The sun, it appeared, had only just risen. Indeed, partially obscured
behind a curtain of low-lying haze rising off the sea, this fact would
have been lost upon the casual observer. The coast of Corsica had, during
the night, appeared in the distance, and the crew of the travel-worn cargo
ship were finally beginning to bustle about on deck, being careful not
to tread on any of the common passengers, a large group of which were slumbering
peacefully under the murky gray sky. A large wave suddenly lapped against
the side of the vessel, causing it to rock to one side violently, and a
few of these disheveled-looking riders began to stir, turning their faces
upwards and blinking at the inky, overcast sky, and cursing the fact that
they were neither rich nor affluent enough to rent a cabin. Hopefully,
it would not rain.
A half-hour passed, and the sun continued its ascent into the heavens
above, still blocked out by a thick wall of somber, gray clouds; however,
there was now at least light to see by. The jagged outline of the mountainous
coast of Corsica was now distinctly visible on the horizon, and the cramped
and bilious passengers began to rise and collect their scattered belongings,
staring out to observe their landing spot. Within the bowels of the ship,
others began to stir as well. Lucius Anneaus Seneca, coming to groggily
in his small rented cabin, had not slept well, both out of an uneasy mind
and slight nausea as well. Reluctantly rising and clothing himself quickly,
his mind raced over the events of the past few months, trying to put his
current situation into perspective: his brief affair with Julia, the anger
of the Empress, and finally, the order of banishment passed down by the
Emperor Claudius. Perhaps some good might come of this separation from
the Empire; he now at least would have a chance to focus his attentions
on his writing and thoughts, without any dealings and intrigues in the
state to worry about.
Seneca was suddenly ripped violently out of his musings by the sound
of someone rapping at the door. As he mumbled an irritable "come in,"
the slender face of one of the crew's higher officers appeared from the
hallway.
"We are approaching Corsica, sir. You may wish to come on deck
at this point, to tie up any loose ends on board, such as gathering your
servants."
Seneca nodded and commented that he would, clasping a cloak about the
shoulders of his tunic (a toga would have been out of the question, as
he was without a servant to assist him, and would be traveling a good deal
today) before following the young officer up into the dull gloom of day.
He let out a slight sigh, perceiving the rocky shoreline in the distance,
and wondering at the island's seeming bleakness. Indeed, there would be
no distractions in this new land. Suddenly remembering something, Seneca
turned to the young crewman once again and inquired as to the fate of his
furniture, which had been loaded onto the cargo vessel a few days earlier
on his departure from Italy. In return, the officer smiled again slightly
and replied that they would be unloading them at port, although he would
be responsible for their fate after that point.
Seneca nodded silently, trying to push his anxieties out of the way
in favor of more rational thoughts, and resumed his survey of the horizon,
his gaze once again met by the melancholy stare of the Corsican coastline.
Standing nearby, the guard who had been appointed to watch him during his
banishment suddenly tightened up, noticing the sudden arrival of the banished
Seneca.
The rickety vessel had now been docked in the minuscule harbor of the
island, and slaves were beginning to scramble about, lugging forth crates,
stools, and the other assorted bits and pieces of Seneca's former residence
from the hold. Working quickly, though not without some sweat and toil,
they trawled and towed the furniture and packages down from the deck and
into a nearby waiting cart, where the articles were haphazardly placed.
Seneca (the guard, again, a few feet behind him) watched with some discomfort
as one of the conveyers lurched forward and stumbled into the side of the
vehicle, causing the entire contraption and its contents to shudder violently;
those in the group whose hands were free immediately rushed confusedly
to steady the teetering load. A few feet to the left of Seneca stood a
toga-clad official, slightly younger than himself, whom he later discovered
to be Gaius Palarius. Gaius sniffed slightly at the confusion with a smug
sneer before turning to the new-arrival at his right and speaking.
"Once they have finished loading and tying down the cart, we shall
ride beside it further inland to the northwest, where your residence lies.
Now tell me, we've heard a good deal about you escapades with Julia and
the Empress here, Seneca--"
"They have finished packing my luggage, friend. Let us mount."
Lucius Annaeus Seneca, quickly turning and striding off, looked over the
dust-caked cart once more before mounting the horse that had been provided
for him and breaking into a slow canter.
Riding behind the cart at a slow pace as they passed through the crowded
streets of the harbor, Gaius and Seneca quickly found themselves outside
of the limits of the sea-side village, and on a low, rocky road, weaving
between jagged hills and peaks. Above them, the sky still shone gray and
stone-like, warning them of the possibility of a coming downpour; noting
this, they gradually began to speed up their pace, now beginning to move
higher and higher up the rocky terrain. An hour or two passed. As Gaius
chattered incessantly beside him in an unending strain of comments on the
quality of the Corsican shellfish, Seneca's thoughts began to stray to
a contemplation of the guard riding behind them, still keeping his eye
on the banished Roman. A very interesting group of people, these guards
were. Although they seemed to show an indifference to death, there was
a certain air of slavery surrounding them which he found off-putting; not
the same variety of enslavement that the wretches on the cart ahead felt,
but a blind commitment to duty and orders that made even the most common
beggar seem free and creative.
As the party beared left and turned onto a gravely, secluded side road,
he glanced over his shoulder and stole a fleeting glance back at the guard,
whose facial expression was, as usual, attentive. Perhaps it was not his
fault. They strove ever onward, the path now beginning to straighten.
