstand the rocks, sticks, trees, and occasional nails, broken glass or iron parts fallen from wagons trains. Avoiding, if possible, all manner of injury that could delay or cut them off or isolate them completely.

Theft and robbery was feared at night. Up here, they were exposed, alone. Money was short. Survival meant preparation. Marcellus had no sense for it. Every time he showed up at their home, high in the valley of the Carnic Alps, above the town of Laebactes off of the Plavis River, he was always broke, shoeless while carrying his sack of clothes and belongings. Starving and dirty as if he hadn’t eaten or bathed in days.

Not so what you think. I’m saving every penny. You know for when times go bad, bookings for acting parts slow down.

It sounded reasonable, but the extremes of the letters for eight years. His father rushing out. He made another $100,000 this year.

Every year for eight years, always the same amount. Never better or worse. It was then Andros realized that all this was nonsense. An elaborate ruse to impress his father that he was not failing, hungry, broke. Father desperately wanted to believe in him. Andros dare not question anything he said. If he did, Father would say it was jealousy, envy, or Why don’t you challenge the world? I did. He does. What do you do?

It was not worth the trouble arguing. Andros would lose no matter what was questioned.

It was eight years since father died of natural causes, mostly due to the service injuries he survived during the many battles, campaigns he served on. Marcellus arrived two months ago with nothing.

He then slept for three straight days before coming out of his room, only to eat or borrow money from father’s account to go out all night, come in the morning, and sleep all day. Then do it again. After weeks of this, he’d suddenly leave.

It was the same ritual year after year with Father passing away. Once a year, every year, he’d show up, fatten up, take money, and leave.

With the map here, Marcellus began as Andros filled the pots, sparked the moss with stone to get the fire going, adding twigs and dried leaves to build it up. We should be in Rome in two more days.

Andros nodded. We’re well ahead of schedule, wouldn’t you say? As he rolled it, putting it back, stretching out. Drinking some more.

We should reach Tudor in the morning, eat there, and then catch ride, maybe arrive a day ahead for the room and seven for the opening of the games, clamored Marcellus.

Even then, they see long lines of wagons, prisoner, gold, jewels, new prisoners, sculptures arrive in the city daily.

No dirt segments in the fields for us—just fresh beds, clean water, fed proper food at the inn, Marcellus mentioned, seeing all the possibilities that while the others labored in the elements, they would be in feather beds. A first in Andros’s life of long hard living.

Marcellus’s interaction with his brother, so removed from daily life, was now anxious to go; why?

I’m surprised that you came, Andros said. I thought you’d not want to come back to Rome but stay at home, run the farm, eat, sleep to your heart’s content. Andros pulled pliers, the marlin spike through the leather, tightening the new sole onto his brothers worn out shoes.

I don’t want any more climbing hills! Andros charged.

All right—Marcellus, putting up his hands—no more. I’m sorry about this, but from a distance, it looked fast and easy. Besides, you haven’t answered. We rarely speak. Why is this trip so important to you?

Marcellus changed the subject. But you still haven’t explained to me what we’re doing going there, huh?

Okay, it’s because of this, Andros explained, reaching over to his pack, waving his hand with the flies all about from the pond. He pulled out a carefully packed scroll, very old. Slipping off the thick maroon-colored ribbon with official stamped-hard wax seal, very old, he showed it to Marcellus.

That is what is known as a ‘contract-deed.’

Marcellus read it. By the gods from the divine Titus himself to Father. It dedicates two thousand acres of his city estate to Father to be drawn on any time for the amount worth at that moment presented and paid perforce of this edict to the bearer of this deed. Assigned, magistrate of Treasury Property. It even gives location—in the city of Rome. It’s got dimensions, separate plots, everything. What’s it worth? Why didn’t Father tell me of this and cash it in when he left the service?

He didn’t want ‘land payment.’ He wanted an order from Titus to the senate, requesting a general’s commission with his own army. He never got that. Titus refused to submit. He’d been immediately approved, he knew that.

So angered, he moved up to where the farm is. As far away from Rome as he could. Abandoned military service, political career, everything for this—this life pastoral on a farm. I don’t know why he just did.

Andros just looked at his brother, the sun now down and darkness setting in. Wow, I don’t believe this. It could be priceless now, marveled Marcellus, lying back.

"Now that’s where it gets interesting—it is. I found that this land was in the city proper. Just farmland and gardens on the outskirts at the time, utterly worthless. Then, after his death, all eventually being sold to cover debts. Domitian, his brother, had an uncanny greed for money.

