Tragicocomedia

First Published in Westerly, volume 52, 2007.

This story was based on an anecdote from my friend Simon about his former employer, a fruiterer of some note.

I was crying when I opened the door. Even with the glimpse I got through the peephole I could never have guessed what a sweetie she was. I couldn’t help myself, I was crying like a baby, and she was looking all doe-eyed and gracious, holding a bunch of magazines and wearing a skirt. I knew the moment I saw her she’d come to talk about God, knew it even when I heard the knock. But what did I care? The mere sight of her knees was enough to wind me right up. It doesn’t take a lot at my age.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said – sir! such respect – “I’ve come at a bad time.”

“No, no,” I assured her, before she could back away, “the timing couldn’t be better.” I sniffled and smeared the tears across my cheeks. “I’m sorry, it’s just that everything’s been a bit much lately. I’m right down in the dumps. Perhaps you can help me, yes, yes, come in.”

“I don’t want to upset you.”

“Oh, please, please,” I said – how could such a lovely creature upset anyone? –  “I’m already upset, it’s just… Everything.”

I was hunching and breathing in sniffles, huffing up a good old sorrow. I was misery personified, the very mask of Greek tragedy.

“I was hoping to talk to you about Jesus,” she said, finding refuge in her mission.

“I know, I know,” I said, pathetically. “I know.”

“But if it’s not a good…”

“Go on,” I said, weeping like a willow, “sit down, make yourself at home.”

I walked through into the lounge room, waving her on. She trailed behind with that peering-round-the-corner look people sport when they aren’t too sure of things.

“Are you sure this is a good time? I could come back another day.”

“Oh no,” I said, “this is perfect timing. I could use a good talk right now. Especially about Jesus. Something to cheer me up.” I pulled out my handkerchief and blew my nose loudly, trying to avoid too much burbling. I was crying out tears as quick as I could wipe them away.

“Please, please,” I said, “I’ll put the kettle on.”

We were in the lounge with the kitchen adjoining. My round, old, wrinkled belly was tight with the drama. I bowed and scraped and showed her to the couch. She stood looking at it for a moment, clutching her colourful brochures, then sat down, knees tight together with her back as straight as a rod. There won’t be any flies on her!

“Tea?” I asked.

“Err, yes please. Thank you.”

I shuffled into the kitchen, still having a good old blubber. It really was a first rate bawl fest I had going on; top notch stuff. Safe in the kitchen I cracked a hidden smile and washed my face under the tap. I dried myself vigorously with a tea towel. For a little treat like this I didn’t want to look too bleary. I’d already unfurled the black flag of pity.

I stuck my head around the corner. “Milk, sugar?” My eyes were dry now, with just a faint sheen and a sting of red veins.

“Umm, white, one sugar,” she said. “Look, are you sure…”

“Of course, of course. I want to hear all about Jesus. This is a godsend, I’m sure of it.”

She stayed put and the kettle clicked home. Having just had a cuppa, there wasn’t much of a wait. I’d prefer to be pouring half a bottle of scotch down her throat, but it just wasn’t going to happen. I made the tea in a flash, wanting to hurry through before she did too much thinking. If everyone turns them away, then don’t they wonder about the people who let them in? I shuddered to think what she thought of me; if I was anything like the others.

I poured the tea and brought the steaming cups on through, eyes kept low and mouth in an arch; hung with the fishhooks of gloom. I sat down next to her, close but not too close. There was still plenty of time while the tea was hot.

“Well, here we are,” I said, throwing in a gratuitous extra sniffle.

“Okay, thank you.”

She really was a darling; lovely long dark hair, tall and slightly awkward, small, pert breasts – what a lucky old bloke that Jehovah was! There were quite a few things I wouldn’t have minded witnessing, let me tell you.

“Everything alright?” I asked.

“Yes. Are you alright?”

I took my time, just to keep her thrown. I could see she’d normally be damn confident, smiling and charming, telling it how it was, turning the pages of the magazine, letting me in on the good news, until someone broke all the rhythms. It might have been she who came knocking, but it was me who was calling the shots.

“Are you alright?” she asked again, all sincerity. It was a long while since such a beauty took so genuine an interest.

“Yes, and no.” I said. “I’ve been up and down like the lid on a boiling kettle. Maybe you can help!” I said, too excitedly, banking on her putting my exaggerated sincerity down to being hysterically sad.

“But you were crying so much,” she said. “Have you had some bad news?”

“Always bad news,” I said. “Always.” I shifted a little closer. “Thank Christ for small mercies!”

She straightened up even further, stomach flat as a tack, small but haughty breasts, nice firm tittie handfuls.

“We have this free magazine,” she said. “It’s called The Watchtower. It’s about living a better life.”

“A better life!” I said. “That’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

I shifted across another inch as she held the magazine tight in her taut little lap. On the cover was a lovely, peaceful scene; a huge, lush garden, with people of all different races and colours, neatly dressed just like her, lolling about on the grass with a whole zoo full of animals; tigers, deer, squirrels, hippos, dogs, monkeys. There were fruit trees in bloom and flowers sprouting all about. It was a vision of paradise, and the sun was belting on down; I don’t suppose it ever gets nippy in paradise.

“My name’s Jennifer,” she said, ready to get on with things. “I’m from the Jehovah’s Witnesses. We believe the Bible is the word of God and we look to live according to His words.”

“As it is written.” I said with theatrical awe.

“Yes, that’s right.” She shuffled the magazine in her hand. “Exactly as it is written. Not as other people have said it is written, but as it is actually written.”

“I see,” I said, shifting towards her another inch.

“The important thing is to ask whether or not things stand up to the test of scripture.”

She was back on track and down to business. I liked that immensely, right back on target she was.

“Things like?”

“Well, anything really. Especially about how to live according to God’s will, in harmony with the laws of the Hebrew and Greek testaments.”

“Like the ten commandments?”

“Yes, that’s one example.”

I leaned over for a closer look at The Watchtower. I took a sip of my tea and wiped my eyes again, pinching them into my nose.

“The Watchtower tells you most of what you need to know about what we do.”

“I’ll bet it does,” I said, remembering to throw in a sniffle. “And so what do you have to do to be a Jehovah’s Witness?” I inched closer still.

She reached forward carefully and picked up her cup of tea. She was looking straight ahead. Not looking at me. She took a sip and put the cup down again.

“We talk about the meaning of the scripture and how it governs our lives. How we believe we ought to live by it.”

“Well that all sounds pretty useful to me.”

There was a time when I didn’t have to put on a big old act just to get a young lady on the lounge. Back in the good old days they were queuing up for yours truly, and even once past my prime my form held good. This was one of the longest shots of my long career, but you never can be sure with these godly types. They’re either ripe and ready for a bit of exploitation, or they’re tight as a rusted wingnut. Truth is, it’s just plain tough when you’re over sixty. You have to hope they really love their daddies.

“I find it very useful in helping me to live a good life,” she said.

I rested my arm across the back of the couch, just behind her shoulders. I could almost feel the bone beneath her young flesh.

“I wish I knew how to live,” I  replied.

“Perhaps,” she began, but she got no further, for I was tired off all the dithering. Bursting into a new and more outrageous wail of sorrow, I plunged my head down straight into her lap and wrapped my arm around her shoulder. At last I could feel the scents I smelled; the fabric softener, the conditioner, the hint of an iron’s metallic steam. She gasped and writhed, stiffened and shifted. I could feel her bones and softness jumping about beneath my weeping face. I pressed myself right into her crotch. I couldn’t get my nose through the fabric, but being there was enough, right in the crucible of the world.

“Get off me!” she cried. “Get off!”

She tried to leap up, but the sheer weight of me made it impossible. The Watchtower slid off the couch and spilled across the floor. I reached up and managed to get my hands on her breasts. It was more than I could hope for; they were there right enough, and none of those wooden bras you sometimes run into; I could feel the nipples in the palms of my hands like stigmata.

“Get off me!” she cried, forcing herself upright with all her strength. “Get off!”

Ah yes, this was a champion score! Even better than the time I faked a heart attack in the fruit shop and fell down right under the skirts of two young twins. I saw everything that time, let me tell you, absolutely everything you can hope for without paying. Then there was the time I fainted on that towering beauty at the opera house. I just don’t get near women like that most days, but there in the foyer, falling in a falsified fit, as my hands ran along her perfect thighs it was like gliding down a curtain of sex; sliding down from heaven on a silken fire pole.

“Get off me!” cried my little Jehovah’s Witness, lunging into the air. “Help me, someone help!” I could see she was going to cause trouble if I didn’t let her fly, so I took in one last great whiff, treated myself to a final squeeze of her titties, then slackened my grip and rolled off.

I fell into the gap between the table and the couch, arms and legs flailing in the air like a beetle. I’d come a right cropper and she was on the move, making straight for the door. I had no intention of pursuing her, except maybe to give her magazines back. I’d had my fun and gotten as good as I was ever going to get.

I started to laugh aloud, great big belly laughs that rocked me back and forth as she skidded through the hallway and clattered down the steps.

