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Patria potestas
— Nego
— Quaeso, domine.
— Non tollo.
— At quam formosa est. Nonne habet oculos matris suae... ?
— Matris, quam necavit. Nolo istam inspicere.
— Quaeso, domine, misericodiam !
— Exponenda est, statim et sine mora.
— Tibi oboedio, domine.
— Siste, Marcellina. Tibi non credo. In foro eam ponas vel in scalis templi cuiusdam. Ex Vrbe ecferenda est, in Via Appia inter tumulos reliquenda. Si viator eam suscipiat, vivat. Sin Lupus... ubi est Euander ?
— Adsum, domine. Te auscultavi.
— Agedum, hanc infantem ululantem aufer. Uxorem nunc silentio lugeam.
* * *
— Euander ! Marcellina ! Quam ob rem domus in tenebris stat ? Cur non sunt lampades ? Dormiuntne omnes servi ?
— Domine, nescimus te Romam revenisse. Domus haud parata'st...
— Haud refert, Marcellina. Sed fatigatus sum itinere et magnam habeo famem.
— Tibi cibum peto. Velisne, ut cenam coquam ?
— Magis velim cubile... si cubiculum est inane. Dic enim : nonne res eius semotae sunt ?
— Aio domine. Hic nullum dominae manet.
* * *
— Quid voluit nuntius ?
— Dixit dominum mox reventurum esse... nova cum uxore !
— Etiamne novam duxit ? Ecastor ! dominae cineres non iam sunt frigidi.
— Nihilomnus novam feminam duxit, quam nunc dominam nuncupare debemus.
— Unam dominam solam habeo, cuius sum liberta piissima ; aliam non agnoscam.
— Cave, Marcellina. Neque censu neque vindicta libera facta es. Dominus numquam te libertinam agnoscet. Nunc paremus domum nostrae dominae advenienti.
— Vae nobis servis, tanto cum domino duro !
* * *
— Ubi obstetrix ? Non possum eam invenire, et infans mature venit.
— Eam iamiam erae misi. Noli sollicitari, Euander : maturrime venit.
* * *
— Marcellina, credidi te nutricem pro me compellasse.
— Eam pro certo compellavi, era, sicut pollicita sum.
— Eheu, vereor ut non satis dura esses ; bullam parvi Publii iterum humo inveni. Hoc tempore fuit in hortulo. Obiurga eam durius, quaeso, ne iterum bullam perdeat. Nam, non sum superstitiosa, non puto striges eum rapturas esse nisi bullam geret, at non decet puerum romanum ut coram patre incomptus videatur. Corrige igitur nutricem, priusquam lapsum conspiciat pater. Nolim Publium maiorem eam vituperaturum... neve verberaturum esse.
— Confestim... domina.
— O, Marcellina, tibi gratias ago. Mira es, vere mira. Nescio quid sine te domum dirigere possim. Num Scis, non omnes servi me amant.
* * *
— Ain iterum?
— Noli irasci. Semper denuo invenitur. Vix refert.
— Cum ego ab Vrbe absum, tute rectrix familiae. Non debet matrona servorum negligentiae indulgere.
— Nutricem reprehendam—
— Nil facias ! Eam ad vicum mittam, ut in agris laboret, nec umquam limen nostrum transeat.
* * *
— Marcellina, tecum colloquar.
— Quid fit, O Euander ?
— Rumores per domum volabant. Nonne sermonem aliorum servorum audivisti ?
— Servi ubique sunt garruli.
— Sed et hi pavebant. Pavor quidem crescit dum dominus abest. Noctu terrore silent, diu inter se susurrant. Dicunt alii sese lemures in atrio vidisse, alii maleficia contra domum incantata esse.
— Num eis credis ?
— Nescio cui credere. At iamiam ianitor mihi dixit se ad macellam ire. Non puto eum reventurum. Is, qui tantopere iram domini timeat, is nunc fugit. Quid peccavimus ? Quid numen nos invidet ?
— Te oportet opiniones amplius auscultare. Et umbras intueri.
* * *
— Euander ! Marcellina ! Quamobrem domus iterum in tenebris stat ? Et quam frigida est ! Cur non ardet lampades ? Nonne, mehercle, nuntium misi reventum meum praenuntiatum ?
— Infelicitas domui incesit, domine. Tot servi fugerunt, ut nemo maneret qui oleum afferet. Ego ipse constitui ad emporium ire... sed pecuniam fugitivi erripuerunt.
— Quid dicis ? Ubi mea uxor ?
— Clausa'st cum filio in cubiculo, prope foculum.
— Mane, mihi fugitivarios adipiscaris.
— Etiam fugitivarios citavi, domine — frustra.
— Debeone vos omnes in agros dimittere ?
* * *
— Domus ipsa me odit !
— Ridicule loqueris, O cara coniunx. Novam dominam—
— Novam dominam recusaverant servi. Priorem amabant, etiam amant. Me exsecrati sunt, me devoverunt.
— Nugas dicis. Te rite duxi, rite adduxi.
— Nil refert. Me oderint, et fugerunt. Mox nemo inibi cum Publio manebunt praeter Marcellina et Euander et tu.
— Et tu quoque, pro certo.
— Non manebo. Mox ecferar. Mortem in somnio praevidi.
— Desine desipere.
— Posteaquam morior, Publium statim rus adduce, ne me ad inferos sequatur.
— Sat audivi. Speravi longum post iter vesperem cum familia agere, sed hic omnes desipiunt. Abeo inter amicos cenare.
— Debes eum conservare. Dic ut eum amoveas. Iura !
* * *
— Aut dices, Marcellina, aut verberatione te cogam ut dicas.
— Denique intellexit. Sola mors iniuriam tantam expiat. Itaque venas abscissit et—
— Mendacissima serva ! Iussi te dominam custodire dum foris eram. Revenio ut eam mortuam invenirem, sanguinolento cum cultro et dissoluta cum serva. Ubinam Euander ? Eum hic reliqui, eodem cum iussu, quoniam tibimet non credo.
— Is quoque tandem intellexit, tandem—
— Te occidam, dein istum furciferum Euandrum.
— Siste, O mi marite !
— Quis loquitur ? Quis est in atrio ?
— Num me agnoscis ? Tantumne mutavi ?
— Nemo adest ! Marcellina, quis loquitur ? Quisnam adest ?
— Adsum ego.
— Nihil video nisi umbras.
