The Neighbours

What do you find so shocking ? asked Pliny the Elder.

That the freshness of a fig persuaded the Roman senate to go to war, I replied. And that they didn't already know how far it was to Carthage.

Of course they knew, said Pliny. It was the Third Punic War, remember. But shipping had improved.

Oh, I see, I said. Was that why Cato was a hero of yours? Because he started the Third Punic War?

No, said Pliny, that is not the reason. He also wrote on many subjects, including agriculture, giving very sensible advice on how to choose a farm.

What was it? I asked.

Before you buy a farm, you should pay attention to the water supply, the road and the neighbour.

The neighbour? Why the neighbour?

Cato says that in a good district the people have an air of prosperity.

That's pretty obvious, I said. What else does he say?

He says that the land should be fertile and the farm buildings sound. And it is best to purchase a farm from a good owner.

Anybody could have written that, I said. I could have written that myself.

You are difficult to please, said Pliny. But here's a story that I think you'll like. A freed slave, Gaius Furius Chresimus, obtained such good returns fron his small holding that his neighbours suspected him of witchcraft.

So much for Cato's advice about neighbours, I observed.

Very amusing, said Pliny. But to continue: He had to go to court. He turned up with his well-made agricultural tools, his healthy, well-fed farm labourers and his well-fed oxen. These are my magic spells, citizens, he said, but I am unable to bring as witnesses my midnight labours, early risings and my sweat and toil. This so impressed the jury that he was acquitted by unanimous vote.

I do like it, I said.

Blackberries and a Fig

Blackberries! said Pliny he Elder. Where did you get those?

We got them from the hills, I said. Picked only half an hour ago. They're really fresh.

That reminds me of a story, said Pliny.

Is it about blackberries? I asked.

No, he said. It's about Cato the Elder, and a fig.

I am intrigued, I said. Go on.

Cato, said Pliny, is a hero of mine. He was a soldier farmer, and he rose to become a consul, and a censor, although he was a plebeian. He represented the old Roman values of simplicity and hard work.

And cruelty, I said. I've heard of him.

Nonsense, said Pliny. He was not cruel. But he was somewhat obsessed with the necessity of destroying Carthage.

Carthago Delenda Est! I cried, happily remembering my Latin.

Yes. He used to say it at the end of every speech he made.

Like pollies do today. Stop the Boats!

Something like that. But Cato did succeed in persuading the Romans to embark upon the third Punic War. And he did it by means of a fig.

A fig?

A fig. He brought a fresh fig into the forum one day and showed it around. How old do you think this fig is? he asked. Everyone agreed it looked very fresh. It was picked two days ago, said Cato. IN CARTHAGE!

So? I said, not getting it.

So, said Pliny, That put the wind up the senators, well and truly. To think that the Carthaginians were only as far away from Rome as that! So they agreed to go to war.

Is that true? I asked.

Yes, it is recorded, said Pliny.

That's shocking on so many levels, I said.

Ashbrook Avenue

It is the evening after a hot day. Pliny and Nostradamus are walking north along Ashbrook Avenue as far as the lane where figs and grapes overhang the back fences. Ashbrook Avenue is long and suburban. It is neither well kept nor neglected. There are gumnuts on the the uneven footpath. There are pine trees at the edge of the sports field inside the fence. The clubhouse at the far end of the oval is lit up and there is a sound of voices. The graveyard is quiet. Every house and block of flats has a garden, some look watered, most look dry. A peach tree on a corner. Vines overhanging fences, grapes withered and small. A man with a hose.

The sky is the palest blue. There is a pink and gold cloud to the west. Several people walking dogs, looking straight ahead.

Pliny and Nostradamus reach the lane. They find some grapes that are large and juicy, tasting of passionfruit. They eat a few. The figs are hard and unripe.

They turn towards home along Ashbrook Avenue. It is the time when evening steals the colour from the trees. The air is warm. A few stars are visible and the moon. Passing the graveyard Pliny looks for the flashing red lights on the Italian row, which once had scared her, but tonight they are off. Even the dead are saving power. From the pine trees by the oval comes a scent of long ago. It is still a fair way to home.