One Small Step

Arma Fortius had been climbing from the base camp up the ragged slopes of Mons Albus, the great white mountain, for three days. The climb took him from the meadows of southern Gaul up the rocky ridges, past the Mare Glacies and into the deep snowfields that covered the higher slopes even this late in the summer season. And still Apollo’s Tower, the majestic pyramid that was the culmination of Trajan’s promise of reaching the heavens, loomed in front of him.

The Aegyptios had demonstrated long ago that a pyramid was the only feasible way to reach the heavens. Of course, the Romans had improved on their design: why use a square base and four sides when three would do just as well, with far less volume and cost? The tower before Arma now reached far beyond the summit of Mons Albus, high into the heavens. Its square blocks had been hewn from the sides of the mountain itself, leaving deep scars in the peak. Each block was solid granite, chiseled and shaped by the army of Nubians that the Emperor Trajan had assigned to the project. They had labored for eleven years, working with the finest cast iron tools, to finally complete the Apollo project. 

Was it high enough? Arma wondered. Even some of the nation’s best philosophers had their doubts, but the Emperor had sneered at their prattling. Rome was at its height; what better way for the Romans to demonstrate their superiority over that evil empire of the east, the Parthians, than by putting a man on Luna itself. 

There was an encampment at the base, a veritable city. A large tent stood in the middle, surrounded by hundreds of smaller tents and open-air bivouacs. Hadrian emerged from the large tent that stood in the middle of the encampment, a young general but already trusted to fulfill the emperor’s promise of putting a Roman on the moon. He approached Arma and they clasped arms and kissed each other on the cheek.

 “I see the training goes well,” Hadrian said appreciatively, his fingers lingering on the muscles of Arma’s bicep.

“My arm?” Arma laughed. “You should feel my thighs. Or perhaps you shouldn’t,” he said with a smile and a sly look over his friend’s shoulder towards the workers who were now all watching the new arrival.

“You must rest,” said Hadrian. “The air is thin here and much thinner still at the top of the tower.”

“I have made arrangements to conserve my strength,” Arma said, and gestured to the line of slaves that had followed him and were now putting their large parcels onto the snowy ground.

“Your slaves handle their loads with apparent ease,” said Hadrian. “Perhaps we should let one of them make the attempt.”

“Very funny,” said Arma. “But we all know that only a son of Rome could have the necessary strength for such an effort. No, they are not supermen. It is merely that the loads they carry are nothing more than bladders of warm sea air, harvested only days ago from the coast at Massalia.”

“A wise precaution,” said his friend.

“And everything is in readiness?” asked Arma.

“Yes. The planners have determined that the moon is within reach of the structure’s peak. The rest is up to you. Apollo will soon meet Selene.”

“Then I swear by Apollo himself, I will not disappoint you.”

Two nights later, at the very moment of midnight, Arma and Hadrian stood on the small platform at the pinnacle of the pyramid. They had climbed the whole of the previous day and set up a camp on the level immediately below the summit. Arma inhaled deeply from one of few remaining bladders of sea air. Hadrian stood panting beside him, holding aloft a small torch whose fire spluttered in the thin air. Both men were dressed in coats of sewn wolf hides to guard against the winds that blew the very words from their mouths. 

Above them, the full moon loomed large as it sailed serenely towards them. The summit of Mons Albus was visible many miles below, its snow-covered peak glistening in the starlight. 

“The moment arrives,” said Hadrian.

“As we hoped it one day would,” said Arma. “You have built well, my friend. If this massive pyramid does not allow us to fulfill Trajan’s pledge, perhaps the gods truly are against us.”

“No, Arma. Do not even contemplate failure. All of Rome is with you.” 

They clasped hands once more, hands to forearms in a double embrace. Then Arma removed his wolf-skin mantle, revealing his sculpted naked form. His thighs bulged like massive oaks, his calves flexed like supple willows. Hadrian took the coat and walked down the small ramp, leaving Arma alone on the summit. Hadrian raised his arm in a salute and through the roaring of the wind, Arma could hear his friend’s shouted farewell: “For Rome!”

“For Rome,” Arma responded before lifting his gaze skyward. The moon was almost overhead. He took a last long breath of moist sea air from the bladder. He looked down at the small hourglass affixed to his wrist and imagined he could see the grains falling one by one, counting down to the moment. He crouched lower, his body coiled. The last grain of sand fell. Arma jumped!

He felt himself escaping the earth, lifted into the heavens. He closed his eyes with the strain of the effort. The entire foolhardy plan seemed to play itself out in his mind as his body floated upwards. Was any man, even a Roman, capable of such a venture?

Then Arma opened his eyes. Below him the pyramid, the mountain, the very Earth itself were fading into darkness. Above him, the moon loomed ever larger. Just in time, he remembered the most important maneuver of the entire trip— the entry. He reached for his legs, pulling himself into a ball, and twisted. Now his feet were pointing down towards the approaching Moon, and the dark Earth was drifting away above him.

It was over in just a few minutes. He saw the full Moon approaching rapidly, its brightness almost blinding him as he approached. But no heat, he was thankful to discover. The philosophers had been correct about that: he would not suffer the fate of Icarus. He stretched himself out to his full length, both arms above his head. Like a gymnast at the Games, he would come down from a great height, his mighty thighs absorbing the impact.

He touched down. His legs buckled and his body rolled once. And then he was standing on the Moon! He breathed in the cool air and laughed. He looked up at the Earth and could see Hadrian in the glow of the sputtering torch, looking up at him.

Hadrian cupped his hands and yelled, “How was it?”

Arma looked at the Moon and realized the enormity of what he had accomplished. No, what the Apollo team had accomplished. Hadrian and his slaves, the engineers that had designed the pyramid and, more importantly, the philosophers who had said that it was possible for man to reach for the heavens. He lifted his head towards his friend. 

“That’s one giant leap for a man,” he yelled.

He looked back at the entirety of the Earth above him: the Roman Empire, the Parthians, even the distant Han in the Orient. With a single gaze he encompassed crops and roads and cities, the whole of the works of man. 

Then he looked at the countless stars that hung above him, surrounding the moon and the earth and even the sun, and he saw man’s works for what they were: puny and insignificant compared to the majesty of the heavens. The stars were innumerable, sublime, and distant beyond all imagining. In that instant he realized how little they had actually accomplished, and how much remained to be done.

 “One very small step for mankind,” he whispered, and knew it to be true.