Counting the Stars

by Helen Dunmore

  Hatred and love all tangled together, like Clodia’s hair tangling across his mouth as she straddles him and leans forward with open lips.

  There is something in Clodia that he has never found in any other woman, no matter how lovable or fuckable. Clodia is not as lovable as Cynthia. She’s not as fuckable, strictly speaking, as Ipsitilla. She’s like a taste that’s never been known in the world before. It shocks your mouth and turns it into the blind mouth of a baby, rooting for the nipple that it’s got to have no matter what, because the nipple is life.

  He’s tasted her and he can never give her up. It was folly to come here. He isn’t looking for the truth about Clodia, because he doesn’t want it. If she’s done wrong, let her hide it. It’s Clodia herself he wants: only her.

  Her husband is dead, and the dead don’t come back. Why torture himself over how Metellus Celer died, when all that’s left of the man is a mask which hangs alongside the masks of his ancestors? His sufferings are over. No one can help him or hurt him. He’ll never taste a fresh spring morning on the Palatine Hill again, or see that sharp blue edge of the distant hills. He walked about in solid splendour all his life, but death broke that like eggshell.

  Catullus won’t ever know if poison killed Clodia’s husband. Gorgo might give him an answer if he asked her, but he won’t ask.

  No, Clodia, he thinks, no more pretending. I’m speaking to you now. Let’s not hide from each other, playing at grief and conscience. Our time is short enough. Let’s seize the golden ball that fate has thrown towards us, before it rolls away for ever.

  He is free, and Clodia is free.

  Funny to think he used to be in the habit of thinking himself sensitive. He would walk over corpses to get to Clodia.

  But he doesn’t need to, because Clodia is a widow now. It’s all over, that part of the play where Clodia was a wife, Catullus her secret, desperate lover, and Metellus Celer either knew or didn’t suspect, either cared or was indifferent. They’ll never know now if he’d intended to put an end to the affair, punish Clodia, and make Catullus pay.

  Those early meetings in Manlius’ little villa look as innocent as the games of children when he stares back at them down the narrow passage of time. But they were never innocent. They carried seeds of knowledge and destruction in them from the first moment. He always wanted her husband out of the way.

  Yes. Everything was leading to this moment. He can have what he wants. After a year of mourning, she’ll be free to marry again. People are calling her a murderer as it is. Marriage may even protect her. At the very least it’ll be something new to talk about.

  – Have you heard? Our Lesbia’s actually marrying her devoted poet.

  – Let’s hope he’s got a strong stomach.

  Catullus winces. There are thoughts so raw he doesn’t want to touch on them. He’s lost the right to the kind of marriage where everyone rejoices and the oldest, corniest, crudest jokes in the world are nothing more than water thrown against the fire. What if they really could both go back, he and Clodia, and be their untouched selves and then meet each other for the very first time…

  It’s self-indulgent fantasy. They are used, both of them. That’s the whole point. That’s why he can never have enough of her. She seems to gather up his whole life in her hands and make it mean everything he’s ever longed for.

  She’s had men, and he’s had women – and men, too: Cynthia, Ipsitilla, Ameana, his honey-sweet Juventius, Rufa, a dozen and then a dozen more with whom he’s slept, teased, got drunk, gossiped and whiled away long stifling afternoons. All those afternoons seem to melt into one endless afternoon with the shutters keeping the sun at bay, a pitcher of wine, a plateful of cakes, the bed a mess of sweat-soaked linen. And a naked body sprawled beside him, or straddling him, as intent on its pleasure as he’s intent on his own.

  Clodia’s afternoons have been just the same. It would take an abacus to reckon up her lovers. That’s why he and she understand each other, because they’re equally compromised by all the promises they haven’t meant a word of. They’ve got so much in common. They share a stock of shifts and stratagems. They know about lies, their own and other people’s. They know about scenes and storms of tears. They’ve both sworn by love on the understanding that love is whatever anyone chooses to believe in at the time. What’s real is the hot body and the cold observing heart.

  But then he saw her, his bright-shining goddess, with her thighs still wet from another man’s semen.

