HISTORICAL SHORT FICTION
The Vintner
During The Reign of Emperor Hadrian
From the Falernian estate, on the slopes of Mt. Massico. In the year 137, Sol Invictus, the reign of he who holds the orb of the world, dominus et deus (master and living god) Emperor Hadrian.
I write this to no one in particular, other than to give a living account of our misfortune. Slaves are not worthy to read and write. However, I was trained in Latin and Greek from childhood, in order to document the process of the world’s most heralded vintage. I am the third generation Vintner of the estate of Longus Caelius. My grandfather and father have passed down their knowledge to me. For over one hundred years, we have the honor of creating the most noble and distinguished wine known throughout the Empire.
My grandfather and father perfected the vintage of the Falanghina and Aglianico grapes. I have carried on the legacy. It is known throughout the Empire as well as lands afar, as the finest. We produce two varieties; Falerno Bianco and Falerno Rosso. The white is known for its extreme dryness, while the red is most sweet. Emperors, Senators and those elite who can afford it, guzzle it by the amphora.
When I was young, the Emperor Vespasian awarded my grandfather the ‘Maestro Viticultore. Successive Emperors (Titus, Domitian and Nerva) all praised us for the magic we created from our toil in the fields. Our success came from a grafting technique which we perfected. Now the Emperor Hadrian holds our destiny in his hands, but it is too late.
My grandfather passed away when I was but a child. I vaguely remember him grasping me with large, strong, calloused hands that could strangle an ox. Lifting me over his head, reciting some Etruscan prayer that I do not recall.
My Father Marcus, was a gentle, soft-spoken man. Known for his kindness to the slave laborers who worked in unbearable conditions. Father was constantly punished for his compassion. Father died this last season when earth-shaker Zeus brought down our cottage in the middle of the night. It took many slaves most of the day to find him buried in the stone rubble. Why I survived is still a mystery that only some God may know.
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I am Marius, I will be the last in our line.
Longus Caelius is a cruel master, for he has promised all the estate slaves to become freemen after many decades of servitude, cultivating the finest wine in the Roman Empire. All the staff will be resold into slavery. Caelius, known for his frugality, has deceived all of us who served him with devout labor.
We have been instructed that the estate is sold to Quintus Lollius Urbicus, one of Hadrians top decorated military generals who served under him during the Jewish wars, as well as, providing military engineers and slave labor to help Hadrian build his walls in northern Britannia.
Urbicus is a devout vegetarian, mimicking the ancient Emperor Claudius. He detests alcohol of any nature, claiming people should only drink the purest of water, or juice from fruits. Therefore, we have been told all 310 hectares of our magnificent vines will be uprooted and burned as a testament to his Spartan nature. Urbicus plans to use the fields for barley and wheat to feed the ravaging hordes in Rome. He will import all his slave labor and sell off all present estate slaves, stating that he finds it distasteful to inherit labor. I will undoubtedly be sent off to do manual labor or perhaps a common scribe for some other cruel master. For me, it matters not. I have already decided.
In my Master’s library I read a scroll regarding a centuries-old philosopher in Greece. He was jailed and convicted of poisoning the minds of youth. His only crime was instructing his students to ask questions to those who are in power. The city state, Athens, did not like that, so they imprisoned him and sentenced him to commit suicide by drinking a potion of hemlock — which is a common weed here on the estate. To add insult, they made him pay for the poison due to the poor state finances.
Feeling tranquil and content, gazing at the horizon, as Helios makes his way across the sky in his golden chariot, splashing a magnificent bronze glow on the vineyard. Sitting on an old cedar chair that my grandfather carved by hand and staring out at our vast famed Falernian estate, the rhythmical rattle of cicadas echoes across our gently sloping vineyards. Listening to the faint babbling ice-cold stream, that has been the source of reverence to our god of the vine, Bacchus.
As night begins to fall, I Marius, son of Marcus, born and raised on this estate, propose a toast with Hadrian’s private vintage from nine years past.
I shall greet my grandfather and father now, in Elysium with open arms. My last wish is that a house staff shall place a coin in my mouth to pay Charon, the ferryman, for my journey across the river Styx.
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