— Atra fortasse facta sum, quoniam mei sola umbra manet.
— Quis sis, larva ?
— Ecator ! me non novisti. Tibi sum prima uxor.
— Tuos cineres sepelivi. Quid non requiescis ?
— Filiam nostram necavisti.
— Rite egi.
— Si filium peperissem, suscepisses.
— Verisimiliter. Filium pater educat. Quid bonum sit filia sine matre ?
— Recordatio fuisset ; per eam vixissem. Ita ego ut dulcis memoria tibi revenissem, neque ultrix.
— Tu igitur omnes servos fugavisti.
— Fugavi.
— At non omnes, larva ! Manet mihi Euander. Eum me non abalienavisti. Eum ad vicum mittam qui villam pareat. Egomet et Publius in mansione hac nocte demoriar, deinde cras sequemur.
— Hahae ! Num cognovisti, O stulte ? Euander tandem suam dominam veram auscultavit. Filium in via Appia inter tumulos nunc exponit.
finis
Patria potestas
"I refuse."
"Please, Master."
"I do not acknowledge the infant."
"But look how beautiful she is. Doesn't she have her mother's eyes?"
"Her mother, whom she killed."
"Please, Master, show mercy!"
"She is to be exposed immediately. I will brook no delay."
"I obey, Master."
"Stay, Marcellina. I do not trust you. You'd leave her in the forum or on the steps of some temple. She is to be taken out of Rome, and left amongst the tombs on the Appian Way. If a traveller should take her up, she may live. If a wolf, on the other hand... Where is Evander?"
"I am right here, Master. I heard you."
"Well then, take away this squalling infant. I would now mourn my wife in silence."
* * *
"Evander! Marcellina! Why is the house all in darkness? Why aren't their any lamps? Are all the slaves asleep?"
"Master, we did not know you'd returned to Rome. The house is hardly ready..."
"No matter, Marcellina. But I am tired from my journey and have worked up quite an appetite."
"I shall find you some food. Do you want me to cook dinner?"
"I'd prefer my bedroom... if it be empty. Tell me, have her things been removed?"
"Yes, Master. Nothing of hers remains in the house."
* * *
"What did the messenger want?"
"He said the Master would return soon... with a new bride!"
"Married again already? By Castor! The Mistress' ashes aren't cold yet."
"Nevertheless, he has a new wife, whom we now must call Mistress."
"I have but one Mistress, whose freedwoman I am, and to whom I am the most loyal. I shall not accept another."
"Be careful, Marcellina. Your freedom was not entered in the census, nor was there a formal ceremony of manumission. The Master will never acknowledge you as a freedwoman. Now let us prepare the house for our Mistress' arrival."
"O woe to us slaves who have such a harsh master!"
* * *
"Where is the midwife? I can't find her, and the child is coming early."
"I've already sent her in to M'lady. Don't worry, Evander, the babe is coming right on time."
* * *
"Marcellina, I thought you'd had a word with the nurse for me."
"I certainly did, M'lady, as I promised I would."
"Alas, I fear you were not stern enough; I found little Publius' bulla on the ground again. This time it was in the garden. Scold her more forcefully this time, if you would, so that he doesn't lose his bulla again. Now, I'm not superstitious. I don't think witches are going to carry him off if he doesn't wear it. But it isn't becoming for a Roman boy to look ill-kempt in front of his father. So do remonstrate with his nurse, before he father notices the lapse. I wouldn't want Publius senior to yell at her... or have her beaten."
"Right away...Mistress."
"Oh, thank you, Marcellina. You are a treasure, truly a treasure. I don't know how I should ever manage this house without you. You know, not all the slaves even like me."
* * *
"Again, you say?"
"Don't be angry. It always turns up again. It's nothing, really."
"When I am out of the City, you are in charge of our household. It just won't do for the Mistress of the house to indulge her negligent slaves."
"I will reprove the nurse—"
"You shall do no such thing! I shall send her to the country to work in the fields, and she shall never again set foot across our threshold."
* * *
"Marcellina, I would speak with you."
"What is it, Evander?"
"Rumours have been flying through the house. Have you not heard the chatter of the other slaves?"
"Slaves are gossips the world over."
"Yes, but these are also afraid. The fear even increases when the Master is abroad. By night they are silent from fear, by day they whisper amongst themselves. Some say they've seen ghosts in the fore-court, others say a curse has been pronounced against the house."
"You don't believe them, do you?"
"I don't know what to believe. But just now the door-keeper has told me he's going to the market. I don't think he's coming back. He, who so greatly fears the Master's wrath, he is now running away. How have we sinned? Which god is looking askance at us?"
"You'd do well to listen more to the rumours . And look deeply into the shadows."
* * *
"Evander! Marcellina! Why is the house all in darkness again? And it's freezing! Why are there no lamps burning? By Hercules! did not I send messenger ahead to announce my return?
"Ill-fortune has beset this house, Master. So many slaves have fled, that none remain to bring oil for the lamps. I myself had resolved to go to the market... but the runaways took the money with them."
"What are you saying? Where is my wife?"
"She's shut up in her room with your son, in front of the heating stove."
"Tomorrow, go get me the slave-catchers."
"I already summoned them, Master—in vain."
"Must I send all of you to the fields?"
* * *
"This house hates me!"
"You're being silly, my dear wife. A new Mistress—"
"The new Mistress has been rejected by the slaves. They loved the old one, and love her still. They have cursed me, consigned me to the gods below."
"Nonsense. I married you with proper ceremony, and brought you here just as properly."
"It doesn't matter. They hate me, and ran away. Soon no one will remain here with Publius save Marcellina and Evander and you."
"And you as well, of course."
"No, not I. Soon I shall be carried out to my grave. I have foreseen my death in a dream."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"After I die, take Publius into the country at once, lest he follow me to Hades."
"I've heard enough. I had hoped that I might spend the evening with my family after my long journey, but everyone here is mad. I'm going out, to dine amongst friends."
"You must protect him. Say you'll take him away. Swear it!"
* * *
"You'll either tell me, Marcellina, or I shall beat you until you do."
"She finally understood. Death alone could expiate so great an injury."
"Lying slave! I bade you watch over your Mistress whilst I was out, and I return to find her dead with a bloodied knife and a careless slave. Where is Evander? I'd left him here with the same orders, because I haven't much faith in you."
