.

Miles Fidelis (The Faithful Soldier) 

for Joseph Salemi, whose essay introduced me to
the soldier of this poem.

The city shakes! Vesuvius spouts fire
As Vulcan grins through Jupiter’s hot breath.
Brute thunder roars. Pompeii’s become a pyre
Of sulfur-crusted rubble rife with death.
A ghastly pall has crimsoned the sun’s flash
And smoky air is choked with poison ash.

The Bay of Naples heaves with massive waves.
The road to Herculaneum is thick
With dominae, patricians and their slaves,
With merchants, virgins, priests, the old and sick
Escaping to the south or to the coast.
But Jove himself can’t make me leave my post.

Another quake! I long ago lost count.
Yes, I’m afraid. But fear is not my master.
The urge to flee? A weakness to surmount.
Since sunrise I have grappled with disaster
As I watched Miles Quintus bleed his fate
And I was left alone to guard this gate.

Around me Hades belches pain and grief.
Some scream in panic, others loot for booty,
While I’ve received no orders for relief.
I stand unwatched. My conscience is my duty.
Let others swoon or weep or steal or flee.
My pride forbids I shun eternity.

The gods decree my life on this day ends,
But as a soldier that’s not my concern.
I know I’m more than what this mountain rends,
For rectitude and loyalty don’t burn.
By dawn I’ll be reduced to ash and bone—
But courage has a life-span all its own.

The gods hurl rage which cannot be assuaged;
But I’m content. Elysium draws near.
I’d rather die here manfully engaged
Than let my honor dissipate through fear.
When flesh turns flame my torch shall yet be seen
From here to Rome and all points in-between!

.

Poet’s Note: In the 19th Century, in the course of excavations near the Herculanean gate of Pompeii, the skeleton of a soldier in full armor was discovered. One may well imagine that he was forgotten in the terror and confusion that reigned during the destruction of the city. While others sought safety in flight, with no order to quit his post and despite his certain doom, this sentinel remained faithful to his duty. This soldier has been immortalized by the Sir Edward John Poynter painting “Faithful Unto Death.”

.

.

In the Atrium 

The cook shall pluck the peacock now
And roast it with a black-tailed crow.
In my distress ‘tis all the same.
Our slaves, at least, respect my name—
A surname once considered great.
Alas, our fortunes fade of late.
O, Sylvia, I must confide
How Lucius mortifies my pride.
My husband now makes Caesar think
His value quite consumed by drink.
My Lucius tipples. Worse! He stays
In taverns lost in wine for days.
Dear Sylvia, I envy you
A sober mate both fair and true
Who brings you honor without stings,
Who’s kind and whispers lovely things.
For me and Lucius twenty years
Have passed and he gives only sneers.
He oft profanes our sacred bed.
Scarce stoic, I can’t hold my head!
I try to hide his Aetna wine
And pray for an auspicious sign
But none appears. ‘Tis all in vain.
Friend Sylvia, condole my pain…
But hush, my jewel, my lord doth come
The measure of my life, my sum!
Hail, Lucius! (He reeks like a beast.)
Why don’t you change and join our feast?

.

.

Brian Yapko is a lawyer who also writes poetry. He lives in Wimauma, Florida.

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34 Responses

  1. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Your continued great poems present vivid images and masterful words that paint those pictures. You also exhibit a full grasp not only of history, but of the circumstances, the problems, and the passions of the time. My favorite phrase in the first poem was “My conscience is my duty.” That is certainly a fitting tribute to a soldier.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you very much, Roy! That happens to be one of my favorite phrases as well. For me, it sums up what it means to regard a duty as sacred rather than as a convenience.

      Reply
  2. Joseph S. Salemi

    Brian, thanks for the mention of me — I’m glad to have brought “the faithful soldier” to people’s view. Simply by staying at his assigned post at Pompeii, this man gained a kind of immortality for himself, by being a testament to heroic virtue.