I laughed and laughed until I could stand it no more. Then a wind sprang up and the door slammed shut. I looked to the crumpled Watchtower beside me with a rending surge of pity. My heart heaved a sigh, my throat locked up and this time I really started crying.

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This short story is derived from an incident in Apuleis’ 2nd-century novel, The Golden Ass.

 

Part I

I thought I knew donkeys. I thought I knew a thing or two about asses. By all means they’re known to be temperamental, as stubborn as they are dependable, and some even say the gods take their form to keep an eye on the natures of men. This ass, however, was a very odd beast indeed.

I didn’t have him for long. He was in my company just a few short weeks. Yet, in that time I watched him closely, and there were things I noticed and dreams I had that spoke of his curious nature.

It was some time ago now, when I was stationed in Thessaly, near the town of Hypata, just outside of Larissa. One day I received orders to transport my commander’s gear from the fort to his new station, in the nearby town of Lamia. I set off to look for a suitable beast. I was not in a good mood, it must be said. My mate Strabo, who takes his wine without water, had filled me full of his impious libations the night previous. My head clanged like an anvil, my stomach was sour as old milk, and I did not feel the master of my temper.

On the way back into town I came upon a man riding an unloaded ass. What followed, it pains me to recount, was nothing short of shameful.

“Where are you going with that ass?” I asked.

The man, a dirty poltroon in such wretched, dishevelled clothing he could barely be said to be clad, glanced at me quickly then turned back to the road, saying nothing. I watched him a moment, dumbfounded, then called to him again, approaching closer.

“Where are you going with that ass?”

Again he ignored me, staring ahead like a dumb mute. I found this every insulting; coming, as it was, from such a peasant.

“You, beggar,” I shouted, marching up behind him. “Where are you going with that unloaded ass?”

Still the man said nothing. I wasn’t about to stand for anything of the sort, and so, without a moment’s hesitation, I took my vine-staff and clobbered him one over the back of the head. The blow knocked him clean from the donkey’s back, and he hit the ground like a basket of bricks. At last I had his attention.

“Sir, sir,” he gasped, all humbleness now, scrabbling at my feet. “Please, sir,” he whined, “I speak no Latin. Only Greek.”

“Alright, alright,” I said in Greek, embarrassed by this new-found sycophancy. “Quit your whining. I asked you where you are going with this unloaded ass?”

“Why, sir,” he replied. “He’s not unloaded. He’s carrying me.”

“Not any more he isn’t. Where are you taking him?”

“I’m taking him into town.”

“Well,” said I, “we need his services. The commandant’s gear is being transported from the fort.”

The man looked at me like a dumb beast. I don’t have much patience for fools, so I took hold of the ass’s bridal.

“He’s wanted to join with the rest of the baggage animals.”

I began leading the ass away.

“But sir,” cried the man, his face a mask of sorrow. “I paid fifty sesterces for him! He’s all I have.”

“It’s no use telling me your stories.”

“Please,” he begged, “sir,” he whined, “friend,” he pleaded, as though I was his brother. “Be more civil. I wish only the best for you and your men, for the success of the legion and the commander, for a swift promotion for yourself. I call upon the gods to give you these blessings, but please don’t take my ass.”

He grabbed at my feet, bowing and scraping on his knees. The blood ran freely from his head. I could see that I’d hit him too hard.

“And anyway,” he said, “it’s a useless beast and terribly vicious. It’s on its last legs! It has a horrible disease! There’s only just enough life in it to carry a few vegetables from my garden without collapsing. It’s not fit to bear your master’s equipment.”

The blow must have made him forgetful. Had I not just seen him riding on the beast’s back? It looked a fine enough creature to me. I kicked the man away and stepped up the pace. I was sick of the sound of his voice. He was like all the rest; a liar, a dodger, a sycophant. I was in half a mind to give him another whack and put him out of his misery. He came after me again, abasing himself, grabbing at me. It was the height of insolence.

“Please, please, sir,” he said.

He clutched at my feet and nearly tripped me over. Completely fed up, I turned and raised my cudgel to silence him. Next thing I knew, he grabbed me like a wrestler. Crouching right down, the scoundrel took me round the calves and heaved me up and over with uncanny strength. In the blink of an eye I was down on my back with the wind knocked out of me. Straightaway he was onto me. He hit me and bit me, then took up a stone and beat me round the head and shoulders. It was all I could do to protect myself from a fatal strike. His strength was phenomenal; I was powerless against his onslaught.

“Get off me,” I cried, reaching for my sword, “I’ll finish you once and for all!”

Seeing me go for my sword, the knave went for it himself, took hold of it, and hurled it away into the bushes. Now he resumed his attack with even greater savagery, raining down heavier blows. There were no witnesses, no one to intervene – if it went on a moment longer I’d be done for. I was nearly expiring already, battered and bruised and bleeding all over. It was the least I could do to protect my head. Then, after a terrific punch to the brow, I went limp. I lay like a corpse, playing dead, fearful that he would find my sword, or take a larger stone and finish me off.

Instead, however, my assailant stood back, surveying the scene with horror. Believing that he had done me in and fearful now of a capital charge, he panicked and bolted. Taking up my sword, he made off after the ass, who was already hotfooting it out of there. He caught him up, hopped aboard his sturdy back, and off they went towards the town. In a welter of shame, relief and exhaustion, I blacked out.

When I came around the day was well on its way towards evening. The air was thin and cool and full of the requisite dust. I could smell a trace of cooking fires from the fields and my stomach turned in hunger. I felt desperately thirsty.

I hauled myself up, a sorry sight indeed. If anyone had passed where I lay, then none had stopped to help. They’re all the same round these parts, a bunch of selfish good-for-nothings. Still, it was a relief not to have to explain myself, for I was ashamed and disgusted. To lose my sword was sacrilege. The thought of having to explain the beating I had received was bad enough, but to have lost my sword as well! Almighty Jove, I was in for it alright.

I stumbled towards town, head hanging low. The birds were settling into the trees and making a hell of a racket. I cursed them and all their twilight chirpiness; cursed all the insects that tickled my wounds. Soon, however, I began to curse myself. The more I thought about it, the more I knew that I only had myself to blame. I had been too rough with him. He was just another simpleton like all the rest. That ass must have meant a lot to him and I should never have struck him like that. Still, were it not for his rudeness we might both have been spared all this misery. After all, the army had every right to that ass. We take what we need, and that’s the way it is. I cursed the hides of both man and beast who had shown such stubborn arrogance.

As I neared the entrance of the town a group of farmers emerged, returning, I suppose, from the markets. They saw the state I was in and took pity upon me, asking how I had come to be this way.

“Please,” I said, “this is a criminal matter; a serious offence.”

I was ashamed to think how the town would view me should the story get round. I wanted to be rid of their sympathy as soon as possible. Thank the gods I was moving on to Lamia.

“But, sir,” said one, “you can hardly stand. You need help.”

“There,” I said, pointing to the town gates, “the soldiers will help me. It is a matter for the army, now leave me.”

I stumbled on, feeling the chides of their kindness. The smoke of the hearth fires was rising from the roofs, the softened bustle of the day’s end drifted from the dusty streets.

It was a relief to see Caecus and Appius on duty. I knew Caecus well and waved to him as I approached. The moment they saw how I looked, they came running.

“What happened to you, Marcus?”

“I was attacked on the road.”

“Are you alright?”

“I can’t speak of it here. Help me to the barracks, I’ll explain everything.”

“Here, take my cloak.”

Appius remained on duty while Caecus led me away. With the aid of his cloak, I passed unnoticed through the darkening streets. We went by the back ways and soon arrived at the barrack block. The moment I entered, my friend Strabo, already resting from his duty, leapt to his feet.

“Gods,” he said, “what happened?”

“Let me drink first.”

I made straight for the fountain. Strabo brought me a cup and I drank until I thought I would burst.

Soon the off-duty men had gathered around, anxious to hear my tale. Despite my disgrace it was such a relief to be alive and amongst comrades, that I felt a great urge to get the story off my chest. I called for wine to ease the pain and food to give me strength. With Strabo’s aid, I removed my clothes and took up a sponge to clean myself. With a cup of wine in hand and the sweetness of fresh dates on my tongue, I shared my story by the flickering lamps.

“Don’t worry,” said Phaestus, a man of local birth. “We’ll find this beggar and his ass and get your sword back.”

It was treachery, they declared, what this beggar had done. What right, after all, did he have to question my authority?

“It will be best if you stay in your quarters for a couple of days,” said Strabo. “If the commandant gets word of this, he’ll have you skinned. We’ll put the word out that you’ve taken ill with the fever.”

“But I’m supposed to transfer his gear to Lamia tomorrow.”

“A day won’t hurt. Tell him you were delayed on the road. Show him your scars – how well you defended his possessions! Now, describe again the appearance of this man who took your sword, and we’ll make sure to find him.”

“First thing in the morning,” said Phaestus, nodding. “We won’t rest until we get your sword back.”

The following morning, good to their word, the men went in search of my assailant. I stayed put in my cot, anxious for news and thankful of the rest. My ribs were bruised black and blue; my arms and thighs had taken a battering, my head pulsed like an open vein, but nothing was broken. If Fortuna wasn’t exactly smiling on me, she was at least wearing a smirk.

