Philip II Antoninianus: A Young Ruler and Five Roman Stories

I had put out two cups when Corvinus sent word that he could not come. I put one cup away at once.

Then I took it out again. I ought to have waited until I had heard the whole message.

My cousin was sending Rhodon, his young assistant, in his place. The boy had been carrying goods for him all day and would deliver a parcel to me. Corvinus hoped I would not mind giving him dinner.

I minded several things. Dinner was the smallest of them.

It was 248, and I lived alone in a Roman town. Corvinus had helped me find this house. He reminded me of that favor whenever I disagreed with him, which was often. I had invited him to dinner so that he could not say I never did anything for him.

Now he had found a way to eat my dinner without entering my house.

I left the second cup on the table. I also left the better place for myself. Rhodon could sit near the wall.

He arrived before the food was ready. He carried a wrapped parcel with both hands and looked hungry enough to eat the wrapping.

“Where should I put this?”

“On the bench. What is it?”

“A lamp.”

I had asked Corvinus to find me a lamp. I had forgotten, in the pleasure of receiving his cancellation, that he had actually done so.

Rhodon waited while I unwrapped it. The clay was plain and brown. It looked sound. It was exactly the sort I wanted, which annoyed me more than a bad lamp would have.

“Sit,” I told him.

He took the place near the wall. He kept his back straight and his hands on his knees.

I brought out the food: lentils, bread, a little cheese, and onions. The cheese had been meant for Corvinus. He liked telling people how little cheese they ought to eat, then eating whatever they left.

“Does he feed you properly?” I asked.

Rhodon looked at the bread.

“Usually.”

“That is not a very strong answer.”

“I have been out all day.”

“So have I, sometimes.”

He looked up, uncertain whether I was asking him another question. I gave him bread. He thanked me and began to eat.

I had expected to hear some complaint about my cousin. Surely Corvinus was as irritating at work as he was at dinner. Here was someone who knew him all day. I could hardly have invented a better guest.

“Does he talk while you are carrying things?”

“Yes.”

“And tell you you are carrying them wrongly?”

“Sometimes.”

“There.”

Rhodon stopped chewing.

“There what?”

I could not explain without sounding eager to hear the worst of a man who had just found me a useful lamp. I pushed the bowl of lentils closer to him instead.

“He said you would be kind,” the boy told me.

I nearly dropped my spoon.

“Did he?”

“He said you would pretend not to be.”

“That sounds like him.”

Rhodon seemed relieved. He took more lentils.

For a while we ate quietly. Then he began to slide his cup along the table with one finger. He did it carefully, trying not to make a noise. The table shook whenever he put his elbow down.

“Stop pushing it,” I said.

He took his hand away. The cup slid back toward him.

I had known the table tilted a little. I had meant to put a scrap of wood beneath one leg before Corvinus arrived. Once he canceled, I had decided he could not complain about it.

But Rhodon could not eat comfortably either.

“Give me that cup.”

He handed it over. I put it aside and went to the bench for the parcel wrapping. I folded a piece of the thin wooden packing strip and slipped it under the short leg. Then I pressed on the table. It stood still.

Rhodon watched me with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Finish,” I said. “It is not a performance.”

“I know.”

He finished. I asked him about the work he liked, and this time he had more than one word to offer. He enjoyed learning which merchant kept what, and finding a way across the market without turning back. He disliked being sent for something Corvinus had already bought.

“Ah,” I said. “You have begun to know him.”

Rhodon smiled. Then he asked whether there was any more bread.

I gave him the last piece. There would have been enough for Corvinus, but my cousin would have talked longer and left half his onions. Rhodon ate everything he took.

When he got up to leave, he offered to carry the bowls into the kitchen. I let him. He put them where I showed him and came back for his empty wrapping.

“Shall I tell him you liked the lamp?”

“Yes.”

“And dinner?”

“Tell him you liked dinner.”

Rhodon nodded. At the door, he turned.

“May I come again if he sends me?”

I looked at the table. It stood straight now, with two cups upon it.

“If he sends a parcel,” I said, “come before the food gets cold.”

Sostrata had borrowed the flute for three days. On the fourth morning, she could not find it.

The lender expected it back before noon. He had made that clear twice, and she had made it clear twice that she understood. Now understanding was not helping her.

She searched the room she rented in a Roman town. It was 247. She played at private gatherings and traveled whenever someone offered work. Later that day she was meant to leave for another house, across town, with a small group of singers.

The flute should have been on the windowsill. She remembered putting it there. She remembered the sunlight on its wooden body. She had been careful because it did not belong to her.

Pylades had come to the window that morning to ask whether she wanted bread from the market. He lived in the next room. He liked useful things. A flute might have looked useful to someone who did not need to play it.