As he craned his neck over one shoulder to peer at a flock of sheep
being driven down a nettly slope in the distance, the wagon suddenly came
to a dead halt. Seneca quickly held back the horse and stopped its canter,
furrowing his brow as he watched the other two turn off to the right and
pass the wagon; looking forward, the reason soon became apparent. Ahead
of them was a rather drab structure built of stone and stucco, enclosed
within a wall. Sighing heavily, he put the horse into a slow trot and approached
the home, staring up at its neglected exterior. Ordering the guard to remain
with the cart, Gaius dismounted and strolled up to the main entrance behind
Seneca, who dismounted as well, and gaped up at the bleak vault of clouds
above.
"It will rain later today, I believe; your furniture will be soaked
if we do not move it inside quickly, although I cannot say that the common
Corsican will have much pity for you if it does. We've been having a bit
of a drought, which has caused a depletion of this year's fruit and orchard
crops. Therefore, I'm afraid that..." Gaius Palarius continued to
ramble on in the same fashion for quite a while as they passed through
the entrance and into the dark residence before them, as the slaves began
to unload the wagon of furniture outside.
The first room of any importance that the two stumbled upon was the
atrium of the home. Even with sunlight streaming in through the impluvium
above (the pool below was now empty, with a few dead leaves lying crumpled
on its bottom), the hall seemed strangely somber and dingy, the doorways
to other parts of the house even more so. Seneca stepped forward and touched
once of the walls, peering at the painting which adorned it. Gaius squinted,
before stepping forward and examining the surface as well.
"The walls are simply dirty; they will clean up well, if water
can be found to dab them off. I see your furniture has arrived safely,
as well." Gaius motioned back towards the doorway, where the slaves
were already beginning the task of carrying several of the more hefty bundles
through the door, and setting them down in the center of the room hastily,
quickly rushing back for more, to beat the oncoming storm.
After watching them passively for a few moments, the two continued their
survey of the surrounding room. At the back of the room, there was the
conspicuous entrance into the tablinum, which had been set off by a pair
of carved, wooden sliding doors; this was flanked by a corridor leading
back to the peristylum outdoors, which, Seneca mused, no doubt was terribly
overrun with weeds and creepers at this point, judging by the state of
this room. On the right and left-hand sides of the room, it appeared, one
could access several compartments, including a dining room and small kitchen.
Barely discernable at the back was a small, worn staircase, most likely
leading to the slaves' quarters. Pausing thoughtfully a moment more to
take in his surroundings, Seneca inwardly mused upon the almost modest
nature of his new home. While there was no doubt as to it being the house
of a respectable, well-to-do member of society (indeed, once it was cleaned
up and filled with furniture, it might even seem on par with his former
residence in Rome), there was something about the home which seemed almost
melancholy and troubled; in Rome, his abode had been orderly and, in a
way, unemotional. Most likely this is all due to the weather, or the surroundings
in this area, he thought. Shrugging off these somber contemplations, he
hmm-ed ever so slightly and followed Gaius out through the corridor to
the peristylum.
The sky had finally broken. Or rather, it had done so two and a half
hours earlier, just as the final item from the cart, a brass candelabra,
was being carried into the atrium. Sitting in the tablinum at his writing
desk, Seneca could distinctly hear the drumming of the raindrops (having
passed through the impluvium) violently striking the pool in the atrium
floor, the sound loud enough to pass through the two surprisingly lightweight
sliding doors separating the two rooms. The guard was behind those doors.
Two of the slaves were also most likely hard at work within that room,
dabbing away at the sooty gray film which coated the wall paintings. The
others would be laboring in the kitchen, preparing a modest meal of fruit
and poultry (the latter had also been imported with a few casks of wine
from Rome).
Tapping his chin with a writing stylus in thought, Seneca stared at
the oil lamp, which hung from a small stand next to the desk. As he had
earlier suspected, the peristylum, when they had gone to check it, had
become almost completely naturalized, dead vines and mosses working their
way up the surrounding columns in an almost quilt-like manner. It had begun
to rain almost immediately afterwards, but not before Gaius Palarius had
ridden off. For all he knew, the official was now lost on one of the high-roads,
knee deep in mud. He had then directed the placement of furniture in both
his bedroom (one of the cleaner and more private compartments of the house)
and in the tablinum, which now, as he gazed around, was holding a writing
desk, an ivory folding stool, and a variety of cased parchments and cylindrical
boxes containing scrolls, all of which had been placed upon a series of
shelves built into the wall; they only filled about half of the spaces.
Sighing with fatigue, he looked over the titles, wondering at how some
Romans could fill their libraries with volumes upon volumes of literature
and poetry, and yet not even bother to unroll a single one, much less read
and digest them.
Seneca readjusted his position and stared down at the waxen tablet on
his writing desk, its surface blank and unmarked. Inhospitable and bleak
Corsica surrounded him on all sides, but at least he was free to dwell
among his own thoughts. He would be able to write in this new land, without
any interference or foreseeable blockade. The only pressing question would
be as to what that writing would comprise of. Letters, essays, tragedies,
his only failing might be a lack of ink or parchment. Outside, the rain
was beginning to fall in more gentle droves, the raindrops softening from
their militaristic drumming to a consoling pattering. By nightfall, there
was no more than a steady drizzle.
Back to the Main Seneca
Page
By Ruth T. '03, Germantown Academy