Just after midday I heard the sound of footsteps running into the barrack block. A moment later, a young soldier, Manius, burst into the room and shouted.

“Marcus, sir, we’ve found him! Come with me.”

Despite my stiff, sore body, I was on my feet in a flash.

“He’s holed up in some friend’s house and won’t come out. The friend denies he’s in there, but we know he’s lying. The neighbours ratted him out.”

“What about the ass? Finding the beast would make it plain.”

“There’s no sign of him – but listen; Strabo cooked up a story. He’s told the magistrates that the man we’re after has the commander’s silver cup. He said it was lost on the road and this man found it and won’t give it up. They’re on their way now, to try to coax him out.”

I dressed as quickly as I could; Manius assisted me with the buckles. The weight and pinch of the breastplate came as a stern caveat. I grabbed my cloak and we were off into the streets, marching as best as I could manage. It wasn’t long before we arrived at the house. It was a two-storey number with a shop downstairs selling grain and legumes. There was a big crowd already gathered round the front; all the nosy locals had come for a peep. Right in the middle of it all stood a man I assumed to be the owner of the shop, facing up to the authorities.

“It’ll only be trouble for you, Philo, if you don’t deliver him up.”

It was Spurius Posthumus speaking; a magistrate I knew and liked. He was short, but handsome; a straight talker who lived for the law courts.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” said the shop-owner. “Shall I swear on the Emperor’s genius? You’ve got the wrong house.”

“Come on, Philo,” said Posthumus, “enough of that. We know you’re an honest man and that you have a duty of hospitality. This theft could result in a capital charge. Your duty to the law brings no dishonour in breaking a bond of friendship.”

“Shall I say it a thousand times?” said Philo. “I don’t have anything to do with it.”

I moved up next to Strabo and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and saw me and clasped my hand.

“Shsshh,” he said, “say nothing. It’s all in hand. The law’s on our side and it’s just a matter of time.”

“How did you find him?”

“It’s a small enough town. Apparently he’s a gardener for a private estate. He often sells legumes at the market. This man is one of his purchasers.”

Another of the magistrates now stepped forward. A local man whose name I never recall.

“If we have to stand here much longer,” he said, “things will only get worse for you, Philo. If you want to save your skin from a charge of aiding and abetting, then you’d better give this man up quickly.”

The shop owner seemed not at all frightened. Indeed, he maintained an air of calm shock that such accusations should be levelled at him. I’ve seen plenty of bad liars in my time, but this wasn’t one of them. He stood with his arms folded, his legs apart and his chin thrust out. His curly beard was tapered in the eastern fashion, and his eyes shone above this like those painted on temple statues.

“Come on, Philo,” said Strabo. “We know he’s in there. Your neighbour, good friend that he is, told us as much. He saw you let him in last night and we have it from others that this gardener is an old friend of yours.”

The crowd was having a great time watching the scene. Relishing the sunshine, unseasonably warm for this late in the year, they pointed and chattered and some called out, “give him up!”

“You leave us no choice but to search the premises,” said Posthumus.

“Search all you like,” said Philo. “You’ll only see what an honest man I am.”

The constables, who had accompanied the magistrates, went inside while the rest of us waited. Deciding it was best to remain inconspicuous, I kept my head down and watched the faces of the crowd.

Soon the constables emerged shaking their heads.

“We found nothing and no one. There’s not a soul in there, and certainly no ass.”

“What did I tell you?” said Philo.

“This is ridiculous!” shouted Strabo. “All you shop-keepers have your little hidey-holes from the taxman. If it’s not in the floor, then it’s up in the roof!”

The crowd had grown and were jostling to get a better view. I was shoved slowly forward, inside the ring around the shop. The other soldiers began to shake their fists and back up Strabo’s accusations; repeatedly invoking the name of Caesar. The magistrates, however, were preparing to leave.

Strabo turned back to Philo. “In the name of Caesar, bring him out!”

Philo stood firm, shaking his head. We might have stood there all day, bickering like a bunch of jealous wives, were it not for what happened next.

“Look, up there!” shouted one of the soldiers.

We all followed the line of his finger up to the roof. Just below the tiles was a small opening at the side of the building; placed to shed light into a loft. There, poking from the window, mostly in shadow but plain enough for all to see, was the snout of an ass.

“The ass! The ass!”

The crowd rushed forward, the magistrates gasped, the soldiers bellowed, and Philo slumped like an empty sack. The game was up. The constables rushed back into the shop and this time Strabo went with them, pointing with his sword to all the likely hiding places. They soon found the entrance to the loft round the back of the building. Gods only know how they’d had missed it in the first place, being big enough to winch up an ass. A ladder was soon brought and up went the men.

I waited outside; worried should my sword come to light and with it the truth of the matter. The crowd were laughing and calling for Philo to give up his gardener friend. Philo said nothing. He sat on the pavement with his head sunk against his chest. I felt sorry for him, liar that he was. After all, weren’t my own friends lying even now on my behalf? I had not forgotten that my own foolishness had brought this sorry business into being.

Strabo soon emerged from the shop.

“Where is he, Philo? Save us the trouble, would you?”

Philo shook his head. In his shame he had clammed right up.

A shout came from inside.

“Look here!”

The crowd surged towards the doorway. Inside the shop, a rug had been lifted, revealing a trapdoor. One of the constables opened the trapdoor to reveal a space filled by a large, wooden chest. He whipped off the lid and there inside, cramped and gasping for breath, lay a terrified man – the very one who had caused me so much pain!

“I’m innocent,” he shouted. “This has all been a mistake!”

“Innocent, huh?” said one of the constables. “So innocent you had to hide yourself under the floor!”

This set the crowd howling with laughter. The constables dragged the man out onto the streets, where everyone craned for a look. This business had caused such a stir in the district that peddlers had gathered at the fringes. It was a veritable market day, though I can’t confess I was feeling very jovial at this point. If that gardener was to start making accusations, things might turn awkward. The magistrates, however, weren’t interested in any public hearings. Without hesitation they ordered my assailant to be taken off to the prison. As they dragged him past, I turned my face from his sight, afraid should he meet my eyes.

Posthumus approached and stood over Philo.

“Don’t think I’ll be forgetting about this,” he said. “It’s lucky for you that this crime has such an air of public entertainment, else I might feel a lot less inclined to be lenient. You can thank the spectacle of that silly ass for your reprieve.”

With this he turned his back and set off. The other magistrates and constables followed. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about the supposed silver cup.

“Bring out the ass,” called a man in the crowd.

“Bring out the accomplice!” shouted another.

All manner of jokes were being bandied about now, playing on the theme of the peeping ass.

As though he knew he was being talked about, which in hindsight, I don’t any longer doubt, the ass let out a loud bray from up in the loft. The crowd cheered and applauded.

In the meantime, Manius and two other soldiers were working to bring him down. With a rope and pulley fixed to the roof of the loft, they strapped him in and slid him down the ladder, bringing him in through the shop.

Now that the gardener and the magistrates were gone, I went inside. Strabo was there still, searching in the hide-away. He had helped himself to some wine.

“You can relax,” he said quietly. “I have your sword.”

He lifted his cloak and showed me where he had placed it, wrapped in a cloth and stuck into his belt.

“Try this, it’s good,” he said, offering me a cup.

I took a sip and it was indeed good. Nutty and syrupy, yet it only served to make me realise how thirsty I was. Philo now walked back inside. He looked both dejected and concerned, and I guessed he was worrying about the fate of his friend.

“I suppose you think you can just help yourselves, do you?” he said.

“You should be lucky we don’t take the lot,” I replied.

Philo looked at me, penetratingly, and I lowered my eyes. He must have known the truth of it and had likely guessed my role in things; scratched and bruised as I was. Seeing this in his face, my feelings turned once more to shame.

Outside in the street, the crowd was beginning to thin. They had all seen the donkey and the spectacle was over. The hawkers began to drift off.

Strabo joined me, smiling with his squinty eyes.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” he said, taking out my sword and handing it to me. “I don’t know why these criminals bother. The world is full of snitches.”

Now Manius approached me, leading the ass.

“There you go, sir,” he said, handing me the rope. “A prize for all your trouble.”

The ass looked up at me. His eyes were wide and sullen. If anything, he looked resigned, almost bored.

“Thank you,” I said, to Manius. “He’ll make a fine recruit.”

And that, you see, was how I came into possession of the ass.

 

Part II

I wish I was a better man, but I’ve always been a bully. It’s why I wound up in the army, after my father spent his whole life working to get out of it. Were it not for my disreputable lethargy and uncontrollable temper, I should have risen up the ranks already and found my own way out. They say the army teaches you discipline, but we all know that garrison life is a licence for bad behaviour. And here, in the land of Dionysis, bad behaviour is practically a virtue.

So, by such means, the ass became mine. As to his previous owner, I cannot claim to know his fate, though I can claim to have had a further hand in it. Is it boastful of me to account for the wrongs I tried to right? Looking over this, I see that already I’ve tried to excuse myself. It’s also true that my account has drifted from its purpose, so I’ll keep it brief.

