Bookworm Gladiator

“Salve, Citizen,” Lepidus said to his reflection. The river flowed around his family’s humble townhouse, and the water rippled softly, gently, and reflected his bored features. He wore his military uniform, and the leather pauldrons gave the impression of stronger shoulders than what was the truth underneath.

Lepidus thought of the tribesmen up north, those who wore the skins of animals they’d hunted. He tried to find some poetic connection to his own predicament, but it didn’t make any sense. They wore those skins for pride and glory and honor.

Honorless duty, dutiless honor! Lepidus hummed a rhythm along with as many words he could think of that would contradict each other. Lonely friendships, honeyed poison, proud father.

Lepidus chuckled at the last one. He wondered when he would finally have the strength to quit his lounging by the river and step inside to confront his father. Cicero was a proud man. People often didn’t realize that about his father, but that was due to him being a coward about it. Instead, Cicero had resigned to dumping all his frustrations and grudges on Lepidus and his poor wife, Lucretia.

And Lepidus, due his own short-comings, had tried his best to live up to Cicero’s insecurities for so long that he’d lost sight of himself many years ago. But looking down now at his tired face, and the rigid frame of his officer’s vest, and feeling the blisters on the soles of his feet every time he took a step, Lepidus knew the military life was not for him. He could no longer continue this charade.

Two servants turned the corner and their conversations cut off with a sharp inhale. Officers were often mistaken for Centurions or even Praetors by commoners. But after a brief flash of fear, the women realized it was just old Lepidus, come back to loiter outside his father’s townhouse during patrol.

They ignored him, instead carrying on their conversation as they handled bags of what looked like chicken feed. Lepidus knew they weren’t for his household; Cicero had no chickens. He barely had any servants left at this point. The passing of Lucretia had caused more than just emotional anguish.

Lepidus decided to wait a few more minutes and settled down on a nearby stone bench. The women whispered under their breath but he could still make out their words. They worried for the local youth. Apparently some gangs from across the river had been poaching boys for work; the type of work you either did in the middle of the night, or within packed crowds at the Forum.

A thief, then. I should have become a thief, Lepidus thought. Cicero would’ve admired the bravado in that; the conniving willpower it required to steal from others that which they held dear and the strength to win any physical confrontations if it came to it. Oh, how Cicero would bask in that glory! His son, a strong-arm. A highway man.

“No matter what, my dear Lepidus, always be the bravest of them all,” Cicero had whispered to him many times at night. His father’s hypocrisy made Lepidus sick to his stomach now that he’d stepped out of the lonely biographer’s shadow and seen the sad person he really was. And eventually it gave way to anger—pure rage at letting his father manipulate him for so long. Lepidus had written many poems on it already.

With newfound burst of energy, Lepidus slapped his knees and rose to his feet. The women jumped and stared him like he’d insulted them, before turning back with a roll of their eyes. Had Cicero lost that much respect in the neighborhood? No matter, Lepidus thought. He wasn’t the confrontational kind of man. He’d rather excuse himself from irritable people than deal with them.

Lepidus cleared his throat as he climbed the brick ramp that twisted up to his father’s porch. Cicero’s domus was a humble townhouse near the bend of the river and cradled two different neighborhoods. A metalworking district to the north and a meat market below. The stone and mud-brick estate was large enough to command respect in these neighborhoods, but too small to compete with the city’s aristocrats. His father could dream, though, Lepidus thought sadly. That’s all he’d ever done. Dream, but only complain. Want, but only think.

Potted plants, now dead and empty, covered the porch. Lucretia had bought them, watered them, and had special plans for them in the future before she’d been killed. They would never grow again.

Lepidus tore his eyes from the dead leaves and stepped up to the large wooden doors. They were of a dark wood, with an impressive pair of brass door knockers in the shape of a lion. He lifted the ring and smacked it against the metal plate. Once, twice, the third time he let it fall and waited for an answer.

