It was Apollinarius -- dear, old Apollinarius -- who encouraged me to write this journal. It happened on a spring night, not so long ago, when he cried in my arms like a child and I wished I could mix my tears with his. But I have no tears left. I shed my last ones during a night, it seems a lifetime ago, at Moesia, near the Black Sea, on behalf of a handsome Roman general.
It was a rainy night and I awoke to a
frantic knocking at my apartment's door. I was alone for in those
days Nicia, my maid, returned every evening to her husband...
and the apartment of the man I now call "husband". I
was alone as I wanted to be in the evenings, when the sun fell
below the horizon and shades wrapped around the city. In those
evenings, I sat down in my bedroom with my lamp and my books and
my memories of a blue-eyed man.
I took the lamp and went to the door, which I opened to find my
always elegant tutor and friend stained with mud and blood, his
fine clothes torn, his hair dishevelled, his eyes red and swollen.
As I remained on the threshold utterly astonished, Apollinarius
looked at me and said between heartbreaking sobs, "Julia,
oh Julia! Hippolitus is dead!"
I was stricken to hear about the death of his young, handsome
lover but before I could ask him how this had happened, he fell
in my arms weeping like a child. When he finally could speak,
Apollinarius told me that the boy -- who was only eighteen --
had been trampled under the hooves of the horses of a group of
drunken men coming out of a tavern, the laws of the city allowing
riders the use of their mounts in the streets at late hours.Apollinarius
and I spent what remained of the night sharing a couch in my anteroom,
drinking spiced wine and talking. Or I'd better say that he talked
and I listened and now and then, when he was overwhelmed by his
grief, I hugged him as if he had been the child I crave for but
will never have.
Poor, dear Apollinarius! Hippolitus' death another link between
us, both slave born, both forced into an unnatural, loveless existence
at a very tender age, both freed by the generosity of powerful
and compassionate men, both left behind to
get ourselves a new life, both so in love with books and history
and beauty... both so lonely and now both sharing the loss of
our beloved, he to death, me to honor and another woman.
Rain ceased at dawn and by then we were
both exhausted and more than a little drunk. Shortly before falling
asleep, Apollinarius looked at me with his beautiful, and now
grieving, hazel eyes and said, "I know many things about
your past, Julia. Many things but one: what did he do to make
you so sad?" I tried to protest, to deny the truth he had
seen beyond the walls I have erected around me since my return
to Rome. But Apollinarius silenced me with a gesture of his hand.
"No, Julia," he said. "Don't even try to deny it.
I have seen you hurt for him from the first time I met you. And
no, you needn't tell me. But find a way to pour out what's in
your heart or you'll hurt yourself more deeply than he did".
Shortly after, Apollinarius fell asleep in my arms and I followed
him into oblivion. When we awoke, we were both more than a little
embarrassed and busied
ourselves with the preparations of Hippolitus' funeral to avoid
talking about the previous night. For him, it had been the first
night in his life -- and, to my knowledge, the only one -- in
which he had slept with a woman. For me, the second time I had
slept in the arms of a man with whom I had not shared my body.
Apollinarius had no use for me in such way but, that night in
Moesia, the other man had wanted me as much as I had wanted him.
Yet, he had refused to take what little I had then to offer him,
leaving me behind without the comfort of the memory of his flesh.
So, shortly after Hippolitus' funeral, I returned to my apartment
and started writing. In the beginning, it was an awkward, painful
effort. My stylus seemed to go in one direction while my mind
drifted in another. I felt so ashamed of putting to words what
I really wanted and so badly needed to say! So, instead of writing
about what was really in my heart, I tried to write time and again
about Ovidius' and Catullus' poetry or my opinion about this or
that Greek tragedy.A few months later, I received the most unexpected
visit: one of my neighbours, Marius Servilius Tibullus came to
my apartment and proposed. He was a wealthy shipbuilder who spent
most of his time at his shipyards and in the ports of the imperium
but kept an apartment in the same building, returning to Rome
every few months to attend his business. My maid and her husband
were the caretakers of
his property which was directly below mine, in the first floor
of the building, and that was the reason why I had been able to
hire Nicia without having her lodge in my own.