They built shops, markets, housing, temples, and large estate homes during Rome’s largest expansion building boom in history. It raged for twenty years. It’s possibly worth a fortune in gold, or at least more than we’d ever have working.

Really? You don’t know how much, and when we get the money? Marcellus anguished, now sorry he didn’t sign the documents of ownership when his father died being the eldest.

I don’t know, and we don’t get anything until it’s evaluated by the magistrate of Agrarian Management. The land indicated by the assigned plots in large swathes, thousands of acres in Rome.

Now it will be assessed to it’s appropriate value at this time by the Magistrate’s Office of the Assessor. Once officially calculated, declared, and then put forth to the Secretary Magistrate of Roman Land Grants for approval. Once his office approves, it’s to be subject to the Quaestor Prefect of the Temple of Saturn, who runs office of the State Treasury. The then approved amount is formally transferred from the treasury to Father’s account in Tridentum, which is under my name and control only.

Damn, muttered Marcellus, drinking more and more wine. It was now pitch-black. The woods coming to life with hungry animals.

Once received, I’ll use it to improve the land substratum, removing the old, tear down, and rebuild a modern Italian estate house. Thus overwhelmingly enhance the purchase incentive to the corporates, some already offering ten times face value. It must be done, all before the ‘icefall’ upriver occurs. Also buying the bottom land from ‘old man Borus’ a mile upriver, who’s been harassed by the corporates to sell him the twenty-two thousand acres he has of those rich deposits of alluvial soil from the yearly spring overflow. It replenishes the land with incredibly fertile soil deposited from the Alps every year. We’ll be so well off. All’s left is get married.

Wait, I don’t understand, what do you mean ‘get married’? And why is old man Borus selling it to you when he can make a killing with the corporates?

Andros hesitated, swatting flies in his face, stirring the pot. "When he dealt with the ‘corporates,’ he was offered for another piece of land at a very high price, way overvalued, paying much more than it was worth, but taxes, corporate owned magistrates forced him to pay the securities owed, recovery and ‘luxury’ tax, then gave the company transfer and title breaks. He paid over 65 percent of the money, plus the yearly tenant rate was too high per yearly acreage yield for occupancy. So to avoid overcharges he couldn’t afford, he had to sell to another buyer, basically back to the corporates, to bail him out. He only received a fraction of the agreed sum on the deal, losing money, and the property because of it’s overvalued, inflated status. Boy was he mad.

So angered after that experience, he agreed only to a price with me—virtually cut rate. That way he’d avoid the company, and it would allow us to build up the stock in the property as a whole by increasing productive acreage: bring up the soil to sell as fertilizer, avoid expensive purchases elsewhere. Andros waved the spoon victoriously.

"Anyway, I’m also being squeezed by the local supervising magistrates. The censor in town? I haven’t fulfilled the Julian law prescript for marriage since Father passed. They’ve given me two and a half years to complete the process. ‘Get married and prove a pregnancy, or lose the land.’

Father’s farm would go back to sale by the state. Marcellus sat, shaking his head. So Augustus made it a requirement for inheritance, to increase individual ‘Roman’ population and ownership? Andros nodded. Slaves outnumber Romans by almost two to one.

Why didn’t I get the land? This document? The rights? I’m the eldest, the proper inheritor of the estate? Andros was waiting for this.

Yes, exactly, but when Father passed away, you were gone, nobody knew where. The supervisors searched and searched, sent letters to officials in Rome, Greece, Alexandria, and nobody could find you. The court waited the requisite ninety days, and then the commissioners gave everything to me.

Marcellus shook his head. I’ve been in his office, through his papers a thousand times. I’ve never seen this, he said, walking the thick hedges of mulberry bushes. Here, the waters boiling, give me your clothes, the dirty ones that you won’t be wearing tomorrow, asked Andros.

They both changed clothing from the dirty, cold, sweaty shirts and short pantaloons, donning fresh clothes, putting them into the boiling water beside the stew pot. This while Andros plied dried meat into the other pot of stew, adding peppers, salts, other sweetening agents for a tasteful meat broth. Then adding bones and shanks acquired before leaving the last town, provisions for dinner, and then allowing them to similarly dry the clothes in the natural heat of the day’s leftover.

I never told you, since all Father’s money, estate ownership, military papers came to me, along with this item… Marcellus stared at the metal key Andros handed him. What’s this? A secret hidden lockbox filled with contraband gold?

"No, something far more interesting and amazing: Father’s storage locker at the warehouse located at the military outpost at Tridentum. Now a training facility for horsemen and young cavalry trainees. But it’s what I found inside the large facility amazed me.