"He, too, finally understood. He finally—"
"I'll kill you, and then I'll kill that worthless Evander!"
"Stay your hand, O my husband!"
"Who said that? Who is in the house?"
"Do you not recognise me? Am I so much changèd?"
"There's no one here! Marcellina, who is speaking? Who is in here?"
"I am here."
"I see nothing by shadows."
"Perhaps I have become dark, for it is only my shade that remains."
"Who are you, ghost?"
"By Castor, you do not know me! I am your first wife."
"I buried your ashes. Why are you not at rest?"
"You murdered our daughter."
"I acted according to our sacred customs."
"Had I borne a son, you'd have taken him up."
"Probably. A father can bring up a son. What good is a daughter without a mother?"
"She could have been a remembrance. I'd have lived through her, and returned to you as but a sweet memory, instead of an avenger."
"So it is you who chased away the slaves."
"I did."
"But not all of them, spirit! I still have Evander. You haven't forced him out. I shall send him to the farm, to prepare the villa there. Publius and I shall stay over in a road-house tonight, and follow on the morrow."
"Ha ha! Do you not understand? You fool! Evander has finally paid heed to his true Mistress. He's taken your son to the Via Appia, to expose him amongst the tombs!"
finis
Bonus: The translation from my 2018 story which I had neglected to do....
Palimpsest
Even though the bishop summoned me and winter storms were threatening, I refused to go back to Amiens, lest my prey elude me. Neither raging winds nor mountains nor bishops frighten me; for ancient wisdom, lost in the darkness of centuries, calls to me in the voices of the Muses themselves.
A rumour had reached my ears when I came upon a monastery, the seat of a wretched order of monastics hard by a worthless little village, and of which the name has fled my memory. Now, it was generally held that within a most antique codex was to be found, which preserved Cicero's lost book, the Hortensius. But when the abbot showed me the codex, I could not retain my laughter. Who, I asked myself, could mistake such vulgarity, such foolishness, such solecisms for the words of Cicero? I must praise the humility of the abbot; a proud man would have met the derision of his treasure with opprobrium. He, on the other hand, begged my forgiveness, and invited me to peruse the rest of the library.
The library consisted in almost twenty books: vernacular works for the most part, along with an ancient bestiary, an anthology of Tertullian, and speeches of unknown authors. One book was in Greek. Dust caked its cover, which I blew off to find one half of the History of Dio Cassius. The abbot timidly said there were none there who had any Greek.
"Your library," said I, "proclaims the glory of God. Treasures of the spirit bear an inestimable price."
"I understand," said he. "We are simple monks, and we require no other books than those which teach the simple truths of Faith. Philosophy — especially pagan philosophy — we happily leave to the Jesuits."
"Even the saints did not deny the wisdom of the pagans. Saint Augustine himself said the Hortensius led him to the Christian fait. If I had found that book..."
"Alas! You have searched for it here it in vain. Nevertheless..."
"Nevertheless...? What are you saying? What were you about to say?"
"It is said that, in an abbey not far from here, there is a book, quite rare, and as strange as it is old."
"Of what book do you speak?"
"I know not. It is reputed to be a book of secret things. Beside the rumour, I don't know anything."
"Tell me, where is this abbey?"
* * *
And so having heard the barest rumour, desire propelled me into the mountains. I have no wish to describe the road nor its arduousness. I believe you understand it well enough. I barely know why I bothered to write of the abbot just now. Perhaps you know him too, or perhaps he has died, or else you've reached this abbey in the mountains by some other route. But this is a confession as much as it is a warning, and I must beg your indulgence.
Now then, alone and exhausted, half-dead from hunger and the cold did I finally reach the abbey's gate. The abbess received me, and silently admitted me into a cell.
"Let us pray," said she, "O stranger, for your salvation. May you soon, by the grace of God, be able to travel onwards."
But we both knew she was lying. She'd read the obsession in my eyes, which would not yield.
For two, perhaps three days I slept. Now and again a nun brought food and water, though I hardly ate or drank a thing. Finally, overcome by affliction, I devoured the food as if I were a starving man. After that I straightaway sought out the abbess.
"By God's mercy," said she," you are well again. Now you may continue n your journey."
"Not at all. For herein lies my goal."
"Wherefore? We are but pious women, labouring in our scriptorium for the glory of God."
"Thus have I come, to inspect your library. I should like to see both the fruit of your labours and their source."
"Sisters Marie and Lucie are the most skilful illustrators, and the illumination work of Sister Sophie is of the most exquisite beauty, though I do not believe such trifles will stir the mind of such a worldly scholastic such as yourself."
"Cease your dissimulation, abbess, it becomes neither of us. You have another book, whose secrets you've never divulged. I have come here a pilgrim, and I must read it."
"Forget this book, I pray you. It is an unhealthy thing and accursed. Flee, lest it harm you, lest you be tainted by its evil."
"I do not wish to leave. In fact, I refuse."
"I cannot convince you otherwise?"
"You cannot."
"I see you are not afraid. Alas! Then tomorrow I will take you to the hidden cell. But now I must to the sacristy. Here we live according to the Rule."
* * *
That night I could scarcely fall asleep. The emptiness of my cell equalled the fear in my soul, like a mirror of my own disgrace. My mouth could scarcely spit out the words of my prayers, nor indeed could my heart credit them. I thought only of the book, and burned with desire for its promised secrets. Truly, and of this I am ashamed, I feared separation from the Devil even more. I could feel an ineffable evil. That book was drawing me closer to itself, but with a plainly alien voice, as if from another world, and older even than the young gods of the human race.
The abbess returned in the morning. She took one look at me and said, "now you know. It lies in wait for you, and by its very nearness crawls into your mind."
"What is it?" I asked tremulously.
"You shall know."
She lit a torch and led me, still half-asleep, into the basement of the abbey. With every step the ringing in my ears — or in my mind — grew louder.
"Do you hear it?" asked the abbess.
"I nodded wordlessly. I followed her through the darkness until we came to an iron door. She threw the bolt and we went in.
The cell smelled of incense. Golden crucifixes set into the walls shone in the torchlight. I could not easily count how many there were. They were arrayed in a row so that the cell was encircled by images of the Redeemer. In the middle of the cell stood a writing desk, upon which were deposited an inkpot, a knife, quills — and the ancient codex.
