Sincerity is a Goddess E-Book

Adam Alexander Haviaras

• Herausgeber: Eagles and Dragons Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Winner of the 2023 NYC Big Book Award's 'Distinguished Favourite' in Historical Fiction
5 Stars - Winner of the 2022 Historical Fiction Company's 'Highly Recommended Award of Excellence'!

Finalist in the 2023 Chanticleer International Book Awards’ Chaucer Award for Early Historical Fiction!

The Etrurian Players are coming! Brace yourselves!

Mortals perform a never-ending show for the Gods, and Felix Modestus, leader of the renowned Etrurian Players, feels their immortal eyes rest upon him at last.

When a mysterious goddess tells Felix that he must put on a play unlike any seen before across the Roman Empire, he quickly rallies his company to the task and heads to Rome for the Games of Apollo. However, there is a catch: the goddess demands that Felix recruit his two estranged best friends to the production.

Rufio Pagano and Clara Probita once shared Felix’s dream of theatrical greatness, but due to embarrassment and inaction, they left Felix to achieve that dream on his own. When each of them receives a mysterious letter from their old friend pleading for their help, a world of long-buried feelings brings discomfort to their stolid lives.

Will The Etrurian Players be able to give the Gods and the people of Rome a magnificent show in order to save themselves from ruin? Will Rufio and Clara pluck up the courage to face their own fears? If they don’t, Felix stands to lose his company, his friends, and the life he loves so very much!

Only with a little help from the Gods can they hope to achieve the greatness that lies within each of them.

Sincerity is a Goddess is the first book in The Etrurian Players series. It is a heartwarming story of friendship and love that takes you on a bawdy and hilarious journey through the world of ancient Rome.

If you like dramatic and romantic stories about second chances, misunderstandings, and a bit with a dog, then you will love Sincerity is a Goddess!

Read this book today for a theatrical adventure that will have you cringing, laughing, crying, and realizing that there is indeed hope for everyone. Well, almost everyone…

Leseprobe

Contents

Praise for the Author…

Join the Legions!

Sincerity is a Goddess

Dramatis Personae

Prologus

Act I

1. The Braggart’s Dream

2. A Widow’s Hope

3. A Farmer of Loneliness

Act II

4. Venus in Rome

5. A Proposition and the Past

6. Cheating Death

7. Past Fondnesses

8. Into the Fray

Act III

9. A Titanic Production

10. Cheese and Discontent

11. Falsettos and Fury

12. The Incidents with the Dog

Act IV

13. A Buried Love

14. A Stage for the Gods

15. Let the Games Begin

Act V

16. Snake!

17. Poisoned Words

18. Paganus Invictus

19. The Play

20. Nicely Done!

21. The Gods Love You

Epilogus

Thank You For Reading

Become a Patron

Author’s Note

Glossary

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Stay Connected

Praise for the Author…

Historic Novel Society:

“…Haviaras handles it all with smooth skill. The world of third-century Rome—both the city and its African outposts—is colourfully vivid here, and Haviaras manages to invest even his secondary and tertiary characters with believable, three-dimensional humanity.”

Amazon Readers:

“Graphic, uncompromising and honest… A novel of heroic men and the truth of the uncompromising horror of close combat total war…”

“Raw and unswerving in war and peace… New author to me but ranks along side Ben Kane and Simon Scarrow. The attention to detail and all the gory details are inspiring and the author doesn't invite you into the book he drags you by the nasal hairs into the world of Roman life sweat, tears, blood, guts and sheer heroism. Well worth a night’s reading because once started it’s hard to put down.”

“Historical fiction at its best! … if you like your historical fiction to be an education as well as a fun read, this is the book for you!”

“Loved this book! I'm an avid fan of Ancient Rome and this story is, perhaps, one of the best I've ever read.”

“An outstanding and compelling novel!”

“I would add this author to some of the great historical writers such as Conn Iggulden, Simon Scarrow and David Gemmell. The characters were described in such a way that it was easy to picture them as if they were real and have lived in the past, the book flowed with an ease that any reader, novice to advanced can enjoy and become fully immersed…”

“One in a series of tales which would rank them alongside Bernard Cornwell, Simon Scarrow, Robert Ludlum, James Boschert and others of their ilk. The story and character development and the pacing of the exciting military actions frankly are superb and edge of your seat! The historical environment and settings have been well researched to make the story lines so very believable!! I can hardly wait for what I hope will be many sequels! If you enjoy Roman historical fiction, you do not want to miss this series!”

Goodreads:

“… a very entertaining read; Haviaras has both a fluid writing style, and a good eye for historical detail, and explores in far more detail the faith of the average Roman than do most authors.”

SINCERITY IS A GODDESS

A Dramatic and Romantic Comedy of Ancient Rome

THE ETRURIAN PLAYERS

BOOK I

ADAM ALEXANDER HAVIARAS

SINCERITY IS A GODDESS

and The Etrurian Players series

Copyright © 2022 by Adam Alexander Haviaras

Eagles and Dragons Publishing, Stratford, Ontario, Canada

All Rights Reserved.

The use of any part of this publication, with the exception of short excerpts for the purposes of book reviews, without the written consent of the author is an infringement of copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-988309-48-4

E-pub Edition

Cover design by Eagles and Dragons Publishing

*Please note: To enhance the reader’s experience, there is a glossary of Latin words at the back of this book.

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For Angelina,

My true love, and my best friend…

SINCERITY IS A GODDESS

A Dramatic and Romantic Comedy of Ancient Rome

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Felix Modestus - popular actor, director, producer, and leader of The Etrurian Players. He is responsible for much of this.

Rufio Pagano - Felix’s boyhood friend who is always out-of-sorts and has never left Etruria.

Clara Probita - Felix and Rufio’s childhood friend. A young widow who never let go of her dreams, or her sense of guilt.

Electra - leading lady of The Etrurian Players, as well as Felix’s concubine. Do not get in her way.

Silas - the parasite and financial manager of The Etrurian Players who is also obsessed with Felix.

Julius - the well-respected veteran actor of the company.

Fausto - the newest addition to The Etrurian Players. He is young, handsome and shows a lot of promise.