She went to his door.

“Have you taken the flute?”

He looked at her without answering. He had a piece of bread in one hand.

“I need it back,” she said.

“I have not taken it.”

“You were at my window.”

“Yes. Asking whether you wanted bread.”

“And did you see it?”

“No.”

She looked past him at the shelf beside his bed. There were cups, a folded cloth, and a broken sandal. No flute. That did not prove he had not moved it.

Pylades set down his bread.

“If you want to search, ask to search. Do not stand there doing it with your eyes.”

She felt her face grow warm. She said she would look in her own room again.

This time she sat beside the window instead of hurrying around. She tried to remember the morning in order. Before Pylades came, she had eaten. Before eating, she had put out a bundle of linen for Nais, who washed clothes nearby.

A pale strip showed beneath the dust on the windowsill. It was much wider than the flute. The folded linen had been there too.

Sostrata remembered moving the bundle so that she could open the window. Had she lifted the flute with it? She had wrapped the linen before breakfast. She had tied it with the purple cord the flute's lender used around its cloth cover.

She had borrowed that cord as well. He would want it back.

She went out at once. Nais worked in a small courtyard behind a shop. Sostrata found her hanging cloth over a line.

“The bundle I gave you this morning,” she said. “Have you opened it?”

“Yes.”

“Was there anything inside?”

“Linen.”

“Anything else?”

Nais looked at her properly then.

“A wooden pipe. I left it indoors. Was I supposed to wash that?”

“No. Thank you for not washing it.”

Nais lowered the cloth she was holding. “You gave me a bundle to wash. Then you came back to ask about something you did not mean to give me.”

“Yes.”

“Is the linen meant to be here?”

“Yes. Only the flute is not.”

Nais pointed toward the open door. “On the shelf.”

Sostrata went inside. There were two shelves, several folded bundles, and a basket full of strips of cloth. She did not begin pulling things apart. She asked which shelf, and Nais came to show her.

The flute lay in its own folded cover on the upper shelf. The purple cord was beside it. Sostrata lifted both. She checked the wooden body, then fitted the pieces together as the lender had shown her. Nothing had been washed or left out in the damp courtyard.

She paid Nais for the linen washing. One of the coins she handed over bore Philip II's portrait. Nais put it away and told her the linen would be ready the following day.

“I will collect it tomorrow,” Sostrata said.

“Collect the linen,” Nais said. “There will be no other instruments.”

Back at the house, Pylades was carrying his cup toward the courtyard. He stopped when he saw the flute.

“It was in my washing bundle,” she told him.

He waited.

“I had wrapped it by mistake.”

He still waited.

“I should have asked whether you saw it. I should not have said you took it.”

“No,” he said. “You should not.”

She could not make that answer kinder by asking another question. She took the flute to her room and put it into a bag by itself, with its cover and cord. Then she went out to return it.

She reached the lender’s house before noon. He was home. He took the bag, checked the flute, and unwound the purple cord from its cover.

“Did you have any trouble with it?” he asked.

“With playing it, no.”

He looked at her. She took a breath and began to tell him about the linen.

Myrto had crossed the rope twelve times that morning. On the thirteenth, Hilarus called her by the wrong name.

She stepped down and waited.

“Your mother,” he said. “She used to hold her chin like that.”

“My mother never walked this rope.”

“No. She told us what we were doing wrong from the ground.”

Myrto smiled. She had not meant to. She was trying to look like someone who could lead an act without help.

They were traveling performers in a Roman town. It was 247, and they had rented a corner of an inn's courtyard for the afternoon. Hilarus usually walked beside Myrto, keeping a hand beneath hers while she carried a shallow bowl of water along the rope. At the far end she lifted the bowl over her head. He bowed as though this were the hardest part.

It was a small act. People liked watching him pretend to be afraid of getting wet.

Today he could not keep his hand steady. He had hurt his wrist while carrying their equipment from the cart. He could lift it, but when Myrto leaned on it during practice, his face tightened.

“We can leave the bowl out,” he said.

“Then they will watch me walk from one end to the other.”

“That is the act.”

“That is your half of it.”

She wanted an act of her own. Hilarus had taught her the rope, but he spoke to the crowd, made the jokes and decided when they were finished. She had asked to lead before. He had always said they would try it when the town was right.

“This town is right,” she told him.

He looked around the empty courtyard. “You have not met it yet.”

By afternoon, she had. A woman with a basket stood near the inn wall. Three young men took a bench. Two children sat on the ground, where they could see the rope stretched between its supports at about Myrto's knee. More people stopped in the doorway.

Hilarus introduced her. Then he stepped back, leaving her name hanging in a silence she had to fill.

She picked up the bowl.