The air in the cell was dry and heavy, not only because of the incense but also in some other, inexpressible fashion. My feet conducted me towards the desk. Or rather, the codex compelled me towards itself. With desire and fear intermingled I touched the cover of simple leather. It felt oddly warm, like a living animal. Unconsciously I looked back at the abbess. I saw patience written on her face, but she was smiling ever so faintly.
"Take it up," she said, echoing those famous words heard by Saint Augustine, "and read."
I picked it up carefully, and allowed it to open in my hands of its own accord. I read out loud the first sentence upon which my gaze happened to alight.
When therefore Jesus had taken the sour wine he said: It is finished. And bowing his head he yielded up his spirit.
"It's a holy bible!" I exclaimed.
"It is. And it isn't. Look closely at the pages."
The pages were made of a strange parchment. It appeared to be dyed purple, but as I looked closer I discovered the colour to be their natural hue. And in addition to the pores, which every parchment bears, I saw there were pinkish veins.
"What animal...?"
The abbess shook her head to say she knew not. The sacred text had been written with the utmost care and shewed the highest art of the scribe, and expressed enormous piety. But here and there the letters wavered, as if now and again a trembling pen had formed them, and then with strengthened resolve once again resumed writing most carefully. And beneath the letters I made out erasures, the shadows of older letters.
"It's a palimpsest," said I. "But why have you over-written it?"
"Look at the first page."
I turned the pages towards the front. On the first page were unusual letters, which, after a moment's contemplation, I recognised as an antique Greek cursive. Amongst them were sigils and characters such as I had seen in the books of necromancy which we once burnt in the town square at Augsburg. I concentrated upon the letters until — with no small difficulty — I could make out the words they formed. Herein I found horror: the names of ancient gods and demons, dark prayers and imprecations, curses, magic words, and malevolent hymns written out in crude hexameters.
"Why," I asked fearfully, "did you not erase this beginning section?"
"Think you that we would blaspheme against the Holy Bible? Foolish man, keep reading!"
I obeyed her command and turned over the pages. Here and there over the sigils and unclean words I saw the letters of the sacred Scriptures appear. The more pages I turned, the more I found the evil words replaced by passages expressing the Word of God, until every last once was effaced. But not obliterated — not completely. For if I looked more closely, I found the ancient words lurking beneath the new writing.
"Again and again have we erased it, but the New Testament written over it time and time again never remains. The evil sentiments always reassert themselves, devouring the Holy Scriptures as a plague devours the human body."
"Why have not destroyed the codex," I asked.
"Ha ha ha! We cannot."
"Truly not?"
"I see you still do not understand, O most fortunate man! Forget this wicked book! Go, fly from this accursed place, and pray to God that He preserve you."
"Are you mad? I shall destroy the unclean book myself!"
I ripped the torch violently from her hand and threw the book to the floor, but then my courage at once disappeared. I hesitated, suddenly afraid to bring the blazing flame near the codex. Then the abbess laughed horribly, with an admixture of terror and solace. She took back the torch from out of my feeble hand.
"You wish to know the book's secrets. I once, as did you, made an attempt to destroy the book by fire — and I could not. Thereafter I read it through, that I might learn its damnable secrets. O wretched woman! If only the Catholic faith had turned my mind away from such a great sin. And yet — how bitter is the irony — by so great a sin I avoided an even greater calamity. The book, indeed, wants to be destroyed. There is a demon bound within its leaves. Should the book be destroyed, the evil spirit will be set free from its prison."
"I don't understand." I began weakly, "The writing..."
"We often erase the old writing. Here dwell three unlettered sisters, whom I bid wash the pages lest any of the others be tainted by the unclean words. We overwrite it frequently, but, as you have seen, it doesn't last."
"I must know what it says."
"You must? Or only wish it?"
"What does it matter?"
"I cannot stop you. I believe your mind is strong enough, that you yet have enough of a spark of wisdom that you will not release the evil spirit into the world. But know this: even though you may keep your mind intact, you will certainly lose your soul. For the last time I warn you: fly this place, and forget."
"How long must I wait? When shall the writing have returned?"
"It begins slowly, then blazes forth like a conflagration."
"I will look for it daily."
"Indubitably."
Daily, alas! Over six days long I returned to the cell countless times. Always there were more words, more sigils that I could read, but all too often still obscured in the middle. I could grasp the sense of these fragmented passages, even if a full understanding eluded me. Day after day the mystery fell away until on the seventh day I read the book in full.
O malignancy! Such evil, and such temptation in a single place I'd never before seen, never believed possible. Not even the Serpent in the Garden had such a lure. I confess I was tempted towards evil... But I had resolved to fight against this evil. And so by a lesser evil — as awful as it were — I sought to avert a greater one.
After I finished reading the book, the abbess told me she too had been tempted. "Perhaps," she said, "if we burnt the book together, and pronounced the magical words, we could control the demon."
"Sunday," said I, "after Mass. Then we'll have enough of divine power and courage that we might easily command the demon, and without danger."
By the grace of God, she believed my lie. And so that night I crept into the kitchen, where I brewed up a poison. Thence into the chapel, where I besmeared the Chalice with the venom. I do not wish to describe the horrid death of the pious sisters, nor the murder of the suspicious abbess, whom I found it necessary to chase down with a knife.
Having done these fell deeds, I dragged several bodies into the courtyard, laying them here and there. I arranged their limbs as if they'd died of plague in those spots. On the gate I painted PLAGVE in great letters, then shut the doors and barred them.
I hope my deception will put off any travellers. Yet I doubt it shall; and so in these terrible pages I have written this confession, this warning. Flee, I entreat you, lest ϽϾ obsess ΙΑΕΩ you ΘΗΞΙΑ evil ʊ ΑΓΕ ΑΒΡΑΣΑΞ ʊ ΞΤΕΡΟΣ leadsЋʊƳƆ ΒΑΦΠΕΝΕΜΟΥΝ ΟΝΙΘΙ ΛΑΡΙΚΡΙΘΙ ΡΥΟΨ ΑΙΦΙΡΚΙΡ ΛΙΘΟΝΙΣ Ӿ ΥΟΜΕΝΕΡ ΦΑ8ΩΕΙ Ϣ ΞΑΒΡΙΕΛ ΚΟΧ ΗΤΗ ΗΤΗ ΤΑΧΥ ΤΑΧΥ
Patria potestas
— Nego
— Quaeso, domine.
— Non tollo.
— At quam formosa est. Nonne habet oculos matris suae... ?
