In Rome
by Andrew Bertaina We stood underneath a grey portico in Rome, watching rain fall on cobblestones. She said I should write about the rain, how it came from nowhere, drenching us, confirming the futility of our plans. She said the rain was like a line of ants walking across the cement, which you spray with Windex and wipe with a paper towel. “I’m confused,” I said. I was often confused at things she said, but she was beautiful, and I was young, which should explain most things. The rain fell in sheets, wrapping itself around the city like the cloak of a Centurion. As a child, I played “Centurion Defender of Rome,” a video game that took players from Rome and out into the known world—fighting off marauding armies, keeping the populace pacified by staging games, and collecting taxes from outlying countries. The Dalmatians are a hostile people. Centurion Defender of Rome is the reason I knew the name of the generals, who’d been memorialized in stone, and why I wasn’t surprised by their exploits, which were recounted in our guidebook. Hannibal had those elephants, I’d say, which is why you’ll want to outflank his forces with Scipio’s defense. Of course, I can’t be certain that everything in the video game was accurate. And yet, I remember more from that video game than I do from any of my history classes. To be fair, we didn’t study Rome. We studied American history, which is boring, in large part because it is so recent. What are 200 year old cities in the shadows of 2,000 year old monuments? At the Forum, one can point to a narrow strip of dirt and say, that spot is where Caesar was betrayed. This is the lectern where Cicero delivered his oratories. Caesar! Cicero! The names ring through history. I read a story about Rome in which the Forum and the Colosseum started fading from view, like milk that had passed its expiration date. All those eyes, making the sites disappear. And yet, sitting in the shade of an olive tree, spreading cream cheese on bread, it was hard to imagine that we were anything but voyagers in a new land. Can you imagine? They used to flood the valleys here and stage naval battles! I told her that I wouldn’t write of the rain, or her, or that afternoon. I planned to write about Agrippa, or Trajan, or Mark Antony, but I don’t remember enough about them now, only that Agrippa and Anthony had a voice rating of 8 and were excellent at defensive positions. That’s a lie. I remember Cleopatra, but don’t we all. Trajan, Agrippa and Africanus, I said, all have something in common. The rain had passed and we stood at the McDonald’s across the street. The column on the Pantheon was restored by Hadrian, but he retained the inscription which read, “Agrippa made this.” The rain started again. We pictured Roman generals walking across these same cobbles, not having French fries, but wiping the dust and blood of a thousand barbarian nations from their boots as they made their way home. Do you know what we have in common with them? I asked her, this sometimes distant woman. She turned back to me, a wisp of hair hanging loose across her forehead, and said, “Of course. I’m not stupid.” And there we stood, bathed in rain, history, and memory an unknown future stretching before us like some impeccable Roman road, her not stupid, and me trying to get a grasp on her, on the moment, on the rain, on how I'd frame it all if I were a painter, or the sort of person who scribbles words. I used my left finger to remove the wisp of hair and kissed her on the forehead. Just then a bit of filmy light shone through the clouds, illuminating the centuries old building, the Pantheon in all its glory. It didn't happen like that at all—the light never came through the clouds—but imagine if it had, imagine a world like that one, almost perfect. |
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