Latin Omnivore

1

At a quarter to four my office phone began jangling and, had it been my daughter calling first, all of what follows may have been avoided. I glanced up from my rigorously-annotated Tacitus, adjusted my spectacles, and reached for the receiver.

Could you hold for a minute? I asked into the phone. "I need to confirm my working definition of proditio in case it undermines my article."

No problem, Mom.

I paused with one hand on my Latin-English dictionary. I hadn’t heard my stepson’s voice in five years.

You’re still alive, then.

Sorry for the abrupt departure.

Not a phone call or a postcard.

I know. I know. I’m the worst.

My interest in imperial Roman historiography somewhat diminished, I tossed the Latin-English dictionary back onto the shelf between the half-finished packet of digestive cookies and the leaning stack of Ludger Remy CDs.

Where are you now?

Montana.

Montana? I shifted the phone to my other shoulder so that I could stretch out my leg and nudge the door shut. Technically I had office hours, but a potential student intent on speaking with me could endure a few minutes in the hallway. Can you be more specific?

Not really, my stepson said, a flock of sheepishness shuffling through his voice. I—uh—joined a local community here and they’re quite private about their location.  We assumed you were deceased, I said.

We, in this case, referred to me, my daughter, and my ex-husband.

That’s a fair assumption, my stepson said. "But you don’t have to worry about me. It’s really good to hear your voice again,

Mom."

I was gradually wrapping my faculties around this unexpected reemergence. There was something reassuring about this sudden call—a familiar rhythm as my stepson inched toward his objective. I decided to cut straight to the chase.

You’re calling about money.

What? No, absolutely not.

Are you in jail? Do you need me to post bail?

No, Mom, listen. This is good news, I swear.

Hm, I said. I should have been relieved he was alive and allegedly okay, but then again I had never fully accepted the idea that he had died. My stepson had many faults, but he was as resilient as a retired legionary.

The place I’m staying is called Moonlit Ravine, said my stepson. It’s an oasis of spiritual healing, immersed in nature, free from the poisons of modernity. Once we’ve washed away our vices and traumas, we’ll be rejuvenated and reborn. A second birthday.

Indeed, I said, managing to keep derision from my voice.

I’ll be reborn on January 13, and I’d like you to be there.  I sat back in my chair, the phone cord straining. There were so many things to say that I did the only sensible thing and said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

Parents are allowed to visit us on Rebirth Day, my stepson explained, to celebrate our journey and to witness our transformation. This is why they’re letting me use the phone—to invite my family.

Whatever Moonlit Ravine was, it was radiating a rather powerful cult aura. I pressed the phone harder against my ear. "What

did your father say when you called him?"

There was a brief pause. I haven’t called him yet.

You need his number? He’s still in Beacon Hill.

I was actually hoping you could call him.

What?

My stepson cleared his throat on the other end of the line. I don’t think he’ll react well if I call out of the blue.

I pictured the prominent vein in my ex-husband’s forehead. No, I agreed. He won’t.

I’m currently preparing for the most important day of my life, he went on. I can’t let that level of negativity in—not right now.

You’re afraid of him.

Could you—could you at least let him know how things stand so I don’t catch him unawares?

I glowered at the family portrait of the Julio-Claudians rendered by a nineteenth-century romantic artist, which hung on my office wall. This is worse than asking for money.  I know, Mom. But I need your help with this. Please.  Where are you exactly? Maybe I can drive to you this weekend and we can talk in person.

I dreaded crossing the entirety of Idaho and however much of Montana in my ’92 Golf, but this seemed like one of the moments where teeth had to be gritted and loins had to be girded.  That won’t be possible, my stepson said. I can’t give you the location of Moonlit Ravine. You’ll be driven here from Missoula.

"I’ll be driven there?"

They’re very private, he intoned. "They’re worried exposure

would turn Moonlit Ravine into a nexus of spiritual tourism."

Oh, please.

There was a small disturbance on my stepson’s end and some sort of insistent whispering. I have to go, he said. I’ve already been talking too long. You don’t have to decide now, but if you’d like to see me, just remember—January 13 by the secular calendar.

But you—

I’ll call again soon with more details. Bye!

He hung up. I hit redial but couldn’t reconnect. Finally I set the phone down, rested my chin in my hands, and muttered a Latin curse under my breath.

2 ••• 50 AD

When the Emperor Britannicus (41–64 AD) was nine years old, he saved the Empress Agrippina from choking to death on an unlucky olive. According to the historian Titus Vespasianus, the empress had raised toasts in honor of Minerva and downed so much spicy Gallic wine that she started to slur her speech. Empress Agrippina’s son Nero (37–96 AD) was distracted with the vibrant thespians, and only little Britannicus saw his stepmother’s eyes bulge, her ring-encrusted fingers scrabbling at her mouth to remove the offending fruit. Britannicus hurried to his stepmother’s side and unflinchingly pounded his fist against her silken back. With a gasp the olive flew free, bounced across the tiles and almost tripped a freedman as he approached with stewed pears.

Many historians, especially Vespasianus and Suetonius, attribute this moment to be when Agrippina stopped hating her stepson. She took it as a sign from Minerva Herself, and resolved to follow a more pious path. Suetonius famously remarks that if not for this incident, Britannicus may never have become emperor at all.