    “In the Atrium” is a perfect dramatic monologue on the unhappiness of a faithful wife. The rhymed tetrameter couplets are very neatly done.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      My pleasure, Joe. Thank you for introducing me to the character. Even more, thank you for the role you have played for many years in academia as a guardian of Western culture — steadfast despite the collapse of educational integrity around you. It can’t have been easy. But, as spoken in the poem, “courage has a lifespan all its own.” And this applies to you as well as to all those brave souls who are willing — despite the opprobium of the mob — to guard and protect our precious cultural heritage, the integrity of history, and traditional Western values.

      Thank you for the kind words about “In the Atrium.” I wanted to present contrasting studies in Roman honor — at its very best and at its worst. I fear that our modern world would be more comprehensible to Lucius the womanizing tippler than to the Miles Fidelis.

      Reply
  3. Dan Tuton

    Brian, your two new poems are magnificent!  Your conversance with classical literature is second to none, and your wordsmithing is absolutely brilliant! You have an amazing gift.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you so much, Fr. Dan! Although you are kind, my knowledge of classical literature is actually greatly inferior to many on this site — especially Joseph Salemi and Margaret Coats who have probably forgotten more than I have ever known in the first place! But thank you. And congratulations on Cattleman, a very beautiful Christmas poem!

      Reply
  4. Drilon Bajrami

    Brian, Miles Fidelis might be one of the best poems I’ve read, full stop. You do such an exceptional job of immortalising the heroism and duty of men like this. They don’t make men like that anymore. I think I’ve said enough.

    The other poem was a nice read, too, I liked the tetrametric couplets and the way they make the poem flow. You encapsulate the unhappy wife’s emotions very well, especially when comparing her marriage with her friend’s:

    “Dear Sylvia, I envy you
    A sober mate both fair and true
    Who brings you honor without stings,
    Who’s kind and whispers lovely things”

    Your retirement will bring us a lot more great poetry, I’m sure, haha.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Drilon, I’m so honored to get such a generous comment! Thank you! Both poems were fun to write for different reasons but primarily because I have a deep fascination with ancient Rome. I agree about the subject of heroism — it’s a rare quality these days. But it exists — sometimes in unexpected places. And your’re right — retirement will no doubt yield a lot more poetry!

      Reply
      • Drilon Bajrami

        Your poem even gave me a pang of inspiration and I had to pen my own on this exact theme. It’s on the “pact” that Kosovar Albanians made to each other to not take the occupier’s abuse anymore after decades of persecution. This pact eventually evolved into a revolutionary army (funded and trained by the USA) who won our people their freedom. Maybe a few more drafts, it’ll be good enough to feature here.

        Thank you for your inspiration, Brian!

      • Brian A. Yapko

        I’m pleased to hear this, Drilon! Looking forward to reading the poem my piece inspired!

  5. Yael

    Both poems make for a very enjoyable reading experience, and the painting is a nice addition too, thank you very much Brian and Evan.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you very much, Yael. And I join in your enthusiasm for the painting as highlighted by Evan. I believe the original “Faithful Unto Death” by Sir Edward John Poynter is located at the Wallace Art Gallery in Liverpool, England. This is one I would love to see in person someday.

      Reply
  6. Joshua C. Frank

    The first one is really powerful, especially the second half, as we get a glimpse into the mind of a soldier so faithful that he chose to die a painful death rather than abandon his post. My impression is that he was motivated by eternity in the Elysian Fields, just as Christian martyrs were motivated by going to Heaven and avoiding Hell.

    The poem reminds me of “Casabianca” by Felicia Hemans, which was also a true story.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you very much, Josh! I think you’ve insightfully honed in on a crucial aspect of my soldier’s character. He is a true Roman, meaning that he has never been baptized and is not a Christian in any meaningful way. However, if I had a backstory for him it would involve an exposure to the memorable courage of the martyrs.

      Thank you also for referring me to Casabianca. I just read it. What a heartbreaking poem! I can understand the reminder, though as I read it the little boy in that poem is not motivated by courage and honor so much as obedience which in some ways makes him far more of a figure of pathos. I could certainly have gone that way with Miles Fidelis but really liked the idea of this honorable soldier choosing to follow his conscience no matter what the consequences.