Castor and Pollux - two brothers who were tradesmen but decided they wanted to be actors. They like to drink.

Damon - a muscly mute who can play the flute. The strong, silent member of the company.

Beatrice - the company’s seamstress and makeup artist. She also acts, and is easily embarrassed.

Sextus Annius Sabinus - the wealthy Roman official who is in charge of putting on the Games of Apollo in Rome. He loves theatre!

Leno - a loan shark who keeps company with goons. You do not want to get involved with this guy!

Numonius - one of the best offering sellers in Rome. He always seems to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or, maybe not.

Astarte - a rather large, scantily-clad street priestess, or beggar, depending on your point of view.

Longus - a famous poet and author who is in Rome for the Games of Apollo. He is also a friend of Felix Modestus.

Errol - Rufio’s old, inherited servant and the only worker on the dilapidated farm.

Meretrix - a cheerful prostitute who helps steer Rufio in the right direction. She knows what is going on.

Emrys - one of the best sculptors in the empire. His workshop is next to Felix’s base of theatrical operations.

Peli - a happy, but extremely naughty dog that attaches himself to Rufio. Maybe the Gods know something we do not?

Youth ages, immaturity is outgrown, ignorance can be educated, and drunkenness sobered, but stupid lasts forever.

ARISTOPHANES

PROLOGUS

Mortals are amusing to the Gods, make no mistake. To think otherwise would be to miss out on one of the great mysteries of this world. True, the Gods toy with them, manipulate and encourage them. They guide them toward their destined paths and then leave them to their own devices.

However, just as a horse cannot be made to drink, so too the Gods cannot always force mortals to place one foot before the other upon a destined course of action.

Mortals also frustrate the Gods who watch from lofty Olympian heights. They dawdle and rove, piling error upon error, ignoring what is plain and obvious to immortal eyes. Dreams, omens, and portents are not always of use, for mortals have ears only for what they wish and what is most easy. They have eyes only for what is directly before them. Oh yes, they are an endless source of frustration and bewilderment.

And yet, like errant children who heap mistakes upon misfortune, having ignored divine grace and intent, they are often welcomed back anew.

They are often the creators of their own suffering, and the Gods are the arbiters of that great stage upon which humanity plays itself out.

However, heroes do rise up and, on occasion, even Olympus takes notice and applauds. Boldness among mortals does indeed earn Fortuna’s favour.

It is a mad world that mortals inhabit, but when Love and Happiness burn brightly in hearts and minds, then those are moments to be cherished. Those moments are often missed, or ignored, but they are there, and repeatedly, for the Gods do have a weakness for their mortal children. They do not wish to see the death of any man, woman, or child’s genius, though it often happens.

Thus, Sincerity is perhaps the most important of all, when it comes to mortals and their ways, for she is a beacon upon the dark road they tread upon the Earth.

What follows is the story of three friends who lost sight of Sincerity’s beacon and of each other.

As has been stated, however, we welcome back our children, for love, for laughter, and not a little entertainment. And so, these three wanderers are brought back together for another chance at their destined lives…

ACT I

THEIR SHADOW LIVES

I

THE BRAGGART’S DREAM

203 CE

It was a new year. Janus’ door had only just opened onto a fresh array of opportunities there for the taking. In the dim winter light of that new day, when marble was more grey than white, and the sky a paler blue than Thracian eyes, the streets of Ephesus were unusually quiet. The revels of the long night had only just recently faded, and masters and slaves alike dozed in wine-soaked slumber wherever - and with whomever - they had fallen.

In a richly-adorned domus on the hill above the great theatre, the scent of eastern incense and Gaulish wine still lingered in the air and pooled upon the mosaic floors of every room where bodies lay in tangled heaps, as if in the aftermath of a great battle. It was in one such room that the company of actors from the previous night’s much-lauded performance lay scattered with other guests upon the couches and cushions of the long, gilded triclinium.

It would have been difficult to ascertain where one person ended and another began, for Bacchus had shown no mercy the previous night whilst Eros fired indiscriminately into their riotous ranks.

From beneath a particularly tangled pile of bodies surrounded by low-burning braziers, Felix Modestus, the owner and great captain of The Etrurian Players, as they were known, opened his eyes groggily from beneath the trellis of naked limbs under which he found himself. Without moving, he took stock of his surroundings. There were the twin flute girls who had played upon various pipes the whole evening. There was the Nubian acrobat, whose great skill had so bewitched them all, and the female slave of the rich merchant and his mistress whose domus it was. The hosts lay entwined with the others, not having been spared the effects of the excellent vintage.

Felix Modestus lay there, still, buried beneath the colourful array of his fellow celebrants, and it reminded him of how, as a youth, he would bury himself beneath the autumn leaves amongst the rolling hills of his home in Etruria.

That thought of home reminded him of something, and he began to panic as he sought to remember.

I had a dream!

Beside him, his concubine, Electra, groaned and wrapped her body about his.

Felix turned, looked at her and smiled, but the thought of his dream drew him back.

From his other side, a flatulent echo burst from the grey buttocks of Silas, Felix’s slave who was also the company’s account manager. He was good with numbers, but it never failed that Silas would sidle up to Felix mid-debauch, only to be pushed away.

With a thick arm, not easily freed, Felix reached up and pushed at the full moon so that it tumbled from atop the mound of bodies to roll beneath a nearby table.

His broad chest began to rise and fall more strongly then, and his eyes darted.

Such a dream! Etruria…a play… The threads of his reverie began to reveal themselves slowly, and the more his mind pulled at them, the more the whole of the plot unravelled.

Felix Modestus was not usually one to panic, but in that moment of remembrance, he did. He pushed up with his muscular arms to clear a path, his eyes locked on the soaring Corinthian columns of lapis and gold, and rose up from the fleshy mound like a naked Hercules.

All about him, people groaned at his action, but they fell back into their inebriated slumbers upon the floor and couches.

Sensing her missing dominus, Electra sat up, her long dark hair falling about her shoulders, and her sleepy, dark eyes seeking his. “Why are you so awake?” she whispered. “What is wrong?” she asked, seeing the wild look in his brown eyes.