The following morning, stiff and sore, but a good deal better rested, I went into town to make an appeal to the magistrates on behalf of the gardener, my assailant. Without telling the whole truth, I told sufficient of it to make plain that this man’s crime was merely to have overreacted to extreme provocation; that his guilt was of a much lesser nature than first supposed. I requested that he be treated with leniency, indeed, that he should be released immediately, without any fear of his offending again in future. He is not of criminal mind or intent, I pointed out. He is a poor man who was treated with injustice. Sadly, it must be said, the magistrates were only too familiar with the corruption and brutality amongst soldiers; they accepted my story without fuss, having already had their suspicions about the events of the day before.

“Too often the law comes down on those who kick against the pricks,” said Spurius Posthumus. “You bully a man until he fights back, then put him away for assault. That’s justice for you.”

It was Thucydides, a Greek sure enough, who said that justice is the plea of the weak when they can’t enforce their own interests. It is indeed true, yet only the hard of heart would hold it as doctrine. I did not, however, offer financial compensation. I am not so soft as to throw money away, and besides, it would be tantamount to admitting my complicity.

I returned to the barracks and inspected my ass. It seemed a fair prize for the morning’s philanthropy. He was firm of leg and sound of body – his back young and strong, not yet bowed by seasons of bearing. He was a handsome beast with cunning eyes, broad flanks and a fair round gut. He protested as all asses will when subjected to a bath, though when I brushed him down and cleaned behind his ears, I do swear he showed a certain embarrassed pleasure. Owing to a small patch of red above his nose, I decided to name him Rufus.

Keen to avoid further trouble, I made preparations to leave as soon as possible. I took Rufus to the fort and there spoke with the quartermaster. It was fortunate that the commandant had already left, or else I might have had to meet with him in person. Along with the commandant’s equipment, I was given a letter of introduction and told to report to one of the town councillors in Lamia.

I loaded up the ass, and, just after midday, led him out on the road, arrayed in full military panoply. For amusement, I placed the helmet atop his head and strode with as much of a swagger as my bruised body could manage. For a travelling Roman soldier, it’s important to keep up appearances. I had made use of some ladies’ ointments to disguise my cuts and bruises, and hoped the polish on my shield and sword should be sufficient to deter any would-be assailants. The main roads are fairly safe round these parts. I suppose people such as myself have seen to that.

The journey was pleasant, despite the dust and heat. The road was regular and I strolled at an easy pace. As we walked into the flat country, I passed the time, musing to my ass. There seemed to be something conversational in his occasional grunts, and after a time I fancied he was listening.

“I would like to get married,” I told him. “But not to the local girls. It’s all very well to fall in love, but marriages must be politic. If I play my cards right I can hurry along up the ranks.”

“Eee-or,” said Rufus.

“And what of you, Rufus? Have you had much luck with the ladies? You certainly seem well enough endowed.”

He let out a strange, and very sanguine moan, and I pitied him; for the hairy flanks he must have to mount.

“Still, I suppose you fancy them in your asinine way.”

We entered the town towards evening. I had never been to Lamia, and as I drew closer it struck me as an attractive place. It was built on a slight rise above the plains, with numerous trees standing tall over the rooftops. The town had no walls, but soldiers were posted on the main road. I greeted them and explained my business. They gave me directions and I set off into the quiet streets. I had little trouble finding the councillor’s house, and soon enough Rufus and I stood before a fine building with a half-columned entrance and painted frontons decorating the roof.

I was greeted by a soldier on the doorstep.

“Here at last, I see.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I was attacked on the road yesterday and my injuries caused the delay.”

The soldier grunted and reached out for the bridle.

“I’m to take these things to the barracks. You, for some reason, are to remain here this night.”

“I’d rather come with you, if that’s alright.”

“I’m afraid not. You are to remain here. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“But I wish to keep this beast. I paid fifty sesterces for him.”

“You can keep the beast, but I need him for now.”

“Will you return him to me?”

“If I can, I shall do so tomorrow.”

Rufus grunted and hung his head. I wondered if perhaps he was growing fond of me.

The soldier placed me in the hands of a household servant then set off, in accordance with his orders, to report to the commandant. The servant led me round the back of the house and in through a small stable. I was shown to a vacant slave’s cubicle by the kitchens, where I was supposed to sleep. Despite the lowly conditions and the councillor’s apparent lack of interest in his guest, I was relieved not to have to report to the barracks, if somewhat baffled as to why this was so. I was given meat and wine and a basket of fruit, and after a wash-down in the yard, I turned in for an early night.

The following morning, the soldier who had greeted me on arrival returned with Rufus. He informed me that I was to reside here until the commandant was ready to see me.

“Why am I not to see him?”

“You must have done something right,” he said. “We’re all busy up there, putting the new place in order. There’s a thousand men digging ditches and putting up walls. No one ever tells me a thing, but it looks like they’re moving the garrison for good.”

I already knew this to be the case, but merely shrugged and nodded. The soldier’s words had troubled me. In the army, you get used to uncertainty, but no one likes it. Being singled out for special treatment could be as much a curse as a blessing, and I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted either.

It was another two days before I was ordered to report to the commandant. I amused myself by walking around the town and the local countryside, resting my sore body and talking to Rufus. I took him with me through the streets and amongst the farms, riding him whenever I grew weary.

I passed much time inspecting the whores around the theatre. They were for the most part a pretty desolate bunch, with hollow eyes and sunken dugs; but some of the younger ones caught my eye. What surprised me was how they seemed to catch the eye of Rufus as well. He often brayed and grunted in the presence of finery, and I soon learned to follow his gaze to the more delicious of these creatures.

“You certainly have good taste, my friend. She’s a real delight indeed.”

“Ee-orr,” said Rufus.

In particular I noticed that he had a penchant for fine patrician ladies, few though they were round these parts. He would raise his nose to a waft of perfume and take from it such pleasure as I’d never before seen in an ass. On several occasions I caught him wandering off down the street on the trail of a beautiful woman. I’ve heard that desire can come in equal measure for different beasts, but that it should be so consistent with my own was unheard of in my experience.

Rufus displayed many other curious habits. He showed little interest in the oats and hay I offered him, yet would stop by all the stalls and nod his head towards the meats and stews. I’ve never known an ass to eat flesh, yet he seemed very fond of it and would stand salivating by the open kitchens.

I also had trouble keeping him from wandering into gardens. He seemed strangely fond of flowers and would rush to devour them first chance he got. Odder still was how quickly he lost interest after his first few mouthfuls, walking away seemingly disconsolate.

One night I was sent a strange dream. Rufus and I were in the markets sampling the quality of various goods. We stopped by a weaver’s stall to inspect the tunics and cloaks, and I showed various of them to Rufus who gave his opinion on this or that, showing, once again, quite discerning taste. It was only after a while that I realised not only was Rufus speaking to me, but he was standing on his hind legs in the manner of a man!

When finally I received orders to report to the commandant, the fears I had been suppressing returned to me. Though I had tried to avoid him through indolence and fear of extra duty, he was not a bad man and had been friendly to me in the past. Still, I was afraid that he knew something of my encounter with the gardener. Perhaps I was to be given slave’s detail or flogged in front of the men.

I was marched through a busy construction site where many familiar soldiers toiled in the cool, dry conditions. The commandant’s quarters were in a new building, three-storeys tall, with a view right across the town and out to the plains. The bricks were still bare and unfaced, while the entrance lacked steps and had in their place a wooden ramp.

I steadied myself for what was to come and strode in past the guards.

“Marcus,” said the commandant. “You’re looking well.”

There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice, but I was determined to play it straight.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I have a job for you, Marcus.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Yes, you should thank me. You’re a lucky man, indeed, if at times a complete buffoon.”

He glared at me sharply and I felt his eyes like pinpricks. He was very tall, almost half a foot higher than me, and his lean frame gave him the aspect of a skeleton.

“First things first. Don’t think I don’t know about this business with your sword. Don’t even begin to wonder how I know, just rest assured that nothing escapes my notice. That’s why I’m at the top of this steaming pile. You’re a smart man, but you’re also a damn fool. I should have you flogged for being such a clumsy ass, but I know you’re worth more than most of these other imbeciles.”

He moved to the window, wide and uncovered, gazing over the plains. It all seemed a little theatrical to me.

“Maybe it’s this place, with all its witchcraft and trickery,” he mused. “A man has to be careful to keep himself from going bad.”

He turned and faced me directly.

“I’m sending you to Rome. I want you to take a dispatch to the Emperor, but most of all I want you to disappear for a while. We can’t have word getting around and you being a laughing stock.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Wipe that goddamned smile off your face!”

What a shock his words gave me. I hadn’t even noticed, but I must have started smirking. For a moment I believed he would retract his decision and have me flayed alive. Was I really being sent to Rome? This was a great privilege, not a punishment.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t think you’re off the hook, soldier,” he said. “This is more than you deserve and I expect you to take note of that fact and pull yourself together. Take this chance to straighten yourself out and come back a man. Unfortunately, you’re the best-educated man in my pay and it’s probably time you were promoted. You know you’re a cut above the others, so prove it.”

“Thank you, sir. I will carry out my duty with all care.”

