Emperor-to-be Gratianus in Treverorum, afterward prefect of Gallia, Libya, and Italy, eventually consul. In retirement since Maximus took the throne, he remained active among colleagues, students, civic leaders, a large household and its neighborhood, while from his pen streamed verses and epistles to friends throughout the Empire.
Nevertheless it was a special pleasure to step forth on the portico of the rural mansion, flush lungs with fresh air, and look widely around. Rain and sleet had yielded to sunshine which, although slanted from the south, gave January a pledge of springtime. Grounds swept darkling with moisture down to the bank of the Garumna; mist smoked off the river, roiled by a breeze, half obscuring the vineyards beyond. On a paved path that the men took, doves moved aside from the sapphire arrogance of a peacock.
“A slave told me you have several scrolls in your baggage,” Ausonius said. “May I ask what the texts are?”
Gratillonius hesitated. They were from Syrus, aids to his memory of doctrine and rites that a Father must know, and none of lesser rank. When he had no more need of them in Ys, he was to destroy them by fire, with certain prayers. “I’m sorry. It’s forbidden me to tell.”
Ausonius gave him a close regard before murmuring, “You’re not a Christian, are you?”
“I follow the Lord Mithras.”
“I suspected as much. Well, I’m Christian myself, but hold that to be no grounds for scorning the ancients or any upright contemporaries who believe otherwise. Surely God is too great to be comprehended in a single creed, and we mortals do best simply to pay our due respects and cultivate our gardens.”
Gratillonius recalled poems of Ausonius that Bodilis had shown him. They were concerned with everyday matters, sometimes humorous, sometimes grave, sometimes—as when he mourned the death of his wife or a child—moving, in a stoic fashion.
“Gather you roses, girl, whilst they and you are in flower, remembering how meanwhile time flies from you…”
Hoofbeats drummed. The men turned to look. Up from the riverside galloped a mud-splashed horse, upon it a boy of eight or nine years. “Why, yonder comes Paulinus,” the rhetor exclaimed happily.
Gratillonius had met the lad, Ausonius’s grandson, born in Macedonia but now here to get the finest possible education. Being shut in by the rain had made him miserable, despite the elder’s unfailing kindliness. The ride had evidently refreshed him, for he drew rein at his grandfather’s hail and greeted the men in seemly wise. “Are you ready to go back to your books?” Ausonius asked, smiling.
“Please, can’t I ride some more first?” Paulinus begged. His Latin was heavily Greek-accented. “Bucephalus, he’s just getting his second wind.”
“Discipline, discipline, you must break yourself to harness before you dare call yourself a man…. But in indulging you I indulge myself. Go as you will. ‘Good speed to your young valor, boy! So shall you mount to the stars!’” Ausonius quoted with a chuckle. “Meditate upon that line. It should make Vergilius more interesting to you.”
“Thanks!” Paulinus cried, and was off in a spatter of wet earth.
Ausonius clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I really must become stricter with him,” he said. “Else a rhetorician of considerable potential could go to waste. But it isn’t easy when I remember his father at that age.”
Gratillonius thought of Dahilis and Dahut. “No, it isn’t easy,” he said through sudden, unexpected pain. Hastily: “Still, he ought to keep in shape. He may well find need for a set of muscles.”
“Oh? Why? We moderns don’t revere athletes like the Greeks in their glory. His career should resemble mine, writing, teaching, public office.”
Gratillonius’s gaze went eastward, toward the Duranius valley through which he had come on his way to Burdigala. Those thickly wooded steeps and hollows lay no great distance hence. Yet little
Nevertheless it was a special pleasure to step forth on the portico of the rural mansion, flush lungs with fresh air, and look widely around. Rain and sleet had yielded to sunshine which, although slanted from the south, gave January a pledge of springtime. Grounds swept darkling with moisture down to the bank of the Garumna; mist smoked off the river, roiled by a breeze, half obscuring the vineyards beyond. On a paved path that the men took, doves moved aside from the sapphire arrogance of a peacock.
“A slave told me you have several scrolls in your baggage,” Ausonius said. “May I ask what the texts are?”
Gratillonius hesitated. They were from Syrus, aids to his memory of doctrine and rites that a Father must know, and none of lesser rank. When he had no more need of them in Ys, he was to destroy them by fire, with certain prayers. “I’m sorry. It’s forbidden me to tell.”
Ausonius gave him a close regard before murmuring, “You’re not a Christian, are you?”
“I follow the Lord Mithras.”
“I suspected as much. Well, I’m Christian myself, but hold that to be no grounds for scorning the ancients or any upright contemporaries who believe otherwise. Surely God is too great to be comprehended in a single creed, and we mortals do best simply to pay our due respects and cultivate our gardens.”
Gratillonius recalled poems of Ausonius that Bodilis had shown him. They were concerned with everyday matters, sometimes humorous, sometimes grave, sometimes—as when he mourned the death of his wife or a child—moving, in a stoic fashion.
“Gather you roses, girl, whilst they and you are in flower, remembering how meanwhile time flies from you…”
Hoofbeats drummed. The men turned to look. Up from the riverside galloped a mud-splashed horse, upon it a boy of eight or nine years. “Why, yonder comes Paulinus,” the rhetor exclaimed happily.
Gratillonius had met the lad, Ausonius’s grandson, born in Macedonia but now here to get the finest possible education. Being shut in by the rain had made him miserable, despite the elder’s unfailing kindliness. The ride had evidently refreshed him, for he drew rein at his grandfather’s hail and greeted the men in seemly wise. “Are you ready to go back to your books?” Ausonius asked, smiling.
“Please, can’t I ride some more first?” Paulinus begged. His Latin was heavily Greek-accented. “Bucephalus, he’s just getting his second wind.”
“Discipline, discipline, you must break yourself to harness before you dare call yourself a man…. But in indulging you I indulge myself. Go as you will. ‘Good speed to your young valor, boy! So shall you mount to the stars!’” Ausonius quoted with a chuckle. “Meditate upon that line. It should make Vergilius more interesting to you.”
“Thanks!” Paulinus cried, and was off in a spatter of wet earth.
Ausonius clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I really must become stricter with him,” he said. “Else a rhetorician of considerable potential could go to waste. But it isn’t easy when I remember his father at that age.”
Gratillonius thought of Dahilis and Dahut. “No, it isn’t easy,” he said through sudden, unexpected pain. Hastily: “Still, he ought to keep in shape. He may well find need for a set of muscles.”
“Oh? Why? We moderns don’t revere athletes like the Greeks in their glory. His career should resemble mine, writing, teaching, public office.”
Gratillonius’s gaze went eastward, toward the Duranius valley through which he had come on his way to Burdigala. Those thickly wooded steeps and hollows lay no great distance hence. Yet little
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