Seize the Day, page 50
Chapter 17
In midsummer two sons were born to the Magori, the first births since the troubles earlier in the year. This was a special time of celebration. Marcus named his son Csaka Septimus Zsiga Camponelli. Septimus returned the honor with Bela Marcus Tallen.
*****
Marcus directed Crenah down the bank into the river. Behind him Csaka burbled in his mother’s arms. Tantor followed with Septimus and his family on top. The elephants waded through the shallows and stood facing the current, luxuriating in the flow of water around their large bodies. Delighted, Crenah trailed her trunk in the water, splashing.
In the heat wave of late summer, this was the place to be. Crenah sucked her trunk full of water and sprayed them on top. Marcus swore, Gitta squealed and the baby cried as the shock of water hit them. Marcus swore again and commanded, “Spray them!” and he aimed Crenah at Septimus and the rest. Playfully Crenah did and instantly there was a shooting war going on. Soon they were all soaked but laughing. Water droplets sparkled in the air like jewels.
After a while they climbed off the animals and clambered up on the riverbank. Marcus stretched out on a warm rock and Septimus joined him, the two friends lazing about, staring at the flock of clouds in the sky. Quivers full of arrows and bows were near at hand, just in case. The hostilities were over, and even a grudging trade had started up between the shores, but it would be some time before there would be any real trust. The war had left deep wounds on both sides.
The elephants cavorted in the water, splashing each other, rolling around in the shallows, kneading soft mud with their huge feet. Then they waded deeper, submerging themselves completely, breathing through their uplifted trunks. From time to time, a geyser of water would erupt, followed by glad trumpeting. Elephants and water were such a happy mixture, Marcus thought as he watched them, remembering how hard the winter had been. But not the next, he promised, for they had laid in a great store of hay for the elephants and horses alike. Did they miss Africa? he wondered, surely not on a day like this. Crenah wandered near the shore plucking fresh grass from the bank with rhythmic motions, conveying trunkfuls into her mouth. Her cheeks swelled out as she chomped happily on each mouthful. She stood turning her head into the light breeze, her big ears flopping lazily, fanning air past their large surface. She reached down into the water to dredge up some mud to throw over herself. Soon her back was caked with the drying mud. Tantor was beside her, doing the same. No, Marcus decided, on a day like this they did not miss their home in Africa. He sighed and relaxed, listening to the drone of a few flies circling them.
Gitta and Davo remained in the shade under the switches of a gnarled willow that leaned out over the water, its branches trailing as if fishing in the muddy flow. They were nursing their babies and talking quietly as they fussed over their sons, cooing to them like doves. From time to time they threw a quick appraising look toward their men on the rocks. The two Romans were not Magori, to be sure, but both had proved themselves time and time again, and had been grafted onto the clan without reservation. Davo always thought that of the two of them, she had the better luck with Septimus, finding Marcus often too moody and prone to dourness. But then she’d remember how he went alone deep among the enemy to rescue her sister single-handedly when all gave her up for lost. That took great courage and cunning . . . and love. Her smile brightened as she looked at her sister and thought they were both very lucky after all. Look at two such healthy sons, look at such cute babies. Were there ever two more beautiful children in the whole world?
Rapid hoof beats broke into this idyll, and soon two boys burst into view racing each other. Marcus watched them, his heart quickening, remembering how awesome the power of the horse had felt under him the first time. Now, it felt as if he had ridden all his life. Thunderbolt and Windrush were still his favorites, although they had acquired more horses in the meantime.
“Marcus,” a boy shouted nearly upon them, “Marcus!” Those on shore rose expectantly. “Three Romans are here looking for you.” Marcus frowned; what could they want with him?
“Me?” Marcus asked stupidly. He extracted Crenah from the water, helped his family up, and soon the two elephants were loping at a good clip with their long strides. In camp they found a Decurion and two legionnaries eating some food they had been offered.
Marcus dismounted and strode over to them. “I am Marcus Aurelius Camponelli.” A suggestion of pride colored his voice as he stated his name; his reputation had been restored, he was again a valued citizen of Rome.
“I know. I saw you in Aquincum,” the Decurion said matter-of-factly, reaching into his breast pocket to pull out a roll of parchment which he handed over. Astonished and not a little curious, Marcus smoothed out the roll and looked at the script. “It’s from my sister!” he exulted, then sat down to read the rest. “Dearest Brother. I can’t describe with what joy we read about the good turn of your fortunes. Especially since we had long feared you dead. Mother rushed to the shrine of Apollo to make a sacrifice of thanksgiving. Father could not stop talking of you for days, though he keeps saying you should have accepted the Governor’s commission of an under-Centurion. Within a short time you could have easily risen to full rank. He is well, though age is slowing him down some.
“Dear brother, it is hard to think of you so far away, married with a child on the way. How do you know it will be a son? It seems only yesterday that we played together in the sunny fields and orchards on the farm. My family is well and I am well. I have three sons and two daughters and only lost one in pregnancy. My oldest boy will soon join the army to continue the family tradition.” Marcus groaned but continued on. “I wish that I could visit you there, or you could come home even briefly, I so miss your smiling face. I shall pray to all gods for you and your family. Your loving sister, Cordelia.”