Felix did not answer her, but took her extended hand and pulled, raising her up out of the fleshpot. Searching the couches, he found his red and gold tunica and marched over the celebration’s detritus of bodies and broken crockery toward the flapping curtains that led onto a balustrade overlooking the city. There, he relieved himself over the edge, his mind swimming. When finished, he slid his tunica over his head and scratched at his thick beard in thought. He leaned on the railing, his eyes falling over the theatre of Ephesus where he had received the greatest of applause of his career; Lysistrata was always a crowd-pleaser and Electra, as usual, had outdone herself with her performance, despite her protestations that they should have performed a tragedy.

Felix shook his head and tore his eyes away from the theatre below. His head reeled from the vast amounts of wine he had drunk, the spinning, the dancing, the social intercourse he had upheld long into the night. His mind stretched into the fog of that winter morning to search for the dream. He gazed at the risen sun in the distance and there, then, he began to remember.

He felt Electra come up to him, her naked body pressed against his muscular bulk.

“What is it, Felix?” she asked.

“The Gods sent me a dream last night…or was it one god in particular? I don’t know!” He did not look at her, but stared out over the Ephesian streets that had been so raucous the night before, but which were now supremely silent. It was eerie and discomfiting, and if Electra had not been by his side, he might have thought he was still dreaming. “I dreamed that… No… It can’t be!”

“What?” Electra pressed, her voice growing impatient. “What did you dream? Are you still drunk?” Electra stepped back. “It was that flute girl, wasn’t it? She kept pressing the cup to your lips and-“

“Stop it, woman!” Felix barked. “Let me think!” He paced along the balustrade a couple of times, then stopped and looked at Electra.

She smiled at him.

“There was a letter!” he said quickly. “Someone gave it to me after the performance last night!”

Her smile faded. “Yes,” she confirmed. “The letter from Rome. From the…adu…lite… I think.”

Felix shook his head. “From the aedile!” he over enunciated the word for her benefit. “I told you to leave Latin alone in the mornings. Stick with your Greek!”

“If you don’t speak nicely to me, I will withhold my favours like Lysistrata!” she threatened.

“Whatever shall I do?” he said dramatically, sweeping his hand over the naked room behind them. “I need that letter!” he said before rushing back inside and searching for his belongings in a far corner beside an errant couch. “Gods, what a night!” he said as he spied his mute stagehand, Damon, sleeping bent over the edge of the couch with his own aulos protruding from his arse. Felix yanked the instrument out and tossed it onto cushions before rummaging through the satchels in the corner. There he found his own and pulled the papyrus scroll free. He unrolled it again and leaned in close to a nearby brazier the better to see. Felix mumbled as he read, his eyes scanning the words. When he finished, he felt his heart pounding within his ribcage.

“Did you find it?” Electra said as she approached, now wearing a long robe she had picked up from the floor. “Felix?”

He looked at her, his face white, his eyes wide as his massive shoulders rose and fell.

“Tell me of your dream,” she said.

He wanted to. Electra always had a knack, a gift really, for deciphering the Gods’ messages in dreams. This time, however, he was shaken. “The Gods have given me a warning.”

“What warning?” she pressed, reaching out to place her long, lithe hands upon his chest to calm his raging heart. “Tell me,” she whispered, kissing his cheek.

Felix Modestus stared out to the sky and, with the letter grasped in his hand, made his way across the New Year’s battlefield. Once outside, he could breathe the fresh air and feel the emergent sun.

Electra followed and they both stood looking out once more.

“I think it was a goddess…or a god… I don’t know!” He was frustrated and flustered, but he pressed on. “They told me I am to go to Rome. I must.”

“The invitation in the letter from the…aedile?” she forced herself to say the word correctly, and that calmed him.

“Yes. I must accept. I must put on a specific play…a comedy-“

“Not another comedy!” she protested. “What play?”

“Shhh!” he put up his hand, trying to find the words. “I can’t? It won’t be possible!” he said to himself.

“You are the greatest actor in the empire, Felix. There is no play which you cannot successfully put on. Why are you so scared?”

“It’s just… It will be very awkward in many ways. But the Gods have clearly shown me. This performance in Rome must be perfect in every way. Exactly as they have directed.”

“They showed you the outcome?” she asked, her voice hesitant now as she touched the mati necklace about her neck, the eye that watched over her always.

“The Gods have told me exactly what I must do,” he said. “If I don’t…” He stopped speaking and looked into her eyes. “If I don’t…then I will die.”

They were both silent for a few moments, robbed thoroughly of speech.

Electra stood tall then, for she could see he needed her strength. She held his face in her hands. “I don’t want to lose you. Whatever the Gods want from you, you must do it. You can do it!”

He nodded. “I must write letters at once!” Energized once again, he spun and went back into the triclinium where the household slaves were starting to clean around the prostrate bodies, trying not to laugh at the compromising positions in which the guests were found, or nibbling at the remnants of the feast, emptying the leftover cups of their residuals.

Felix found their host, the rich merchant, and bent down to speak to him. “I need to use your tablinum to write some letters urgently,” he said, trying to shake the man awake.

When the merchant did not move, Felix erupted. “Your tablinum, man! Where is it?” Several people jolted awake, including the merchant who turned over and vomited.

Wiping his mouth, the merchant looked up at the man standing over him. “It was a wondrous performance last night,” he said.

“Of course, it was!” Felix bellowed. “Now, your tablinum. Where is it? I must write!”

The merchant snapped his fingers at one of his nearby slaves. “Show Felix Modestus to the tablinum and give him whatever he needs.”

“Yes, Dominus.” The slave boy bowed unnoticed by his master who fell back to the ground. He then turned to Felix and Electra. “I will show you the way.”

They followed the slave out of the triclinium and down a corridor to the peristylium garden where more party-goers slept upon the grass or leaned against the citrus trees. One man splashed his face in the fountain whilst a likeness of Cupid urinated onto his bald head. On the other side of the gardens they crossed the atrium and came to a large, bronze door which the slave opened for Felix.

“There are papyrus sheets, styli and ink upon the table,” the slave said.

“Good,” Felix replied. “Now, summon a courier for me and gather some coin to pay the man.”

