Or:  Who Knew The F***ing Lions Could Swim?

I found myself in a Northern one-horse town some 20 miles west of Aquilea  with no apparent means of getting back to Rome. No, let me amend that, from my personal perspective, it might as well have been a no-horse town. Romans and their money! With every new emperor the denarius becomes worth less than before. And so the ten denarii I still called my own (which of course were all new denarii) wouldn't even buy me a horse. Thanks much, emperor!  Actually, when I left Aquilea – rather in a mad rush on the spur of the moment – I had a lot more money with me than ten denarii. Little did I know that pillaging gangs of Marcomanni had already invaded the empire. I learned about this the hard way, as I encountered a troupe of these bandits three leagues to the West of Aquilea. I can thank Glycon – all hail Glycon!-  and probably several of the other gods profusely that I actually survived the encounter. After all, it is well-known what these Germanic brutes are capable of when they are putting their mind to it. Unfortunately this inadvertent crossing of paths with the barbarian hordes cost me my horse and most of my money. Not to mention my coat and my boots. The only reason why I was left these 10 denarii was that they didn't find my spare purse, which I wear affixed in a place that robbers don't check most of the time, unless they're really hard up. In a way it is an example of poetic justice, or injustice, depending on one's viewpoint. I probably should accept my fate without demur though, since I had to agree with Alexander that to remain in Aquilea was simply no longer an option.

That cheeky little git Commodus – what is he, 10 years old? 11? – even made up a limerick about some unnamed 'Greek fraud and his Roman butt-boy' that he kept reciting all day long and it was pretty clear to everyone whom he meant. I swear that rascal has a glint of Caligula in his eye, it's probably no coincidence that he shares his birthday. Of course the auguries all pronounced a glorious future for the git when he was born, regardless of that unmistakable  hint the date of his birth provided them with. I actually doubt that he is the emperor's son, he's much too healthy for that.  Faustina must have cuckolded Marcus, the gods know she had plenty of opportunity. To think that this naughty and cruel child could one day become emperor makes me shudder. Anyway, that very same day, when we had retired after dinner, Alexander called for me, inviting me to a night-cap. We inevitably turned to discussing recent events with a good helping of trepidation and Alexander pointed out that it was probably rather significant that no-one had attempted to discipline the boy. His tutors made as though they hadn't heard anything, a number of people were giggling as if he had told the joke of the year and the emperor himself reacted mainly by occasionally fixing us with that rather cold glare he sometimes affects.

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