— Matris, quam necavit. Nolo istam inspicere.
— Quaeso, domine, misericodiam !
— Exponenda est, statim et sine mora.
— Tibi oboedio, domine.
— Siste, Marcellina. Tibi non credo. In foro eam ponas vel in scalis templi cuiusdam. Ex Vrbe ecferenda est, in Via Appia inter tumulos reliquenda. Si viator eam suscipiat, vivat. Sin Lupus... ubi est Euander ?
— Adsum, domine. Te auscultavi.
— Agedum, hanc infantem ululantem aufer. Uxorem nunc silentio lugeam.
* * *
— Euander ! Marcellina ! Quam ob rem domus in tenebris stat ? Cur non sunt lampades ? Dormiuntne omnes servi ?
— Domine, nescimus te Romam revenisse. Domus haud parata'st...
— Haud refert, Marcellina. Sed fatigatus sum itinere et magnam habeo famem.
— Tibi cibum peto. Velisne, ut cenam coquam ?
— Magis velim cubile... si cubiculum est inane. Dic enim : nonne res eius semotae sunt ?
— Aio domine. Hic nullum dominae manet.
* * *
— Quid voluit nuntius ?
— Dixit dominum mox reventurum esse... nova cum uxore !
— Etiamne novam duxit ? Ecastor ! dominae cineres non iam sunt frigidi.
— Nihilomnus novam feminam duxit, quam nunc dominam nuncupare debemus.
— Unam dominam solam habeo, cuius sum liberta piissima ; aliam non agnoscam.
— Cave, Marcellina. Neque censu neque vindicta libera facta es. Dominus numquam te libertinam agnoscet. Nunc paremus domum nostrae dominae advenienti.
— Vae nobis servis, tanto cum domino duro !
* * *
— Ubi obstetrix ? Non possum eam invenire, et infans mature venit.
— Eam iamiam erae misi. Noli sollicitari, Euander : maturrime venit.
* * *
— Marcellina, credidi te nutricem pro me compellasse.
— Eam pro certo compellavi, era, sicut pollicita sum.
— Eheu, vereor ut non satis dura esses ; bullam parvi Publii iterum humo inveni. Hoc tempore fuit in hortulo. Obiurga eam durius, quaeso, ne iterum bullam perdeat. Nam, non sum superstitiosa, non puto striges eum rapturas esse nisi bullam geret, at non decet puerum romanum ut coram patre incomptus videatur. Corrige igitur nutricem, priusquam lapsum conspiciat pater. Nolim Publium maiorem eam vituperaturum... neve verberaturum esse.
— Confestim... domina.
— O, Marcellina, tibi gratias ago. Mira es, vere mira. Nescio quid sine te domum dirigere possim. Num Scis, non omnes servi me amant.
* * *
— Ain iterum?
— Noli irasci. Semper denuo invenitur. Vix refert.
— Cum ego ab Vrbe absum, tute rectrix familiae. Non debet matrona servorum negligentiae indulgere.
— Nutricem reprehendam—
— Nil facias ! Eam ad vicum mittam, ut in agris laboret, nec umquam limen nostrum transeat.
* * *
— Marcellina, tecum colloquar.
— Quid fit, O Euander ?
— Rumores per domum volabant. Nonne sermonem aliorum servorum audivisti ?
— Servi ubique sunt garruli.
— Sed et hi pavebant. Pavor quidem crescit dum dominus abest. Noctu terrore silent, diu inter se susurrant. Dicunt alii sese lemures in atrio vidisse, alii maleficia contra domum incantata esse.
— Num eis credis ?
— Nescio cui credere. At iamiam ianitor mihi dixit se ad macellam ire. Non puto eum reventurum. Is, qui tantopere iram domini timeat, is nunc fugit. Quid peccavimus ? Quid numen nos invidet ?
— Te oportet opiniones amplius auscultare. Et umbras intueri.
* * *
— Euander ! Marcellina ! Quamobrem domus iterum in tenebris stat ? Et quam frigida est ! Cur non ardet lampades ? Nonne, mehercle, nuntium misi reventum meum praenuntiatum ?
— Infelicitas domui incesit, domine. Tot servi fugerunt, ut nemo maneret qui oleum afferet. Ego ipse constitui ad emporium ire... sed pecuniam fugitivi erripuerunt.
— Quid dicis ? Ubi mea uxor ?
— Clausa'st cum filio in cubiculo, prope foculum.
— Mane, mihi fugitivarios adipiscaris.
— Etiam fugitivarios citavi, domine — frustra.
— Debeone vos omnes in agros dimittere ?
* * *
— Domus ipsa me odit !
— Ridicule loqueris, O cara coniunx. Novam dominam—
— Novam dominam recusaverant servi. Priorem amabant, etiam amant. Me exsecrati sunt, me devoverunt.
— Nugas dicis. Te rite duxi, rite adduxi.
— Nil refert. Me oderint, et fugerunt. Mox nemo inibi cum Publio manebunt praeter Marcellina et Euander et tu.
— Et tu quoque, pro certo.
— Non manebo. Mox ecferar. Mortem in somnio praevidi.
— Desine desipere.
— Posteaquam morior, Publium statim rus adduce, ne me ad inferos sequatur.
— Sat audivi. Speravi longum post iter vesperem cum familia agere, sed hic omnes desipiunt. Abeo inter amicos cenare.
— Debes eum conservare. Dic ut eum amoveas. Iura !
* * *
— Aut dices, Marcellina, aut verberatione te cogam ut dicas.
— Denique intellexit. Sola mors iniuriam tantam expiat. Itaque venas abscissit et—
— Mendacissima serva ! Iussi te dominam custodire dum foris eram. Revenio ut eam mortuam invenirem, sanguinolento cum cultro et dissoluta cum serva. Ubinam Euander ? Eum hic reliqui, eodem cum iussu, quoniam tibimet non credo.
— Is quoque tandem intellexit, tandem—
— Te occidam, dein istum furciferum Euandrum.
— Siste, O mi marite !
— Quis loquitur ? Quis est in atrio ?
— Num me agnoscis ? Tantumne mutavi ?
— Nemo adest ! Marcellina, quis loquitur ? Quisnam adest ?
— Adsum ego.
— Nihil video nisi umbras.
— Atra fortasse facta sum, quoniam mei sola umbra manet.
— Quis sis, larva ?