“Of course,” the slave said before running out. He knew his master would do anything requested by Felix Modestus now, for in receiving The Etrurian Players in his own home, he would be the talk of Ephesus.

Felix sat down at the table while Electra poured water and wine from a silver pitcher into golden cups that sat upon the broad surface of the yellow marble table.

Felix spun his seal ring with the masks around his finger a couple of times. He dipped the stylus into the ink pot and, for a moment, his shaking hand hovered above the page. Then, he began a furious scribbling and did not stop for some time.

As Electra watched, she wondered what god or goddess had spoken to him in such a way as to set so blazing a fire alight beneath him.

Some time later, after the letters, and no small amount of the merchant’s coin, had been given into the hands of a courier, Felix and Electra entered the triclinium once again to find their company still lying about.

“Gods, what a motley bunch,” he muttered. “Apollo hide your eyes from such poor players as these.” Felix waded into the middle of the room. “Wake up!” he shouted, his deep, bellowing voice echoing off of the columns and painted cedar ceiling. “Get up, all of you! Now!”

Felix went about, slapping faces, and kicking bodies he recognized. “Julius, Beatrice…” he called to the old veteran and his seamstress who were already dressed and eating at one of the tables. “Help us get everyone up.”

“Yes, Dominus!” Beatrice said, helping the aged Julius up from his stool.

“Castor, Pollux!” Felix threw an orange at the two brothers who were tangled up with several women. “Fausto!” he called to the youngest member of the company. “Rouse Damon for me!”

“Yes, Dominus,” Fausto groaned, brushing back his long hair from his face and searching for his tunica among the previous night’s companions.

“Silas!” Felix shouted at the actor and account manager. “Get up, Silas!”

Silas turned his jaundiced face and bulging eyes to look up at Felix and smiled. “What a night,” he groaned. “A great victory, Felix.”

“Of course it was. But now, we are for another battle!” Felix roared.

“Can we not sleep a bit longer?” Castor said.

“No! You may not!” Felix bellowed, supremely impatient now. “Get up or I will sell the lot of you!”

More quickly now, the company rose and dressed, and wiped the sleep from their eyes as the other guests rolled over and went back to sleep, or slinked off to the latrines, anything to save their aching heads from the angry man in their midst.

Once the company were all on their feet, swaying where they stood before Felix and Electra, Silas spoke up. “What’s amiss, Dominus?”

“Yes, tell us,” Pollux added, confusedly pulling long strands of blonde hair from his dark beard.

Felix, his arms crossed, looked over his group of gathered players and shook his head. “Look at you…”

The group looked at each other, their dishevelled hair, the stibium-streaked faces, and the strong but slow Damon who had not yet found his tunica.

“You look like you just came out of a tavern brawl, the lot of you…”

The cast lowered their heads, all of them but Silas who furrowed his grey brow.

Then, Felix smiled. “You look like you brawled…and WON!” He began to laugh, his thick shoulders rising and falling as he looked upon his hearty crew. “You all performed excellently last night. Congratulations!”

There were a few sighs of relief, smiles all around, nudges and nods.

“But,” Felix continued, “it will not be enough for our next production.”

“What do you mean?” Julius said, brushing back his grey and blond hair and pinching the bridge of his thin, aquiline nose. “As the veteran here, I thought we did supremely well, especially Electra,” he smiled at her, but Felix held up his hand.

“It was fine, but not perfect. Not nearly enough for what comes next.”

“What is next?” Silas asked, his big eyes more alert now.

“The Etrurian Players have been invited to perform in Rome during this year’s Ludi Apollinares!”

The company gasped, their aches and spinning heads quite forgotten.

“We’re going to Rome?” Fausto said, hugging Beatrice beside him.

“That’s right!” Felix said. “And it will be the performance of our lives!”

The company burst out in excited chatter, for it was something they had all wanted and dreamed of as they travelled to, and performed in, the cities of the Middle Sea.

“So,” Felix said above their hubbub. “Gather your things, and get to the baths to wash last night’s wine and celebration from your bodies! We leave for Rome on the first ship available! Quickly, there’s no time to waste!”

“IO! IO!” they all shouted, as Damon jumped about naked, his flute in hand, ready to play them a tune for dancing.

“Damon!” Felix called out to the mute. “You may want to wash your reed!”

II

A WIDOW’S HOPE

It had been a mild winter on the plains and hills outside of Syracusae that year. The tang of the sea could be tasted on one’s lips. It mingled with the bitter smell of the olive presses that dotted the land between that ancient bastion of Hellenism all the way to the slopes of angry Etna far to the North.

Not a few merchants had found enormous success in Sicilia, with easy access to the sea, but enough distance from Rome to more easily avoid certain political figures eager to tax others’ success. Sicilia was a world unto itself, and Syracusae more so. It was beautiful, and ancient, and very proud. Those who called it home rarely thought of leaving.

But Syracusae had never truly been home to Clara Probita. People whispered in agora and upon the temple steps of Syracusae that she was the youngest widow they had ever seen. Some believed she had worked her much older husband to death in the cubiculum of their vast villa near the sea, and others wagged their tongues in saying that she had poisoned his olives.

None of the rumours were true, of course, but during the Winter in Syracusae, people needed to entertain themselves, and that entertainment, more often than not, took the form of cruel gossip.

Clara Probita, however, paid them no mind. She had never been a local, and never felt welcome.

On that temperate day in Februarius, she sat upon the terrace of her large, lonely villa gazing out to the cold blue sea, retracing the steps of her life, and finally allowing herself to indulge in the remembrances she had for so long tucked away. Wrapped in a long woollen cloak, she sat upon a cushioned couch, sipping golden wine from Samos from a silver cup, dipping wedges of apple into the sweet nectar. The wind played with the strands of her slightly-curled, golden hair which she occasionally brushed aside. Her wide, inquisitive, grey eyes took in the details of her surroundings, but what they truly sought in that moment were the green and gold hills of Etruria and the once-happy memories that she had previously exorcised from her mind.

Clara had been the only daughter of an Etrurian trader who was, and always had been, supremely disappointed in having been given a sole daughter, and losing his wife in the birthing of that same daughter. He had made it known to her throughout her youth, and so, after an escapade in Rome in which she had run off with her two best friends - the worst sort of people, according to her father - he had sold her off to an older trading partner of his in Syracusae.