I first saw the man shortly after he
returned to Rome after a year and a half of traveling from one
shipyard to another, when our steps crossed at the entrance of
the building. I was on my way to the market with Nicia and he
was entering his apartment. He greeted me politely and exchanged
a few words with Nicia, but his eyes never left me. Shortly after,
my maid told me that Marius Servilius Tibullus had been asking
many questions about me. She also said that the man had been a
widower for many years, had no children or other family and, although
his Roman apartment was simple, he was very wealthy and preferred
to live in his estate near the sea. I dismissed Nicia's words
and also Marius Servilius Tibullus' interest although I met him
occasionally and a couple of times I found in my table an amphor
of excellent Caecuban wine, an expensive present more
appropriate for a business acquaintance than a woman but not so
inappropriate that it required to be returned.
Although I was aware of his interest, his proposal took me by
surprise. I had never thought about myself as a married woman
and refused his offer but he insisted and in the end convinced
me to become his wife. Although my wedding was a private, simple
ceremony, it managed to keep me away from writing and it was not
until months later, when we had settled at his estate near the
sea and I had mastered how to manage it properly as it befits
my new station in life, that I started writing again. But it was
still the same awkward, barren, hollow exercise ...
And then, it happened.
That night we were having dinner with
some of Marius Servilius' associates and their wives. The dinning
room was alive with laughter and conversation and then, suddenly,
I heard his name. Since we married, my husband likes to invite
his
friends and partners to visit and dine for he says that receiving
is something that a man alone can neither properly manage nor
enjoy. In another time, I had been intimidated at the idea of
managing his household and estate and also of being in charge
of planning his banquets. But Apollinarius had taught me well
and although my past life was very different from the one I live
nowadays, some of the skills I acquired during those dreadful
days not only proved not to be shameful but also useful. And,
most of all, I'm no more that old Julia, the frightened, confused
girl who trembled and wept in the arms of a Roman general
but a woman who managed to survive both slavery and freedom and
also whoring and loving... and being rejected. It was this new
Julia who had agreed to marry a man she barely knew, who had walked
by herself and with firm steps into her own wedding; who had not
flinched at the sight of this enormous and luxurious estate or
the size of its household and instead taken its running into her
hands smoothly and efficiently, to her husband's delight and pride.
And, since that day, this Julia -- who is so easily in command
-- has been the respected Domina, the beautiful, remote and flawless
mistress of Marius Servilius Tibullus' home.
How long had it been since we had said our goodbyes under the
first light of dawn? How long had it been since I had heard his
last words, since I had heard for the last time his beautiful,
deep voice?
Two years.
Two years since I rode away from him, not daring to turn my head
for a last glance, afraid not to be able to force myself to go
ahead if I did it, afraid to loose whatever control I still had
and throw myself at his feet begging him not to send me away but
to keep me at his side, to simply allow me to remain near him
and drink in his goodness and strength after a life of servitude
and abuse and loneliness... afraid to turn my head only to discover
that he had simply dismissed me and was not there looking at me
ride away from Moesia and his life....
My husband and his associate were talking about politics and war,
both very important to them and their businesses for Marius Servilius
is a rich shipbuilder who also adds to his wealth each year by
transporting and selling supplies for the legions. They were talking
about the never-ending wars at the Northern frontier when Marius
Servilius' associate mentionedthat the Germanian tribes should
be a lot more cunning and brave than people think if a man like
the Roman general in charge of this faraway border of the empire
has not been able to completely subdue them. This general, he
said, was the emperor's favorite army leader, his bravery and
soldiering skills as legendary as the fierce loyalty he inspired
in his men. They went on talking and sipping wine while the servants
attended us and I went on talking with the women who chatted about
children and pregnancies and the beautiful silks one of my husband's
ships had just brought, but my mind was not in the conversation
but back in Moesia, near the Black Sea.