      Reply
      • Joshua C. Frank

        Actually, I read “Casabianca” in a 1904 children’s anthology called Poems Every Child Should Know, edited by Mary E. Burt. In the introduction to that poem, she comments:

        “‘Casabianca,’ by Felicia Hemans (1793-1835), is the portrait of a faithful heart, an example of unreasoning obedience. It is right that a child should obey even to the death the commands of a loving parent.”

        This was a common understanding at the time, based not only on Scripture’s commands for children to obey their parents, but on its commands to imitate Jesus, who “humbled himself, becoming obedient unto death, even to the death of the cross.” (Philippians 2:8). Children’s books from that time and before reflect a similar understanding, so I think Hemans wrote her poem with that same view.

        Contrast that with my poem “The Little Boy Who Disobeyed,” based on a true story published in the 1892 book Spiritual Crumbs for Hungry Little Souls by Mary E. Richardson.

      • Joseph S. Salemi

        Felicia Hemans is a competent poet, but somewhat conventional and predictable. I would say the same for Edgar Guest and Robert Service — they are upright and decent and OK, but not especially interesting. Their appeal was to the great middlebrow audience of readers — a poetic audience which is now practically extinct.

        When poetry stopped being printed in daily newspapers, you knew that its popular audience was gone.

      • Margaret Coats

        For an interesting poem showing Felicia Hemans’s capabilities, try “Tasso’s Coronation” with stanzas in lines of varied length (possibly intended to represent a laurel branch).

  8. Margaret Coats

    Brian, I see that Peter Hartley’s sonnet on the Poynter painting is linked from your Poet’s Note on “Miles Fidelis.” Both your poem and Peter’s are excellent, and offer a good contrast. Peter admitted in Comments that the choice of a compact form constrained him in dealing with such an emotional subject, but his principal point was to compare the Pompeii disaster to contemporary fears, and this was possible. He made a beautiful couplet turn (lines 9-10 of his sonnet) to connect the disaster to the soldier to the modern world:

    The courage of the fearful soars beyond
    The reckless resignation of the blind.

    You, Brian, with your characteristic skill at dramatic monologue, use the ominous form of six 6-line stanzas to develop thoughts in the mind of the soldier. As soldiers do, he observes and evaluates his situation in the first two stanzas. Readers only discover at the end of the second stanza that there is a first-person speaker. And at that point, his determination to stand firm comes out in the surprising “Jove himself can’t make me leave my post.” One would think the command of the supreme god would be sufficient. There is plenty of reference to the gods in this poem, but they seem to be symbolic non-entities for this soldier. By the time Pompeii was destroyed, that was an acceptable mindset for many thinking persons. The soldier appears to be a Stoic who values virtue and self-mastery, undergoing a most dramatic test of his chosen philosophy. And he remains a classic soldier, unconcerned with death because it is his business to risk his life. But in the middle of stanza 4, there comes a line of transcendence beyond the Stoic or the soldier: “I know I’m more than what this mountain rends.” This is a claim for the human spirit. The soldier goes on to say that rectitude, loyalty, and courage cannot burn in the fire emitted by the volcanic eruption. This is not mere self-discipline; it’s a claim of immortality. In the last stanza, the soldier says he will be content in Elysium, but after that comes a mention of honor, to imply an immortality of fame in this world. But the final lines of the poem refer to flesh burning as a flaming torch to be seen as far away as Rome and at “all points.” This really looks like an allusion to the Christians said to have been burned as human torches by Nero. The time period is exactly right. If Nero did this (and there is a lot of controversy on that subject), it was in the mid-60’s and Pompeii perished in 79 AD. We know nothing about the soldier in Pompeii, except that he seems to have been faithful to a military assignment. Brian, you have given him that honor, and the further possible honors of being a faithful Stoic and/or faithful Christian. These three identities are not incompatible. Stoicism was a thing of this world with Nature as more of a god than anything else, but with ascetic practice admired and followed by Christians. Your suggestions are made tactfully, as suits the Unknown quality of the Faithful Soldier.