  They’re both saturated with experience, like ground that can’t take one more drop of rain without flooding. He wants to go straight to Clodia and swear to her that he’s never for a second doubted her innocence. A rose grows in shit but it is still a rose. She’ll believe in his belief in her. They’ll create their own kind of innocence between them.

  Why’s he waiting?

  He’ll go to the Baths first, and steam the stink of Gorgo’s house out of his skin. A masseur will pummel his body until all his thoughts are driven out of his head. He’ll plunge into the cold pool and then start the cycle again and repeat it, hot, cold, hot, cold, until he’s so clean and empty that one of the slaves will have to wrap him up in his towel like a baby.

  It’s going to be a new life. There will have to be a decent interval, but Clodia’s a free woman. They’ll be happy.

  Gods! What if she says yes?

  He rises.

  ‘You must forgive me. I’ve stayed much longer than I intended.’

  But Gorgo puts out her hand, arresting him. ‘Wait. You wanted to know about poisons,’ she says.

  ‘I must go.’

  Her eyelids droop, almost covering her eyes. ‘Someone who poisons once will poison again,’ she says. ‘You told me you were a poet. Poets deserve protection. We don’t cut out the throats of nightingales.’

  ‘Even though their tongues make excellent pie.’

  ‘Poisoners don’t care if they repeat a line which has served them well.’

  He laughs. ‘That’s not my kind of poetry.’

  ‘Come with me. It will only take a few moments.’

  She stands, and he stands too. He still hasn’t made up his mind – he might leave at any moment. He tells himself it’s pure curiosity that makes him follow Gorgo.

  In the corridor outside, the Numidian is lounging against the wall. He smiles at Catullus, the kind of smile a man gives to a boy.

  ‘You want anything?’ he inquires of Gorgo.

  ‘We’re going to my workshop.’

  The Numidian raises his brows. ‘You want me to come?’

  ‘No. Those slaves downstairs – are they happy?’

  ‘They’re very happy.’

  ‘Eating and drinking?’

  ‘Eating and drinking now.’

  Her little pointed teeth show in a laugh, and he laughs, too, stretching his lips soundlessly, as he turns, and walks away. Gorgo lifts the latch on the door opposite.

  One wall is lined with wooden drawers which stretch from floor to ceiling. On the long table are a pair of scales, several pestle-and-mortars, a set of knives, a rack of golden spoons and another of silver spoons, all precisely ranged. There are stacked bowls, rows of glass jars and sealed pots, papyrus holders and wax tablets. A small, sleepy fire lollops in the hearth. Copper pans stand close to it, their bellies full of reflections.

  On the opposite wall, where there are no drawers, dried snakeskins hang from racks against the plaster. A python skin droops, so long that it has had to be doubled over on a padded hook. There are rows of teeth bored through and strung on gold wire.

  ‘Tiger’s teeth,’ says Gorgo.

  A high shelf holds jars of liquid, in which formless shapes float darkly. The room smells of resin, burning hair and incense.

  Gorgo pulls a handle, and one of the drawers glides open. It’s subdivided into dozens of compartments, each as wide as two thumbs. The compartments are protected with oiled papyrus. She lifts a corner of one, and he sees a pinch of fine, black, familiar seeds.


  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘poppy seeds.’

  He’s glad that the compartment should contain something so harmless.

  ‘Poppy seeds can do nothing alone,’ says Gorgo thoughtfully, stirring the seeds with her little finger. ‘They must be combined with other ingredients.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’ve spent my life here, and I see perhaps a little; not much. Do you recognize this?’

  She uncovers a larger compartment at the right side of the drawer, revealing sections of dried, withered root.

  ‘No.’

  ‘If it were whole you’d know it. Mandrake. Tear it from the ground and it screams like a man. Swallow it and you’ll be asleep and awake at the same moment, while your heart races and your mouth dries out until you can’t even croak for help. But mandrake can be too slow. We combine it with these dried mushrooms here: muscaria.’

  The drawer slides shut silently. She fingers another handle, hesitates and seems to change her mind. Suddenly she drops to her knees and pulls open the wide bottom drawer.

