Counting the Stars

by Helen Dunmore

  This little room is like a boat. He would like to stay here, drawn up high on the sands in a secret cave –

  But of course he can’t. He likes Cynthia, but he doesn’t love her. He can’t love anyone. Nothing can touch him now, except Clodia. She is his food and without her he will starve. Even if it poisons him, he’s got to have her.

  He’ll leave in a moment. He isn’t meant to have a refuge. He’s got to go wherever Clodia’s path will take them. First to see that poisoner, Gorgo, and then to the house on the Palatine. How surprised that green boy from Verona would be, if he could walk into this room now and see where poetry has led him.

  ‘Cynthia,’ he says, ‘I’d like to give you some money.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that, it’s just the usual arrangement.’

  ‘No, I mean I’d like you to be able to get your flat back.’

  ‘Well!’ She sits back on her heels and stares at him. ‘But what’s the point of that, when I’d only have to let it go again?’

  ‘I mean real money, Cynthia.’

  ‘I never know, with cl – I mean I never know with anyone, what they mean by money. Whether you’re really rich, for example. All those poems you write about your purse having cobwebs in it and not being able to put a dinner on the table… Don’t get me wrong, I know you always pay what’s due.’

  ‘We’ve got what they call “extensive property and business interests at home and abroad”. We’ve been in Verona for generations, and then there’s the estate at Sirmio. My brother manages the Bithynia property – you know he’s living out there at the moment. What I’m saying is that I could give you enough to buy the lease outright.’

  ‘But why would you do that?’

  ‘Why? I don’t know why, Cynthia! I’m only saying that I’ll do it.’

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘You don’t need to. Think of it like this: your flat – I feel as if I know it, you’ve talked about it so much. I’d like to think of you being there again, with your flowers.’

  ‘But listen, you have to understand, I’ve never had gentlemen to the flat.’

  ‘I’m not asking for that. It won’t be my place, it will be yours. I shall never go there, I promise you. The lease will be in your name.’

  She is silent for a long time, then she says, ‘Are you doing this because you’re going to stop coming to see me? Because you feel sorry for me?’

  ‘No! I swear to you, Cynthia, this isn’t a Trojan horse. I don’t want anything out of you. It’s just a lease. And besides, no one who knew you could ever feel sorry for you. They could only feel envious of you.’

  ‘Envious! You know what my life is like.’

  (Or perhaps you don’t. You think you do, because you’re free to come and go, paying your way so carelessly, making me laugh. You can do what you want. What does that feel like? One day, will you say to your son: ‘Go to old Cynthia, she’s getting on but she’s a decent sort, you’ll be safe with her’?)

  Cynthia drops her eyes. He is a good client. A friend, almost. ‘Envious,’ she repeats, with a touch of irony.

  ‘Yes, but inside, in your mind, you’re at peace. You’ve done everything right.’

  She gets up and starts to tidy the cups and straighten the bedcovers. ‘Just lift up a minute – there. That’s better.’ She bends down quickly to pick up her slippers, but not before he’s seen that she’s actually crying now, without sound.

  ‘Cynthia, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘It wasn’t you. It’s the worry with Titus. It gets to me sometimes. I know he’s in good hands, but I just want to see him –’ Her shoulders heave. Her face is suddenly blotched and swollen with tears. ‘See him walking – like he used to – all straight – and running. He used to run so fast it put my heart in my mouth.’

  He says nothing. Her grief is beyond him. For the second time in the past month, he’s glad that he has no children. The first was when he saw Metellus Celer’s nurse in the house on the Palatine.

  That green boy from Verona wanted to know everything, feel everything. As if he had any choice, poor fool.

  Fourteen

  Lucius and Catullus are in the study, poring over papyrus. Lucius has found a new copyist, a real craftsman, and has brought back samples of his work.

  ‘Remind me, Lucius, why are we leaving old Balbus’ workshop?’

  ‘His eyes are not what they were. There’s a film growing over the right eye, and the left will follow.’

  ‘But he’s got a team of copyists, surely; he hasn’t done the work himself for years.’

