"Yes, Father," I said, "but then treason was considered a matter of what one did, not 
what one said."
  "Which is all the more reason to say nothing." He sat back wearily. "Lydia, sing to me. 
Get your lyre. Make up one of your comic epics. It's been a long time."
  "I'm too old for that," I said, thinking of the silly, bawdy satires on Homer which I 
used to make up so quickly and freely that everyone marveled. But I jumped at that idea. 
I remember that night so palpably that I cannot tear myself loose now from the writing of 
this story, even though I know what pain I must confess and explore.
  What does it mean to write? David, you'll see this question repeated, because with each 
page I understand more and more - I see the patterns that have before eluded me, and 
driven me to dream rather than live.
  That night I did make a very funny epic. My Father laughed. He fell asleep on his 
couch. And then, as if from a trance state, he spoke, "Lydia, don't live out your life 
alone on account of me. Marry for love! You must not give up!"
  By the time I turned around, he was breathing deeply again,
  Two weeks later, or maybe it was a month, our life came abruptly to an end.
  I came home one day, found the house completely empty except for two terrified old 
slave men - men who actually belonged to the household of my brother Antony - who let me 
in and bolted the door ferociously.
  I walked through the huge vestibule and then into the peristyle and into the dining 
room. I beheld an amazing sight.
  My Father was in full battle dress, armed with sword and dagger, lacking only his 
shield. He even wore his red cloak. His breastplate was polished and gleaming.
  He stared at the floor and with reason. It had been dug up. The old Hearth from 
generations ago had been dug up. This had been the first room of this house in the very 
ancient days of Rome, and it was around this Hearth that the family gathered, worshiped, 
dined.
  I had never even seen it, We had our household Shrines, but this, this giant circle of 
burnt stones! There were actually ashes there, uncovered. How ominous and sacred it 
appeared.
  "What in the name of the gods is going on?" I asked. "Where is everybody?"
  "They are gone," he said. "I have freed the slaves, sent them packing. I've been 
waiting for you. You have to leave here now!"
  "Not without you!"
  "You will not disobey me, Lydia!" I had never seen such an imploring yet dignified 
expression in his face. "There's a wagon out back, ready to take you to the coast, and a 
Jewish merchant who is my most trusted friend who will take you by ship out of Italy! I 
want you to go! Your money's been loaded on board the ship. Your clothing. Everything. 
These are men I trust. Nevertheless take this dagger."
  He picked up a dagger from the nearby table and gave it to me. "You've watched your 
brothers enough to know how to use it," he said, "and this." He reached for a sack. "This 
is gold, the currency that all the world accepts. Take it and go."
  I always carried a dagger, and it was in the sling on my forearm but I could not shock 
him with this just now, so I put the dagger in my girdle and took the purse.
  "Father, I'm not afraid to stand by you! Who's turned on us? Father, you are Senator of 
Rome. Accused of any crime, you are entitled to a trial before the Senate."
  "Oh, my precious quick-witted daughter! You think that evil Sejanus and his Delatores 
bring charges out in the open? His Speculatores have already surprised your brothers and 
their wives and children. These are Antony's slaves. He sent them to warn me as he 
fought, as he died. He saw his son dashed against the wall. Lydia, go."
  Of course I knew this was a Roman custom - to murder the entire family, to wipe out the 
spouse and offspring of the condemned. It was even the law. And in matters such as this, 
when word got out that the Emperor had turned his back on a man, any of his enemies could 
precede the assassins.
  "You come with me," I said. "Why do you stay here?"
  "I will die a Roman in my house," he said. "Now go if you love me, my poet, my singer, 
my thinker. My Lydia. Go! I will not be disobeyed. I have spent the last hour of my life 
arranging for your salvation! Kiss me and obey me."
  I ran to him, kissed him on the lips and at once the slaves led me through the garden.
  I knew my Father. I could not revolt against him in this final wish. I knew that, in 
old-fashioned Roman style, he would probably take his life before the Speculatores broke 
down the front door.
  When I reached the gate, when I saw the Hebrew merchants and their wagon, I couldn't go.
  This is what I saw.
  My Father had cut both his wrists and was walking around the household hearth in a 
circle, letting the blood flow right down onto the floor. He had really given his wrists 
the slash. He was turning white as he walked. In his eyes there was an expression I would 
only come to understand later.
  There came a loud crash. The front door was being bashed in. My Father stopped quite 
still. And two of the Praetorian Guard came at him, one making sneering remarks, "Why 
don't you finish yourself off, Maximus, and save us the trouble. Go on."
  "Are you proud of yourselves!" my Father said. "Cowards. You like killing whole 
families? How much money do you get? Did you ever fight in a true battle. Come on, die 
with me!"
  Turning his back on them, he whipped around with sword and dagger, and brought down 
both of them, as they came at him, with unanticipated thrusts. He stabbed them repeatedly.
  My Father wobbled as if he would faint. He was white. The blood flowed and flowed from 
his wrists. His eyes rolled up into his head.
  Mad schemes came to me. We must get him into the wagon. But a Roman like my Father 
would never have cooperated.
  Suddenly the Hebrews, one young and one elderly, had me by the arms and were carrying 
me out of the house.
  "I vowed I would save you," said the old man. "And you will not make a liar of me to my 
old friend."
  "Let go of me!" I whispered. "I will see him through it!"
  Throwing them off in their polite timidity I turned and saw from a great distance my 
Father's body by the hearth. He had finished himself with his own dagger.
  I was thrown into the wagon, my eyes dosed, my hands over my mouth. I fell among soft 
pillows, bolts of fabric, tumbling as the wagon began to roll very slowly down the 
winding road of the Palatine Hill.
  Soldiers shouted at us to get the hell out of the way.
  The elderly Hebrew said, "I am nearly deaf, sir, what did you say?"
  It worked perfectly. They rode past us.
  The Hebrew knew exactly what he was doing. As crowds rushed past us he kept to his slow 
pace.
  The one young one came into the back of the wagon. "My name is Jacob," he said. "Here, 
put on all these white mantles. You look now like an Eastern woman. If questioned at the 
gate, hold up your veil and pretend you do not understand."
  We went through the Gates of Rome with amazing ease. It was "Hail David and Jacob, has 
it been a good trip?"