The Gathering of the SpoilsA Poem by David Lewis PagetMarcus
Julius rose at dawn, Splashed
water on his face, He’d
spent the night at the Lupanare With
a pretty girl from Thrace, He
saw the glow in the morning sky But
shrugged, and went back inside, Roused
the slave from his slumber Kicked
the dog, sat down and sighed. She’d
cost him three Denarius And
money was getting tight, The
marketplace had been quiet of late And
his purse was rather light, He’d
made just ten Sesterces With
his trade the day before, People
were getting nervous but He’d
seen it all before. Whenever
the ground was trembling As
it often used to do, They
thought of the massive earthquake That
had hit in ’62, It
had razed the Apollo Temple, They
were still rebuilding now, Seventeen
years of minor quakes Had
slowed the work right down. But
life went on, and food was dear With
slaves not worth their keep, He
only had one, Antonius, And
all that he did was sleep, It
might have been easier with a wife So
Marcus thought aloud, But
out in the street, he heard the feet And
the cries of a nervous crowd. The
sky had suddenly darkened So
they fled, the feeble hearts, Blocking
the ancient carriageway With
their chariots and carts, He
watched the crowd from his window The
Plebeians hurried past, Soldiers
and patricians all In
a jostling, shouting mass. The
slave of Marcus Julius Was
more than terrified, So
he chained him fast to an iron ring By
the strongroom, deep inside, ‘It’s
only a passing wonder, We’re
not going anywhere!’ He
locked his door to the street, Stood
by the window space, and stared. He
noted the noble families Go
struggling past his door, Carrying
all of their wealth with them, And
the women carried more, The
day grew dark as a midden ‘Til
you couldn’t see ahead, And
people screamed for each other As
the younger ones had fled. Eleven
o’clock, it settled down He
ventured into the street, Lying
in piles were goods they’d dropped In
the jostling, and the heat, For
the temperature was rising fast As
he seized what he could find, Cases
of ladies jewellery, And
purses they’d left behind. He
piled the goods in the strongroom Then
got ready to shelter there, Brushed
off the pyroclastic ash That
had settled in his hair, He
laughed out loud as he closed the door But
paused by the slave to say: ‘Our
lives are going to get better, I’m The
richest man in Pompeii!’ David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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