MEMORIA
by Bongo Bear
7 April 2001
Now,
the slave,
who was a warrior,
who was an Amazon Queen,
who was a bard,
who sought peace,
who is now exhausted,
rises after patting down the long mound of earth covering her beloved's mortal shell. Her lover has seemingly died many times before; but this death is eternal at last. She brushes the loose soil from her hands. She, who has played many roles in her lifetime, takes the stage for the final act. Her tears flow ignorant of the Roman law which declares she could not possibly be a widow. Slaves cannot marry. Still, she grieves her loss.
Only a day ago, she held her lover's battered face in her hands and peered into once brilliant blue eyes that have faded with their owner's life essence. The lover died a fighter in the Circus Maximus, fulfilling a death sentence decreed by Caesar himself. First came the feral beasts. They were easily defeated since even the most fierce wild boars lack intelligent purpose. The gladiator dispatched them with superior cunning. Then came the gauntlet of foot soldiers. They were easily beaten since they lacked leadership. The gladiator defeated them with superior strategy. Then came the phalanx of charioteers. The gladiator barely escaped with a shallow cut to the thigh; they were defeated by sheer luck. On and on came the stream of enemies to conquer until finally the gladiator succumbed under the torrent.
In the end,
the gladiator,
who was a warlord,
who commanded rogue armies,
who plundered and pillaged,
who sought redemption,
who is now at rest,
fell to the sound of a jeering crowd screaming for the coup de grace. Caesar rose from his gilded throne and delivered the final blow himself. The gladiator had bested death many times before; but this time neither the Emperor or Hades granted clemency. She, who played many roles in her lifetime, left the stage at last. Her noble blood soaked the ground ignorant of the Roman law which declared she could not possibly be a hero. Slaves only do as they are told. Still, she died honorably.
The slave stands before the tombstone she has selected. The monument is a modest two and a half feet tall, a foot and a half wide, and several inches thick. She strokes her iron chisel against a whetstone. Then she measures shallow lines across the rocky face. She pauses for a moment. Words have always been her life. So she considers them most carefully knowing death is forever, as are her words. Between the lines, she strikes blow after blow after blow.
She wipes away the fine chips from the stone and stands back to look at her work. She reads
Contubernalis
Fidei Causa
sit tibi
terra levis
[For the Sake of the Cause,
May the Earth
Rest Lightly
Upon You]
She smiles to herself thinking, yes, her beloved would have liked it this way. Then she lays down her tools and takes up a small sharp knife. She hardly feels the prick against her throat.
Postscript
1946, Cologne, Germany -
An American archeologist excavates a tombstone from a nearly 2000 year old Roman and Frankish burial site. She carefully documents the exact position of two sets of female human remains which were found in the vicinity of this particular headstone. One is directly under the stone; the one beside it is otherwise unmarked. Her collaborator, a Southerner with a flare for ancient languages, assures her that the marker, which makes a reference to an intimate companion (Contubernalis), is a memorial from one slave to another in a time when slaves could not marry, but bonded anyway in defiance of Roman law. If that is true, that the memorial even exists is astounding. Such monuments were reserved for truly remarkable individuals. The inherent contradiction confounds the discovers. The archeologist pushes back her feodora and wonders aloud, "Who were these two women?"
Finis