The water shook. She had carried bowls all her life. She had never noticed how much water could move before any of it fell out.

“This,” she said, “is the part he usually ruins.”

Hilarus opened his mouth. She looked at him. He closed it again.

A man on the bench laughed. Myrto set the bowl on the platform at one end of the rope and climbed up. From there, the far support seemed much farther away than it had that morning.

She took the bowl in both hands. She stepped onto the rope.

The first step was good. The next was less good. A little water struck her ankle.

She heard Hilarus draw breath. She knew what he was going to say. Keep going. He said it whenever she hesitated.

“Wait,” she told him.

He stopped.

Something beneath her feet was moving in the wrong way. The rope swayed, as ropes did. But the far support was rocking too. She saw its base rise a little from the uneven ground.

She backed onto the platform and stepped down.

One of the young men stood up to leave. The woman with the basket shifted it to her other arm. Myrto could have smiled and pretended that getting down was part of the joke. She could have handed the bowl to Hilarus and let him talk until people forgot.

Instead she put the bowl on the ground.

“The support is moving,” she said. “I need to set it right.”

Hilarus came over. He saw the gap beneath one foot of the wooden frame. It had stood level on the place where they practiced. Moving it into the middle of the courtyard had put it over a shallow hollow.

He reached for the frame with his bad hand.

“Use the other one,” she said.

He did. She fetched the flat piece of wood they had used beneath a cart wheel. Together they adjusted the base. Then she tested the rope again without the bowl.

The young man left. The children stayed. So did the woman and the two men on the bench.

Myrto went back for the bowl. It had less water now. She added no more.

This time, when she stepped onto the rope, she watched the far platform rather than the people. She took one step, then another. At the middle she paused, letting the bowl settle in her hands.

Hilarus stayed quiet.

She reached the far end. She raised the bowl, but only as high as her face. The rim hid her mouth. Over it, she could see the two children clapping.

She lowered it and bowed.

After the courtyard emptied, Hilarus helped her pack. His wrist still hurt. She could tell by the way he folded the cloth around their bowl.

“Your mother would have had something to say,” he told her.

“She would have said there was water on my dress.”

“There is.”

Myrto looked down at the dark marks. Then she put the bowl into its box herself, leaving room beside it for tomorrow's water jar.

First letter: two days after arriving

Melitta,

You were right about the coat being heavy. I felt lighter as soon as I put it into the bundle for home. The merchant who brought my tools here is returning through our town, so he has taken it with him. You may hang it beside yours. Please do not let our brother borrow it for a fishing trip.

I have found the workshop. There are four of us repairing wooden chests, and the owner has promised work through the winter. This is the reason I came to this Roman town in 247, though you seem to think I came because I dislike being told when to eat.

Both things may be true.

The room I rent is small. The window faces a wall, which keeps out the wind. The bed is narrow, which keeps me from having company. You will approve of both advantages.

Yesterday I repaired a lid so that it shut cleanly. The owner opened and closed it several times before he said anything. I thought he was going to find fault with the hinge. Instead he said I should put my tools on the bench nearest the window tomorrow.

The other men say that is the best light. I am writing this with a view of the street, waiting for the glue on another chest to dry.

Do not worry about me. I know you will, but you need not do it all day.

Hagesander

Second letter: seven days later

Melitta,

Please send the coat back.

I began this letter with several other sentences. None of them changed what I needed to ask. A man here is traveling toward your town in a few days. I will ask him to call on you. If you still have the coat, perhaps he can carry it back when he returns. I do not know when that will be.

You will notice that I am no longer certain you have it. I told our brother he could borrow it if he kept it dry. I did not want him to think I was afraid to lend anything. Now I would like him to be afraid to ask.

The rain began three days ago. It is not remarkable rain. It falls steadily and finds every part of me that the old coat used to cover. The wall outside my window keeps out the wind exactly as I said. The walk to the workshop is a different matter.

Yesterday I arrived wet. I tried to make a joke about it. Nobody laughed, because they were wet too and had heard better jokes before breakfast.

A man called Syros works beside me. He has an extra coat because his son left one when he went away to work. He offered to lend it to me until mine arrives.

I said I would manage. Then I stood at the door watching the rain, while everyone else put on a coat. I went back to his bench.

“Does the offer still hold?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Keep it clear of the glue.”

It was too short in the sleeves. It was warm everywhere else. I took it back to my room and hung it carefully, so the hem did not touch the damp floor.

This morning Syros pointed to my elbow. I thought I had already stained the coat. He meant that I should roll the sleeve back before reaching for the glue pot. I did. He did not need to tell me twice.

I have considered coming home. It would be good to see you. It would also mean leaving the work just as I am beginning to do it well. I do not think the cold is a good enough reason, now that I have a coat to borrow.