A great sense of relief washed through Marcus. The letter was a confirmation that his family was spared any further worry on his account. He smelled the letter, detecting a faint trace of rosemary, remembering how fond Cordelia was of that herb. He smiled from ear to ear. As he read aloud, Gitta translated to the others, and they too shared his contentment. After all, the Magori made much of family connections.
A letter was an unheard thing among the Magori, and each wanted to look at it, ascribing magical properties to a piece of skin, or whatever it was, that could speak. They shook their heads wondering, for all they saw was a great confusion of black lines, as if a worm had left its trail all over the skin.
Marcus showed the letter to his son, exclaiming, “This is from your aunt.” With fat arms the baby reached for it, something he frequently did, trying to bring it to his mouth.
Marcus sat down beside the soldiers and offered them some kumis. He nearly burst out laughing as he saw their sour faces as they tried to swallow a careful mouthful.
“How are things in Aquincum?” Marcus asked the Decurion. Interested, Septimus also settled beside them.
“Well enough, I expect,” the Decurion replied, shrugging his shoulders, “but then I’m just a simple soldier, not much interested in anything else.”
“Come, come,” Septimus prodded, “surely you’re interested in the races in the local Hippodrome? Or the shipments of wine from Umbria? Olives from Sicily? Army news, regulations and the like. The last I heard was that a legionnaire could even marry on the Frontier.”
“That sure,” the Decurion asked throwing them a puzzled look. “Have you served with the Auxiliaries?”
“No. With the IIIrd in Africa,” Marcus said proudly, reclaiming his past, now that he had a bronze plaque which testified that he was a free man absolved of all crimes he was falsely accused of.
“Well, listen to that!!?” The man was astonished, but started to warm up. He said that generally service on the Frontier was light, not as all-fired serious as near Rome. He expected to retire in five years, and before the war had thought to settle somewhere along the Danuvius. But now, he was not so sure. “You can never tell when the barbarians will try again. I don’t want to be here the next time they come.”
“No, I guess not,” Marcus acknowledged. He thought that sometime in the future a fresh wave would come from the east, the Hun, followed by the Seventeen Tribes united under the sign of two arrows. They would sweep away all the inhabitants and would make this land their home. Certainly Magori blood had flowed on their behalf, enriched the soil, underwriting their claim to the land. When that time came, where would he and Septimus stand, with or against the Empire? He sighed. These were heavy questions, not to be answered in one day.
*****
It was late fall and Septimus and Marcus attended on a summons from the Governor Tetrus Calla for a general assembly of all the communities. In part, the convocation was to furbish the Governor’s standing and reputation since he was entertaining a senate delegation from Rome. The Governor used this occasion also to introduce his government, particularly a new chief magistrate and a head tax collector. A banquet followed, with a great variety and quantity of food, delicacies and drinks. Obviously the city had recovered from its privation.
There was entertainment throughout, the usual dancers, musicians, acrobats, jugglers, actors, snake charmers, conjurers, magicians, soothsayers, and so on. The worst were poets, who according to the dictates of the style, tried to say something witty and pastoral about the innocence of country life. Not even the simplest of country people lived the life so depicted.
Bored, Marcus left the scene, seeking diversion elsewhere. He was drinking light wine under the elderberry tree in the courtyard, idly watching the passers-by. From their dress and manners he recognised quite a few Germani in the flow. Business as usual, it would seem, trade re-established and flourishing. Some could even buy back looted possessions from the Barbarians. Near the central well he saw three men conversing. There was something slightly furtive in their look and he kept a curious eye on them. One left, exchanging a secret sign with the rest, and Marcus recognised them at last.
He finished his wine, ambled over to them and addressed a bald man who by his bearing must be their leader. “You’re Christian,” Marcus stated in a friendly voice.
“What of it?” the man asked with a suspicious look at this intruder.
“I owe your God a lot and want to repay my debt. I was hoping you could tell me how?” He looked to the leader expectantly.
“Excuse my friend for his shortness; there’s still a lot of persecution of our kind. We aren’t seen gladly everywhere in the Empire. I’m Peter, named after the great Apostle of our faith. Why do you owe a debt?”
“In great need, I begged your God for help, and time and time again he provided. I decided then and there to serve him but did not know how to become a Christian or a Jew.”
“A Jew??!” the man looked scandalised. “The Jews killed the son of God, our Lord.”
“But is your God not theirs as well?”
“Yes, that is true, but they turned away from him when they did not recognise his son.” Then Peter took Marcus by the arm and expounded the creed to him.
“What about the three-in-one God?” Marcus asked, recalling Brother Urbane’s teaching, then repeated the formula, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”
The others drew back horrified. “Heresy!” the leader exclaimed. “Lies! Get behind me Satan!”
Later, when they had calmed themselves somewhat, Peter explained. “Only a few misguided zealots believe those teachings. Sadly they are in error and are sowing seeds of discord among the faithful. They have taken the wrong path. Don’t listen to them! They will never prevail with their teachings!”
Afterwards Marcus’ head was buzzing. The One-God sounded so simple, but it seemed there were so many ways of serving the One-God.