Along with this document, a whole range of papers, items, military memorabilia from the wars. Battle fighting engagements, awards, appeals for transfers, pay increases, promotions, transfers along with items such as swords, cuirasses, standards, breastplates, helmets, crests, Persian bronzed grieves—really nice!—shields: an entire museum.

Marcellus was phased. He didn’t understand why he never told him about his collection of items. Some incredibly valuable. The sword of Titus, the most of all.

Father’s other family documents ranging all the way back, hinting even to a time before the beginning of Rome. Although I could find no accurate dating, the documents clearly suggest our family lineage dates back to the time of Aeneas and the arrival of the Dardanians.

Marcellus was still confused. Really? You mean a virtual compendium, a personal history of his life, enormous wealth of material? He never told me any of this stuff. I asked, and he always said to me, ‘When the time comes, you’ll get everything, all of it, don’t worry. Andros won’t see a thing.’ But I knew he had nothing of value—no money saved, nothing but the dirt he worked.

Well, Andros said, he hated everything about Roman politics, the documents are filled with ‘offers,’ ‘positions in Rome,’ he talked while sewing a tear in his shirt, the fire rising hotter and hotter, the darkness now total, realizing an odor, a strange one, never experienced before, but animals of all kinds were beginning to roam the hills. Wolves, bears, occasionally, possums, a skunk waddling by, feral dogs, dear, wild hogs, bats flipping about. That and other creatures that specialize night hunting, sleeping in the day.

I thought this very interesting document might appease your curiosity as to the purpose of our journey. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a scroll, small wooden holder on the inside, handing it to his brother. What’s this? he asked.

You’ll see, it’s a very special, uniquely well-kept paper from the Office of the Decemvirate. It was in with his other papers. Marcellus opened the paper and found some very interesting information.

Hey, hey, they dropped the charges—insufficient evidence, Marcellus protested. It was a rap-sheet on Marcellus’s criminal history. Mostly drunken, disorderly, assault and battery, things of that nature. But one stood out.

Read on, smiled Andros. Marcellus opened the entire document, which then rolled on the piece of wood to almost five feet long, filled with charges, fines, and sentences for priors.

I don’t believe this…he kept this?

Oh, you can believe it all right, and the most damning is the charge that almost ended your life: ‘Marcellus Gaius Marcius on the date stated, in a drunken state, trespassed then broke into the women’s slaves’ quarters in Laurentum, on your way home.’

No, no, not true. I was just looking for some laughs, it wasn’t what you think…I don’t even remember that night. He remained highly defensive but subdued, admitting to none of the charges.

All accusations or convictions as being arranged, pursued by enemies, intent on ruining him, so he continued studying the scrolls information. Unfortunately, the housing you actually went into were not the women’s quarters, but the maidens, the ‘virgins,’ all educated, trained and highly segregated in every form from contact with the others. They were destined for sale to the temples as ‘servants to the high priests and priestesses’ for ceremonial proceedings.

I know, but I told the girls jokes, and they laughed at my stories, wanting me to tell them more and more. We were having fun.

Yes, I know that, but the ‘defilement’ of the housing was considered a violation of their purity, and it was the estate of Silenus Claudius, a highly ‘connected,’ powerfully influential family gens. You were charged with sacrilege against the gods, theft, destruction of private property, trespassing with intent to ‘violate.’ Then added—pointing to a particular subparagraph—here, assault and everything else they could think of. It would have meant loss of Roman citizenship with all its privileges. Then prison, even reducing you to ‘slave’ status. It took Father’s intervention with the ‘Metellus gens,’ a former captain who served under him, now a long retired general in the twelfth legion at that time.

His personal influence with the judge from him, this retired general Drusus Metellus to appeal to the prosecuting family and judge to reduce the charges from eighteen to one, trespassing violation. This act reduced the sentence to a fine and five years exile. You were lucky.

I was unfairly accused, wrongly sentenced. I touched no one, stole anything, didn’t break nor damaged anything! So enough of this nonsense, he said, rolling up the scroll, throwing it on the fire, which Andros retrieved and put back in his pack.

Tell me, you went to law school, I understand, and if I had showed up, Father had not perished from illness, you’d be in Rome studying to become a counsel secretary to jurists representing clients, right?

Yes, said Andros disappointedly, I would have sought to as low-level secretary to maybe Pliny the Younger or even Strabo the Censor at that time. At least I’d qualify. I had notices from the professors.

Yeah, Father told me before passing. The last time I saw him, he didn’t seem too interested. He said you were preparing to leave, that your work was mediocre, but your final exam thesis sold them. What was that about?

