All Roads

The aromatic smell of roast pork awakened me from my mid-morning slumber. I had drifted off while sat against a wall during the morning break from reading, and was slow to open my eyes, clutching tightly to the last moments of sleep.

“Are you hungry?” An unfamiliar voice asked – jolting me awake.

For the next several moments, I rubbed my eyes and stared at the unfamiliar surroundings feeding my confusion. Nothing was familiar to me, plus I couldn’t recognise a single face lingering on the street corner or sat opposite me on a low wall across the way.

“Spurinna,” the voice beckoned. “Does your stomach crave swine?”

My confused state of mind tried to interpret the change of scenery between falling asleep and waking, but nothing made sense.

“Are your ears clogged from the memory of that woman’s thighs wrapped around your head last night?” The voice asked. “It is way too late in the morning for you to be hanging your head in demonstration of how to not handle a drunken past evening. What ails you, Spurinna?”

“Who is Spurinna?” I ask – still trying to comprehend my surroundings.

“Always the fool, eh? Or perhaps you were struck in the head last evening on your way home, by the handle of a robber’s gladius. That would explain your fogged memory.”

His manner of speech confused me enough to listen a little more intently to what he was saying. A gladius? I questioned. Isn’t that a sword…?

“Come! Take a seat at the counter while I cook up some food for you,” he instructed while adding some oil to a deep metal pan sat inside a fiery hole dug out of a counter of granite.

I rose from my seated position on the ground and stepped into the little open-air eatery he appeared to run. Looking down at my feet – past some form of long shirt, I was surprised to see me wearing a pair of leather-like sandals. Trying to assay my unfamiliar location, I noticed men, women, children going about their day wearing what looked like tunics and togas. As I recalled working on the set of a movie earlier, I convinced myself that somehow; I had fallen asleep on one set and woken up on another.

“What movie is this?” I asked the cook.

“Movie?” He mockingly replied.

“This place. Where am I?”

“Marcus’s Thermopolium,” he proudly replied.”

“Who is Marcus?” I pressed further.

He paused to study my eyes with the concerned look of a close friend.

“Perhaps a drink of posca might clear your clouded head. You are not yourself today, I think.”

Feeling unwittingly insulted, I grunted my displeasure, then automatically replied, “I am neither soldier nor slave, you son of a barbarian. You will serve me vinegar and water. Nothing less.”

“Welcome back!” Marcus enthusiastically greeted me, like my outburst had soothed his concern as to the condition of my health. “The land of the living awaits the dulcet tone of Spurrina’s wisdom. What visions have you to relay to Rome today?”

“What did you say?” My ears pricked up. “Rome?” I repeated.

“Whatever ailment has overcome you? I will add some special herbs to your drink and pray to Apollo to heal you by filling your belly with enough air, that you’ll fart out your illness. And, if that works, then I will also add a special prayer to the goddess Minerva for a medicinal blessing to clear up your temporary scatterbrain.”

Marcus broke some bread and handed it to me with several cuts of meat. I hadn’t realised the level of hunger that gripped my stomach, so I quickly devoured them, washing them down with a cup of wine.

“Well, you’ve not lost your appetite, I see,” he said. “Stay right there for more, my friend. I am heating up some nice petaso from the shoulder of the pig – salted and smoked by my very own hands, then specially boiled with dried figs. It is my speciality.”

The promise of help from the gods and the tasty food settling into my stomach, steadied my reason. I still felt some confusion as to what was real. However, my fresh satiated state of mind, placed me in the land of what I could see, hear, smell, taste, and feel. Those visions of concreted roadways with modes of transport by invisible powers, illuminated colosseums of bloodless competitions, and towers of insulae stretching beyond the clouds in the sky, seemed like a dream to me now. Perhaps, a nightmare for some, but a prophecy for someone like me. Somehow, I have reached into the future and seen not one but many cultures vying to be the new Rome. Some, following this Rome’s practice of divide and conquer – where non-Romans must choose between submission or death under the ruse of religious extremism. Others, driven by shear greed, choose to loot and pillage Earth’s resources – their motivation veiled in delusions of self-defence. The future empires – it seems, still need armies to do their bidding.

“Have we lost you again, old friend?” Marcus’s voice called to me.

Snapping out of my dream, I found myself back in the here and now – wherever that really was, because I couldn’t completely shake off the visions of that other reality.

“Here, get this down you.”

Another plate of meat, bread and a topped-up cup of wine were presented to me on the counter.

“I’ve added some tasty cheese, too. Let it not be said that Marcus Tullius Lepidus does not forget his friends.”

The second helping of food and drink calmed me further to the point of feeling filled with warmth and renewed energy.

“…Especially those with foresight of prosperous ventures.”

Marcus’s addendum to his declaration, made my head tilt to one side - in a gesture of intrigue.

“When I returned from twenty-five years of legion service,” he continued. “I was awarded land, money, and a step up in social standing. So, I bought some livestock, grew crops, and settled into the life of an upstanding Roman citizen, remember?”

I smiled back at him, like I could recall everything he was describing; however, the truth was that I had no recollection of anything here beyond waking up from my sleep.