    I am interested to see that you make “In the Atrium” a pair of sorts with “Miles Fidelis.” The troubled speaker refers to her drunkard husband’s “Aetna wine” (Mount Aetna in Sicily erupted just last month). And she says she is “scarce stoic.” While Lucius, her “lord” and husband is “the measure of my life, my sum” (not sun!), her happily married female friend Sylvia is “my jewel.” The speaker remains sadly unnamed herself (like the Miles Fidelis). She seems as faithful as need be, but her affection goes out to the friend and confidante who can “condole” or sorrow with her.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you very much indeed, Margaret, for this thoughtfully-considered comment. First, I am so pleased that Evan linked my poem to Peter Hartley’s masterful poem from 2021. Mr. Hartley’s philosophical approach and the explicit focus on modern times is quite different from my own as is the ekphrastic nature of his poem. There is no doubt that Mr. Hartley’s poem is a spotlight on the Sir Edward Poynter painting, whereas mine is more directly about the historical figure who happens to be depicted by the painting. I vaguely remembered his “Pompeii” poem, because I had written one called “From the Bay of Naples” later that year upon which he commented. But it was not until I googled “Pompeii victim found in full armor” (or something like that) that the SCP came up with the image — and his poem! Only then did I realize he had written on this exact same subject. Well, some subjects warrant multiple interpretations and perspectives. I think this brave soldier is one of them — especially for the symbolic value of his heroism.

      Your analysis of my soldier is extremely penetrating as you identify elements of paganism, stoicism and Christianity and link his “flesh to flame” to the Christians persecuted by Nero. Just to be clear, we are not really discussing this historic soldier (about whom virtually nothing is known.) Rather, we are looking at the speaker I have created as a character in a fictionalized Pompeii with the eruption of Vesuvius as the background. I am most concerned about his symbolic value as someone of great character who regarded duty as something sacred. This, to me, has great importance in a world in which the vast majority of people have no conception of honor and in which commitments have degraded into conveniences. Our modern world NEEDS this soldier. Desperately.

      But for all that there was a skeleton and armor dug up in the 19th Century, my speaker is purely fictional. That being said, we thus get to analyze his character based only on the words I’ve allowed to come out of his mouth. From that standpoint, most of what you perceive is spot-on. I cannot call him a Christian but he is indeed a disciplined stoic… albeit with a yearning for something more — something that Christianity might have been able to satisfy had he lived. That “Jove himself” could command him and he would not comply indeed tells the reader that he is not a man who takes the old gods seriously. Jupiter and Vulcan et al. are indispensible cultural references of the time but little more. That leaves this man on his own in terms of what he does and does not believe. He is no scholar, so he will not have studied stoicism in any meaningful way. His stoic nature will be what he has picked up in his military service. But men and women have a great ability to imagine more than what they learn and pick up. I believe this man, whose default is stoicism, nonetheless conceives that there is more.

      This man believes that there are abstract qualities of character that are more important than life — honor, loyalty, rectitude. In explaining this, he clearly does NOT have a normal Roman soldier’s view of courage. He acknowledges being afraid but he also states that it won’t let this fear rule him. He has the nature and ability to transcend his presumably brutal background and circumstances.

      I mentioned to Josh that if I had a backstory for this faithful soldier, (I chose the word “faithful” very deliberately, not because of the painting, but because of its useful double-meaning) it would be that he might well have encountered Christians. Perhaps he even witnessed the actual torments inflicted by Nero. Perhaps he heard of such accounts around the campfire and was moved by the idea that there is something important which survives death. Roman paganism was fairly bankrupt by this time and ripe for the influence of Christian ideas. Although I did not write an ekphrastic poem, it is hard for me to unsee the fact that the soldier’s eyes in the painting are directed heavenward in a pose strikingly similar to those of many depictions of saints. Miles Fideles is no saint. But I do not think Poynter’s selection of pose was random.