“Yes, you had better do so.”

He picked up three scrolls on his desk and offered them towards me.

“Don’t forget, I could just as easily put a shovel in your hands. Make whatever preparations you need to make, draw your allowance from the quartermaster, then leave as soon as possible. I want you gone by this evening.”

I concluded my business with the army and walked back into town. The coins were reassuringly heavy in my purse. For the sake of speed I would be using post-horses for the journey, and had little choice but to sell Rufus. I took him with me to the marketplace, and there, standing in the centre of the square, announced my desire for a quick sale. I was not concerned about the price, yet when a couple of ruffians approached me, I refused the sale out of feelings for the ass. I had grown very attached to him, more so than with any other beast before, and I wanted to be sure he went to good owners.

I was soon approached by a pair of finely-clad brothers. They were the well-to-do slaves of a rich master, Thiasus of Corinth, who had recently risen to the quinquennial magistracy: a pastry cook and a chef, who seemed rather fond of themselves.

“We only want him to carry food from the markets to the kitchen. If you really are worried about his welfare, then you needn’t be,” said the more portly of the two.

This seemed a happy enough situation for Rufus, and I certainly didn’t quibble when they offered me eleven denarii – a handy sum for an ass that cost me nought but cuts and bruises.

“Feed him well,” I told them. “But be careful. He’s very fond of the ladies.”

I took their money, gave Rufus one last scratch behind the ear, then turned my back on him and walked away. Before I had reached the other side of the square, I was struck by a terrible sense of loss. I stopped and turned for one last look, feeling as sorry as a child. The sight of him being led from the market brought a lump to my throat. What in the heavens was wrong with me? How little tenderness there had been in my life of late! Still, I had much to be thankful for. I was off to Rome.

 

Part III

There is little point in me recounting my journey from Greece to Italy and back. Suffice to say that it was made all the more remarkable by unseasonal storms and various diversions. I was a happy traveller and a very lucky one at that, and the many towns and cities through which I passed filled me with wonder at the greatness of Roman enterprise. I had hoped to meet the Emperor in person, but as I grew closer to Rome my nerves wore ever thinner at the prospect. In the end, I was spared an audience, and passed my commander’s dispatches to his trusted staff.

Three months later, I returned to Lamia to report the success of my mission. The commander was very pleased with me and told me I might expect my advancement to begin sooner rather than later. He was right to place his trust in me, for the journey had given me much time to reflect on my conduct and maturity.

After just two days back, whilst in the marketplace purchasing a new tunic, I recognised one of the two slaves to whom I had sold Rufus the ass. The fatter of the two.

“Hail,” I cried, approaching him. “You work for Thiasis of Corinth, yes?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. You have likely forgotten, but I sold you an ass some three months ago. Here, in this very market.”

“Indeed! Of course!” He seemed to become unduly excited about this and took me by the upper arm.

“That ass you sold us turned out to be quite a surprise,” he said. “Quite a surprise I can assure you!”

“How so? Is he still alive?”

“Oh yes, he’s still alive. And more alive than ever, it would seem!”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen up. A month ago we caught him eating all the best left-overs in the kitchens. At first I thought it was Agapios, my brother – the finest cuts had been disappearing for some time and no ass should have a taste for cured meats, sweets and other savouries. But, when I pointed the finger at him, he pointed it straight back at me. So the two of us sat up one night, spying on the kitchen, and sure enough, it was that ass of yours!”

“Ha!” I laughed. “He always seemed to have finer tastes.”

“Did he ever! But who could have guessed what would happen next? When my master heard of this he was so amused and intrigued that he invited the ass to dine at his table! When presented at the dinner table, he sat down on the couch as any man might, as though he were born to it, and showed himself to have perfect table manners. Not only could that ass nod and blink and bray in answer to questions, but he would, in his way, with his looks and his gestures, call for more wine! In the time you were gone, he became the talk of the town – so much so that all the local dignitaries came to witness this great spectacle. My brother and I have worked overtime ever since, for every night the noblest guests, happy to pay for the privilege, came to dine with my master and his ass.”

“Extraordinary! How can it be? Is he some sort of god?”

“Who knows? Many think that he is, my master included. Did not Zeus take the form of a bull? Did not Apollo once change the ears of Midas into those of an ass? Perhaps he has been punished by the gods, for some awful crime.”

“Or cursed by some black magic!”

“All the local philosophers and priests have their take on it. Some say he is just a clever beast, for you know as well as I that some are much smarter than others. Others say, as you have, that he was a man, transformed by witchcraft. Those who believe him to be a god can’t decide if he is a new god or an old one, come amongst us. No one risks offending him.”

“Where is he now? Can I see him?”

“He is on his way to Corinth. My master has returned to host his great games. He himself is riding the ass, and I believe he intends to make a great show of him in his home town. My brother has gone while I must stay here to keep house.”

Despite the sincerity with which his tale was told, I found this all very hard to believe. Yet, in the days that followed, I heard more and more gossip about the wondrous nature of this ass. The bawdier women spoke brazenly of their longing for his seed; the men of the town wished to be blessed with a member as thick as his. Increasingly, I felt a great sense of privilege; that if he were a god, then perhaps I had earned his favour by treating him with kindness. Yet, also I felt a grave sense of loss once again, as I had at our parting. To have traded away such a wonder for a few denarii seemed an inconsolable error of judgement!

I had little choice but to get on with my job and received, in due course, my promotion. As a Duplicarius I was now exempt from common duties and found my income doubled. I was thankful for this and made as good an account of myself as possible. Having witnessed the splendour and dignity of Rome’s cleaner districts, I was filled with ambition to rise higher still. Yet, all the while I could think of little other than my old friend Rufus.

In the weeks following my return, talk of the ass died down, as such things will without fresh incident. Then, after a month some news finally arrived. A travelling merchant, recently arrived from Corinth, stood himself on a stool in the market and called for the crowd’s attention.

“Wondrous news I have! People listen up!”

The crowd closed in and craned their necks. There was never anything so exciting as fresh news from afar.

“Citizens, hear me! You recall of course the recent tales of the divine ass in the household of Master Thiasis? Well, you’ll never believe what I’m about to say, but it’s all perfectly true!”

Like any good teller of tales, the man was drawing out his introduction until he had the full attention of the crowd.

“Citizens! Hear that upon his arrival in Corinth, preceded by his reputation, the divine ass was greeted with much enthusiasm. Not only did the local nobles all come to inspect and dine with him, but it is said that even women of patrician rank were paying a fortune to spend the night with him!”

This set the crowd roaring with laughter. He certainly had their attention, and indeed, mine.

“Believing him to be divine, and hoping they might become the vessel of a divine child, they risked not only their reputations, but their bodies as well! Soon master Thiasis, benevolent magistrate that he is, put on his glorious games; a great spectacle with largess for all and sundry. As a culmination of his week-long celebration, the master placed the divine ass on centre stage. There he was – ladies, cover your ears! – to make merry with a local prostitute. A real beauty, mind you, so that the people might see how gods are made! Yet, the divine ass, seeing this as beneath his holy dignity, baulked at the prospect and turned to flee the arena! He ran with such fury that no one could capture him, and soon he had lost himself in the streets.”

“What next friend? Did they find him?”

“They did not find him, but it seems that he found himself!” cried the merchant. “Several days later, reports came from the nearby town of Cenchrae that, during a procession of the goddess Isis, an ass had joined the worshippers. Amongst the priests he strode, walking in supplication before the idol. What happened next is beyond the old tales of legend. For, there, amidst the faithful, it is said, the divine ass consumed a bouquet of roses, and was transformed into a man!”

I felt tight beads of sweat break out upon my brow. I noticed that my knees had gone weak and my palms moist. The crowd hurled questions at the merchant, who assured and reassured that all he said was true. I had several questions of my own, but found myself unable to speak and in great need of sitting down.

Was it indeed possible, that Rufus had been a man?

“What was this man’s name?” called one of the crowd. “Tell us his name!”

“His name was Lucius, though I know not of which family. He was not a native of these parts, but travelled here on business.”

I listened further to the queries and answers. The merchant was adamant that events had transpired just as he said, and though such happenings were not common in this everyday world, I knew in my heart that he spoke the truth.

I found myself drifting away, my thoughts turning on recollections of Rufus. Had I indeed been kind enough to him? Had I treated him well? Was it possible that he was a divine agent, or indeed a god himself? Not a superstitious man, and hardly one for spending my coppers at the temple, I felt a great need to make a sacrifice. If I had, in anyway, offended this creature, then custom and common sense demanded all precaution.

If the goddess Isis was the patron of this wondrous ass, perhaps even his mother, then it was from her that I must beg protection and forgiveness. She was not a goddess to whom I’d ever given much thought, but like a great extended family, they all tugged at the folds of each other’s robes. I turned my soldier’s feet towards the sacral district where a small, new temple to Isis had been erected just five years ago. There, through the rising, aromatic smoke, in an expensive show of piety, I hoped to insure my soul against calamitous fate.

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A short story set in the Crimean War. I can’t really decide where or why to submit it, so decided to publish it here. I thought it might be worthwhile trying my hand at an historical piece. Apologies to Steve Kilbey and Marty Wilson-Piper of The Church. I initially used their names as temporary place-holders, but got so used to them, I couldn’t imagine any alternatives.