— Ecator ! me non novisti. Tibi sum prima uxor.
— Tuos cineres sepelivi. Quid non requiescis ?
— Filiam nostram necavisti.
— Rite egi.
— Si filium peperissem, suscepisses.
— Verisimiliter. Filium pater educat. Quid bonum sit filia sine matre ?
— Recordatio fuisset ; per eam vixissem. Ita ego ut dulcis memoria tibi revenissem, neque ultrix.
— Tu igitur omnes servos fugavisti.
— Fugavi.
— At non omnes, larva ! Manet mihi Euander. Eum me non abalienavisti. Eum ad vicum mittam qui villam pareat. Egomet et Publius in mansione hac nocte demoriar, deinde cras sequemur.
— Hahae ! Num cognovisti, O stulte ? Euander tandem suam dominam veram auscultavit. Filium in via Appia inter tumulos nunc exponit.
finis
Patria potestas
"I refuse."
"Please, Master."
"I do not acknowledge the infant."
"But look how beautiful she is. Doesn't she have her mother's eyes?"
"Her mother, whom she killed."
"Please, Master, show mercy!"
"She is to be exposed immediately. I will brook no delay."
"I obey, Master."
"Stay, Marcellina. I do not trust you. You'd leave her in the forum or on the steps of some temple. She is to be taken out of Rome, and left amongst the tombs on the Appian Way. If a traveller should take her up, she may live. If a wolf, on the other hand... Where is Evander?"
"I am right here, Master. I heard you."
"Well then, take away this squalling infant. I would now mourn my wife in silence."
* * *
"Evander! Marcellina! Why is the house all in darkness? Why aren't their any lamps? Are all the slaves asleep?"
"Master, we did not know you'd returned to Rome. The house is hardly ready..."
"No matter, Marcellina. But I am tired from my journey and have worked up quite an appetite."
"I shall find you some food. Do you want me to cook dinner?"
"I'd prefer my bedroom... if it be empty. Tell me, have her things been removed?"
"Yes, Master. Nothing of hers remains in the house."
* * *
"What did the messenger want?"
"He said the Master would return soon... with a new bride!"
"Married again already? By Castor! The Mistress' ashes aren't cold yet."
"Nevertheless, he has a new wife, whom we now must call Mistress."
"I have but one Mistress, whose freedwoman I am, and to whom I am the most loyal. I shall not accept another."
"Be careful, Marcellina. Your freedom was not entered in the census, nor was there a formal ceremony of manumission. The Master will never acknowledge you as a freedwoman. Now let us prepare the house for our Mistress' arrival."
"O woe to us slaves who have such a harsh master!"
* * *
"Where is the midwife? I can't find her, and the child is coming early."
"I've already sent her in to M'lady. Don't worry, Evander, the babe is coming right on time."
* * *
"Marcellina, I thought you'd had a word with the nurse for me."
"I certainly did, M'lady, as I promised I would."
"Alas, I fear you were not stern enough; I found little Publius' bulla on the ground again. This time it was in the garden. Scold her more forcefully this time, if you would, so that he doesn't lose his bulla again. Now, I'm not superstitious. I don't think witches are going to carry him off if he doesn't wear it. But it isn't becoming for a Roman boy to look ill-kempt in front of his father. So do remonstrate with his nurse, before he father notices the lapse. I wouldn't want Publius senior to yell at her... or have her beaten."
"Right away...Mistress."
"Oh, thank you, Marcellina. You are a treasure, truly a treasure. I don't know how I should ever manage this house without you. You know, not all the slaves even like me."
* * *
"Again, you say?"
"Don't be angry. It always turns up again. It's nothing, really."
"When I am out of the City, you are in charge of our household. It just won't do for the Mistress of the house to indulge her negligent slaves."
"I will reprove the nurse—"
"You shall do no such thing! I shall send her to the country to work in the fields, and she shall never again set foot across our threshold."
* * *
"Marcellina, I would speak with you."
"What is it, Evander?"
"Rumours have been flying through the house. Have you not heard the chatter of the other slaves?"
"Slaves are gossips the world over."
"Yes, but these are also afraid. The fear even increases when the Master is abroad. By night they are silent from fear, by day they whisper amongst themselves. Some say they've seen ghosts in the fore-court, others say a curse has been pronounced against the house."
"You don't believe them, do you?"
"I don't know what to believe. But just now the door-keeper has told me he's going to the market. I don't think he's coming back. He, who so greatly fears the Master's wrath, he is now running away. How have we sinned? Which god is looking askance at us?"
"You'd do well to listen more to the rumours . And look deeply into the shadows."
* * *
"Evander! Marcellina! Why is the house all in darkness again? And it's freezing! Why are there no lamps burning? By Hercules! did not I send messenger ahead to announce my return?
"Ill-fortune has beset this house, Master. So many slaves have fled, that none remain to bring oil for the lamps. I myself had resolved to go to the market... but the runaways took the money with them."
"What are you saying? Where is my wife?"
"She's shut up in her room with your son, in front of the heating stove."
"Tomorrow, go get me the slave-catchers."
"I already summoned them, Master—in vain."
"Must I send all of you to the fields?"
* * *
"This house hates me!"
"You're being silly, my dear wife. A new Mistress—"
"The new Mistress has been rejected by the slaves. They loved the old one, and love her still. They have cursed me, consigned me to the gods below."
"Nonsense. I married you with proper ceremony, and brought you here just as properly."
"It doesn't matter. They hate me, and ran away. Soon no one will remain here with Publius save Marcellina and Evander and you."
"And you as well, of course."
"No, not I. Soon I shall be carried out to my grave. I have foreseen my death in a dream."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"After I die, take Publius into the country at once, lest he follow me to Hades."
"I've heard enough. I had hoped that I might spend the evening with my family after my long journey, but everyone here is mad. I'm going out, to dine amongst friends."
"You must protect him. Say you'll take him away. Swear it!"
* * *
"You'll either tell me, Marcellina, or I shall beat you until you do."
"She finally understood. Death alone could expiate so great an injury."
"Lying slave! I bade you watch over your Mistress whilst I was out, and I return to find her dead with a bloodied knife and a careless slave. Where is Evander? I'd left him here with the same orders, because I haven't much faith in you."
"He, too, finally understood. He finally—"
"I'll kill you, and then I'll kill that worthless Evander!"
"Stay your hand, O my husband!"
"Who said that? Who is in the house?"
