Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

“He was barbarian by breeding, and barbarian by nature; utterly unlike those who see the glory of Rome and wish to emulate it. Not one piece of its civilization did he wish for himself. His manners, bearing, and deportment were almost painful to behold. The first time I caught sight of him—a short, bowed, scarcely shaven man, dressed in a rough tunic, with a truculent scowl—I took him to be a gamekeeper or some other servant. The person I was with laughed out loud when I asked how such a person could wander freely about the powerful senator’s house in which we were at the time, and snapped his fingers at the man.

“ ‘You, sir,’ he called out. ‘Yes, sir. You. Come here. This fine young man here’—he gestured to me—‘wishes to know how a dirty gamekeeper like yourself comes to be wandering freely in this fine house.’

“He thought for a second, then replied, with a voice which sounded remarkably cultivated coming from such a source. The thing which struck me then, and continued to strike me thereafter, was its softness; he spoke so quietly you could barely hear him. Others have remarked on this as well. ‘It may be because of one of two reasons,’ he said. ‘The first being that I own both the house and the senator. The second being that not so long ago another great man of this town did deny me entrance. But that is an old story; and he is long since dead.’

“And then he smiled, a smile of such dazzling beauty that I almost gasped for breath. We are told that we see the soul in such little details and if so, then this man’s reputation must be wrong, for he had the smile of an angel, with beautiful white, even-spaced teeth lighting up eyes which were of a most remarkable blue—a legacy of his Visigothic mother, no doubt.

“ ‘Your name, sir?’ he asked of me. I told him immediately, with something of a stammer. I was scarcely twenty at this time and, although my training was complete, it had not yet encompassed situations such as this.

“ ‘You are one of Majorian’s Gallic entourage, then. What did he bring you for? Are you a cleric? A soldier? A diplomatist?’

“ ‘None of these. If anything, I can lay some claim to being a poet,’ I said.

“Ricimer laughed out loud. ‘A poet? How useful! I am glad to see the savior of the Western empire has his priorities straight. So, sir poet, make me a poem.’

“I thought, in all my foolishness, that my chance had come. A vision of myself standing before the senate delivering a panegyric danced before my eyes.

“ ‘Oh, willingly, sir. With the greatest of pleasure. The honor you do me . . .’

“But this was not what he meant at all. He wished to ridicule me, not honor me. My speech of gratitude was cut short.

“ ‘Yes, yes. Come along then. Begin.’

“ ‘But I need to prepare.’

“ ‘A poet is full of song, I am told. Preparation is not necessary. Generals do not fight battles when they are ready; a good commander can turn any situation to advantage. The same with a politician and a statesman. Are poets different? Make me a song.’

“The tone of his words was playful, yet there was an edge to them. He was prepared to impose his will even in this little matter. The more I protested, the more would he push, until I gave way. I did not want an unseemly fight which I would inevitably lose, but I did not wish to make a fool of myself either. A difficult situation, as you can imagine. So, red-faced and covered with embarrassment, I began. Fortunately, I had that very morning been perusing Horace, which I had brought with me for the pleasure of rereading it on the very sites where the master had composed his immortal lines. I hope I offend no one if I say I am convinced his shade hovered over me at that moment, and gave me inspiration that I should not disgrace the name of poet.

“A two-line epigram only did I give him, two of the worst I have ever composed in technique, borrowing from but not imitating Horace as truly as he deserved. But they served their turn.

“The lines had a crude charm, I suppose, but could scarcely delight the heart of a connoisseur. Lord Ricimer, however, was struck by them and, if I had made myself absurd by inventing the doggerel, he made himself the more so by commenting, in all seriousness, upon it.

“ ‘Perhaps the poet does have his uses after all,’ he said. ‘For you seem to see more clearly than others superior to you in experience. They think Rome is still all-powerful; you in your poem state the truth, that it is crumbling, a mere illusion of what it once was.’

“He nodded thoughtfully, rapt with admiration, so I hoped, then heaved a heavy sigh. ‘You surprise me, poet. Truly you do. We will talk some more. Come to my palace this evening. After dinner, if you please. I do not entertain, and you would not be flattered by any food I might offer you.’

“He turned on his heel and left the room, and also left me in a daze. My companion—whose attempt to show me up had collapsed so badly—at least had the grace to congratulate me on my good fortune. ‘He has no companions, few advisors. No one knows his mind. If you can extract even a hint of what he intends, you will be able to trade it for whatever you want. But be careful. It is said that being Ricimer’s friend is far more dangerous than being his enemy.’ ”

Manlius paused and looked around. No one had said a word, scarcely a cup had been touched since he had begun talking. He was telling them of princes and cities, of legendary figures in distant lands. Sophisticated theologians, men of God though they were, he had them enthralled. “I see from your faces that you are less interested in the progress of a young Gaul like myself, and more in the traveler’s tale I have to offer,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps you are right, for I have seen Rome. Once every Gaul of senatorial rank would have been there; now I know of only half a dozen people who have even traveled out of their own province. But I am one of them. I have seen Rome, I tell you. We hear differing reports, do we not, of this great city. The most beautiful, glorious city in the entire world, glistening with gold and marble. Or is it now a shattered ruin, ransacked and raped time and again after all its troubles, denuded of its wealth, stripped of its population?

“The answer is both; Rome has fallen from its glory, yet in its decrepitude is still more magnificent than the mind of man can easily imagine. I might even say that the barbarian armies might ransack it again and again and come back a third time, and what remained would even then outstrip all other cities on this earth. Stand on the Capitoline Hill, that sacred spot, turn right around and the city stretches before you, so vast you cannot see its end. The great Colosseum itself is bigger than most cities in Gaul, the shops still burst with the perfumes and spices and cloths of all the world. The libraries groan with precious works; at every street corner there is a statue or a monument to some hero of the past. It still boasts men of exquisite learning and women of extraordinary beauty. And ruling it all and all it owned, though always in the background, was Count Ricimer.

“I had expected Eastern pomp, as barbarians can rarely resist the sweets of luxury when they are ready to hand, and the palace he inhabited was grand enough—certainly the biggest such place I have ever been in. And yet he nested in it like a squirrel in an oak tree; most of the halls, all the dining rooms, baths, were disused even though beautifully maintained. Not a sound, not a person did I see in the entire place, even though I knew that guards must be all around. The entire building was in total darkness except for the light thrown by the torch of the two soldiers who escorted me to him. Outside, I was searched—efficiently but not brusquely—and then asked to remove my shoes. Then one soldier knocked on the door, opened it, and gestured me inside.