 

“Quietly,” said Piper.

Kilbey took his hands off the boat and looked straight at Piper.

“I am bloody well bein’ quiet,” he hissed. “Keep your own noise down.”

“Push slowly,” said Piper, “so it don’t rasp on the gravel so much.”

Kilbey put his hands back to the boat. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to be quiet. It was, after all, he who had gotten them out of camp. Still, Kilbey didn’t mind. Piper was just a nervous lad who got wound up about everything. He’d been blubbering all week. He was afraid, but who wasn’t, and Kilbey liked him all the same. He was a good lad – a couple of years younger – and he seemed to think the world of Kilbey.

“There we go,” breathed Kilbey, as the stern of the rowboat took float.

The two young men were at the base of the cliffs just a few hundred yards outside the British camp at Balaclava, on the eastern side of the harbour. For the last half hour they’d picked their way through their own lines, surprised by the ease of it all. Keeping low on the slopes that rose steeply from the narrow inlet, they had worked their way down to the sea.

“You ever rowed a boat before?” asked Kilbey.

“It can’t be too hard,” said Piper.

“Lucky for you it isn’t.”

Kilbey held the boat by the prow and motioned to Piper to get in. Piper climbed aboard then Kilbey ran it out the rest of the way and hopped over.

“You keep your head down and I’ll get us out.”

Piper did as he was told and ducked down into the stern where they’d placed the rifles. Kilbey took up the oars and turned the boat so it faced west. With measured strokes he rowed away from the cliffs. About a hundred yards out he turned to follow the coast.

“Do you really reckon we can get a proper boat up Sevastopol way?” asked Piper, sitting up when the shore was no longer so near.

“Like I told you, there’s plenty of ‘em. Skiffs, yachts, fishers, the lot. Some of ‘em come just to watch poor bastards like you and me dying. Plus, there’s plenty others mooring up full of wares. If we keep our heads screwed on right, we can nick ourselves a nice little number and make off for warmer seas.”

“South, you reckon?”

“Yep. South.”

“But where?”

“I dunno. South is where ducks go, innit? South is where it’s warmer. It don’t matter where exactly, we just keep going, down into the south.”

“But what’ll we do when we get there?”

“Try to stay alive, that’s what.”

“But where?”

Kilbey took a deep breath. They’d already been over this several times. He was like a child sometimes, Piper: why this, why that, what now? Still, Kilbey was so pleased to have made it this far that he was willing to humour him. As his shoulders spread wide with the strokes of the oars, he felt warmer and looser than he had for weeks.

“Well,” he said, “like I told you, I hear old Greece is down there somewhere. Greece and all them islands. Once we got ourselves a proper boat, we head south and find a nice spot.”

“Then what?”

“We live off the land and sea, I suppose. See if anyone needs a spare pair of hands. I know all about fishing, and it ain’t that hard to pick fruit. Two years from now you’ll be speaking the lingo, drinking wine and lying in the sun with your blooming missus like all them other lazy bastards.”

Kilbey forced out a laugh. Piper said nothing, but turned his eyes into the wake of the boat. He wanted more than anything to believe Kilbey’s optimism wasn’t misplaced. He needed to believe it, if only for the sake of believing something, yet recent events had shaken all belief from his system.

“We can go anywhere we like,” said Kilbey. “Now get up here and lend us a hand.”

Piper moved up beside Kilbey and took the oar from him. It took him a few strokes to get the hang of it, but soon he was matching Kilbey for pace and strength. He was, for the most part, a well-built young man. Despite having gone half-hungry for the last two weeks, his constitution remained strong.

Kilbey fell silent for a while and Piper watched him from the corner of his eye. There was a restrained urgency beneath Kilbey’s stroking. He looked to Piper like he was holding something big inside; something he was trying to leave behind. “It’s like a rope of terror coiled up in his breast,” thought Piper; “a rope tethered at Balaclava and slowly paying out. He’s just as scared as I am, but he’s gaining strength from his fear. He doesn’t show he’s afraid, but he acts on it, acts with it. He’s more decisive; he’s made a choice and he’ll stick to it, believe in it, no matter what.”

It occurred to Piper that only something truly awful could make a man so decisive. “Perhaps I’m right to be this scared,” he mused. “Things really must be that bad after all. I’ve got to turn the fear into strength; eat it all up like food.”

A sweat now broke on Piper’s brow. He felt his armpits flooding. Already his spirits were lifted by the rowing. His thinking was clearer, more rational, without the clouds of panic.

“If you’d seen what I’ve seen,” said Kilbey, after a long silence, “you wouldn’t give a tinker’s cuss for where we’re going. Just so long as it’s away from this place.”

Piper nodded as he pulled back on the oar.

“I guess,” he replied. “I reckon I’ve already seen enough myself.”

The past month had been a long and traumatic one for both young men. Just over two weeks ago, on the fifth of November, Kilbey had fought at the Battle of Inkerman. He didn’t like to talk about it and he liked to think about it even less, yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it most of the time and sometimes that got him talking. It was when things slowed down that his mind went back there, when he didn’t have much to do. At night, when he should have been sleeping, pictures flashed up that would tense his hands; memories that made his eyes twitch.

Inkerman was a bloody nightmare. The officers had been expecting a Russian attack for days, but no one thought it would come on a Sunday morning. Shortly before dawn all the bells of Sevastopol rang out. It was the most beautiful cacophony Kilbey had ever heard. He thought it must be a festival day; the feast for some Orthodox saint. He was up in the trenches, in the front lines, lying half asleep and half frozen in his dug out. As his mind echoed with the metal harmonies, his heart was carried off to the luxury of cities. The mud and mess and frost resolved itself into a peacetime urban morning. The stones of a street, the tilt of a hill and a wide vista of chimneys stacked before the sea. He heard amidst it all the ring of a shop bell; thought of glass and wrapping, of horses, carts, straw and stale ale; the footfalls of churchgoers. He could have lain listening like that for hours on end, seeing a different coloured gleam in every chime. Those were the last fine thoughts he remembered having. Shortly afterwards the day erupted with hot and bloody action.

Kilbey had nothing to be ashamed of. He’d fought like a demon, bracing and stabbing and fending with his bayonet. They were calling it a soldier’s battle; a battle decided by the bravery and steadfastness of men. In the gloomy fog and swirling showers they had fought their own fights, unaware of how things stood about them. Kilbey only knew that they were outnumbered, beset all day by poor brave devils with ancient muskets. They came on in the old-fashioned way and he and his comrades threw them back in the old-fashioned way. It was a day of seemingly endless duels; the slashing witchery of melee with all its freakish luck. Kilbey had seen how hard it was for the wounded. He’d seen men lying in the squalor of the battlefield – messes of men; muddied, bloodied and mostly come a cropper.

When it was over, in the late afternoon, victory found him so exhausted as to be nigh incapable of reflection. The need to stay alive had insulated him against the worst of it. He closed up and shut down and felt a great sleep settling on his shoulders; a sleep of forgetting, of disbelief, of abnegation. He hoped things might stay forgotten in the future just as easily as they were forgotten that very day. Yet later, when he was rested and had the energy, his mind called back all the terror. When he did speak of it, it was difficult to miss the quaver that entered Kilbey’s voice. Piper had certainly noticed it; the little quake in his throat, the way his eyes looked away then came back, creased with the intensity one sees before tears. Yet, he never cried.

“I saw what happens to people,” said Kilbey, in a whisper. “I saw how it’s going to end for us all.”

Even before being shipped across to Balaclava, Piper had been hearing such stories. They had not done him any good; denting his morale and feeding his fears. He was only twenty and had never been brave as such; more naïvely willing. Like so many others he took the King’s shilling because he was down on his luck, but also because he believed there might truly be something noble in it. He did not think that anything could be as degrading as poverty, yet from the start the army had proved to be an ugly experience. He was not callous enough to condone the bullying and could not stomach the bluff indifference of so many to open cruelty. It was a harsh environment and his sentimentality did him no favours. Yet, despite his many misgivings, it would never have occurred to him to desert. If not for the hurricane, that is, for it was the hurricane that broke him.

Like everyone else who lived through it, Piper would never forget the awful air of apocalypse that cursed that entire day. It had begun eerily enough: the moon was still up when the sun rose flanked by bright red clouds. Woken by a draft of chilly air, Piper left his tent to urinate. He stood by the ditch in the steam of his piss, watching as the sky thickened into black thunderheads. It had rained the night before, rained for nearly a week. Everything was damp and miserable in the camp, with little solace to be had from shortened rations. Piper took one last look at the fading red cloud bank, drinking up the rare, warm colours, then crept back to his tent.

A quarter of an hour later the rain began its drumming. All around the camp men were woken by the roaring of the canvas. The rain gathered quickly into rivulets and soon the ground was laden with water, spitting with heavy drops. As the fall grew heavier, so the wind grew more fierce; flapping and whipping and howling so loudly that voices were lost in the din. Then, as though some magician had pulled the lever on a great weather machine, the hurricane struck in full.