  ‘He watched over it like a hawk. He wouldn’t let anything less than perfect go out of the workshop. The training he gave was the best in the city. But then, these past few months, everything’s gone downhill. Two of his best copyists have been bought. The gods alone know why he allowed it, but I suppose the bid was so high he couldn’t refuse. And now he’s cut his own throat. Look at the fourth verse of the epithalamium: here.’

  ‘I agree, it’s still not good.’

  ‘It’s not fit to be circulated. Balbus’ prices are the highest in the city, and he used to be justified in charging them, but not now. I returned the first copies to Balbus, if you remember, with your authority. And now this is what they’ve sent us. In my opinion it’s not worth the waste of papyrus, to be copying and re-copying and getting results like this. You may want to give Balbus another chance.’

  ‘No, of course not, Lucius. You’re dealing with it. You know what I want better than I do myself.’

  Lucius bows his head, closing his eyes for a moment as he receives his due. ‘I’ve been making inquiries and visiting workshops. This one, I think, is the pick of the bunch.’ He takes up a roll of papyrus, inscribed with sample text, and shows it to Catullus. ‘His name is Alexandros – a Greek – and he has three slaves working under him, all personally trained. I spoke to each of them and questioned them carefully. They’re well-educated, highly skilled men. I spent two or three hours there, watching work in progress. The consistency is first-rate, and they have an excellent client portfolio. Alexandros assured me that he would take charge of all your copying in person.’

  Catullus studies the papyrus. Beneath the sample text there are four verses from the epithalamium he wrote for Manlius’ wedding. How long ago that seems now. A day of unreturning innocence. He can almost hear the shrilling of the flutes, and see the flare of the torches. A happy marriage. But Lucius is talking.

  ‘This is the house style, but if you’re not happy with it, they will copy any style you select. In that case we can visit the workshop together and discuss your preferences.’

  ‘It’s very fine. Shall we pay him what we paid Balbus?’

  ‘Why not, if he can produce a result like this. I gave the same verses to each workshop I visited, to make it a fair trial. And there you are: each stroke as clear-cut as a diamond, yet the words flow like water.’

  ‘I think you’re the poet here, Lucius.’

  ‘Consider the width of these downstrokes – here – and then the upstroke. We haven’t seen work like this from Balbus for a year or more.’

  ‘No, you’re right. It’s true. Go ahead, let’s give this Alexandros a commission and see how it goes.’

  Lucius nods, satisfied. These are his happiest hours, in the study, intent on details which would mean nothing to an outsider. The brazier is burning apple wood today, and the lamps are lit although it is only late afternoon. But the day has been grey and cold, with a wind from the north. He would like to prolong the moment, but his sense of duty is too precise. The discussion is over. Lucius rolls up the papyrus samples and puts them away carefully, except for the one that his master is still studying.

  ‘I’ll have to become more productive,’ says Catullus, ‘if I’m to do justice to the art of this Alexandros you’ve found.’

  Lucius smiles. ‘The Muses do not permit anyone to take them for granted,’ he says. ‘We must be happy
that they choose to visit our house as often as they do.’

  A bizarre, almost comical picture forms in Catullus’ mind. The Muses in all their grave glory knocking at his door, and Lucius ushering them in, taking off their sandals himself and ordering a slave to bring warm water scented with orris-root for foot washing, and a golden tray with goblets of grape juice mixed with crushed ice. Lucius would bring out all the household’s jewels and plunder the ice-house for the Muses, but he would expect them to sit with decorum, and leave after the proper interval.

  It’s good to see Lucius looking more relaxed. Catullus’ illness affected Lucius badly, and then there was the death of Metellus Celer. For years, Lucius was the man and Catullus the boy who looked up to strong arms, a broad, deep chest and pillar-like legs. But suddenly, when you are not paying attention, things change. At first you almost believe that they can change themselves back if they want. That grey hair, those thin old-man flanks can’t be permanent: they’re part of an elaborate pretence. Soon Lucius will clap his hands for the game to end, whip off the disguise and laugh the booming laugh that used to go through you like the rumbling of Jupiter when you were curled against his chest.