There had been a time when Clara would have fought that. She was never one to give way in an argument. But things had happened in Rome during her brief escapade that encouraged her to accept her father’s commands. She had surrendered, and never been comfortable with it, no matter how much she felt she deserved it.

The Gods, however, had been kind to Clara in that the man she had been fobbed off on turned out to be kind of heart and gentle of speech. Much more so than her own father. Her new husband, a successful Syracusan olive merchant by the name of Aeson, had met her in Pisae one year when she happened to be there with her father for his dealings. Aeson, a childless widower himself, saw how cruel Clodius Probito was with his lovely daughter and so, after that encounter, put forth a proposal to marry the young girl without the need for a dowry.

Clara’s father jumped at the offer and was at last rid of the unwanted girl who did nothing but remind him of his dead wife.

What Probito did not know, however, was that although officially Aeson had married Clara, what he really had gained was the daughter he had never had but always wanted. He explained as much to Clara on their journey from Pisae to Syracusae and she, somewhat relieved, acquiesced to the arrangement he proposed. In public, they would act as husband and wife, but at home, she would be his daughter, learning all that she could from him about the trading and farming operations that had made him a very rich man.

After three years, Aeson died peacefully in his bed as Clara held his hand. Despite what the locals said, no lustful acrobatics had taken his life, nor the tang of poisoned olives. It had been old age. Nothing more. But Clara took comfort in the fact they had made each other happy for a time, in a familial sort of way, and she had been there to hold his hand as he passed gently into Elysium.

At first, Clara had only felt shock and sadness. She believed the Gods were punishing her for past actions and betrayals which she rarely visited in the confines of her mind. After a period of mourning, however, she took it upon herself to honour Aeson’s kindness and ensure that his legacy thrived, for he had left everything to her - the business, the land, the villa, the ships, servants - everything. He had made her a very wealthy woman, and yet, she was never comfortable with the idea. She had never wanted to be a trader, though she made a success of it, emboldened by the fact that under Roman law she could keep the lands, business and money bequeathed to her.

After another three years, Clara was as lonely as ever, and in her loneliness she began to revisit long lost memories from when she and her very best of friends had roamed in Etrurian idyll.

It was the eruption of mount Etna to the North that made her sit up and take notice of her situation and the incessant dissatisfaction in which she found herself. She took the eruption as a sign that she needed to wake up and begin living again.

It was that realization that had caused her to sell everything - the business, the ships, the land, and the villa - to the highest bidder, so that she could return to Etruria to build a new life on her own.

A new life.

It was a strange concept and an even scarier prospect. That very morning, Clara Probita had put her seal to the final documents which the steward of her latifundium had brought her. She had three more days in the place that had been her home for six years, and then she would take ship for Pisae.

The slaves and farm workers were sad to see their domina leave, for they had loved her for her kindness and generosity. As a final gesture, Clara had freed them and given them the option of leaving or staying on with the new dominus whom, she assured them, was also kind and fair. She had seen to that.

Many were undecided on that account, but they did stay to see her off.

It was a strange thing to be sitting there upon the terrace, looking out to sea, waiting to leave, waiting to begin anew. The servants wept at the prospect of her departure and, though she too was saddened to leave them, she also felt great comfort in the certainty of her decision. She had made offerings to her departed Aeson and knew that his spirit was content with the length of time that she had remained after he died.

Taking another sip of her wine, Clara picked up a scroll she had been wanting to read entitled Daphnis and Chloe. It was written by a new, upcoming writer named Longus, and had something to do with youths who fall in love but who are separated by gruelling circumstance before being reunited. Clara unrolled the scroll and began to read aloud…

“When I was hunting in Lesbos, I saw in the grove of the Nymphs a spectacle the most beauteous and pleasing of any that ever yet I cast my eyes upon.” Oh, I’m going to enjoy this! she thought, taking pleasure in the utterance of such smooth and lovely words. “It was a painted picture, reporting a history love. The grove indeed was very-“

“Domina! Domina!”

Clara Probita sighed as the sweet words were stopped at the edge of her tongue by one of the servants rushing up from within the domus behind her, his feet padding quickly along the marble floor. “Yes, Dematos,” she said. “What is it?”

The slave boy arrived panting, waving a round leather case. He bowed and handed it to her, his dark curls sweaty about his brow from his running.

“Catch your breath and tell me what this is,” Clara said, sitting up now.

The boy stood up. “A courier just brought this… He said he has been sent from Ephesus in all urgency.”

“Does he require an answer?” Clara asked.

The boy shook his head. “He did not say as much, Domina. Only that it was urgent.”

“Is he still here? Does he know who sent it?”

“He is gone, Domina. I did not ask who sent it.”

“Very well,” Clara said, smiling. “You have done well, Dematos. But now I wish for you to relax. Calm yourself. You are the newest addition to this household, and you have yet to learn the ways. But remember, when you bring your new dominus something like this, be quick, but do not make him nervous. Be quick, efficient, and most of all, calm.”

“Yes, Domina. I am sorry.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Do not be sorry. All is well.” She looked at the leather tube in her hands. “I will read this alone. You may go.”

The boy bowed and left at a run.

Clara Probita chuckled to herself but her smile quickly faded as she looked down at the courier’s tube. “Who could this be from?”

It was a good question. The only people she was acquainted with were some of the citizens of Syracusae, who rarely deigned to write to her, and then other merchants, some of which were based in Ephesus. But they had already written final missives to her in the wake of her sale of the business.

She pulled the cap off of the leather tube and tipped out the contents.

A rolled papyrus fell out into her lap. It was tied with a red, silk ribbon, and sealed with a deep blue waxen image of tragic and comic masks. She did not recognized the seal, but for some reason it gave her pause, a fluttering in her stomach.

She broke the seal and stretched out the papyrus to read to herself…

To Clara Probita,

From your admiring friend across the sea, Felix Modestus.

Love and Greetings.

Clara gasped at the words. “Felix?” she said aloud, her voice at once nervous and incredulous. Her heart pounded and the fluttering became a thrumming as she read on.