Tents were torn from the ground and blown away like tissue. Tins and bottles flew through the air like leaves. Rocks were picked up and hurled like sling stones, cutting and bruising the men. Heavy barrels and boxes skipped across the ground. Horses broke their tethers to run panicked through the camp; wagons rolled free and crushed men in their wake. Many of the men were caught undressed and lost not only their shelter but their clothes. Barely able to stay on their feet, bent double in their underwear, they chased their possessions on the plateau.

In the harbour the devastation was even more pronounced. Pots and pans, crates of medical supplies, sacks of flour, boxes of ammunition were smashed and strewn about; driven into piles at the base of walls, stacked in heaps behind wind-blown ridges of mud. The sea was a mess of splintered wood and rope, full of dead and drowning men and beasts. Several ships went down in the heaving waters – the Resolute, the Wanderer, the Mary Anne, the Marquis, the Rip van Winkle among them; splintered on the rocks and reefs. Many rescues were attempted, many rescues failed, many of the rescuers themselves were lost to the sea.

Though he lost his tent, Piper was at least fortunate in having dressed. His uniform, sodden and filthy as it was, protected him from the lacerating wind. He staggered through that day in terror, silenced by the screaming gusts. In the chaos it was every man for himself. They took shelter where they could; backs against the walls of the few buildings in the harbour, crouched in ditches, curled up behind rocks. For some there was simply nowhere to hide; they wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay in the driving rain and wind. The hospital tents collapsed to leave the sick and dying exposed. Officers, weak with dysentery, lay in pools of frozen water. Ghastly, ghoulish figures, clawing their way through the mud.

It was not until the middle of the afternoon that the winds slackened. The troops tried to put things in order, without knowing where to begin. Most looked first to the recovery of their tents. Like many other men, Piper, who spent most of the storm huddled in a freezing, shallow trench, went all day without food. In the early evening the coffee ration was distributed; a handful each of raw, green beans, with no means to roast or grind it. Some threw the beans away in disgust while others chewed them in resignation. Piper put his in his sodden pocket then went back to picking through the mud. Shortly after five o’clock the heavy rain turned to snow.

In the days that followed his despair quickly deepened. Piper was not alone in fearing that the Russians would come and throw them back into the sea. They did their best to put things to rights, but the camp remained a scene of complaint and exhaustion; full of injured, broken men. The dead were carted off to shallow graves; their bodies heaped in wait.

It was in this bleak aftermath that Piper found himself bedding down with Kilbey. They found camaraderie in their despondency. For Kilbey, with the acrid glory, the intense savagery of Inkerman still ringing in his blood, the foetid filth of Balaclava seemed far, far worse. The apparent pitilessness, the hunger, the cold and the sickness, hung in his chest like a carcass. It was then that he made his mind up to escape. When he confessed to Piper his plans to desert, he found a willing accomplice. So sure was Piper that he would die if he stayed in Balaclava – if not in battle, then of sickness, cold or malnutrition – and so incapable had he become of seeing any future for himself in the bleakness, that the very suggestion of an alternative opened a door in his mind. It did not matter what sort of future Kilbey was offering; the mere fact that there might be one at all was enough for Piper to count himself in.

They rowed steadily, with unhurried rhythm. Both men steamed in the mild, still air. Kilbey estimated that it might take them a good three hours to reach the Bay of Sevastopol. After an hour and a quarter, however, he realised he had no way of judging the distance. Their hands began to grow raw upon the oars.

“It’s a bloody long way,” said Piper, as they stopped to sip from their canteens.

“Not much choice now,” said Kilbey. “It can’t be too much longer. Maybe another hour.”

“Isn’t there some other way?”

“Well, if you got strength to row for god knows how many weeks and you’ve got food and money and all else, then let me know and off we go with what we got. Otherwise, I’m telling you, it’s up that way we’ll get a decent boat. There’s boats like big old larders up there.”

Kilbey nudged him with his elbow. “Some of ‘em even have their women on board.”

Piper whistled. It was a long time since he’d been with a woman, and even then it was just three times over a couple of scented days. In his lowest moments the only woman he’d been able to think of was his mother. He did not believe Kilbey about the women. He wasn’t sure he believed Kilbey about anything much any more.

“What makes you think it’ll be so easy getting a boat?”

“I didn’t say it was going to be easy. I just said it’s our best hope of getting away.”

Piper frowned.

“All I know,” said Kilbey, “is I saw loads of ‘em anchored out there from where we were dug in. Boats of all different shapes and sizes.”

Piper shook his head, his sore hands resting on the oar. He wondered what he was doing. Now that he was away from the camp, out here on the water, warmed up and sweaty with work, he felt strength in his mind and body. The quiet, flat sea and the queer broad light of the moon filled him with a calm sense of freedom. For the first time in weeks he was in control of his destiny. His head was clear at last. The more he thought about Kilbey’s plan, the more it struck him as an utterly mad idea. What could they possibly hope to do even if they did get hold of a boat? Sail to Greece? He wondered how on earth he had ever agreed to this madness. Would he ever see England again?

“Come on,” said Kilbey. “Let’s get going.”

Piper took up the oar and began to row. At least it was better to take action than to do nothing. He should have realised that once they escaped there would be a new set of obstacles. Still, he couldn’t exactly go back now. Or could he? He thought about this a moment, but soon ruled it out on account of Kilbey. Kilbey would never go back; he was as mad as his bloody plan. Piper had just better keep going forward and hoping.

They continued around the coast. In places the cliffs slumped into beaches, yet mostly they stood straight and square. Kilbey, who had thought it a simple matter of rowing a few miles up the coast, was beginning to have doubts himself. He knew he was going the right way, but was surprised by how long it was taking. He had figured on the distance between Balaclava and Sevastopol as being around six miles, whereas in fact it was closer to eleven. He also hadn’t reckoned on the triangular shape of the promontory, which practically doubled the distance by sea. Little did he know that they were less than a tenth of the way there. Kilbey, who had never seen a map of the area, was working from inaccurate observations.

Then he spotted something.

“There,” he whispered. “Look at that.”

Piper turned to look forward over his shoulder. Ahead of them, perhaps only a couple of hundred yards off, anchored in a small rocky bay, was a boat.

“Look at that,” said Kilbey, emitting a whistle. “That’ll do nicely, I reckon.”

“Bloomin’ hell,” said Piper. “There’s a bloody boat alright.”

The boat was Turkish; a two-masted Gulet, around forty-odd feet in length. At the sight of it Piper’s blood raced. He never expected they’d find a single, isolated boat like this. The way Kilbey had described things, he’d imagined sliding quietly in amongst a whole flotilla of boats. It was the other boats that had worried him; that they’d all be looking out for each other. If anything went wrong, the alarm would go round and they’d be sitting ducks, out on the sea, to be caught and shot or worse. This boat was a real chance. It was waiting there like a prize.

Kilbey felt fate congealing around him. Two years before, after the tragic drowning of his father, he had walked away from the coastal village where he was born. There his fate as a fisherman would have been sealed, yet a dispute with his uncle had brought forth his latent stubbornness. It was a long process of protest and denial, combined with his hatred of navy types that led him to the army. It was not something he had ever imagined himself doing, but as with so many others, finding himself short of coin he had taken the shilling. Once he was in, his skill and vitality served him well. His ready wit and jocularity made his an easier ride than that of many others, yet his heart would forever remain on the glittering sea. Despite Piper’s protestations, Kilbey had never doubted himself enough to feel vindicated on finding a boat such as this. It seemed to him instead to be the resumption of a lost destiny.

Both men lay low in the rowboat, peering over the side. They edged slowly closer; the water was flat and still.

“So,” said Piper, “how do we do it?”

“Firstly,” said Kilbey, “I’m going up front.”

He reached down into the stern and picked up his rifle, then edged up against the prow.

“Right,” he said. “You row us in, nice and quiet. Easy strokes, mind. Don’t drop the oars in the water. We don’t want no splashing. When we get close, you hold the boat off the hull and I’ll try go up the side. As soon as I’m up, take your rifle and get ready to shoot any bastard who shows his face. Any bastard who isn’t me.”

Piper swallowed. He didn’t like the idea of shooting anyone.

“How am I supposed to aim right with this thing bobbing up and down?”

“Just do your bloomin’ best.”

“I hope it’s as easy as you say.”

“It’ll be as easy as you like. It’s all about surprise.”

Kilbey lay down in the front of the boat, while Piper sat hunched at the oars. He took a last look at where he was heading. He could see only the outlines and none of the detail. The danger was always in the detail. A cliff is one thing, but a cliff with a man hidden on it was something else. Same with a boat. How was he supposed to know there wasn’t a man on deck? He felt exposed sitting there on the thwart, his back to the land. He was afraid of being shot.

They soon pulled in close. The boat had taken a battering in the storm; the rigging was a mess and the gunwale bruised and splintered. How and where it had weathered the recent hurricane was anyone’s guess. Still, it was afloat and the masts looked intact. Kilbey found it just to his liking and he spat on his palms. His blood was up. He felt the energy in his hands; the nervy quickness that had come when he was fighting. At Inkerman his hands had been strong all day, holding tight his rifle; locked to it like clamps. Now, warm and red with rowing, fuelled by fear and excitement, they felt once again like tools.

