Marcus' Interlude
Marcus dreamt that he was floating, numbly, and lightly on the wind. Occasionally he opened his eyes and saw beneath him only stars. He thought to himself, “I must be dead. This is what it feels like to be a spirit. Will I see the village where I was born? I don’t know where it is, I can hardly remember it. Will my soul know where to go to take me back to my ancestors?”
Marcus dreamt of his woman back in Rome, Aula, a slave in the house of Scipio. He had not seen her for years. Had she found another man, perhaps another slave or servant in that great house? Did she remember him still? Would she cry when she heard the news of his death, or would she just shake her head and return to her washing?
He should have married her. He should have asked the young master for her freedom. He should have asked for his retirement and returned to Rome. He should have bought her with the gold he had won in Spain. Why had he waited? Why did he still follow the young master around the world, like his dog, when he was now a free man?
So many regrets in life, and now he was dead. Didn’t they say the dead regretted nothing? Why then did these thoughts of life still trouble him? There would be no small farm in Campania with Aula. There would be no children, no laughter, no vineyards, no grain—nothing--and why? Why had he waited? And now it was too late.
Even in his dreams Marcus wept.
Then a jolt of pain woke him from his reverie. Knives of agony shot through his shoulder and brought him to his senses. He grunted in pain and came awake in a flash. Shaking his head to chase away the last clouds from his eyes, he looked around himself to get his bearings.
He was not dead.
But it was pitch dark around him. He could not move his arms or legs. Except for his shoulder, which was in agony, he could feel no other part of himself. He could see the stars beneath him. There was a steady wind moving over him.
Then he realized he was on his back, being carried. He saw that the dark shapes moving over him, and occasionally blocking the stars, were the boughs of trees. He was being carried quite swiftly, not as fast as a horse, but much faster than a wagon. But the ride was unnaturally smooth.
He tried to look about himself to the left and right, but could see nothing.
He looked down at his body to see what confined his arms from moving and saw that he was held viselike in what looked to be enormous pincers. In panic he twisted around and saw that indeed he was being carried by one of the Formican beasts.
The creature felt him squirming and tightened its grip. Its claws constricted him so tightly that Marcus felt his chest would crack, and by the pain in his ribs, he knew one or more of them were surely broken. The creature squeezed him ever tighter as he fought to get free, and soon Marcus could not even draw a breath. His vision began to fade, and he knew that he would soon pass out, so he yielded and forced himself to calm down. The creature obliged by relaxing the iron grip it had on him. Marcus decided then to struggle no more. He had seen the beasts cut men in half with these same claws, so he knew there was no sense in fighting in this way. For now he was at the Formicans’ mercy. If they wished to bear him somewhere, he could not prevent them.
But why was he still alive?
As he pondered this, the events of the previous day came back to him in a flood.
Marcus dreamt of his woman back in Rome, Aula, a slave in the house of Scipio. He had not seen her for years. Had she found another man, perhaps another slave or servant in that great house? Did she remember him still? Would she cry when she heard the news of his death, or would she just shake her head and return to her washing?
He should have married her. He should have asked the young master for her freedom. He should have asked for his retirement and returned to Rome. He should have bought her with the gold he had won in Spain. Why had he waited? Why did he still follow the young master around the world, like his dog, when he was now a free man?
So many regrets in life, and now he was dead. Didn’t they say the dead regretted nothing? Why then did these thoughts of life still trouble him? There would be no small farm in Campania with Aula. There would be no children, no laughter, no vineyards, no grain—nothing--and why? Why had he waited? And now it was too late.
Even in his dreams Marcus wept.
Then a jolt of pain woke him from his reverie. Knives of agony shot through his shoulder and brought him to his senses. He grunted in pain and came awake in a flash. Shaking his head to chase away the last clouds from his eyes, he looked around himself to get his bearings.
He was not dead.
But it was pitch dark around him. He could not move his arms or legs. Except for his shoulder, which was in agony, he could feel no other part of himself. He could see the stars beneath him. There was a steady wind moving over him.
Then he realized he was on his back, being carried. He saw that the dark shapes moving over him, and occasionally blocking the stars, were the boughs of trees. He was being carried quite swiftly, not as fast as a horse, but much faster than a wagon. But the ride was unnaturally smooth.
He tried to look about himself to the left and right, but could see nothing.
He looked down at his body to see what confined his arms from moving and saw that he was held viselike in what looked to be enormous pincers. In panic he twisted around and saw that indeed he was being carried by one of the Formican beasts.
The creature felt him squirming and tightened its grip. Its claws constricted him so tightly that Marcus felt his chest would crack, and by the pain in his ribs, he knew one or more of them were surely broken. The creature squeezed him ever tighter as he fought to get free, and soon Marcus could not even draw a breath. His vision began to fade, and he knew that he would soon pass out, so he yielded and forced himself to calm down. The creature obliged by relaxing the iron grip it had on him. Marcus decided then to struggle no more. He had seen the beasts cut men in half with these same claws, so he knew there was no sense in fighting in this way. For now he was at the Formicans’ mercy. If they wished to bear him somewhere, he could not prevent them.
But why was he still alive?
As he pondered this, the events of the previous day came back to him in a flood.
posted by Horsey at 8:52 PM
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