3

Perhaps an hour elapsed between my stepson’s call and my daughter’s. In that time I stuffed a half-dozen essays and my empty thermos into my satchel, locked up my office, and headed out into the autumnal darkness. There was already a shiver in the air, typical of the days after Halloween once Daylight Savings had cycled back in and nighttime no longer waited patiently on the far side of 6 p.m. I traversed the quad as the lamps ignited, crossed the street to an avenue of professorial housing, and entered my home, determined to grade a few papers and eat some leftover mushroom curry before mulling over everything I had learned from my stepson.

I had barely shoved the curry Tupperware into the microwave when my home phone rang. I set down my satchel, kicked off my sneakers, and picked up the receiver.

You didn’t RSVP.

As I’ve already prologued, this was my daughter calling. She had a voice like a stop sign in early February—chilly, metallic, and inflexible.

Hello, darling, I said. What’s this about?

We finally picked out a date for the wedding, she said.

Your invitation should have arrived a week ago.

Oh, I said, rummaging in the drying rack for an appropriately sized spoon. That’s lovely.

It is lovely, my daughter said with all the enthusiasm of a funerary procession.

And you’re still getting married to the violinist, right?

This was the incorrect question to ask. Will you please stop calling him the violinist? We’ve been over this.

Of course, darling. I’m sorry.

My daughter had been dating the violinist since medical school. I had made an effort to like this man despite his fluttering mustache and the way he mispronounced Augustine. For the past three years, I had assumed it was inevitable that my daughter would come to her senses, that this relationship was doomed to crumble, but the violinist had remained a fixture in her life. Fortunately they lived in Seattle, so my exposure to the violinist was limited.

We’ve decided that our wedding day will coincide with the anniversary of our first date, my daughter went on.

This was almost certainly a royal we. My daughter was fastidious and cared about things lining up neatly. The violinist was never one to get too invested in temporal minutiae. I recalled one memorable dinner in which he opined, while dolloping chutney onto his samosas, that he wasn’t quite sure what people meant by October.

I see, I said.

His father and aunt are flying in for the ceremony from Prague, and we’ve booked a lakeside venue with an indoor botanical garden nearby. If you’re trying to make a point by delaying your response to the invitation—

I’m not trying to make a point. I just haven’t seen it yet.

I know you can be scatterbrained, but please prioritize this. It’s important to me.

I understand. I broke off. My mind, which had been churning at a rapid rate, finally settled. There’s something I should tell you.

Oh? My daughter’s voice was clipped and precise. What’s the matter?

It’s about your brother, I preluded.

I don’t have a brother.

I took a deep breath. Your half-brother, then.

Well? Is he in prison or did they find his body?

My daughter nursed her grudges the way some people nursed sourdough starters. He had borrowed several thousand dollars from her right before vanishing, and she had not forgotten. I admired that firmness about her, in the way a historian admires the military feats of Septimius Severus.

He’s alive, I said. But he may be under the sway of a cult in Montana.

Thank you for the update, my daughter said. Now, there is a wedding registry and so far the most expensive items have not been claimed, so if you could put your name down for the velvet couch it might inspire others to step up.

I rummaged in the fridge for a half-empty bottle of flaccid

soda water. You really don’t care about him?

He made his decisions, she said. Let that be the end of it.

Don’t you want to see him again?

There are six thousand dollars I’d like to see again first.

Mm.

Mom, he’s not your problem. He’s what—twenty-nine?  Almost thirty, I admitted.

He’s an adult. Do not let him con you. Do not fall for his act.

A more naïve me would have told her to stop lecturing me as if I were a child. I was too hungry for that, so I decided to remain noncommittally upbeat.  I’ll do my best, darling.

Just promise me you’ll come to the wedding so I can check that off the list.

Okay, okay, I said. Is the wedding location near Seattle?  Of course not. It’s in Switzerland.

Excuse me?

I was treated to an indignant reminder that the violinist’s mother was very ill and couldn’t easily travel from their village in the Swiss Alps. I listened and occasionally gulped sips of tepid water.

I assume round-trip flights from Seattle to Zurich aren’t considered a sufficient wedding gift.

Mom.

I’ll start booking, I said. When is it? June or July?

January 13.

The significance of this date did not immediately collide with me. I was too taken aback. You’re having a destination winter wedding in the Alps?

Is that unacceptable to you, Mother?

A little, I admitted. The pews will be sparsely populated.  My friends are excited about the post-nuptial opportunities for skiing, my daughter said. But perhaps attending your only daughter’s wedding is too inconvenient for you? Perhaps you have a prior commitment.

That’s when I put the pieces together. Did you say January 13?

Yes, but you’ll have to fly at the latest on the 12th because of the time difference.

"That’s the same day your brother asked me to visit him in

Montana. For his day of rebirth or something."

You’re sure? January 13?  I had a good head for dates. Yeah.  Asshole, my daughter muttered.

Him or me?

"Him. He would try to sabotage the most important day of my life."

You told him the date of your wedding?

I haven’t spoken to him since he swindled me, but no doubt someone fed him the information.

According to him, he’s more or less off the grid.

He has as much credibility as a chiropractor, Mother. Tell him that you’re coming to my wedding and he can postpone his rebirth if he wants you there.

It’s not that simple, I said. He didn’t leave a number.

But my daughter was done with the discussion phase of our phone call. You’ll figure it out. Call me back once you’ve booked your flight to Zurich.

And she hung up.

4

At the time of the two phone calls, I had been a professor of classical history for thirty-one years, something I didn’t so much decide on as much as I didn’t decide to stop pursuing higher