      But, in the end, we cannot call him a Christian or even a proto-Christian. This conversation is almost more about seeing how my speaker fits into the zeitgeist of late First Century Rome. Yes, there is Christian influence. But, for him, only obliquely. Oblique influence is not conversion. he knows nothing meaningful about Christianity or its source other than the Christians have something new and deeper that affords a kind of immortality. Sadly, my soldier will never get conceptually past Elysium. It is fascinating to consider, however, how such a character as this might develop if he were to live past the disaster. The “zeitgeist” I mentioned above coupled with his unusually insightful and heroic character might well have drawn him to Christianity.

      Thank you again for your insights, Margaret, and for letting me discuss my conception of a character for whom I have great admiration.

      Reply
  10. C.B. Anderson

    What can I say, Brian? Your historical vignettes are always — how to say it — poignant and cinematic When I was a kid living near Philadelphia, on one New York station that came in somewhat fuzzy, there was an afternoon show called Million Dollar Movie. Every afternoon for an entire week they would show the same movie, and I can remember weeks when every day they featured The Last Days of Pompeii. Much like your first poem, it was riveting stuff.

    Your second poem might have been written by Robert Browning.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you, C.B.! That means a lot to me. And to be mentioned in the same sentence as Browning is extremely meaningful to me — he happens to be my favorite poet.

      I’ve seen The Last Days of Pompeii more than once and have always found it exciting. I did not like the 2014 movie Pompeii very much — the production values were good but the screenplay was weak — but I very much enjoyed the Robert Harris novel of the same name.

      Reply
  11. Gregory Ross

    “Miles Fidelis” captures perfectly the honor and courage doing ones duty, even a simple duty. Well done on the poem, I loved it!

    Reply
  12. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    Brian, I fear arriving late to the comment section of these two poetic gems has left little for me to say without repeating observations in the perspicacious comments above, so I’ll just speak from the heart and give you my initial reaction.

    ‘Miles Fidelis (The Faithful Soldier)’ is striking in its attention to the craft… the adept employment of assonance and internal rhyme throughout: “smoky air is choked”, “heaves with massive waves” is admirable – I am particularly blown away by, “sulfur-crusted rubble rife with death” – masterly! I had never considered crimson as a verb… I love “crimsoned”. I could go on, but I’ll move on to what the poem means to me. To me, it’s a poem that captures all those shining traits that are dying out with ever-increasing speed… traits I have been lucky enough to witness in many wonderful people I have had the privilege of knowing. A steely sense of loyalty and duty burns (no pun intended) throughout this poem. The words that holler out to me are, “My conscience is my duty.” Yes, the conscience… that unspoken human asset that seems to have taken a long vacation of late. To me, this poem speaks of the very fiber of our being… that sense of right and wrong endowed to us by our Creator… a power beyond our earthly confines… a power that would wipe out all evil if only…

    ‘In the Atrium’ complements your first poem beautifully in its recognition of the faithful duty of a wife to a drunken oaf of a husband wholly underserving of such wifely lenience… BUT, is the wife wholly faithful? Surely bleating to Sylvia of her husband’s beastliness is an infidelity in itself… although, I can fully appreciate having to turn to a confidante in such awful circumstances. Freud may say that she has an eye for Sylvia and is pushing the “my spouse doesn’t understand me” line in the hope of some sweet attention elsewhere. In the vein of Shakespeare’s plays, your poems are always multi-layered and they always give me food for thought. Brian – thank you!

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you very much indeed, Susan, for this appreciative reading. The lines you zeroed in on in Miles Fidelis are among my favorite and I am pleased that you noticed the assonance of “sulfur-crusted rubble” etc. and some of the other devices in there. In particular, I wanted a cacophonous effect which yet had some structure to it. The overall scene is very chaotic but a close-up of Miles should show that he has a very well-ordered mind. I was proud of that “crimsoned” too! Why not coin the word? We say “reddened” all the time. Same meaning, same meter. But it would have been rather dull and obvious in this context.