  ‘This is thorn-apple. Its advantage is that your victim will remember nothing, if he survives. Thorn-apple swallows the memory. Its drawback is that he may survive. Here’s hemlock. Everyone knows Socrates’ fate. Well, my countryman was lucky that he could speak calmly to his friends after taking hemlock. It’s rarely so gentle. You won’t break your bones in convulsions, but you’ll suffer. You may not be able to philosophize.

  ‘Now here’s the autumn crocus. See how well it dries, the flower as well as the corm. Look at the perfection of the stamens. Colchis is so much more beautiful than hemlock, but not as kind. Your mouth knows as soon as it’s swallowed the crocus. It burns and freezes. That’s the beginning. You’ll choke for breath, you’ll shit out your own guts in blood. You’ll die within six hours.

  ‘Come closer, you can’t see from over there. Now the yew. When you see a flushed face and a pupil so huge that the iris vanishes, that’s yew. You can’t breathe deeply, you can only pant like a woman who’s desperate to give birth.

  ‘And here’s white hellebore. She works even faster than the crocus. Your heart gives way and your lungs fill with water.

  ‘Mushrooms you know. But there are a hundred varieties and a thousand thousand combinations. With mushrooms, you can play on the body like a master musician sweeping the strings of his lyre.’

  ‘But the results are not quite so beautiful,’ he says, forcing the words past a tongue which feels thick in his mouth, as if one of her poisons is already working in him. His heart beats in slow, heavy strokes. Her words touch him where he doesn’t want to be touched.

  ‘Which would you choose?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Which poison would you choose? For yourself?’

  She frowns. Her fingers play with shavings of dried mushrooms as she ponders the question.

  ‘I would not choose poison, if I had to die,’ she says at last. ‘I would jump from a high place. I have even chosen the place.’

  ‘But suppose you had no choice?’

  ‘Then it would be hemlock,’ she says.

  ‘But would it touch you? You might be immune by now.’

  She laughs. Her quick fingers replace the cover over the mushrooms, without her needing to look. Her hands remind him of Dr Philoctetes’ hands.

  ‘The thing to remember with all poisons is that the results can be anything you want,’ she says. ‘If you have the skill.’

  ‘I’m not interested in poisoning anyone.’

  She straightens up slowly, surveys him. ‘You Romans,’ she says.

  ‘I’m from Verona.’

  She shrugs. ‘Rome, Verona. What I mean is that this city lives by benefitting from the crimes of others. But you Romans are careful. You are never quite party to them. You remain pure.’

  ‘I’m a poet, not a politician.’

  ‘And you have never benefitted from a crime. So there we are: a Roman who is not a Roman.’

  ‘I’ve taken up too much of your time. I must go.’

  ‘You’re a young man and a rich man and a Roman. Look at me. I am neither very young nor very rich and I am Greek. Believe me, I know the ways of Rome better than you’ll know them. When the grain ships come into Puteoli, and grain from Alexandria fills the warehouses of Rome, I know whose mouths are left empty, and I know who benefits. When a beautiful Greek boy stands on the auction block, being felt up by an old man who needs a new “secretary”, I know whose home is empty. And I know who benefits. Now let’s go downstairs and see what has become of your slaves.’

  He follows her down the stairs in silence.

  When he enters the waiting room, a smell of sour wine hits him. His slaves are reclining on the floor, surrounded by cups, dishes and leftover food. The two lads loll on their elbows, their faces glazed with drink. There are dice on the floor between them, but they’re not playing: too drunk even for that. One of the cups has overturned and a dark stain of unmixed wine spreads over the tiles. No one has tried to wipe it. The boys stare up at their master with dumb surprise, as if they’d forgotten that there was any such person in the world.

  Niko seems not to notice his master at all. He grasps half a roast chicken and he’s tearing off chunks of breast and cramming them into his mouth. His lips shine with grease. A flap of chicken skin is caught, ridiculously, over his nose. The Gaul sits beside him, her thigh touching his. The front of her tunic is pulled down and her nipples are exposed. Niko must have broken off his work with her halfway through, to get busy with the chicken. Only Antonius stands rigid and apart, by the wall, looking at nothing.

