“But whether it means anything or not, I don’t know,” I admitted sensibly. “Perhaps I was so frightened that time you surprised me when I was reading about a hippopotamus in the book of dreams with Lugunda that the hippopotamus returned to me in my sleep just as I was dreaming about Egypt. It was such a clear dream that I could describe it and the temple in front of which it all took place. You were sitting, fat and bald, on a judge’s throne. There were many people around you. A blind man and a cripple were begging you to cure them. At first you did not want to, but finally you agreed to spit in the blind man’s eyes and kick the lame man’s leg with your heel. The blind man soon received back his sight and the lame man’s leg healed. When the crowd saw this, they came with sacrificial cakes and named you a god.”
Vespasian’s laughter was hearty but rather forced.
“Whatever you do, don’t tell other people that kind of dream, even in jest,” he warned me. “I promise to remember the remedies you mention, should I find myself in such a dilemma. But it is more likely that as a toothless old man I shall be, in the interests of Rome, a simple legion commantler in Britain.”
He was not entirely serious when he said this, for I saw that he was wearing a triumph ornament on his tunic. I congratulated him, but Vespasian looked gloomy and told me that the latest news from Rome was that Emperor Claudius had had his young wife Messalina murdered, and weeping bitterly, had sworn before the Praetorian Guard that he would never marry again.
“From a reliable source, I have heard that Messalina had separated from Claudius in order to marry Consul Silius, with whom she already had spent a great deal of time,” Vespasian told me. “They married once when Claudius was out of the city. The idea was either to bring back the republic or make Silius Emperor with the approval of the Senate. It is difficult to know what really happened, but Claudius’ freedmen, Narcissus, Pallas and the other parasites, deserted Messalina and made Claudius believe his life was in danger. During the wedding feast, however, the conspirators made the mistake of getting drunk to celebrate their victory. Claudius returned to the city and got the Praetorian Guard on his side. Then large numbers of senators and knights were executed and only a few were allowed to commit suicide. So the conspiracy was widespread and evidently carefully prepared.”
“What a terrible story!” I exclaimed. “I had heard before I left Rome that the Emperor’s freedmen were terrified when their colleague Polybius was executed on Messalina’s orders. But I could never quite believe all the dreadful things that were said about Messalina. I even had a feeling the gossip was deliberately spread about to blacken her reputation.”
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Vespasian scratched his big head and glanced slyly at me.
“I’m not really competent to speak,” he said, “as I’m only a simple legion commantler and live over here as if in a leather sack, without knowing what is really happening. It is said that fifty senators and about two hundred knights were executed because of the conspiracy. I am most concerned about my son Titus, who was left in Messalina’s care to be brought up with Britannicus. If Claudius believed so ill of his child’s mother, then such a capricious old man might equally well turn against the children.”
After that we talked about nothing but the British tribes and kings whom I had got to know, thanks to Petro. Vespasian ordered me to write a careful account of my journeys, but by no means paid for my Egyptian paper, ink and pens, not to speak of my keep in London. In fact I rceeived no pay whatsoever and I was no longer included in the rolls of my own legion, so I felt very lonely and outcast that icy cold and foggy winter.
I rented a room at a Gallic corn merchant’s and began to write, only to find that it was not nearly so easy as I had thought. It was not now a matter of commenting or revising earlier works, but of describing my own experiences. I spoiled a great deal of expensive paper and paced anxiously up and down the banks of the mighty river Thames, protected by furs and woolen clothes against the icy wind. When Vespasian returned from a tour of inspection, he summoned me to him and began to read what I had written. When he had finished he looked confused.
“I haven’t the ability to judge literature,” he said, “and, in fact, respect learned men much too much even to try. But this gives me the impression that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. You write very beautifully, but I should have thought that you must first decide whether you are writing a poem or a factual account of Britain’s configuration, religions and tribes. Of course, it’s pleasant to read about how green the fields you have seen in Britain are, how the ash trees bloom and the little birds sing in the early summer, but for soldiers or merchants, this is not very useful information. Also, you rely-much too much on the Druids’ and noble Britons’ accounts of their tribes’ descent and the kings’ divine origins. You describe their merits and noble virtues so well that one might think you had forgotten you were a Roman. If I were you, I wouldn’t blame the god
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