      But I’m most pleased that you have interpreted this poem as being about values. A “steely sense of loyalty and duty…” as you put it. These are qualities that are in short supply these days and it bears some pondering on why and where the truly dutiful have gone. They still exist, but they are harder to find in a society that often does not give them proper respect. I had not thought about something until your comment, but I am now reminded of those police officers who showed up and did their duty during the bleakest days after George Floyd and “defund the police” — where brazen, classless leftists would spit on them and call them heinous names for doing one of the most important and thankless jobs in all of society. What has it come to when we value some criminal scumbag over those who risk their lives daily to protect us and serve us? When I see a first responder, a cop, a firefighter or someone serving in the military I go out of my way to greet them and thank them for their service. And dammit, I mean it.

      As for “In the Atrium”, your very perceptive eye has caught a whiff of the ugliness of the speaker. Yes, she is unfortunate in love but she is a materialist for whom nothing really matters except the gratification of her ego. Shall we have peacock for dinner, or black tailed crow? A silly, spoiled question. The slaves, the aristocratic family name… This is a woman with first-world problems (leaves in the swimming pool) who doesn’t understand why Lucius isn’t into her, let alone consider the possibility that she drove him away in the first place. The best thing she can say of her commiserating friend is that she is a “jewel.” I lived in Los Angeles for 40 years and encountered many such well-off women — often entertainment industry adjacent — who, despite the martinis, the expensive cars, the designer clothes, the expensive jewelry and the plastic surgery — never understood why they had such unhappy marriages. And their pain was real. I just moved the calendar back a few years to produce this speaker. Thank you, Susan, for picking up on the subtext!

      Reply
  13. Daniel Kemper

    Having been one under arms, I can assure one of the commenters that people like this are indeed still made and I have had the privilege of knowing them. One such galoot, a chosen brother got back not long ago from Poland where his CA national guard unit was sent in response to the Ukraine mess. (He’s over fifty.) Certainly, he has his opinions, but not as a soldier. There are others I can list, but my point is that by praising this soldier, you praise all faithful soldiers. Thank you for this poem.

    PS – Historical vignettes are certainly your jam — I wonder if you could string enough together — not needing to be a perfectly continuous flow – to narrate a larger story. Perhaps you already have and I just need to be pointed in the right direction…

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Daniel, first and foremost, thank you for your service!

      Thank you also for your appreciative comment regarding Miles Fidelis. As I think you read loud and clear, I have nothing but deep and sincere admiration for the soldier who is the subject of this poem. I know that such men and women exist in the present and, in an era when the countless sacrifices of our military (along with that of first responders) are taken for granted (or worse) it is my earnest hope that they receive the full respect that they have earned. I am pleased to offer up this poem to them in that spirit as well as to the many who have stood up for what is right — for whom “their conscience is their duty” — despite overwhelming odds. There is much courage to acknowledge here for actions as well as words. This poem is officially dedicated to a poet and essayist who has emboldened me to take more than one difficult moral stand; and it is dedicated implicitly to other poets who also demonstrate great courage despite facing opprobrium for speaking their minds.

      Lastly, Daniel, I appreciate your mention of my interest in historical vignettes. I don’t have a continuous narrative of created works… yet. But maybe this is a good place to announce that I am presently working on such a set of works covering the life of St. Augustine of Hippo.

      Reply
  14. Adam Sedia

    Both poems transport me to another time, both in their subject matter and their style. I mean that second part as a compliment; you do a good job of reviving the elevated tone and dramatic description of Victorian verse (appropriately, considering the theme of duty). I especially liked “In the Atrium” for its Browning-esque psychological depth.

    As a personal note, the Sedia family originates not far from Pompeii, and I like to imagine some among my ancestors lived and died in that city, so I always enjoy a work that brings that time and place to life.

    Reply
    • Brian A. Yapko

      Thank you so much, Adam! History is one of my favorite subjects, so it is a pleasure for me to imagine life in other centuries — plus I believe that history has much to teach us about our own troubled times. I’m especially grateful to you for invoking Victorian poetry — especially, Browning, who happens to be my favorite poet. I’ve always loved the complex characters who inhabit his dramatic monologues — especially the ones who cannot recognize that they are less than admirable.

      It would really be something if you could actually trace your ancestry back to Pompeii! It could well be…

      Reply

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