Piper slid the oars in, then he and Kilbey leaned out to stop the boat thudding against the hull. Piper held the boat away from the side while Kilbey reached up for the gunwale. It was a low gunwale and he reached it easily. Once his right hand had a grip, he steadied himself then flung up his left arm as the rowboat slid out from under him. He pushed off with his feet and got his elbows up on the deck, his body bouncing lightly against the hull. With both arms up, he rested on his elbows a moment, gathering his strength. Then, working himself into a swing, he threw his leg up and over. He balanced a moment on the edge, adjusted his holds, then pulled himself up onto the deck.

Once Kilbey was up, he leaned back over the side and Piper passed up his rifle. Piper sat down again and pushed the boat away a little, taking hold of his own Minié rifle. He sat back down on the thwart and propped it against his shoulder, ready to fire if need be. He knew he wasn’t much good with it, but, despite what they were doing, it had never occurred to him that he might actually use it. He watched intently as Kilbey crouched on the deck.

Holding his rifle, Kilbey crept towards the cabin entrance. Until this point he hadn’t felt any fear of what was to come. Buoyed by his own positive assertions to Piper and the surprise of actually finding a boat out here, his confidence had held. Yet now, standing before the door and knowing how close and quick things would be inside, he was afraid to go ahead. He crouched and examined the door in detail; the grain of the wood, the hinges, the jamb. He told himself that he was searching for how best to deal with the lock, if it was indeed locked, but really he was staring at the wood. He hovered a moment longer, waiting and expecting his body to move, yet it did not move, and he continued to hover. Now he began to wonder if he had made too much noise coming over the side; if the rocking of the boat had alerted anyone who might be on board. He was sure there must be someone on board.

He tried the small knob on the door. It turned easily, quietly, but the door would not open. He pushed gently against it, but it did not budge. It must be bolted on the other side. He grew nervous now, knowing that he would have to do it all in a rush; get the door open and plunge straight in before they could pull themselves together. He could only take one shot, so he’d have to make sure he got it right and do the rest with his bayonet. He thought of getting Piper up on deck, but in truth he didn’t think much of Piper’s ability. He was a good lad, but he was lily-livered and he wasn’t sure he could trust him in a fight.

Kilbey’s bayonet was fixed. He took a deep, sharp breath, braced himself and turned his rifle around. He held the butt just above the door handle where he suspected the bolt might be, then rammed it against the wood. The door flew open with a loud crash and Kilbey charged down the stairs, eyes scanning the darkness ahead. He couldn’t hear a thing beyond his own breathing and clatter, but he thought he could make out two bunks to his left and right. His rifle was ready, his bayonet sharp and deadly, and with his arms primed for a thrust, he charged at the bunk and plunged his bayonet into the dimness. In the second in which his bayonet made contact there was a loud bang and a flash behind him and Kilbey was sent sprawling on the floor.

“Jesus,” was all he managed to say. The flesh of his breast was open and hot; he felt as though a burning lance was thrust right through him. A moment later something heavy and wooden began to clobber into him. A blow struck him across the back of the head and he blacked out. With the next blow, Kilbey was dead.

When Piper heard the shot, he jumped so much he nearly fell over backwards. In a flurry he stood up, half lost his balance, sat down then tried to stand again. He was shaking so badly he could not steady himself and, sitting down once more, he picked up the oars and began to stroke hard, away from the boat. Kilbey, Kilbey, Kilbey, he thought, then, rowing a few strokes more, he let go the oars. He stared at the boat ahead, feeling vulnerable in the filtered moonlight. Where was Kilbey? Was there a fight going on? Why hadn’t he emerged yet?

Piper remained seated, slowly drifting, peering through the hazy light. In the cold air, he flushed with prickly heat, knowing he must act immediately, but uncertain of what to do. Every second that he failed to make a decision his anxiety and his helplessness grew. Kilbey still had not emerged. Something was terribly wrong; awfully wrong. It could only be the very worst, thought Piper, surely only the worst.

Christ, how he couldn’t stand not knowing!

Piper waited on. He figured almost a minute must have passed since the gunshot. He sat, fretting on the thwart, clutching his rifle. The boat had continued drifting and now lay some thirty feet from the Gulet. He could hear nothing at all. Why had Kilbey not yet come back on deck?

“Kilbey!” he cried. “Kilbey!” His voice took him by surprise in the stillness. That muffled gunshot was still echoing in his mind, yet save from the odd plash against the side he could hear nothing else.

“Kilbey!” he called.

He put his rifle between his legs and picked up the oars, determined that he must row across and find out for himself. It was then that he saw a man, running up onto the deck, a quick rush of silhouette; the outline of a man with a rifle.

“Kilbey!” shouted Piper. He tried to stand up, yet again his legs were shaking so badly he could not get to his feet. He fell back heavily onto his bottom, just as the silhouette on the deck reached the gunwale and took aim with Kilbey’s rifle.

“Kilbey,” he called one more time. But now he knew the silhouette’s shape was wrong.

Before he could duck the gun went off. Piper saw the flash and flew backwards into the belly of the boat. The lightning touch of the bullet struck a spark behind his eyes, and it was this light that shone through the arc of his fall. When his head struck the stern sheets it sparked again like a bolt of hot glass, then he felt a stifling blankness and a strange smell of static, as when once he was punched in the nose; the stench of biff. For a while afterwards there was nothing. The boat drifted slowly away and the cloud overhead, which was already thinning, grew thinner.

When Piper opened his eyes again he was lying in the dip of the tub, his legs hanging over the thwart. He flinched and blinked, for the hazy moonlight was very bright. His head was throbbing all over. He reached up and rubbed at it. There was a lump just above the base of his skull that hurt dreadfully. Touching it, he recalled the flash; the twin sparks of glass and heat, but not quite anything else. He felt his forehead. There was a stinging welt that ran a short distance from his hairline. He rubbed at this and it hurt, god it hurt.

Piper turned on his side, reached over and dipped his hand in the water, then brought it up and washed his face. He reached again, this time throwing the water across his eyes, massaging the damp hand into his forehead, then into the back of his head. He lay a moment with his eyes closed, breathing steadily and trying to stay relaxed. When he shook his head he felt the thickness of his lump, but otherwise, he felt strangely rested.

Piper let his eyes search the sky. It looked to him as it had before. The moon seemed hardly to have moved. That was one thing he remembered, the moon and the stars. He lifted himself slowly on his elbows and peered down the length of the boat. He could see nothing beyond his feet. He sat up again, looking to the left and right, but before he could see a thing, it all came back to him. He ducked down in fright.

Kilbey! he thought. Blooming Kilbey.

Slowly Piper began to lift his head by inches, peering left and right. He could see nothing at all, just open sea and the cloudy sky. He lifted his head higher still, but in a bolt of paranoia pulled it straight back, afraid of something behind him. He cursed and pulled his legs down off the seat, curling up in the base of the boat. Then, lifting himself into a half-crouch, he looked out over the stern.

At last he spotted the cliffs and the shoreline; directly behind where he had lain. He held the side of the boat with both hands and studied the scene carefully. There was no sign of the Gulet, nor the small bay where it was anchored. The boat must have drifted away as he lay unconscious.

Piper breathed a sigh of relief. Thank Christ he was still alive. He pushed himself back up onto the thwart and rubbed his head and shoulders. He was surprised to find himself so intact. The pain in his head was dull and constant, but it was not more than he could bear. His shoulders and back felt very stiff.

Kilbey, thought Piper, poor bloody Kilbey. He was sure he must be dead.

Piper sat with his lips pursed, blinking. He wondered why he wasn’t crying. In the tent with Kilbey, at the height of his terror, he’d kept the worst of his despair to himself, yet now that there was no one to see him and make him feel ashamed, and now that he had more reason than ever to feel desperate, he felt no inclination to cry. Perhaps it was the bang on the head, or perhaps it was the pointlessness of despair in these circumstances, but when he failed to cry, he knew that the fear had been shaken from him. He was beyond being scared.

Piper washed his face again, then took up the oars and began to row. He steered the boat towards the cliffs. There was little wind and the sea was still. He felt no impediment and he made smooth progress. He rowed on across the easy still water, clear in his decision. There was, after all, only one place to which he could now go.

Two hours later, exhausted, his hands wrapped in his socks to keep them proof against blisters, Piper ran the boat up against the rocks just outside Balaclava. Following the route that Kilbey had picked so carefully, he snuck his way back around the harbour, up onto the plateau and into the camp.

The sky was beginning to lighten in the east as Piper pulled back the flap of Kilbey’s dishevelled tent. He no longer felt afraid of anything. Whatever the Russians or the very earth itself might throw at him, all he needed was a rest now. He had his own plan for staying alive. The lump on his head would explain his lack of complicity in Kilbey’s desertion. He pulled together the two filthy blankets and lay down to rest at last. He soon fell into a deep sleep.

With help from: Christopher Hibbert, The Destruction of Lord Raglan; a tragedy of the Crimean War, 1854-55, Longmans, 1961.

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