The moon reflected in wet cobbles all along the Via Appia. There is a sense in the night of something about to happen, the strangeness of the shadows thrown by monuments to the dead which line the street, the paradox of millions of little moons cast by one entity far above, a stillness in the sultry air.
I walked in exile from the party back at the villa, needing to escape the wildness of the alcohol induced excesses, the sumptuous opulence of the villa, the lingering slaves whispering in corners, the ridiculous proclamations of Cicero - flatulent at both ends through pomposity and wine - and the need to be out here in the quiet of the night.
I had been told the Via Appia is the host of bandits and prostitutes, that it stretches from Rome all the way to the sea and the beachside at Brundisium. Something tonight makes me want to walk all of it, to walk slowly and read the inscriptions, honour all the death with offerings until I escape the walls of Rome and after many months reach the waves and cleanse myself in them.
"My you are brave, such a beauty walking alone in this place." A voice shatters the humming of the insects and a shadow steps forward onto the road.
"Alerio" I should bow but here where no one is watching I choose not to, his praise is not a tribute but a warning, I let him know I understand this by not bowing.
"Incredible isn't it." Now his voice is quiet, looking as I did, along the length of the glittering cobbles.
"I should get back." I turn away to shake off his attentions pretending I will return to the villa but he follows.
"I'll escort you." He shifts his chest to straighten the toga across his shoulder. We walk in silence.
"Your brother sent me to fetch you." I would spit in gutter if I were alone - My Brother - who would have me wed to the nearest hobbled donkey if the price were right. "He worries about you." Oh, I see, this is the hobbled donkey. I give Alerio a quick glance. If I wanted to marry an offered prize this one would not disappoint but I have no intention of fulfilling my brother's selfish wishes.
As we walk on silently there is rushed movement from the side of the street and suddenly a group of four men appear, filthy men from the road, wandering thieves their hair matted and their dirty hands unwashed and shiny from the grease of stolen meat.
"Go." Alerio indicates a monument meaning for me to hide there while he deals with them. My body tingles with fear. I dash into the shadows and hear Alerio raise his voice to try and make his authority over the bandits, perhaps he hopes men of the Cohortes Vigilum are walking nearby and will come to rescue him.
This is my chance, I slip off my sandals and run between the monuments illuminated silver blue by Sister Moon. I run and run, passing a circle of people clustered around burning logs, they look up but ignore me - maybe fleeing women are a common sight in these parts. The land begins to rise and I am forced up, running out of breath and energy but forge onwards to the pinnacle of an incline. Then gasping I fall onto all fours and scramble under a bush, feeling its tiny thorns cut my arms with delicate precision.
I hear only my breathing, the rasp of cicadas and insects buzzing for some time until finally I relax, it appears no one is coming for me. I am free.
Through the tangled briar and its raised location I can see the amber glow of torches burning and the terracotta roofs of the congested winding roads of the city and below striking out from it the gleaming wet cobblestones of the Via Appia - the regina viarum (Queen of Roads). It leads south easterly away far into the distance plunging into the unknown suggesting a better tomorrow. I will sleep now and on waking I shall follow it until one day maybe I will wash my feet in the cleansing sea.
When I woke there was a small scatter of stones on the bedspread. Sharp flints like tiny arrowheads knapped by a skilled hand. Why were they here? I had no memory of them at all. For a while in the mug of awakening I just looked at them trying to find a space where they belonged in my mind, but nothing came. I didn't want to touch them so rolled cautiously out from under the crisp white duvet leaving the stones undisturbed.
Padding across the wooden floor I went and threw open the door of the beachhut I'd hired for my escape. A wash of waves on the shingle greeted me and the sea overcame me again, I stood watching the gulls sway on their invisible strings and sunlight glitter momentarily on the rolltop of each swell of the ocean.
A cat, tail erect, strolled confidently along the edge of the sea stopping occasionally to check clumps of seaweed for trapped shrimp or sprat. It belonged here where I did not, that was obvious. I made to sit down on the step but noticed a shatter of bright blue glass at my feet and then saw a star shaped dent in the door where something had hit with great force. I needed a coffee and leaving the door open to the lulling sound of the sea went inside to the 'kitchen' a shelf upon which was a kettle and camping burner.
There was a postcard pinned to the shelf with a blue map pin. A tourist favourite with panels of various views and the red splash of 'York' on an angle across the top. On the reverse in an unfamiliar hand was written 'I know.' Just those two words. I know. The unease of mounting confusion rose and I felt for the tub of pills in my pocket, just to check they were there.
As I held the postcard I noticed the filth under my nails, lines of black, unusual that, I ran an index nail to clean a thumb nail and realised it was sand caked there, gritty sand. The 'bathroom' was a mug with a toothbrush next to a bowl of water and I scrubbed my nails vigourously and then brushed my teeth and set myself ready for the day.
Suddenly there was an ecstatic rapping appearing to come from one of the windows. I poked my head out the door. 'Hello?' there was no-one there but a gull perched on the apex of the roof.