  ‘You should be wearing a warmer tunic in this weather,’ says Catullus abruptly.

  ‘Me? You know I never feel the cold.’

  I know that you never did, thinks Catullus, but you’re thinner now and you don’t move so fast. ‘Stay a while, Lucius. Let’s have more wood on the brazier, and we’ll get them to bring us a jug of spiced wine. I like the smell of this apple wood; it reminds me of Sirmio. Do you remember when we cut down the old orchard there, and all the peasants brought offerings to appease the dryads?’

  ‘It was time to cut down those trees. They had almost stopped bearing.’

  ‘And we burned the wood all winter. Whenever I smell apple wood I am back in that winter. Mother was still alive, do you remember?’

  ‘Of course.’ Lucius rises. ‘The day the orchard was cut down was the day after the doctor came from Rome to see her. You remember, your father wasn’t satisfied with any of the Verona doctors.’

  But Catullus doesn’t remember. He can’t quite see his mother’s face. The apple trees are so clear, and the fires, and Lucius throwing on another log so that red sparks shoot up. His mother is there somewhere, off to one side and shadowy. Perhaps she was in her room.

  Such a beautiful orchard, on the slopes that run down to Lake Garda. Some of the trees had their feet almost in the water. The tree trunks were knotted and grey and he used to play hide and seek there with his brother. After the trees were cleared, a little vineyard was planted. Beautiful, beautiful Sirmio, loveliest of all islands and near-islands, standing out into the lake and catching every summer breeze and every winter storm. How he had loved it as a child. He had stood on the terraces of the villa so many times, wrapped in a frieze cloak when the storms came, feeling that he was on the prow of a ship, voyaging, voyaging.

  He could compose on it. It could happen now, here. The water parts, the outline of the poem shows for a moment, immense and slippery, and then it dives. He knows where it is. It will come again, he knows it will come again. His mind stretches, reaching for what it has failed to grasp. Lucius is at the door, talking to a slave. Catullus goes over to the brazier and warms his hands. Lucius comes back across the room, his face warm and pleased, ready for talk.

  ‘The wine will be here in a minute.’

  ‘Good. It’s just the thing on a cold day.’

  ‘And she’s bringing some of those sweet almond biscuits you like. They were baked this morning.’

  Yes, Lucius, you will have given orders. Sweet almond biscuits, a new copyist, and apple wood in the brazier. All the true, familiar notes of home must be struck, to keep away danger. There are rumours that the Metelli have vowed revenge against ‘those responsible for our sorrow’. In public they say nothing. Everybody sticks to the story of sudden, tragic, unavoidable death, a great man cut down in his prime, an irreparable loss to our city, and so on and so forth. So many words that they seemed to bury the man for a second time.

  ‘Ah, here she is!’

  Virgilia carries the tray with its two steaming cups. Sure enough, there’s a plate with a pile of almond biscuits, pale fawn and then golden brown at their crisp edges. A smell of honey and spices mingles with the apple-wood smoke.

  They lift their cups and toast each other.

  ‘Health and happiness!’

  ‘Health and happiness! And to my dear friend, the most indefatigable of copyist-discoverers!’

  They drink. Lucius sips; he has always been abstemious. A faint flush rises in his cheeks. ‘We must think of ordering more household wine down from Sirmio,’ he observes.

  ‘Perhaps we’ll go there ourselves. Would you like to see the old place again, Lucius? Are you growing tired of Rome?’

  ‘Rome is demanding. I’m not convinced that it’s the best place for your health. The air at Sirmio has always suited you. You put on weight there, and you’ve a better colour.’

  ‘Poets have to live where there are people who want to hear poetry.’

  ‘That may be, but to write poems at all, poets first have to live,’ says Lucius. ‘You don’t know how ill you were. More than halfway to the dark kingdom, even Dr Philoctetes knew he had a fight on his hands. You won’t escape so easily next time.’