My dear… It has been many years since we last spoke. Even though much time has passed, I have thought of you daily in my travels. It is not without some jealously that I have wondered if married life has been kind to you, and if the man to whom you were sold as wife was fitting.

I know that much has been left unsaid between us since that day in Rome so long ago. It seems another lifetime, but I remember it as though it were yesterday. How the Gods play with us!

You may be wondering why, after all this time, I should write to you.

It is a long and complicated tale to tell, and one which I would rather relay to you in person. Suffice it to say that the Gods have sent me a sign, and I am taking it most seriously.

I need you, Clara. Desperately. In all honesty, it is a matter of life and death.

I do not know when this might reach you, though I have paid handsomely for a speedy delivery. But I hope it is in time for you to travel to Rome.

“Rome?” Clara said aloud when she read that. That one word conjured so many memories for her, and the fact that she read it as she was holding a missive written by Felix Modestus was, well, disquieting.

I pray that - and as the Gods command - that you will be able to come to Rome to meet me on the Kalends of Aprilis, on the first day of Veneralia.

“For the festival of Venus?” If Clara was nervous before, she was positively sweating now. “Why does he want me to meet him in Rome of all places? And at such a time!”

I know that perhaps after so much has happened, your inclination will be in the opposite direction of Rome, of all places. But please trust me, your old friend, when I say that you will not regret it. As you know, I am rarely afraid of anything in this world, but for what the Gods have shown me this time, I need your help.

If you decide to come - and I pray that you do - meet me in the evening at the Taberna Macedonica near the theatre of Marcellus, on the Kalends of Aprilis. I will explain everything to you at that time.

I look forward to seeing you again, my dear.

With all my love and affection.

Felix

Clara’s hands fell into her lap gripping the papyrus. Her head spun with what she had just read - so urgent, so forthright, so worrying.

“What has he got himself into?” she wondered, suddenly very fearful for her old friend.

The mixture of feelings that letter brought about threatened to unravel all of the certainty she had only just felt that morning. Her new life had not even begun and yet, here was an obstacle. There was a part of her that wanted to decline, to leave the past in the past. There was a lot of pain there, but Clara also remembered much joy, the only happiness in her depressing youth.

Felix had always dominated the space about them. He had been her protector, her confidante, and then…in Rome…

She shook her head and stood to look out over the fields toward the dazzling blue of the sea. The wind played about her unblemished face, toying with the strands of her hair as she considered the letter, as she realized that her heart had already decided, despite the more reluctant pace of her mind in coming to the same conclusion.

“Perhaps the Gods have set this scroll in my hands at exactly this moment for a reason?” she wondered aloud, biting her lip. She remembered Felix fondly, but also with a measure of guilt that had never fully gone away. She picked up her cup of wine, took a deep sip, and set it back upon the pedestal table beside her couch.

“If he is in danger, I must help him,” she decided, immediately feeling some weight lifted. “I can then apologize to him, and let him down gently.”

She tried to remember that foggy night in Rome, so long ago, and realized that it had been gnawing at her heart over the years.

“Now the Gods are giving me a chance to set things right…with Felix, anyway.” She rolled up the letter and put it back in the leather tube. “Etruria will have to wait.”

Leaning upon the marble railing overlooking the fields and sea, Clara Probita turned to look upon the vast villa where she had spent the last six years. She had happy memories in that place, but she was content with leaving it behind. It was time.

“Aristaeus!” she called to the estate steward whom she knew was not far off, completing the documents for the transfer of property with the new owners.

The older man emerged from the corridor to the right, and she could see that he had been weeping silently, for he too had appreciated her kindness over the years, and the care with which Aeson had nurtured her. “Yes, Domina?” he said, straightening his long white tunica and belt.

“May I ask one last favour of you, Aristaeus?”

He looked aghast that she should even ask. “Anything, Domina! Anything at all!”

She smiled sadly at his bowed head. “Please go into Syracusae and change my passage. I am not going to Pisae.”

“Where are you heading, Domina?” he asked.

“Ostia, Aristaeus. I’m going to Rome.”

The steward backed away, bowing before going to take care of it.

Clara Probita turned to lean upon the railing again, the leather tube clutched tightly in her long, pale fingers.

III

A FARMER OF LONELINESS

It was a cool morning in Etruria, but the month of Martius had arrived with its usual stomp to awaken the living from their winter slumbers. Birds flit and sang in the still-naked branches of the trees, and boar ranged over the hills and through the forests. Farmers began to prepare their fields, ploughing the loamy depths of their lands for the Spring planting, seeking the blessings of Mars and Ceres by placing offerings upon their hidden altars wherever men lived by the land.

Men and servants tended to the dormant olive groves, fields, and vineyards from the moment the sun’s chariot broke over the horizon to the moment it fell over the far edge of the world. It was a busy time in that idyllic Etrurian world, from the smallest holding to the largest latifundium, but on one farm in particular, the altars to the Gods were cold, the soil untilled, the trees unclipped, the vines tangled and wild.

At the base of the northern slope of a tree-topped hill, a small farm and its owner had slept in after the Winter pause, though the cock crowed at all hours to rouse its distracted owner.

If one was close enough to that ramshackle plot of land in the hilly wilds between Florentia and Saena Iulia, one would have heard the harsh sound of digging at the edge of the owner’s property, accented by the muttered grumblings of one Rufio Pagano who, in that very moment, was digging a grave for his recently departed father beside the long, weedy pathway that led from the main road.

Rufio Pagano was not a large man. He was quite average and lean for a farmer, if you could call him that. Whilst his neighbours had armies of slaves to labour upon the land, Rufio endeavoured to do it all himself, especially since his father’s mind had quit the world before his body, leaving a cantankerous old man behind to torture and tease his only son.

“Come-on, Ginger boy! Work faster! Everything will rot at this rate!” his father would say, clapping wildly as he did so.

There was no end to the insults and berating of this paternal lunatic who shouted incessantly from beneath the loggia of their run-down domus where mice were more in charge. Still, Rufio knew that he could not shame his father into lifting a gnarled finger to help in any capacity, for he was more likely to use a plough to cut a loaf of bread than to till the soil beside the spindly trees in the olive grove.

