From Publius to Gaius
Gaius, how long have we toiled as one?
Three years, four, our sweat salting the soil?
Our blood yet stains each other’s altars,
Bound as brothers by the work’s sacred oath.
...
Have you forsaken that vow?
...
In shared turmoil, we wrestled petty thorns,
Crafting solutions from ceaseless strife.
Yet since Marcus came, you’ve turned away,
Leaving the labor to my weary hands.
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Marcus, your jest of a comrade,
Fit for wine-soaked nights and fleeting charms,
Lacks the mettle to till or tend.
A leech, he clings, eyes wet with greed,
While I plow on, reaping what we sowed.
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My sweat, my blood, still feed the earth,
While you share the harvest with his idle hands,
Tossing me scraps for fields I’ve raised.
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He lounges in your atrium,
Savoring figs I’ve grown,
Lingering in leisure, not labor,
While the soil cries for care.
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No more, Gaius. Keep your work,
And your Marcus, a shadow to your folly.
May your fields wither under his weight.
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I offer myrrh and frankincense,
A final gift as I seek new lands.
My trade will thrive in greener fields,
Where seeds I sow will bloom unbound.
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Under noonday sun, I’ll flourish,
While you and your work wilt without me.
Signed, PERTINAX