Oh yeah, it’s funny, but in a class of seventy-four students, I was ranked fifty-third so though I graduated, I did not qualify for any real position. I was desperate. The final thesis is not written, but spoken—no documents, items, or any physical, reference, or substantial cause but voice of words.

"The thesis had to ‘challenge’ a qualified ‘trial outcome,’ in the form of an appeal from history. A real trial, documented, approved first by existence through independent sources or reliable ones. Permission attained, you were put before the ten judges with for oral argument. Your job is to challenge and argue for the overthrow of the original judgment. The harder, the better for your score, even if you fail.

All the others did the usual: the Catiline conspiracy, Socrates trial, and so forth. I figured, since the judges, all independent professors from Venetian Law University in Verona, skilled in all disciplines, I would attempt to alleviate their tired ears with something ‘new,’ ‘fresh,’ and untested.

Which was… he continued.

The trial of the ‘two women over the child before King Solomon.’

Oh, hahah! C’mon, everyone knows that’s a fake. It never happened. He laughed.

"The judges selected taught courses in all disciplines: mathematics, physics, rhetoric, astronomy, law, religions, customs, governance and accountability, economics, humanities, agriculture, philosophy, botany, anthropology, medicine, architecture, and design. You had to present and defend your case before all skill sets since you would be in a position often of defending or prosecuting all and any illegal practices in life.

"I mean, the list simply goes on. If your choice of trial wasn’t approved, you had to begin again. So in all cases, you had plenty of time to prepare. Using argument only and for the limit of a forty-five-minute hourglass. Referencing legal precedence, case files or prior instances of persuasive ingenuity for reversal of outcome, providing basis, qualification, and definitive reasoning for overthrowing sentence.

If you failed by receiving less than five votes, it would reflect poorly on your final score. Ten is perfect and would be unprecedented.

Okay, I understand now. So yours is unusual, different, a hard sell, I can see. Certainly would be a real treat if you could pull it off, so I let me hear this, and I mean the whole thing. I’ll judge myself. So Marcellus sat back, sucking an apple. I took that remark from a convicted felon to be a compliment and began.

"Okay, the setting is ancient Judea over 1,500 years ago. Adad Shem, a Jewish worker at the palace, connected to the prison and courts, came in on his small donkey, as he’d done for fifteen years. Early as always, he set up his table and then put out his instruments: whips, of all types, screws for hands, wrists, knees, suffering instruments for various parts of the body. Finely sharpened knives for cutting, applying pressure, heat, beating, tearing, but nothing for execution. He did not perform those duties.

"He then was presented with that day’s sentences, handed down from the courts, always run by judges of the king’s approval and then signed by him. Not an executioner, but punishment artist, so sometimes, the list was really long, all day. Other times, short sending him home after filling out his paperwork then submitting the punishment complete to the sergeant-at-arms. He then would go home.

"But ritualistically, he would see the convicted individual tied down or standing, it depends, and then look up to the apartment that belonged to the king. He awaited for the king’s appearance behind a thinly oblique curtain that outlined his features but not his actual personage. When he appeared, he nodded and ceremony concluded, and the day’s list of offenders began.

The king then withdrew for the day’s responsibilities.

"Solomon was in power and was building his Lord’s temple: ‘I will build you a house, not for worshiping, but to live in, if only you give me wisdom,’ or some such thing. His God said, ‘Sure.’

Then, gathering from all over the ancient world the best stone masons, cutters, woodworkers, architects, glass makers, gold workers, everything was to be top quality. It was costly and his lifestyle was so too. Many wives, concubines, costly stables, a large expensive army, a wisdom known and sought by all philosophers and kings.

Andros, taking a drink, wiped his forehead, as the wind had ceased and the circulation became slow, the air stagnant.

"The queen of Sheba, a very beautiful woman came to give honor to Solomon, providing great gifts, craftsmanship, and wealth of the finest jewels, gold, rare jewels, cloths, and spices. But she also came prepared in other measures. Using her charms to seduce and cause him to fall in love with her.

"In the city was a merchant, Bilhan Shemayah, meaning ‘whom Jehovah has heard.’ A very successful importer, exporter with outlying countries. He dealt fine and rare objects through his mercantile exchanges, doing tremendous business. But his wife Raya was barren. They kept this a secret as the concern was that his brother, a greedy, self-serving man, was anything. He lacked business acumen, lacking success in enterprises like his younger brother. He often borrowed money, lots of it, to keep up his older brother’s lifestyle. But that was not enough. He wanted everything his brother built for himself.