“But,” his story came with a caveat. “The quiet life was a difficult transition for a survivor of so many campaigns, including the Battle of Alesia – where we defeated the Gauls. What a stroke of genius Caesar had.”

“Genius?” I blankly interjected.”

“Did you know,” he marched on. “The Gauls had retreated within the walls of the city, so Caesar decided to starve them out and had us cut down some of the surrounding forest to erect a wall of wooden spikes, encircling the city - perched on the summit of a high plateau. Eleven miles of fence and trenches twenty feet deep stopped the enemy from attacking us. Then, to combat the threat of reinforcements being sent for, he had us build an outer wall fourteen miles in length around the inner wall with us encamped within. Eventually, the Gauls sent their women and children from the city hoping we would feed them, but Caesar ordered they not be taken in. The Gauls being limited in their own supplies, prevented the refugees from re-entering the city.”

He paused to flip some meat in his pan.

“What happened?” I found myself engrossed in the story.

“Glad you are listening, my friend. Well, after days, weeks of hunger, they all died. Imagine watching your family starve to death in front of you, because you could not feed them. That is cruelty beyond dedication.”

“It’s madness,” I added.

“Utter madness, yes. But for us, it worked! Unable to be reinforced and his own men dropping like flies, Vercingetorix surrendered his sword personally to Caesar, who returned to Rome triumphal with human souvenirs to be publicly executed.”

In a spontaneous dedicated outburst, Marcus lifted his cup to toast his old comrades.

“To the Tenth Legion! Gone but not forgotten. Just split up and blended into other legions.”

Downing the contents of his cup in several hard gulps of melancholy remembrance, pressed on me how Marcus sorely missed his old life.

“It is a natural progression to replenish the old with the new,” I tried to input some solace. “Glory is a young man’s pursuit.”

My words seemed to sink in, causing Marcus to spend a moment in silent retrospect.

“So, my friend,” he quickly sprang back. “To cut a long story short. Life on a farm held no excitement for me. I need to be around people. I feel safer around people – no matter how devious some of these locals can be. You! You are the one who suggested I have slaves work my farm for me and move to the city to open this place. What was it you called it? Oh, yes. From field to table. Fresh as a daisy blessed by the goddess, Flora. It came to you in a vision, you said, and look how prosperous for me it has become – both for my mind and more importantly, my pocket.”

“Glad to be of service,” I flippantly said while my attention was strangely drawn to the open carcass of the pig I had been consuming. Its guts lay on the tiled floor, next to a drain that the last drops of its blood seeped into. A very odd feeling enveloped me and started to send me into a trance-like state, but Marcus spotted this and pulled me back with a quick shout.

“For the dogs!” He yelled. “I save the entrails for the strays that pass by. They love ‘em.”

Marcus was quickly distracted by a commotion that first started as a distant hum, then grew louder as it got closer to the opening to his shop. Curious as to its origination, he stepped out onto the porch of his small eatery, then excitedly returned, beckoning me to join him outside.

“What is it?” I asked.

“He’s coming!” His excited boyish reply almost squealed.

“Who?” I demanded to know.

“Fucking Julius Caesar himself!” He loudly announced. “He’s atop a horse on his way to the Forum.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. The most famous of all Romans was about to pass by. A small crowd had gathered around us, so I jostled for a view of the man himself – no more than twenty strides from us and closing.

Suddenly, a wave of fear gripped me like an arena full of sacrificial prisoners of Rome about to face a pride of ravenous captured lions. My body began to convulse in small undulations of nervous movements.

“Marcus,” I shouted above the increased din of hero worshippers lining the narrow street. “Marcus! What year is this?”

He looked at me with a contemptuous expression on his face.

“Did my prayer to Apollo not clear your head?”

“Just tell me!” I demanded.

“Very well,” he conceded. “It is the year 710.”

The number did not initially register further concern, as I took a moment to decipher its meaning. But it was Marcus’s follow-up that alarmed me.

“Seven hundred and ten years since our glorious Rome was founded,” he added.

My mind flashed instant calculations across my thoughts. Alien symbols like 44BC and 753BC challenged my subconscious thought processes, so I calculated the subtraction of the number 710 from 753. The remaining number of 43 did not indicate any significance, but something continued to nag away at me that required clarification.

“Marcus!” I once again shouted. “What month is it?”

Waving at the approaching entourage, he shouted back, “March, you drunkard!”

“What day?” I probed further.

Briefly stopping his celebration, he turned and flashed me the same concerned look on his face from earlier.

“Why, it’s the Ides, Spurrina. The Ides of March!”

“Year zero does not exist,” I blubbered.

“If you say so,” he patronisingly replied.

“Rome began in Year One,” I verbally calculated.

“Yes,” he replied - playing along.

“So, this is really Year 709, not Year 710.”

“Spurrina,” he joked. “You missed your calling in mathematics. Why don’t you tot up the bottles of wine inside, while I wait for Caesar.”

“If this is Year 709,” I pointed out. “Then 753 minus 709 is 44.”

“Remind me to commend you later on your newfound skill,” Marcus flippantly remarked.