“The senator on the other side of the hill is a better farmer than you!” Rufio’s father would say.

“Yes, Father,” he would answer and then, under his breath, “The senator is also a wealthy cunnus and has an army of slaves to help.”

“Don’t you talk to me in that way!” his father would shout having, for some inexplicable reason, heard the muttered words from a great distance.

“Yes, Father,” Rufio would answer.

It was strange then to be digging so resolutely that morning whilst the fire of his father’s pyre still burned and consumed his remains. But dig Rufio did, beside the long-overgrown grave of his mother who had passed away close to seven years before.

Rufio stopped digging for a moment and wiped his forehead of the cold sweat that had gathered beneath the fringe of his receding red hair. He shook his dirty tunica off and rubbed the dirt from his short beard. The sun broke through the clouds then and he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to imagine that he was not doing what he was doing, but sitting indoors by a warm hearth fire reading one of his favourite plays. He had set out his treasured scrolls that very morning upon the pigeon hole shelf in what was now his tablinum.

Rufio, despite growing up in the Etrurian hills, had never wanted to be a farmer, but he was always told that it was his destiny to do so. Of course he had. No, what Rufio had always wanted as a child was to be a player, to act alongside his two childhood friends. Together, they had performed their own mimes upon a makeshift stage hidden away on the wooded slopes nearby, and on warm, bright summer days, one could hear their excited proclamations and dialogues echo to the blue sky above.

When he had got older, Rufio and his friends had attempted to make good on their dream by leaving Etruria behind and heading to Rome to seek employment and opportunity. It was a heady time for them, two lads and a girl, to wade into the sweaty press of flesh and colour of the empire’s capital.

It had all, however, come to naught for Rufio, for his mother had passed suddenly and he was forced to abandon that naive and childish dream of performing and writing for the masses in the streets of Rome.

When he returned to Etruria, walking up the drive to the small domus, he remembered his father standing in the path clapping wildly as he approached. “There you go!” his father had said. “You have your applause! Now bury your mother!”

It was from that moment that Pagano Pater began to clap whenever Rufio came or went from his presence. “Now, you are an actor!” he would scoff. “You should read Cato! Not Terence or those despicable Greeks!”

He never heard from his old friends again and became comfortable with his anonymous excellence, waiting for a time when he would show his father. But he never did. Eventually, it got to the point where no-one but his father and Errol, the servant, remembered him. He did not bother with others, for he had too much responsibility, and not a little regret.

Rufio Pagano wiped his face again and looked at the fire that now consumed his father’s remains and, for some strange reason, he began to clap at it.

“Master Rufio!” his old servant, Errol, chided from beside the fire where he had been tossing more oil and wood upon it to feed the flames’ intensity. “Why do you clap so?”

Rufio looked at the balding dotard he had inherited and felt a little shame. “Sorry, Errol! Sorry. I thought Father might appreciate the applause,” he added sarcastically.

Errol shook his head and wiped his tears away, the wind playing with the grey whips of his long, grey hair at the back of his head. “Such disrespect.”

Rufio wondered why Errol should weep so, for his father had never really been nice to him, especially since the death of his mother. She had always been the source of jollity in their small familia, but since her passing they were but a chorus in a tragedy.

Rufio looked askance at his mother’s tombstone and saw that it was spattered with dirt from his digging. He went over to it, bent, and wiped it clean with his hand before taking the jug of wine he had been drinking from and pouring a libation over the grave. “Maybe you can cheer him up in the Afterlife, Mother.” He smiled sadly for a moment, then felt something nudge his thigh. He turned to find his loyal donkey, Stella, leaning into him and he pat her furry grey head and long ears. “It’s all right, girl,” he told the animal. “From now on, I’ll do better at this.”

Rufio had tried to take over the farming operation after his mother passed, but even he had to admit that he was hopeless at it. It was dark on the northern slope of the hill, there was blight in one of the fields, and no matter how much he encouraged them, the olive trees and grape vines refused to grow more than a little every season. His days were spent going over the list of problems he had to solve rather than harvesting the fruits of his half-hearted labour. They had eggs aplenty, and a preponderance of mushrooms in the dark wood up the hill, but that was about it. He had become more adept at catching rabbits, however, and the occasional boar, so there was meat often enough.

Much of his time was also spent putting off the aggressive approaches of the equestrian senator on the other side of the hill who wanted to buy their land. If anything, his father had been good at turning back their rich neighbour’s advances. “Thinks he can suck up all the land around here for himself because his dead ancestors lord it over us from the tomb at the top of the hill!” his father had said after every interaction with the senator. “He’s got another thing coming!”

“I’ll have to deal with that now too,” Rufio muttered as he turned to take up the shovel again and get back to digging. He could hear Errol weeping aloud. His father’s death seemed to have caused chaos on the land, for not only was the servant weeping for his departed jailer, but their old horse had escaped that very morning, and two of the cows had fallen in the stream and found it extremely difficult to right themselves. They were all drunk with grief, all except Rufio who, in that moment, would have welcomed a bit of Bacchic inebriation.

Still, a part of him was relieved that the Gods had decided it was his father’s time. He knew it to be a horrible sentiment, but when the guilt would start to eat at him, he had only to remember his father laughing at him and clapping, shouting “Only whores are actors!” and “Nobody pays for a ginger whore!” Remembering such paternal encouragements usually assuaged his guilt speedily.

“Right!” Rufio said to Stella the donkey. “Let’s get this done!” He took up the shovel again, and jumped into the hole to dig the last few bits of dirt. As soon as he was finished, a scream ripped through the air and Rufio jumped out of the hole.

“Master Rufio!” Errol shouted. “The hog has broken loose again!”

Rufio emerged onto the surrounding grass in time to see their one large sow charging across the field toward the lane for yet another escape attempt. “Oh no you don’t!” Rufio yelled, bursting into a run parallel to the portly pig. Ravens seemed to guffaw in the surrounding trees as they watched the scene below, but this did not distract Rufio from his attack.

Their course turned as the sow avoided him, and they headed back toward Stella and Errol who stood near the newly dug hole.

When Rufio was alongside the speeding sow, he lunged onto her back and held on for dear life. “I’ve got you!”