I saw him as clearly as if he had entered the dinning room with
his easy, self-assured stride, the same way he had entered my
life... and also left it. I saw him as I had last seen him, magnificent
in his general's uniform, his striking blue eyes looking at me
with a heated gaze, his deep, beautiful voice soothing me as it
had done the night I had slept in his arms. While the women chatted
around me I strained to hear what Marius Servilius and his friend
were talking about but could only catch some words here and there
while I forced myself to remain the pleasant hostess and the perfect
lady I am nowadays, a woman who nobody would suspect to be a former
slave and whore. But although I could hear very little of their
conversation I just caught the information that was going to push
me into doing the unthinkable. For Marius Servilius' partner mentioned
that the powerful Roman general kept his headquarters at the encampment
of his legion in Germania, in a place called Vindobona.
I don't remember how dinner ended or
how I returned that night to my lavish apartments, the apartments
where I retreat as much as I can to enjoy the silence and the
solitude and reading and writing in the company of my cats. I
only remember that my husband's frown when I bid him goodnight
made me aware that I should be looking distraught. I only remember
lying sleepless hour after hour, revisiting once again my memories
of the man who had briefly shared my life and changed it forever,
remembering each word we exchanged, each glance, the few stolen
kisses and caresses, the fire that sizzled between us every time
our bodies touched.
Do you know what happens when you dare to love a god? It's bright,
it's beautiful, it's like nothing you have experienced before...
and it burns -- the flames turn you to ashes and there's no wind
strong enough to scatter them and set you free. For it is a kind
of enslavement quite different from that experienced by mere men
and women, by mere slaves and masters. That was what happened
to me when I dared to love a man who was also a god.
A man too good to be a simple mortal.
A god too humane to be a hollow deity.
When morning came, I dismissed my maids
and remained in my apartments, informing my husband that I was
unwell. As I had never been sick since we married, Marius Servilius
was concerned and wanted to send for his physician but I told
him that it was only a slight feminine indisposition and he didn't
question me further. I remained for hours on the couch I keep
in the open
terrace off my apartments, not seeing the magnificent view of
the city and the sea, ignoring the mischief my cats unleashed
while playing among the potted trees and flowering plants. My
mind focused only on him. In the two years that had passed since
we had said our goodbyes I thought I had learned to live without
him even if I never stopped thinking about him. But, suddenly,
I was overwhelmed by my need to see him, to be near him, to talk
to him, to look into his eyes and discover what he would think
about this new Julia who is neither a slave nor a whore, who is
no more a confused, scared girl but a grown-up, proud,
self-assured woman, who is also wealthy and free and educated...
a woman suitable to be the wife of a man of his high station in
life.
The sun was sinking beyond the horizon
when I came back into my apartments, sat down at my desk, took
some papyrus and a stylus and started to writing a letter, the
first personal letter I ever wrote, for I have no one to write
to but Apollinarius and my dear, former tutor spends most of his
time near me, his appetite for traveling satiated years ago.
With firm hand I wrote, in the formal style befitting the correspondence
between a married woman and a man who's not her husband, a brief
account of what had happened to me during the last two years,
obliquely reminding him of certain
things that were private to us and us alone. I also informed him
of my married status, the comfortable situation I now enjoy and
thanked him for being the one who had made all of these possible.
When I finished, I rolled the letter and sealed it with the seal
my husband gave me on our wedding day for my use when dealing
with the household and estate's affairs. I keep it in a small
coffer on my desk, always at hand -- unlike the other seal that
remains hidden and of which existence not even Apollinarius knows.