“Don’t you see?” I urged. “This is 44BC!”

“If you say so, old friend.”

Like a flood of information drowning me with futuristic historical significance, I began to swoon from its stark images swamping my brain.

“What is it, Spurinna?” He asked, while grabbing my arm, preventing me from collapsing. “Are you not well?”

“I must speak with him.”

“Who?”

“Caesar!”

“Don’t be absurd, Spurrina. You don’t speak to Caesar unless invited.”

“Now!” I demanded.

“What’s gotten into you, my Etruscan friend.”

Grabbing Marcus by both arms, I looked directly into his eyes.

“Now!” I repeated my demand – like I was issuing an order. “If you truly believe in my foresight, you will get Caesar’s attention. He must not complete his journey today. He is in imminent danger!”

Sensing the seriousness of my trembling trepidations, Marcus gently brushed my grip of him away as Caesar’s horse was upon us. Then, looking up at the great man, he involuntarily shouted, “Long live Legio X!”

Making eye contact with Caesar, Marcus’s arm thumped his chest in salute, causing Caesar to halt his procession. Seeing Marcus waving his service sword – his Gladius - in the air, Caesar dismounted his horse, pushed his way through the crowd and stood face-to-face with a man he had not seen in nearly two years. Embracing Marcus like an old friend, Caesar turned to his entourage and explained,

“Marcus Tullius Lepius, as I breathe,” he announced. “The finest cook in my army. But for this man’s culinary skills, the battle of Alesia would have been lost long before the second wall was built.”

A chorus of laughs accompanied Caesar’s comment. Looking up at the sign outside Marcus’s eatery, Caesar gestured his approval.

“What’s cooking today, Marcus?”

“Pig,” he curtly replied.

“I presume you refer to the food and not to me?” Caesar joked.

“Caesar,” I interrupted.

“My friend, Spurrina, sir.”

“Spurrina,” Caesar repeated. “Well, any friend of Marcus here, is a friend of Caesar. Did you also serve?”

“No, Caesar,” I replied. “I come from a family of modest wealth, near to where Marcus settled into retirement.”

I paused, not knowing why I just said what I did. Am I really a Roman? My confusion did not go unnoticed.

“You look somewhat troubled, Spurrina.”

“Caesar, I beg you not to attend the senate today,” I pleaded.

“Whyever not?”

Torn between the ephemeral images planted in my head and the reality staring me in the face, I opted to play the role of a Haruspex – a seer of future events.

“I have seen a vision where death comes to you by a multitude of strikes.”

“Have you now?” Caesar placated. “Death comes to us all, Spurrina. What more noble for a warrior than by violence.”

“But you don’t understand, Caesar. It comes today on the Ides of March.”

“Good Spurrina,” Caesar dismissed. “Friend of Marcus, saviour of Rome. Perhaps the wine I see sitting on the counter has made its way to your head.”

“I speak with clarity, dear Caesar. For on this day, you have appeared to me both in life and in death.”

“Well, I am still here, Spurinna. You do realise the Ides have come?”

“But not yet gone, Caesar.”

“Have you met my wife, Calpurnia?” He asked, changing the mood.

“Your wife?”

“You both have had visions of my demise. Something in the air today, hey Marcus?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“I assure you Spurinna, that I am well protected by both praetorian guard and Marc Antony - who awaits me at the steps of the Theatre of Pompey, so I bid you fond farewell, Spurinna, the soothsayer. A pleasure to see you again, Marcus!”

“The honour is all mine, my Caesar,” Marcus replied.

Before I had a chance to stop him, Caesar was once again atop his horse and swiftly away from the mingling crowd. I watched him disappear through the tall triumphal archway leading to the Forum - straining my neck to catch one last glimpse of him.

“Spurinna, old friend,” Marcus beckoned. “Come drink with me. I will open the good wine. Come, let’s wash away your fears of the day.”

I had wanted to do more to stop Caesar from leaving, but something inside me warned me not to interfere with the timeline of history. Part of me understood, but it did not sit right with me, so I slumped dejected onto the stool in front of Marcus’s counter and wept.

“What is it, my friend? Surely, meeting Julius Caesar is not that overwhelming?”

“I am lost, Marcus,” I cried. “Where I awoke this morning, was not where the god, Somnus put me to sleep.”

“You are a citizen of Rome, my friend. This is your home! You have not wandered anywhere. Now, eat, drink, and be merry again, you old worrier.”

As I fell into the clutches of wine’s warm embrace, a foreign sense of belonging enveloped me. If indeed, I had travelled through time, what direction was my journey? Forwards and backwards, all roads seem to lead here; to Rome, so must I embrace the path the gods have laid out for me? Should I fall to my knees and ask them for help? If so, then I know of only one who can control my destiny.

“Oh, Janus,” I cry. “You are the god of beginnings, gates, transitions, time, duality, doorways, passages, frames, and endings. You alone, hold the key to the gateway between what was and what is to come. I beg of you now, to show me where my true self belongs!”

I await his answer as I muse, “How Roman of me to put my faith in the hands of the gods…”