"Do you not recognise me? Am I so much changèd?"
"There's no one here! Marcellina, who is speaking? Who is in here?"
"I am here."
"I see nothing by shadows."
"Perhaps I have become dark, for it is only my shade that remains."
"Who are you, ghost?"
"By Castor, you do not know me! I am your first wife."
"I buried your ashes. Why are you not at rest?"
"You murdered our daughter."
"I acted according to our sacred customs."
"Had I borne a son, you'd have taken him up."
"Probably. A father can bring up a son. What good is a daughter without a mother?"
"She could have been a remembrance. I'd have lived through her, and returned to you as but a sweet memory, instead of an avenger."
"So it is you who chased away the slaves."
"I did."
"But not all of them, spirit! I still have Evander. You haven't forced him out. I shall send him to the farm, to prepare the villa there. Publius and I shall stay over in a road-house tonight, and follow on the morrow."
"Ha ha! Do you not understand? You fool! Evander has finally paid heed to his true Mistress. He's taken your son to the Via Appia, to expose him amongst the tombs!"
finis
Bonus: The translation from my 2018 story which I had neglected to do....
Palimpsest
Even though the bishop summoned me and winter storms were threatening, I refused to go back to Amiens, lest my prey elude me. Neither raging winds nor mountains nor bishops frighten me; for ancient wisdom, lost in the darkness of centuries, calls to me in the voices of the Muses themselves.
A rumour had reached my ears when I came upon a monastery, the seat of a wretched order of monastics hard by a worthless little village, and of which the name has fled my memory. Now, it was generally held that within a most antique codex was to be found, which preserved Cicero's lost book, the Hortensius. But when the abbot showed me the codex, I could not retain my laughter. Who, I asked myself, could mistake such vulgarity, such foolishness, such solecisms for the words of Cicero? I must praise the humility of the abbot; a proud man would have met the derision of his treasure with opprobrium. He, on the other hand, begged my forgiveness, and invited me to peruse the rest of the library.
The library consisted in almost twenty books: vernacular works for the most part, along with an ancient bestiary, an anthology of Tertullian, and speeches of unknown authors. One book was in Greek. Dust caked its cover, which I blew off to find one half of the History of Dio Cassius. The abbot timidly said there were none there who had any Greek.
"Your library," said I, "proclaims the glory of God. Treasures of the spirit bear an inestimable price."
"I understand," said he. "We are simple monks, and we require no other books than those which teach the simple truths of Faith. Philosophy — especially pagan philosophy — we happily leave to the Jesuits."
"Even the saints did not deny the wisdom of the pagans. Saint Augustine himself said the Hortensius led him to the Christian fait. If I had found that book..."
"Alas! You have searched for it here it in vain. Nevertheless..."
"Nevertheless...? What are you saying? What were you about to say?"
"It is said that, in an abbey not far from here, there is a book, quite rare, and as strange as it is old."
"Of what book do you speak?"
"I know not. It is reputed to be a book of secret things. Beside the rumour, I don't know anything."
"Tell me, where is this abbey?"
* * *
And so having heard the barest rumour, desire propelled me into the mountains. I have no wish to describe the road nor its arduousness. I believe you understand it well enough. I barely know why I bothered to write of the abbot just now. Perhaps you know him too, or perhaps he has died, or else you've reached this abbey in the mountains by some other route. But this is a confession as much as it is a warning, and I must beg your indulgence.
Now then, alone and exhausted, half-dead from hunger and the cold did I finally reach the abbey's gate. The abbess received me, and silently admitted me into a cell.
"Let us pray," said she, "O stranger, for your salvation. May you soon, by the grace of God, be able to travel onwards."
But we both knew she was lying. She'd read the obsession in my eyes, which would not yield.
For two, perhaps three days I slept. Now and again a nun brought food and water, though I hardly ate or drank a thing. Finally, overcome by affliction, I devoured the food as if I were a starving man. After that I straightaway sought out the abbess.
"By God's mercy," said she," you are well again. Now you may continue n your journey."
"Not at all. For herein lies my goal."
"Wherefore? We are but pious women, labouring in our scriptorium for the glory of God."
"Thus have I come, to inspect your library. I should like to see both the fruit of your labours and their source."
"Sisters Marie and Lucie are the most skilful illustrators, and the illumination work of Sister Sophie is of the most exquisite beauty, though I do not believe such trifles will stir the mind of such a worldly scholastic such as yourself."
"Cease your dissimulation, abbess, it becomes neither of us. You have another book, whose secrets you've never divulged. I have come here a pilgrim, and I must read it."
"Forget this book, I pray you. It is an unhealthy thing and accursed. Flee, lest it harm you, lest you be tainted by its evil."
"I do not wish to leave. In fact, I refuse."
"I cannot convince you otherwise?"
"You cannot."
"I see you are not afraid. Alas! Then tomorrow I will take you to the hidden cell. But now I must to the sacristy. Here we live according to the Rule."
* * *
That night I could scarcely fall asleep. The emptiness of my cell equalled the fear in my soul, like a mirror of my own disgrace. My mouth could scarcely spit out the words of my prayers, nor indeed could my heart credit them. I thought only of the book, and burned with desire for its promised secrets. Truly, and of this I am ashamed, I feared separation from the Devil even more. I could feel an ineffable evil. That book was drawing me closer to itself, but with a plainly alien voice, as if from another world, and older even than the young gods of the human race.
The abbess returned in the morning. She took one look at me and said, "now you know. It lies in wait for you, and by its very nearness crawls into your mind."
"What is it?" I asked tremulously.
"You shall know."
She lit a torch and led me, still half-asleep, into the basement of the abbey. With every step the ringing in my ears — or in my mind — grew louder.
"Do you hear it?" asked the abbess.
"I nodded wordlessly. I followed her through the darkness until we came to an iron door. She threw the bolt and we went in.
The cell smelled of incense. Golden crucifixes set into the walls shone in the torchlight. I could not easily count how many there were. They were arrayed in a row so that the cell was encircled by images of the Redeemer. In the middle of the cell stood a writing desk, upon which were deposited an inkpot, a knife, quills — and the ancient codex.
The air in the cell was dry and heavy, not only because of the incense but also in some other, inexpressible fashion. My feet conducted me towards the desk. Or rather, the codex compelled me towards itself. With desire and fear intermingled I touched the cover of simple leather. It felt oddly warm, like a living animal. Unconsciously I looked back at the abbess. I saw patience written on her face, but she was smiling ever so faintly.