  ‘Antonius, what’s all this?’ asks Catullus.

  Antonius clears his throat, looks down at his feet in their rough slave boots, then up again at his master, avoiding Catullus’ eyes. He stands condemned, this efficient, easy-humoured man whose capacity for work has brought him steadily higher and higher in Lucius’ regard. Antonius has been putting money aside for years, saving slowly to buy his freedom. And now he’s lost. He sees his future vanish like coins poured into the sea.

  ‘It’s not the fault of the lads,’ he says huskily. ‘The way it was, they had no choice. He give them the wine. He tells them if they was real men and wanted to know what a man knows, they’d drink it. They’re only country boys.’

  ‘And Niko?’

  Antonius gives Niko a quick, fearful glance. ‘He’s not himself,’ he whispers. ‘Anyone can see that. I tell you, master, he’s bewitched, he’s neither seeing us nor hearing us. There was something put in the drink, I swear on my life, master.’

  ‘So you didn’t eat or drink?’

  ‘I never touched it.’

  Gorgo stands by the door, her arms folded, watching the scene as if his men are animals in a field. Her face is cold. She’s indifferent to them all, and if they’d been lying dead on the floor she’d have had them dragged away and cared nothing for it. And the same for him. All that attention she turned on him like a lamp meant nothing. What a fool he was to go so deep into her world. He was confused, like Niko. Bewitched, he could say. Gorgo’s attention flattered him. He’s used to women liking him.

  Getting the slaves drunk is part of it. Maybe she fancies herself as the Circe of the Subura, turning them all into her swine. You Romans. How many Romans has she helped to their death, he wonders. How many Roman babies has she shucked from the womb before they can grow to men? And all so subtly done. What she does is measure the desire, and provide the means. It must be very satisfying, as she weighs and mixes, to know who is going to benefit.

  ‘Your slaves are dead drunk in my house,’ she says. ‘You should have trained them better. Such behaviour is a punishable offence. If I were to call the authorities…’ She’s watching Antonius out of the corner of her eye. She knows that he’s the only one left who’s still capable of feeling fear.

  You won’t call anyone, thinks Catullus. Not to this house, with what it contains. For the first time he’s aware of exactly how far
he is from his own world, deep in a maze of streets where wealth and rank don’t count except to make a man a target. People disappear every day. His protection has dissolved in alcohol and whatever else she had put into those cups. He must not let her sense it. He must appear not to be aware.

  ‘You’ll need to order litters,’ he says. ‘They’re not fit to walk.’

  ‘You think that litter-bearers will come to the Street of the Master Tanners, to take home a party of drunken slaves and their master?’ asks Gorgo contemptuously.

  But she’s gone too far this time. Catullus smiles, suddenly liberated by her open hostility. If he’s been enchanted, the spell’s broken. There’s no mystery, just a dirty trade.

  He’s had enough. Enough of walking away from his girl instead of towards her. If there’s any poison in the case it’s in his own mind, working against him and against Clodia. That’s what Gorgo has done for him.

  How Clodia would laugh if she were here in this room. She would never allow Gorgo the whip hand for a second.

  ‘What? You let that second-rate Circe push you around?’

  Clodia is equal to anything and anyone. A suspicious husband? A Forum humming with vicious rumours? Death? Face them down. She’s Roman enough, his girl, born to breathe the high air of the Palatine and to look out over the clustered antheap of those who serve her. If she ever doubts herself, no one knows it.

  It’s all a game, an enormous throw of the dice. Rome faces down the world and demands grain to feed the plebs of Rome for nothing. Clodia faced down the hostile stares of the Metelli and the propped, embalmed corpse of her husband, and now she has her freedom. He has got to play too.

  First, he’s got to get himself home, drunken slaves or no drunken slaves. Tedious and inconvenient though it may be, it won’t hurt him to make use of Gorgo’s waiting room until Niko and ‘the lads’ have had time to sleep off their drunkenness. Gorgo will have to order those litters, or extend her hospitality. Her usual clientele of pregnant matrons and murderous spouses can wait on the stairs.