  He knows what Lucius is hoping: that the scandal of Metellus Celer’s death will bring an end to his relationship with Clodia. Catullus will come to his senses. There are enough beautiful young women in Rome who would jump at a young man of wealth and good family. And only two brothers to divide the property – what could be a more suitable match? And he’s not bad-looking. This is the most Lucius has ever been willing to allow to either of the brothers. They were not bad-looking, he’d say, they looked as they ought and they were not a disgrace to the family’s name. They even wore their togas acceptably, now that they had at long last learned that it wasn’t in the least fashionable to drape them like tablecloths.

  When Catullus looks back, it is Lucius who figures in all the important memories, not his father. The day he put on his man’s toga, it was Lucius who adjusted the folds. Where was his father? Surely he must have been there, but Catullus can’t remember him.

  The brazier gives out its sweet smoke. Yes, Lucius is happier now than he has been for months. There have been no messages from the house on the Palatine. No Aemilia wrapped in her cloak, ineptly conspiratorial, ill at ease with Lucius and trying to talk as if the two of them were on equal terms. He’d snubbed her, but she didn’t even notice. What can you expect from a woman like that, no matter how far she’s wormed herself into her mistress’s confidence?

  Lucius has almost persuaded himself that Catullus’ passion has burned itself out, as all fires must which are too fierce to give long-lasting warmth. Now, the life of the house can proceed. The brazier burns steadily, predictably. Lucius is no prude. He has been young, although in his youth he was still a slave, and that changes everything. But the same blood burns. All young men drink too much and want to get under the tunic of every half-good-looking girl they see – and won’t say no to lifting the tunic of a pretty boy or two, either. Let them go to brothels in the afternoon, and then drink and feast all night in decent company, where they belong.

  Lucius has always prided himself on the welcome Catullus’ friends receive in the house, and on his own skill in ordering feasts for them in the style that he learned long ago, when Catullus’ father was young.

  ‘Shall I order another cup for you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Lucius rings for Virgilia and orders more wine to be brought. All the girls are well trained; no household in Rome runs more smoothly, although ostentation has never been their style. Theirs is old money, which doesn’t need to shout to draw attention to itself.

  He’d been a little hurt by that poem about Catullus having a purse full of cobwebs, and nothing to put on the table. And to cap i
t all, the poem was addressed to Fabullus, who’s had more hot dinners in this house than Lucius can count.

  You’ll dine well at my place, my Fabullus,

  and soon too, the gods willing

  – but only if you bring

  the dinner with you, fine and plentiful;

  and why not bring a pretty girl as well

  plus wine and salt and all the jokes –

  yes, my old mate, you bring the whole bang-shoot

  and you’ll dine well; for your Catullus

  has nothing left but a fat purse of cobwebs…

  As if it were possible for such a thing to happen! The poem seemed to throw a cloud on Lucius’ own management of the household, and over the fine evenings, mellow with the best Falernian, which the poem’s readers had so often enjoyed. Maybe they’d forgotten, as they laughed, how smoothly the wafer-thin slices of cured, spiced beef had slipped down throats already coated with oyster sauce.

  But the poem wasn’t meant to be taken seriously. A rich man might make himself out to be a poor one. A poetic device, that was the name for it, and as such not to be wondered at, or injured by.

  All Catullus’ friends know Lucius and greet him with respect. He doesn’t care what goes on, as long as there’s an end to skulking about in dingy love nests with a married woman who’s not only ten years older than his master but also possesses the worst of reputations in a city where there’s stiff competition for that honour.

  Love! Lucius glances sideways at Catullus. The boy thinks that he knows everything about love. But he and Lucius have a different idea of it. The love where you ‘burn with uncontrollable fire’ and forget the rest of the world, and don’t eat or sleep or work – that’s just one type. You can love and work as well. You can fulfil your duties, and behave like a man, not a child. Why, if Lucius had let himself go – if he’d shown a thousandth part of what he felt – he’d have lost his life, his work, the children, his home. You have to guard yourself. Guard your eyes and your tongue, watch where you walk. And feel it all the while, like the fire that they say burns deep in the earth. He never even let himself say her name aloud in the safety of his mind. She was always ‘the mistress’.