"Take it up," she said, echoing those famous words heard by Saint Augustine, "and read."
I picked it up carefully, and allowed it to open in my hands of its own accord. I read out loud the first sentence upon which my gaze happened to alight.
When therefore Jesus had taken the sour wine he said: It is finished. And bowing his head he yielded up his spirit.
"It's a holy bible!" I exclaimed.
"It is. And it isn't. Look closely at the pages."
The pages were made of a strange parchment. It appeared to be dyed purple, but as I looked closer I discovered the colour to be their natural hue. And in addition to the pores, which every parchment bears, I saw there were pinkish veins.
"What animal...?"
The abbess shook her head to say she knew not. The sacred text had been written with the utmost care and shewed the highest art of the scribe, and expressed enormous piety. But here and there the letters wavered, as if now and again a trembling pen had formed them, and then with strengthened resolve once again resumed writing most carefully. And beneath the letters I made out erasures, the shadows of older letters.
"It's a palimpsest," said I. "But why have you over-written it?"
"Look at the first page."
I turned the pages towards the front. On the first page were unusual letters, which, after a moment's contemplation, I recognised as an antique Greek cursive. Amongst them were sigils and characters such as I had seen in the books of necromancy which we once burnt in the town square at Augsburg. I concentrated upon the letters until — with no small difficulty — I could make out the words they formed. Herein I found horror: the names of ancient gods and demons, dark prayers and imprecations, curses, magic words, and malevolent hymns written out in crude hexameters.
"Why," I asked fearfully, "did you not erase this beginning section?"
"Think you that we would blaspheme against the Holy Bible? Foolish man, keep reading!"
I obeyed her command and turned over the pages. Here and there over the sigils and unclean words I saw the letters of the sacred Scriptures appear. The more pages I turned, the more I found the evil words replaced by passages expressing the Word of God, until every last once was effaced. But not obliterated — not completely. For if I looked more closely, I found the ancient words lurking beneath the new writing.
"Again and again have we erased it, but the New Testament written over it time and time again never remains. The evil sentiments always reassert themselves, devouring the Holy Scriptures as a plague devours the human body."
"Why have not destroyed the codex," I asked.
"Ha ha ha! We cannot."
"Truly not?"
"I see you still do not understand, O most fortunate man! Forget this wicked book! Go, fly from this accursed place, and pray to God that He preserve you."
"Are you mad? I shall destroy the unclean book myself!"
I ripped the torch violently from her hand and threw the book to the floor, but then my courage at once disappeared. I hesitated, suddenly afraid to bring the blazing flame near the codex. Then the abbess laughed horribly, with an admixture of terror and solace. She took back the torch from out of my feeble hand.
"You wish to know the book's secrets. I once, as did you, made an attempt to destroy the book by fire — and I could not. Thereafter I read it through, that I might learn its damnable secrets. O wretched woman! If only the Catholic faith had turned my mind away from such a great sin. And yet — how bitter is the irony — by so great a sin I avoided an even greater calamity. The book, indeed, wants to be destroyed. There is a demon bound within its leaves. Should the book be destroyed, the evil spirit will be set free from its prison."
"I don't understand." I began weakly, "The writing..."
"We often erase the old writing. Here dwell three unlettered sisters, whom I bid wash the pages lest any of the others be tainted by the unclean words. We overwrite it frequently, but, as you have seen, it doesn't last."
"I must know what it says."
"You must? Or only wish it?"
"What does it matter?"
"I cannot stop you. I believe your mind is strong enough, that you yet have enough of a spark of wisdom that you will not release the evil spirit into the world. But know this: even though you may keep your mind intact, you will certainly lose your soul. For the last time I warn you: fly this place, and forget."
"How long must I wait? When shall the writing have returned?"
"It begins slowly, then blazes forth like a conflagration."
"I will look for it daily."
"Indubitably."
Daily, alas! Over six days long I returned to the cell countless times. Always there were more words, more sigils that I could read, but all too often still obscured in the middle. I could grasp the sense of these fragmented passages, even if a full understanding eluded me. Day after day the mystery fell away until on the seventh day I read the book in full.
O malignancy! Such evil, and such temptation in a single place I'd never before seen, never believed possible. Not even the Serpent in the Garden had such a lure. I confess I was tempted towards evil... But I had resolved to fight against this evil. And so by a lesser evil — as awful as it were — I sought to avert a greater one.
After I finished reading the book, the abbess told me she too had been tempted. "Perhaps," she said, "if we burnt the book together, and pronounced the magical words, we could control the demon."
"Sunday," said I, "after Mass. Then we'll have enough of divine power and courage that we might easily command the demon, and without danger."
By the grace of God, she believed my lie. And so that night I crept into the kitchen, where I brewed up a poison. Thence into the chapel, where I besmeared the Chalice with the venom. I do not wish to describe the horrid death of the pious sisters, nor the murder of the suspicious abbess, whom I found it necessary to chase down with a knife.
Having done these fell deeds, I dragged several bodies into the courtyard, laying them here and there. I arranged their limbs as if they'd died of plague in those spots. On the gate I painted PLAGVE in great letters, then shut the doors and barred them.
I hope my deception will put off any travellers. Yet I doubt it shall; and so in these terrible pages I have written this confession, this warning. Flee, I entreat you, lest ϽϾ obsess ΙΑΕΩ you ΘΗΞΙΑ evil ʊ ΑΓΕ ΑΒΡΑΣΑΞ ʊ ΞΤΕΡΟΣ leadsЋʊƳƆ ΒΑΦΠΕΝΕΜΟΥΝ ΟΝΙΘΙ ΛΑΡΙΚΡΙΘΙ ΡΥΟΨ ΑΙΦΙΡΚΙΡ ΛΙΘΟΝΙΣ Ӿ ΥΟΜΕΝΕΡ ΦΑ8ΩΕΙ Ϣ ΞΑΒΡΙΕΛ ΚΟΧ ΗΤΗ ΗΤΗ ΤΑΧΥ ΤΑΧΥ
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Date: 31 October 2020 03:42 pm (UTC)From:-Plei
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Date: 1 November 2020 11:16 am (UTC)From:(Also, if you ever want to have another go at Latin, hit me up. I have tons of easy resources. And if anyone I know could conquer it, you can.)