But no one came to the door. Usually a housemaid would have answered quickly, eager to get away from the quietness inside. Lepidus had stayed at the city barracks almost exclusively this past year and had little time to be visiting his father. Cicero had a habit of going through servants quickly and Lepidus doubted he’d be recognized even if somebody did open the door.

The longer Lepidus stood there, the more he could feel the doubt lingering in the back of his mind. He licked his lips and glanced behind to the alley that led to the river. The women were gone. It was getting late, wasn’t it? He’d have to report back soon…

No, I have to do this, Lepidus thought. And with a clenched jaw, he pushed against the heavy doors. The right one groaned and finally dragged across the dusty floor of the foyer. The entrance hall had just enough light coming from the atrium to see the dust and spiderwebs clinging to the columns. Lepidus tried to recall the name of the most recent housemaid, but nothing came to mind. “Father?” he finally called.

His sandals dragged dust across the floor as he entered the atrium, now covered in white sheets to protect unused furniture. Tables lay empty and the fountain cistern in the middle was dry. No lamps or candles were lit. If it wasn’t for the open roof above, there’d be no light.

A gentle breeze brushed the linen draped around the atrium, and it waved almost dreamlike. Nothing else moved or made a sound. Save for the faint and muffled cries of the evening crowd outside, Lepidus was alone. But as he heard the outside world, as an echo, his mind wandered to another time. As if the voices weren't coming from the outside, but from the depths of his past.

He stroll around the empty living room like a lost boy, trying to conjure up old memories of when people—happy people—inhabited this space. When Lucretia had doted on him just as Cicero forced him to eat his vegetables. Or when they used to pray together, both to Mars and Minerva. There used to be a shrine to Mars in the atrium in Lepidus' old memories; an extremely large one that Cicero had erected, complete with a statue of a Herculean warrior, painted red and gold. But Lucretia, after having convinced Cicero to move the shrine to the garden, had it quickly replaced with a shrine to Minerva. The goddess' statue now stood covered in green rust and bird droppings.

She watched over the empty atrium, holding a bowl that had been once filled with votive gifts. Lepidus had dropped coin after coin, sometimes clothes, into the bowl. His mother had happily taken the full bowl every Friday and donated the contents to the nearest temple.

When she’d died, Lepidus had wondered what it had all been for, and laid awake at night cursing Minerva. Not completely driven by anger, however, but rather a desire for the truth of the matter. Did the gods have any desire or obligation to intervene in the mortal world? A beautiful human had thrown herself at Minerva’s feet day after day, and the goddess’ will had been painfully absent as her loving servant had lain dying by the side of the road.

Either prayer had no effect in the mortal world, or the goddess had decided not to intervene despite Lucretia’s goodwill. The latter option raised more questions than could be reasonably answered by Lepidus. The first option, however, led to one conclusion with which Lepidus had wrestled with ever since. The possible truth of the mortal world: it didn’t matter.

And if something didn’t matter, it might as well not have existed. Or it never truly exist except in our memories. Lucretia would exist longer as a memory than she ever could have as a physical person.

Lepidus shuddered, suddenly feeling the chill of the atrium. Clouds had blocked the evening sun above and cool wind crept inside, shuffling the white shrouds that lay on Lucretia’s forgotten world, with Minerva’s statue playing the role of a gravestone. Lepidus ignored the stare of the silent goddess and escaped into the kitchens, eager to see if he could grab something warm.

But the fire stove lay empty, no wood or kindling to be found. Old stew caked its counter, and the smell of rotten vegetables tickled Lepidus’ nose, making his eyes water. He sneezed and left the decrepit room quickly, breaking out into the hallway towards the library. A part of him dreaded what he might find. His father had taken to the library as his main and only dwelling. Eating, sleeping, pacing around the old books and scrolls which he poured over not because he had important records to read, but that it was simply the only thing that kept him moving and alive.

Lepidus half-expected to find his father starved to death, slumped over something embarrassing like an agricultural census from Pannonia. For his sake, Lepidus decided he'd change it out for something less embarrassing, no matter how poetic the former might be. Lepidus shook his head from the ridiculous and oddly Ciceronian thoughts.