But who was right? Brother Peter or Urbane? “Compare the flame to its light,” Urbane had said, “the fire as the father, the light as the son. Being one, of the same divine essence, inseparable.” Not all believed it so, Urbane had admitted, and many scoffed at Mary being the mother of a god, but this was the newest spiritual revelation to the Church. Now Peter claimed it was all wrong; heresy he called it.
How had it become so complicated? The Son who was crucified for the sins of the world, to show with his resurrection that God would resurrect all believers in the end? But if there was the Trinity, an integral part of the godhead, what credit was there in the resurrection of a god? Only the Greeks could follow such sophistry.
The conflicted views left Marcus’ head spinning. All he knew for sure was that he owed allegiance to this One-God. That the god proved more complex than expected . . . well what god was not?
“God, whoever you are, I thank you for keeping my family in your care,” he prayed, and had a sense of talking to a listening presence. The fear that had been always so much a part of him yielded to the growing confidence he felt toward the One-God. “Elohim, Jehovah. Praise be your name.” Of course he had a long way to go, but he had taken the first steps.
The next day Septimus prevailed upon Marcus to go with him to the baths. Then on to the library, to a bookseller’s shop where they browsed, then to the amphitheatre for a performance from a young Greek playwright who, everyone readily conceded, had a great future—elsewhere. Marcus was bored with the many allusions, allegorical or otherwise, tired of sifting through the metaphors and symbolism. Septimus was, however, aglow. He had not been stimulated so for a long time. In an artist’s place afterwards, drinking watered wine, he talked and could not stop. Every second utterance started with, “In my days of youth in Rome . . .” a watershed of all his self-improvement.
“You miss all this, don’t you?” Marcus asked, feeling sympathy for his friend well up in him.
That put a hole in Septimus’ flow. “Yes, I do miss it, but not enough to give up my wife and child.”
“I suppose you could take them to Italy or even move into this city.”
“I suppose,” Septimus considered. “But I would not want to separate my wife from her family and people.” He took a quick look at Marcus. “How about you? Would you want to return to civilised Roman living?”
Fair question, Marcus considered, but after a short while he just shook his head no. “Could you see Crenah here in the city? Be more like a circus than a home for her. Among the Magori she has a better life.” Septimus nodded, for Tantor too.
Thus their course was set, their future tied to a small and insignificant clan camped by the great river, waiting.
Of course there were a lot of things to do other than waiting. Stretched out on soft covers in his yurt, Marcus played with Csaka, tickling him gently, enjoying the look of delight dawning on his son’s face. Gitta watched her two men in the soft light of the flickering Roman oil lamp Marcus had bought back from Aquincum. In their delight, she found healing, the nightmares of the past fading. Though it pained her to remember, the walls of her memory were down, and she was no longer its condemned prisoner. Her senses reawakened, she was learning to feel pleasure again. She had never forgotten passion, just its delight.
Marcus was relaxed, his face free of worries for the moment. He laughed and the sound reached the core of her. For the moment, like him, she too could let go of the past and live purely in the joy of the moment. So this is happiness? she asked, contented. She snuggled up to him, and he looked surprised at her. She purred like a cat and flexed herself. He set the baby aside carefully and turned his attention fully on her, his eyes laughing, his face smiling as he reached for her.
*****
Three years later, searching through the trunk, Csaka found something in the bottom and presented a small bone medallion to his father. Marcus recognised the piece and thought of the long journey associated with it. From Africa to the banks of Danuvius.
“What is it, father?”
“Luck is what you make of life,” Marcus said cryptically and cast the medallion away. Looking at his wife and child, at that moment he felt supremely lucky.
*****
There was a hill that rose above the rest but had a comfortable easy access to its top, giving a wide look at the countryside to the east, to the broad river and beyond. The Magori named the hill Hope.
It was not unusual to see a Magori on top looking to the east waiting patiently. Sometimes as one went down, he would pass another going up. “Not yet,” the one descending would say. “Well then, soon,” the climber would reply in a formalised exchange.
Yes, soon the vanguard of the Hun horde would arrive and behind them the Seventeen Tribes would appear and their horses and cattle. Not today, but perhaps as soon as tomorrow.
On the very top, Zsiga’s lance was planted in the soil, seven horsetails waving proudly, declaring that this was the land of the Horse-People.
In the yurts a drinking song became popular:
“Where are you brother Bika?
Why tarry there so long?
Spread wide the tale you carry
Of a new home in sunset land.”
And the women would sing the refrain:
“Surely tomorrow you’ll arrive,
or the long day after that.”
*****
The next year one of the Emperors, Geta, was killed by his brother Caracalla, who assumed sole rule of the Empire. Rumor had it that he was crazy, obsessed with surpassing Alexander the Great’s conquests in the east. That was 212 AD by the Christian count.
Five years later Caracalla was killed by his general and thereupon followed fifty years of chaos, overseen by a quick succession of Emperors, most ruling less than a year.
But at the confluence of Drava and Danuvius, a small clan of horse-people grew and thrived. Slowly they gave up their yurts and established more permanent settlements along the rivers.
