by AM Kirkby
***
The rain kept on for days. Every so often a break in the clouds would let the sun through, but fresh clouds came to close it, and the rain never stopped; it was impossible to believe there could be so much water in the world. The streets were clogged with mud, or ran with water that tore away the soil and exposed the bare rock underneath, slippery and sharp. Gaius was miserable; the building workers were miserable; the farmers sheltered in their houses, sharing the space with their livestock, and Karite's and Kallirhoe's students took refuge in the stoa, since it was the only place big enough to shelter the whole group together.
Only Melkart's group were happy. They sat out in the rain, soaked, their clothes clinging to them; when they danced, the sleeves flapped like bats' leathery wings. They let their hair become rat tails, and churned the mud with their feet. One of them had found the building tools abandoned by the workers on the stoa, and brought the dump hammers and a few chisels and saws, which they clashed together in time to the dance. Other impromptu instruments joined the ensemble; knives, ladles, cauldrons turned upside down. One stoner banged two clay amphorae together; he was surprised when his instrument shattered, and started to cry inconsolably, till Melkart handed him a couple of bits of wood to bash against each other. Gaius came down to try to collect the tools; the saws would be ruined, their teeth bent, though the chisels would only need resharpening. But though Melkart was willing, or at least said he was willing, to hand the tools over, one of the stoners picked up a pair of dump hammers and started swinging them at Gaius; and Gaius left, drenched and empty-handed.
Whenever the rain slackened, the noise of the stoners drumming and clashing tools could be heard all over the city; it was insidious, so that even when it couldn't be heard over the noise of the storm, it seemed to be there in the background. They never seemed to sleep; just as they never, even Melkart, seemed to be fully conscious.
They were drumming when Egerius arrived; some sitting and thumping on upturned buckets or urns, some jumping and twisting and clashing their improvised instruments. There seemed to be some sort of underlying rhythm, but as soon as Egerius tried to track it, he was distracted by the diverse rhythms of different players – slow or fast, simple or complex – and some, indeed, seemed to have no rhythm at all, as if their minds had drifted off and it was only on hearing the sound of someone else's drumming that they remembered they should be taking part. One boy, his eyes vacant, came maniacally to life at one point and started bashing the wooden box in front of him, then gradually lost interest in it and slumped, his head falling to one side, his mouth slightly open.
One dancer had fallen and was writhing in the mud, still in time to the beat, as if he hadn't noticed that he'd fallen; no, it was two people, not one, their clothes, their skins brown with dirty slime, mud oozing around them as their bodies convulsed. Egerius couldn't make out whether they were fucking or fighting, or just dancing, and watched fascinated till he felt Melkart's eyes on him, and turned his face away, embarrassed.
"We all came out of the mud, and we all return to it."
"That's your philosophy?"
"And in between … we make what we can of life."
"Wriggling in the mud?"
"I told them, give yourselves up to the rain, experience it. Let its power flow through you."
Egerius shivered. Things were falling apart; Collatia was falling apart, undermined by the soft earth crumbling at its foundations. To mud they would return... he couldn't keep thinking like that; needed to make a stand. But what could he say to Melkart that would have any effect? Perhaps when the rain stopped... and that would be when he needed people to clean up, and help on the works that remained, that had to be done before winter. He couldn't deal with them now.