He turned the corner to come face to face with unassuming wooden doors. There was a sign hanging from the knobs that read, "Do Not Disturb". It was a sign Lepidus had seen from a very young age. He couldn't remember a time when the board hadn't been hanging on Cicero's door.

But before Lepidus could knock, he heard a whimper. Followed by a soft moan.

Was it his imagination? Threatening to sink Lepidus lower into his forlorn memories? He pressed his ears against the rough wood, slowing his breath to listen closely. At first it was quiet, then a few heartbeats later, he heard the choking cry, "Oh Jupiter, save me from these Furies."

It was Cicero's voice, frail and desperate. Despite the feelings he had for his father recently, Lepidus couldn't bear to hear him like that and his own heart sunk at the crying. He knocked loudly. "Father?"

There was a quick shuffle, followed by some scraping. Perhaps a chair.

"Come in," Cicero replied shortly, his quippy voice back to normal with a hint of barely held back annoyance. Lepidus sighed. No turning back now.

The room flickered with the light of many candles, and yet Cicero’s face hid in the shadows. He flipped through the pages of a large book, his fingers flicking the paper with a loud snap, making sure Lepidus could see he’d disturbed him in the middle of some very important research of some kind. He moved his head across the page when he wanted to show he’d found something interesting and as Lepidus stepped closer, he even saw his lips move quietly. “How goes the patrol, Lepidus?”

“Where are the servants?” Lepidus asked. He wouldn’t let Cicero control the conversation. Not this one.

“What?” he replied, distractedly.

“I don’t see anyone around. Everything is in shambles, father.”

Cicero waved him off, “I’m fine, fine. The woman had to leave to tend to her sick mother. Or her sick husband. Or maybe it was a goat. It was a sick something.”

His father liked to find humor in everything. Lepidus had come to realize it was one of the ways he coped. As much as the biographer complained and criticized and grew frustrated, it came from a place of empathy. Cicero cared a little too much about everything, and had a weak spot for the suffering around him. Lucretia had seen it. And slowly, Lepidus had also seen the faint signs. Cicero always complained about the way everything was done and how everyone was treated, especially the plebs and the slaves. It had been a constant theme in his evening ramblings.

But his father hated being seeing as caring or weak-hearted. His lofty sense of self was more important than admitting he had non-masculine feelings about the world around him. That maybe, he was also creature of emotion and love and poetry.

Lepidus stepped up to the dais where Cicero’s desk was situated and saw how frail and weak the man had become. His father glanced up and his blood-shot eyes betrayed the otherwise neutral demeanor on his face. His hand shook as he closed the book in front of him, not bothering to save the page. “So what kind of cat dragged you in today, Lepidus?” he asked.

“What is this?” Lepidus asked, noting the stack of unopened letters on the desk. One of them had a royal seal. He picked it up gingerly and held it close to a candle. “Is this from Suetonius?” The collegiate initials under the Emperor’s seal was unmistakable and only someone in high office at the guild was allowed to use this kind of combination. The first person to come to mind was of course the famed historian Suetonius. Cicero often spoke about how he was known in that circle, but Lepidus had always taken it as the usual Roman pastime of boasting.

Cicero snatched the letter from his hands and squinted down at the seal and turned the letter over a few times, even sniffing it. “Hm, you’re right. Must be important.” But he didn’t open it. Only stared at it, as if trying to decipher it’s contents without breaking the seal.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Perhaps later,” Cicero replied and returned the letter to the pile. “So, what do you want?”

“Nothing,” Lepidus said instinctively and bit his tongue. How pathetic. All the mental effort in preparing for this moment and he immediately slipped back into a child with a guilty conscience. If he didn’t have the strength to confront his father directly, maybe he could approach it a different way. A more objective, arbitrary manner.

“Well… I did receive something recently,” Lepidus began.

“What?”

“Aunt Appronia sent for me,” Lepidus said, trying to measure his father’s reaction at every word. As expected, Cicero squinted suspiciously at her name.