Putting the letter inside the trunk I always keep locked, I went
to the hiding place, the secret hollow where I placed the other
seal shortly after arriving at this house. I hadn't seen it for
a long time but now I needed to see it again. I needed to see
it as much as I needed to see the blue-eyed man who had changed
me forever. I knelt on the carpeted floor near my canopied bed
and weighed in my hand the small bundle before opening the pouch
made of purple velvet -- the forbidden, imperial purple -- and
revealing the heavy golden ring that had once graced the hand
of the most powerful man of the world. The ring that would grant
me whatever I wanted or needed whenever I wanted it or needed
it....
Yet all the power of the mighty Roman emperor had not been enough to give me the only thing I really wanted: the love of a man who was in love with honor and his own wife.
I put the ring in the velvet pouch again,
returned it to its hiding place and went to bed. In order to send
the letter to Vindobona, I had to wait till I was able to return
to the city and that happened only two weeks later. One afternoon,
shortly after settling again at my husband's apartment, I went
out in my litter and paid a visit to Aemilius Trebutius Flaccus,
the banker who had been in charge of helping me establish in Rome
when I returned to the city as a freedwoman. As always, the man
received me with great deference as my first visit had left no
doubt about my importance, an eighteen-year-old red haired girl
who appeared at his door escorted by six praetorians and a military
quaestor, carrying a letter sealed with emperor Marcus Aurelius'
personal seal.
The banker sent for wine and honey cakes and we exchanged pleasantries
for some minutes before I brought the letter out of the folds
of my palla. If he was surprised by the nature of the service
I demanded from him, he didn't show it and not only
assured me that the letter would be immediately on its way but
also added that it'd be done with absolute discretion and when
the answer came I'd be informed in the same way. He even refused
to be paid, saying that he was honored to be of
help to such a great lady as me. I thanked him and returned home
shortly after.
After returning home the worst part started.
For I had done all that was possible, I had written the letter
and posted it to the far frontier where the general was encamped
and now there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for his answer,
wait for the message from Aemilius Trebutius Flaccus, wait for
the moment, months ahead, when I'd break his military seal and
read his words. Wait, and in the meantime remember and dream and
go on living day after day, fulfilling my duties, filling pages
with my musings about poetry and drama and reading the works of
historians and philosophers while absently caressing my cats.
Months have passed since I sent my letter to Vindobona and the
waiting is not over. Months have passed since I did it and waiting
is still the only thing I can do. Waiting and keep going, filling
barren page after barren page and steeling myself every time someone
calls at the door, steeling myself against the hope that it's
he who's calling. That he had come to me. That he had come for
me.
Summer and autumn passed. Saturnalia came and went and winter
set with its cold winds and even colder rain. We remained at the
city, the ports closed till spring, the sky grey, the cold weather
especially uncomfortable for my husband but the nature of his
business prevented us from heading to the south and a more friendly
climate. Secluded in his apartment, we received few visitors and
I welcome the change, keeping to myself, stubbornly reading by
the light of the lamps and the heat of the braziers, my cats napping
around me or even on my lap, stubbornly writing about everything
and nothing, stubbornly avoiding the truth
while winter melted into balmy spring…
Until last night, when I dreamed about
the Roman general once more and I woke up gasping for air, my
heart aching so badly that I thought it would break. In my dream,
he tenderly caressed my cheek with his sword-callused fingers
and I turned my face to kiss the palm of his strong, warm hand.
He smiled his sweet, boyish smile -- a smile that erased the lines
that years of worry and responsibilities had put in his handsome
face and made him look so young and careless and also a little
vulnerable -- as he whispered, "Julia...."
It was the deep rumble of his voice that awoke me. My name seemed
to echo in the darkness of my bedroom, so vivid the sound of his
voice and the warmth of his presence had been. I remained for
a long time with my eyes shut, trying to ease my breathing and
steeling myself against hot tears and then I got up and lit a
lamp, looked for some papyrus and ink and, despite the night was
cold for Aprilis, I sat down and wrote until dawn.
And this was how I finally got to write
about me, the real me, and about General Maximus Decimus Meridius,
General of the Felix Legions, Commander of the Armies of the North,
the man who made me who and what I am nowadays, the only man I
ever loved, the only man I ever will.