The animal carried her master a short distance before her short legs buckled and they both went down in the mound of dirt which Rufio had only recently laboured at. Amid a cacophony of squeals, grunts and screams, Rufio, in a surprisingly-deft act of athleticism, quickly unbuckled the cingulum from his waist and strapped it around the hog’s legs.

The sow ceased her wriggling and looked up at him with her accusing eyes as Rufio stroked her head to calm her.

“It’s all right, girl,” he said, his breathing heavy and ragged. “All I ever wanted to do was leave this place.”

For a moment, she was calm and Rufio saw the quizzical looks upon his servant and donkey’s faces. The moment he looked away, however, the hog bucked, flexing like a singular giant muscle, and swept Rufio’s legs from beneath him so that he fell backwards into the dark depths of his father’s waiting grave!

For a moment, Rufio Pagano lay upon his back looking up at the cold blue sky above. He groaned and wondered why he had dug such a large whole for so small an urn, and in that moment, he thought he could hear his father clapping at him. “I’ll just lie here then,” he said to himself. “Go to sleep and not get up. And so the curtain falls on the last of the Pagano family!”

For a few minutes, he listened to the crackling of the funeral pyre which, he assumed Errol was tending to rather than helping him remove himself from the earth. Then, another sound broke into his nightmare. The sound of galloping.

The hoofbeats which Rufio heard were of a younger, more swift animal than that which had escaped that morning. There was a loud neighing as the rider pulled on the reins, and muted voices when Errol approached the newcomer.

“I have a message for Rufio Pagano!” the rider said, panting.

“He’s napping!” Rufio heard Errol reply. A moment later, Errol’s tear-stained and wrinkled face appeared over the edge of the grave to look down at Rufio, then Stella’s - the donkey had a more worried look than Errol - and then the courier who held out a leather tube.

“Are you Rufio Pagano?” the man said, pushing back his woollen cloak.

“Unfortunately, yes. I am,” Rufio said, not making a move to stand.

“Well what are you doing in that hole?” the man asked.

“Resting,” Rufio replied. “And it’s a grave.”

“Rather large, isn’t it?” the courier looked over Rufio’s handiwork. He waited a moment for a reply, but when he received none, he cleared his throat. “Is it for you?”

“The letter?” Rufio asked.

“Yes. No!” The courier scratched his head. “Yes. The letter is for you, if you are Rufio Pagano.”

“I already told you I am,” Rufio said, feeling quite damp and uncomfortable now.

“I meant the grave. Is it for you for future use? You seem to be testing its comfort,” the man said.

“No!” Rufio barked. “It’s not for me. It’s for my father.”

“Where is he then?” the man asked.

“In the fire.”

Errol cried out loud at that and began to weep anew.

Stella looked sidelong at the servant, her ears back at the howling that emanated from his shaking lips.

The courier looked at the fire and made a sign against evil before turning back to Rufio. “Do you want this letter or no? I’ve come all the way from Ephesus with it.”

“Ephesus?” Rufio sat up at that, suddenly very curious, for he did not know anyone in Ephesus. He did not think so anyway. “Can you help me out?” he asked the courier.

The man set down the leather tube and leaned forward to give Rufio his hands. He pulled with a grunt and extricated the son from his father’s grave.

“Careful of the pig,” Rufio said as the sow began to buck again. “She’s relentless.”

The courier stepped back and took up the leather tube which he handed to Rufio.

“Do you need a reply?” Rufio asked.

The man shook his head as he brushed the dirt from his bracae and cloak. “No. Just to deliver it.”

“Do you want water and food before you go?” Rufio asked, seeing as the man had obviously come a very long way.

The courier looked down the lane at the ramshackle domus just as a clay tegula slid from the roof and broke into pieces on the ground. “Na. Must be going,” he said, moving toward his horse. “I’ll eat at the tavern.”

Rufio shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said as the man mounted up and sped away. “Ephesus?” he queried himself. He was about to break open the container and read when Errol addressed him.

“Master Rufio. The fire has done its work.”

Rufio looked at the smoking, ashy mass of remains. He felt his heart tighten, despite all that had happened, and looked back at his mother’s grave. “I’ll read this later,” he said to Stella who stood beside him. “I’ll get the urn from the domus, Errol. You rake the ashes so that they can cool. Then we can shovel father into his new home.”

Errol burst into a new chorus of weeping at that, and Rufio walked up the lane to the domus to get the clay urn which he had purchased from a neighbouring potter only the day before.

Stella followed him.

Later that afternoon, Rufio, Errol and Stella interred Pagano Pater after sprinkling his ashes with wine. Rufio was feeling more solemn by then, the bitterness of the past having leeched away. After having placed the urn in the grave, Rufio placed his father’s favourite clothing in with him so as not to walk naked through the Afterlife, a pair of sandals, and the ring that was the twin to that of Rufio’s mother. Therein, he also set a small jug of olive oil - the last from their meagre harvest - and a small jug of wine, this last somewhat reluctantly, but dutifully.

When all was set within the dark hole, Rufio and Errol both began replacing the dirt that had been removed. When they were done, Rufio stood over his father’s grave and sprinkled wine, milk, and honey upon it. “Rest easy, Father. Go find Mother now. Be happy again.”

In that moment, Rufio Pagano did weep for his father. Not for the loss of his tormentor, but rather for the wasted years and fractured family they had been. “Goddess Ceres,” Rufio said as Errol lit a chunk of incense in a bowl upon the mound of dirt, “Keeper of Elysium’s door, open it wide for my departed father that he may rejoin my mother and feel joyous once more.” Rufio then knelt and placed his hand upon the soft mound of earth. “Goodbye, Father.”

In that moment, Errol began to clap loudly, and when Rufio turned to look up at him, he saw that the horse had returned, and was now standing between Stella and the delirious old clapper, all of them looking down at him.

When the clapping stopped, as abruptly as it had begun, Rufio sighed, stood up, and began to walk toward the domus. “Errol, please put the horse back in her stall.”

“Yes, Master Rufio!” Errol replied, taking the horse by the harness and leading it away.

“Come on, Stella,” Rufio called to the donkey. “Let’s see who’s written us from Ephesus.”

The domus in