“For what?” he replied.

“She wants me to help manage her husband’s estate… in Greece,” Lepidus finished and Cicero scoffed with a surprising amount of mirth.

“Of course she does, the spiteful bitch.”

Lepidus opened his mouth to explain but Cicero continued, “First Lucretia’s dowry, and now she’s trying to poach my son. Miserable hag!”

Mother’s dowry? It took a moment for Lepidus to catch up. Aunt Appronia was trying to reclaim her sister’s dowry? Was that the source of his father’s financial troubles? Cicero was already listing other insults thrown his way. He began pacing around the desk, wagging his finger to no one in particular like a madman.

“She aims to destroy me, gut me like a fish,” Cicero made a slicing motion.

“What do you mean by destroy you?” Lepidus snapped, an anger rising in him; a nausea he’d been trying to hold back ever since he’d entered the room. “Do you think it’s always about you?”

“She even tried to call a consilium against me, can you believe it?” Cicero said, paying little attention to Lepidus.

“I’m going.”

“What?”

“I’m going,” Lepidus repeated through gritted teeth. He fought the urge to shove Cicero away. The man smelled like dried sweat and blood.

“No, no! We can’t let her win,” Cicero replied. He still didn’t understand where Lepidus was coming from; unable to fathom it.

“I want to go!” Lepidus yelled, louder than he’d intended. Cicero paused, and finally looked at Lepidus—actually paid attention to him and his words.

His mouth worked wordlessly, trying to ask several questions that were finally taking form in his thick skull. “What do you mean?” was all he managed to croak.

“I want to go,” Lepidus repeated.

“What about your post,” Cicero replied, chuckling nervously, as if there was still a faint chance this was all a jest.

“I can’t do it, father! Don’t you understand?” Lepidus pleaded, “I don’t know who I am anymore! I wake up dead and think dead thoughts and march like death around and around I go, staring at myself at every reflection and I don’t see anything I recognize anymore! I can’t think, father, I can’t even form the right words anymore. I am—

Lepidus took a deep breath, unable to continue as his chest heaved, trying to relieve the twisted knot that threatened to cave in his ribcage.

Cicero took his chance, “I never thought that you would also abandon me.”

“Let me fini—

“No! You listen to me you ungrateful runt,” Cicero spat, his deranged features coming to light as he leaned in. “You will not take a step out of this fucking city without the Emperor’s say so.”

“I am done trying to be your laurel!”

“Oh, what a line!” Cicero replied. He clapped mockingly but it only made him look more and more like a raving lunatic. “Summon the thespians, we’ve got a natural.”

“Contempt does not suit you, Cicero,” Lepidus said through gritted teeth.

“How about a threat, then?” his father snarled. “The day you leave your officer’s post, is the day I disown you. All your property, wealth, and reputation will be forfeit. No respectable Roman will ever rub shoulders with you. And if your precious aunt can swallow her pride enough to house you, then by all means, whore your way to Greece!”

Cicero ended the tirade by smacking the ink bottle with the back of his hand and it flew, clattering and spilling the black liquid across the floor and over Lepidus’ sandals. The wet coldness seeped into his toes and he left black footprints as he stumbled backward.

Lepidus almost tripped over the dais’ steps as he stared at his father, speechless. He realized he wasn’t as terrified of his own regiment’s Centurion as he was of Cicero in this state. It’s a wonder how fear can be ingrained so permanently if enforced at a young age. He was a child all over again, afraid to disappoint an agitated Cicero.

Lepidus could feel his sense of self shake and shatter under the cursed word “disown”. The threat promised a life of obscurity and failure. He wouldn’t be able to retain anything in his life that he held dear and gotten used to. Might as well be considered a freed slave from here on out. Or be forever reliant on a military career for any kind of status… That can’t happen. I can’t let that happen.

As if Cicero had read his mind, he continued, “that’s what I thought.” He flicked his hand towards the door. “Now be a man and get back to your cohort, Optio.”