Please tell me whether our brother has mine. I will not be angry if you have to say yes. I may need to fold the letter away before I answer.

Hagesander

Third letter: twelve days later

Melitta,

The coat has arrived. Our brother had not taken it after all. Thank you for the little repair beneath the arm. I had forgotten that the seam was coming apart. You had not.

The man who brought it asked why I looked so glad to see an old garment. I told him it was mine. He seemed to think that explained very little, but he had already brought it all the way here, so I did not ask him to understand as well.

I returned Syros's coat this morning. I had kept it clean. He checked the sleeve near the elbow and said his son usually forgot that part.

“I nearly did too,” I told him.

He hung it on the peg by his bench. Then he asked me to help fit a lid on a chest too wide for one man's arms. We held it together while he marked the place for the hinge.

I shall stay for the winter. I miss your table, and I miss hearing our brother enter a room as though it belongs to him. But I like the work here. I have begun to know which customers want the work done well and which only want it done before they leave.

You can tell our brother that I have the coat again. If he needs something for his fishing trip, he will have to ask you.

Hagesander

Thaleia had promised Eras that the room would be ready in the morning. She had made the promise from the doorway, where it was easy to see an empty bed and a few things on a shelf.

Now she was inside, and there were too many things.

Her brother Menander had lived here until the winter before. He had died after a short illness. It was 248, and the little house stood in a Roman town where Thaleia sold thread from a room beside the street. She needed someone to rent the room her brother no longer used. She had known that for months.

Knowing it had not moved his sandals from beneath the bed.

Eras was a stranger to her, a worker who had come to town for a new job. He wanted a clean room, somewhere to put his bundle, and a bed that did not lean. Menander's bed did not lean. He had repaired it the summer before he died, complaining while she held one end.

Thaleia sat on it. It stayed firm beneath her.

The sandals were worn through at one heel. She put them into a basket. She did not know what to do with them after that, but the floor was clearer.

On the shelf stood a cup, a box of small tools, and three pieces of smooth stone Menander had brought home because he liked their color. He had repaired floors for a living. He was always carrying home something that belonged in a floor and putting it where people could trip over it.

She lifted the tool box. There were two tools inside. The smaller one belonged to a man who worked beside him. Menander had borrowed it before the illness. Thaleia remembered the man asking about it afterward, then saying there was no hurry.

There had been no hurry for too long.

She put the borrowed tool beside the door. She would return it that afternoon. The other one she set in a drawer in her own room. She did not need to decide its future while clearing this one.

The cup was harder.

A piece had broken from its rim. Menander had kept drinking from the other side. She had told him to throw it away. He had told her to drink from her own cup and leave his alone.

She turned it in her hand. Faint letters remained beneath the handle. She had painted them there when she was young, before she knew how to keep a line straight.

THALEIA.

It had been her cup first.

She remembered accusing him of taking it. He said he had found it unused on a shelf. She said unused did not mean his. He offered it back, but she had already bought a better one and did not want to admit that this was part of the trouble.

They had argued until she laughed. He had looked pleased, as though winning a cup were a fine day's work.

Thaleia put it down. She could hear that laugh more clearly than the things people had said about him after his death. They called him patient. They called him gentle. He could be both, but he had also stolen her figs and refused to admit it while the skins lay beside his chair.

She missed him in ways that did not fit those careful words.

Someone called from the street. She went to the front room. Eras stood outside with his bundle over one shoulder.

“May I leave this here?” he asked. “I can collect it in the morning.”

She had not expected him today. She looked toward her brother's room, then at the bundle.

“Yes. By the front table.”

He set it down. It was tied tightly and carried the dust of the road. She wondered what he had left behind to fit his life into it.

“Will the room be ready?”

“Yes,” she said.

He thanked her. He did not ask how hard it was to say that. He had come for a room. She could give him one without making him stand inside her loss.

After he left, she took the borrowed tool to its owner. The man turned it over, touched the handle, and thanked her. He asked whether she wanted to sit for a while. She said she needed to finish something at home.

He nodded. He did not tell her that Menander would have wanted anything in particular.

Back at the house, Thaleia swept the floor and folded the bed cover. She moved the stones into the courtyard. There was a bare place by the wall where their color could still be seen without catching anyone's foot.

She carried the damaged cup to her own room. She put it on the shelf beside her good one, with the painted name facing out.

In the morning Eras came early. She showed him the room. He set his bundle on the floor and pressed one hand against the bed, testing it.

“It is steady,” he said.

“Yes.”

He untied the bundle. A folded shirt appeared, then a comb, then a small cup with its whole rim intact.

Thaleia left him to put his things away. In her own room, she took the good cup from the shelf and went to fetch water.