Militia Amoris

Professor Jawerski’s hair was as detached from modernity as he was, and his bifocals looked as if they’d been bifocaling since before focals could even be bi. He wasn’t what Callie imagined when she signed up for an Erotic Elegies course. Still, something was comforting about his demeanor, as if a lifetime of studying ancient love songs made him the keeper of Aphrodite’s secrets. 

“σὺ δ᾿αὔτα σύμμαχος ἔσσο,” the words danced on his tongue before he rendered them in English, “‘And you yourself be an ally.’ But σύμμαχος has a deeper meaning here. It’s σύν plus μάχη. ‘With’ plus ‘battle.’ Sappho is deploying our earliest example of the poetic device known as militia amoris. Of course, Roman Elegists like Catullus expanded on this in later centuries, comparing amatory activity to military operations, but it all began here.”

Callie had never had an ally, although she’d been pursued by many enemies chanting their battle cries all over her Instagram. But the trenches can get lonely, especially in autumn when the only one hugging her is the bitter Vermont air.

“Next class, we’ll spend more time with the ‘woman from Lesbos’ and discover how Catullus inadvertently gave us a familiar term.” A symphony of shuffling books and gliding zippers signaled that the class had ended. “Before you leave, come down and check the assignment sheet. Find your partner and exchange telephone numbers or Facebook usernames or whatever it is you do. Remember, I’m not grading you on your creative ability. I just want you to appreciate how difficult love can be. Love poetry, that is.”

The only thing Callie hated more than group projects was group writing projects. The thought that an outsider could infiltrate a process so personal and therapeutic was detestable. And even worse, an unknown outsider. A barbarian. She got the sudden urge to don hoplite armor and defend her homeland.

“Callie? Which one of you ladies is Callie?” a deep voice shouted over the sea of students.

Fuck, she thought. Then said aloud.

Aiden Daniels was a non-traditional student. He looked to be about twenty-six with a bulky build and an accent that didn’t quite sound like someone who would be named Aiden Daniels. He was handsome in a way, with arms that could hug a tree, but his harsh manner of speaking made him someone she’d rather avoid.

“Me,” she raised her hand ever so briefly.

“Nice. When can we get started? Now?”

“I have another class.”

“Tonight?”

“How about tomorrow morning at the library.”

“Fine. What’s your at?”

Callie hadn’t been this apathetic to exchanging information since her fender bender over summer break. But at least Geico was there to mediate things. She had to deal with this mess all on her own.

Morning came too soon.

Aiden had already occupied a table when she arrived. It could have easily accommodated six people if he hadn’t commandeered four seats with his jacket, backpack, hoodie, and legs.

“Any ideas of what to write about?” Callie plopped her purse on whatever table space remained.

“Love. Obviously.” He offered.

“Clever. True love? Young love? Unrequited love? Militia amoris?”

Aiden squinted his blue eyes in thought. “Which have you had?”

Callie shook her head in surprise. “Umm.” She searched for a lie but landed on the truth. “None.”

“So…unrequited.”

“No, not unrequited. None. And you?”

“Young, true, and unrequited. Guess I’m lucky.” He pursed his lips with the regret and sadness of a much older man. “Looks like we’re hopeless.”

She noticed a worn-down, leatherbound notebook sticking out of his bag. It was adorned with a faded image of a tricolored eagle: blue, yellow, and red. Its pages were crinkled and stained, and in the top corner, a rectangular chunk was missing; a dark burn outlined its phantom extremity.

“What is that?”

“Nothing.” He pushed it deeper into his bag. 

“Seriously?” she pushed his bicep, which returned the favor.

“They’re just reflections.”

“Like a diary?”

“Yes. But more manly.” He sat up straight and rolled his shoulders back. “A soldier’s log.”

“A diary,” she smiled. “Read me some. For inspirational purposes.”

“I’d rather not.”

“And here I thought soldiers were brave.” Callie immediately felt remorse when she glimpsed a scar on Aiden’s neck, roughly the size of the one on his diary. His solemn eyes told the rest of the story. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

He turned away from her, and in that moment, for the first time in a while, she thought someone needed a hug more than she did. 

“It’s okay,” he said, in a voice far more pleasant than before. “There isn’t much beauty in there. That’s all.”

Callie leaned in closer and motioned at his scar. “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

“In Moldova, all men must serve for two years. When my term was done, the war broke out, and soon after, the Ukraine Foreign League was looking for soldiers. I just…I didn’t hesitate. I went. I was journaling when the shrapnel rained down. The other guys…”

She placed her hand atop his. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s why I came here. I chose a new name. I chose a new life…studying two-thousand-year-old poems.” 

Callie laughed and tapped his temple. “Well, I’m sure there’s a love poem in there somewhere.”

“I dunno. I think it’s more of a… how do you say? Prequel? Origin story? The thing that happens for the hero to realize his purpose.”

“And your purpose is love?”

“Everyone’s purpose is love. We’ve just convinced ourselves it isn’t. But amongst the rubble, amongst the fire, you quickly learn that that’s all there is. That’s all that stands between hope and sadness. ‘Militia amoris?’” He scoffed. “No. Love doesn’t conquer people. Love conquers the horrible things people do to each other.”

Callie couldn’t explain what came over her. Jawerski would call it ‘Cupid’s arrow.’ Her friends would call it ‘the feels.’ Her libido would call it ‘long overdue.’ But she secured his face and seized his lips. 

And that night, the Vermont air got a little warmer.