"According to Jewish law at that time, when the elder fails to provide inheritors to his estate, all things, including his wife, is given to the nearest of kin, a brother in this instance. Having four children already, no one had to spell out for his wife what would become of her should his brother inherit. Adoption was out of the question for inheritance of a Benjamite, so she decided that an entirely different tact was needed: a surrogate.

"At first, he balked! Never! But over a longer period of time, seeing his brother was already crafting plans for acquisition, accidents being common, it motivated him.

"Agreeing with his wife in principle, as long as nobody knew as he certainly had the money for it, he finally he began to seek out women of ‘ill repute’ for ‘discussions’ on the matter. With all Jewish women known of this kind, they were out of the question. Then he found one: an Edomite woman from the north who shall remain nameless. But for the sake of argument, we’ll call her Lyca.

Now, Lyca was already raising four children alone, and her ‘craft,’ or business was based on her ability to attract those men in need. Even though still young, she was now changed by bearing children and the expenses it imposed.

Marcellus was smiling, enjoying the story.

"Business was slow, costs of living rising. So when approached by Bilhan in the night at her apartment, he was prepared: $10,000 in gold, on the table, he thrust forward, upfront, and once pregnant, the same amount when complete. ‘Accept?’ She did.

"She saw only him, and after several attempts, he reported back to his wife, ‘It’s done!’ Both excited beyond measure. His child, although not ‘legally,’ but still his.

"Then as planned, his wife moved to a remote location in Egypt away from prying eyes, so that when asked, Belhan reported that she wanted complete privacy, deeply concerned that all go well.

"This was understood, seeing her difficulty in the past. Absolute solitude, not locatable, respite from all social, household stresses. Any disturbance that might cause ‘accidents.’

"All relatives agreed, immensely joyous, save his brother, who was immediately suspicious. He didn’t believe it and was sure something afoot. He, above all suspected malfeasance. Timing was ‘too perfect.’ He knew since her location was ‘unavailable’ to anyone, something very wrong here.

"Unable to confirm anything, she was spirited to the city of Canopus, near Alexandria, and available on the coast to all necessities in a Jewish quarter. But his spies found nothing, suspecting she was using another identity. She was changed, presented as a mixed breed of Persian and Syrian blood, changed her name to Simona, with no ‘Hebrew blood,’ to remain so.

"Private investigators sought out the missing wife. But without sufficient funds, they quit after a short time, frustrating his attempts to prove fraud. Angry, he’d wait for the birth, then seek cause against him. His own brother.

"The Edomite woman bore the child, saying when gone that it had died in childbirth, when in fact, she would had it delivered nearby in Alexandria by Egyptian midwives. No records and no reports in Jerusalem or Judah at all. The child, officially buried with ceremony in Edomite fashion, corresponding to the birth of his wife’s new baby. All was proceeding as planned, the final payment transferred, arrived to the extremely satisfied Lyca.

"All parties involved kept the pact. Secrecy was maintained. Nothing could be obtained. Everyone else was totally complicit, praying for her success. His older brother desperately needed failure. He even tried to find transaction records in his brother’s house of the birth, Jewish midwives, anything, but nothing was indicative of expenses, names, or locations. It was very frustrating.

"Solomon, meanwhile, pursuing his immense building projects for the city, anticipated upon completion of the temple the building of a vast complex for the palace, replacing his father David’s location with a very modern, highly ornate structure, stretching over many acres of land, costing even more than the temple and its surrounding complex, preparing for the influx of tourists, worshipers, and all manners of income. It’s existence providing jobs, increased spending, tourism, and benefits for the underclass. It was a bold scheme, but with the completion of these projects, all running overbudget, his steely resolve, it had to be done at all costs.

"It was. So magnificently impressive were the buildings, the stables, the temple compound, and surrounding shops, reinvigorated streets and sewers, fresh water supplies, inns and lodges for visitors with many fine dining, flourished, creating wealth and influence for the few.

"Palace tours, seeing the Great Hall, the king’s Seat of Judgment, the actual seat or ‘bench’ itself was marble, colored in alabaster hewn wood carvings of lions, stretching out their claws, mouths open, indicating complete authority over all. Any causes, great or small, thus brought before him. Cedar wainscoting covered the walls, floors, ceilings. It held hundreds of guests, scribes, scholars. General public given tours inside the temple proper, although illegal religiously were a massive money maker. The temple steps became a speaking platform for teaching, out of the hot sun, allowing many to consult the Oracle through priests seeking wealth. The massive ‘bronze sea,’ the