'Yarrk.' It said and twitched its head to eye me closer as though as surprised to see me as I was to see it. Too many mysteries. I tried to retrace my steps, to remember why the blue glass, the sharp stones, the sand and the postcard where here.
I have a memory problem. That's what the pills are for to help me remember what I'm doing - not just do things and find out about it later - when sometimes whatever I've done isn't recoverable or repairable. I haven't taken them for a while because I've been so well, the doctor is very pleased with my progress.
I have a new system. If I'm doing something I think I might need to remember I write it down. I have a book it's green with a little picture of a bear and a butterfly. Sometimes it looks like the bear is trying to catch the butterfly and other times like the butterfly is attacking the bear.
I open it but some pages have been torn out. Yesterdays events I guess, the ragged edges torn carelessly. Best check the bin for evidence and sure enough there is a collection of paper squares, the remains of the day.
Picking out the bits I sit crossed legged on the wooden floor and try to piece them together, some gaps are there, like my memory but I can make out sections of the events.
A post card arived 2day so I no Lyndsey is coming - I need to get ready - GAP - from behind the hut and hit Lyndsey in the back of his hed with a bottle his face smashed into the door. I will not go back. dug a hole in the shingl and sand with a plate and coffee mug and Lyndsey fitted it nicely - GAP - Lyndseys bag had his archiology stuff inside a little box with some arrowheads I will keep them threw the bag and one of Lyndseys shoes into the sea
So I killed Lyndsey yesterday.
Strange reading your own writing and not remembering any of it happening.I sellotaped the note together and pushed it back into the right place in the diary flicking back through the months. It certainly has been a busy year and after Lyndsey it looks like I need to move on again. It'll be a shame to burn the hut but needs must.
Solomons' Nest was no place for the unwary, dark corners held whispering conspiracy the creativity of men of ill manner and evil disposition.
The door opened before dawn while the sun held blood in the sky and shadows of men slipped inside to confirm their residency and have a tankard filled with thick dark ale to soften the twitch of their bottleache.
It was an ungovernable place of unlawful proceedings well known to those that need avoid it and found by those who sort to make use of its unique talents. Some entered for companionship of a kind whilst others, more unhinged, rattled keys to mysterious places where secrets were locked away in dark heavy boxes. Others yet, rested dormouse like above their pots half asleep half awakening only stirring when the awful possibility of an empty jug occurred.
Hams hung above the bar like a warning, slices cut off occasionally and laid between bread when a patron required something in the stomach to hold the beer. Sometimes a swine, soon to be the provider of the bacon, poked an inquisitive snout over the stable door from its cobbled yard and was sent packing with a flurry of blistering language and a hail of scraps.
At night The Nest was a buzz with conversation and bathed in the smoke of clay pipes. There was the constant swell of movement; those arriving to meet and scheme and those leaving in haste after some disagreement or in satisfied leisure with some dark deed agreed. Money changed hands within the soft wrap of cloth, to ensure no nearby eye may be tempted and locations of weapons, of enemies, of potential targets all plotted in the damp traces of spilt beer on the scarred wooden table tops.
No-one knew who Solomon was and no-one cared for Solomons' Nest was more alive more, dangerous than any man who ever walked through its door.
The dried husk of a seed, the horseshoe curl of a marigold - calendula, little calendar, little weather-glass, summer's bride, merry bud, Mary Gold - it has many names performs many duties. It calls to it the hoverfly, nourishes, makes medicine and garland this jewel of the soil, this gemma humo.
A man with tattooed skin wears a necklace of sacred marigold as he whirls in dervish dance to summon within him those Gods who would inspire him to Nirvana, Moksha, Heaven or whatever peace awaits his furnished soul. His skin sweats, stained yellow by the lifeblood of the bloom and he is infused by the sweet scent of devotion.
Under the watchful gaze of the shaman a woodlouse picks its way through the petals. The shaman raises a single lens from a long broken pair of spectacles the better to watch as the beetle, antenna wiggling, moves into the center of the flower where it curls into a tight armour plated ball. The shaman plucks a petal and rolling it in her mouth makes a paste which she paints in a single stroke along the forehead of the sick old man all the way along the crest of his nose across the lips and down falling from the chin along to the nook in the bone at the collarbone meeting.Taking the remaining petals she throws them into the air so they spiral and flutter coming to rest across the body and the bed scattering a blessing of improving health.
A tear balanced on a pearl, each a mirror of the other. The tear on the pearl, the pearl on purple silk woven in the finest hand with silver thread in the depiction of a flower, the calendula the bloom of life. Within the tear and the pearl the silver glow of a flower bud bright with light.
This bud begins to move, each petal extending, stretching and falling into place until a silver marigold is revealed within these private universe. Then it begins to shrivel to brown and collapse until finally the horseshoe curl of a seed is suspended within both tear and pearl. The twin image of a hand looms in each and the pearl removed taken to the soil and planted. It bears snow and rain until warmed in the weak spring sun the pearl begins to burst and sends into the earth root and leaf, stem and bud until there within a field of swaying orange and yellow flowers is the silver gleam of a true gemma humo.
