‘Don’t cower away like a slave! Stand straight, stop snivelling and look at me.’
‘It’s nothing. He’ll grow out of it.’
His mother sounded gentle. She was gentle, but her hand was firm across his shoulders, supporting him. She had power in her and his father subsided.
Only Lucius still carries the cargo of the brothers’ childhood inside him. To Catullus’ father, childhood was over and done the day his boys put on their men’s togas. He saw the outer shell, not the inner life.
Lucius knew everything about them. He even knew that their skin smelled different when they had a fever, and he would heat up the brazier, grind herbs in the pestle and prepare medicines just as their mother used to do. Lucius never criticized their father, but sometimes he’d be silent in a particular way, if their father had lashed out at them.
Lucius’ brazier is burning again, but his medicines are not working.
‘That cough has really taken hold,’ he says, ‘and neglecting it isn’t going to make it go away, nor is going out drinking till all hours the way you did two nights ago. Death knows your name just as he knows everyone’s. I’ll send a message to Dr Philoctetes tomorrow morning.’
‘It’s only a cold.’
‘That’s for the doctor to say. I blame myself: I’ve been too soft. If you’d had me in Baiae with you, instead of making me stay on here to look after an empty house, you wouldn’t have come back looking as if you’d been doing time in a salt-mine, not a spa.’
‘All right, all right, I’ll see him. It’s not the medicine I object to: it’s the sublime superfluity, my dear fellow, of matchless, made-to-measure mellifluousness.’
‘He’s a good doctor. You let him talk. It does you no harm, and it makes him happy. There are patients queuing up to see Dr Philoctetes since he treated Julius Caesar’s wife for inflammation of the bowel.’
‘That’s a new name for it.’
Lucius frowned, and ignored the remark with his usual air of stern, experienced chastity.
‘Well, we all know what a bumboy Caesar is, Lucius. He must have forgotten himself and inserted his eminent tool into the wrong backside… Why are you looking at me like that? The Republic isn’t going to dissolve because our great general doesn’t know who or what he’s shafting.’
‘Our own lives, that’s what we’ve got to think of, never mind the shortcomings of others. As long as we know our duty, we shan’t go far wrong.’
Catullus lay and watched Lucius move around the room, putting it in order. It wasn’t his job. One of the slaves should do it, but Lucius always had to check that the drinking water was cold, the bed linen changed after another night of fever and sweats, and that the bunch of rosemary that hung over the door was freshly cut and not shedding its narrow silvery needles. And it was soothing to watch Lucius. He had a way of putting things in their place that made them seem sure not to slip out of it again.
Long ago, Lucius had lifted a two-month-old calf high above his shoulders, not even for a bet – Lucius never took bets – but just to amuse the children. How well Catullus remembered the calf’s offended bleating, and the bellow from its mother, who would have trampled them all to death if she’d been able to get out of her pen. He and Marcus had squealed with laughter and hopped around, close to wetting themselves with delight.
Lucius stretches up to trim the wick of a lamp. How puny his upper arms are getting, where the muscles used to bulge. He wouldn’t be able to lift a calf now. He’s in late middle age… No, it’s no use deceiving yourself. Lucius is growing old.
He’s feverish again for sure. The barriers between then and now are coming down. The day seems endless, but suddenly it’s night and all the hours have finished unwinding, as if a spool of thread has rolled this way and that until it’s empty. He almost thinks he hears his mother’s footsteps outside the door, hesitating, and then going on, quickly and lightly, to see why the lamps aren’t yet lit.
‘Lucius?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you hear someone, just now?’ he asks, feeling his tongue thick in his mouth.
Lucius gives him a narrow look but replies calmly. ‘There’s always someone coming and going. We’ve had trouble with the heating today: a blockage in one of the pipes, so they’ve been faffing about with spare parts. We’ve got to get that fixed before the winter comes.’
‘It sounded like a woman.’
‘Could be. Now let’s get you sitting right up. It’s time for that negus you don’t care for.’
‘Negus is a complete waste of perfectly good wine.’
‘But it settles the stomach, as well as strengthening you up,’ says Lucius firmly, buffing the pillows and then laying them in his special way, two pillows crosswise with the third supported by them. Catullus lets himself sink slowly back on to them.
‘That’s so good. That’s the way you used to do it when we were little, you remember?’
Lucius laughs. It’s a spare, dry sound, as if to say: How can you think I’d ever forget a single detail?
‘It’s crucially, not to say vitally, important to keep an even temperature in the bedchamber,’ says Dr Philoctetes, gazing at the ceiling, ‘and apart from the daily visit to the Baths, for purely hygienic purposes, no other excursion can be considered appropriate or advisable at this juncture.’ He rocks a little from heel to toe, like a happy child. ‘The Baths, with their cleansing and purifying properties, will effect some ameliorative improvement to the patient’s immediate symptoms. Naturally the patient must be transported there in the utmost tranquillity, in a closed chair. However, should the condition of the patient deteriorate to any degree, then these visits, advantageous as they may be, must be suspended.’
Dr Philoctetes speaks the florid, expansive Latin of a Greek who prides himself as much on his linguistic sophistication as on his medical knowledge. And who never uses one word when three can be vanquished at a blow.
‘This cough, my dear young friend, has taken root, as it were, in a specific area of the lung: just here. Allow me the liberty of sounding your chest again for your elucidation and indeed enlightenment. You hear it? Ah, perhaps not, it takes a certain trained understanding: penetration, one might say. A pulmonary system that is completely free from obstruction, you understand, gives back an echo of a different timbre to one which is congested by disease.
‘Not that I speak of disease in the organic or morbid sense: no, this condition is eminently treatable – eminently localized, responsive and put-right-able. Patience, my dear young man, patience and perseverance with the correct procedures and prescriptions are all that is required if this minor medical misadventure in which we find ourselves enmired is to be resolved as swiftly and optimistically as we require it to be.’
With Dr Philoctetes no patient ever suffers alone. The enjoyment of the first person plural is one of the perks of his treatment. More worryingly, Catullus has noticed a growing fondness for alliteration in Dr Philoctetes’ speeches; but perhaps this is no more than the effect of trying to treat ‘one of the Muses’ most cherished sons’. For Philoctetes loves poetry. Very probably he writes it. The thing is not to find out for sure.
‘Breathe in – hold it – and now breathe out. Go-oo-od. And again.’
The only sound in the room is suddenly his own breathing. It sounds loud and harsh, as if some suffering animal is inside him rather than his own self.
‘Do either of your parents ever suffer from a cough such as this?’ asks the doctor, with sudden directness.
‘Yes. My mother.’
‘And – you’ll forgive me – how did her case respond to treatment?’
‘She died when I was eight.’
‘I see,’ says Philoctetes abstractedly, and continues to thump, to tap, to sound the entire canvas of the chest. ‘And now turn over if you will… thank you. And breathe in. Deep breaths. Good.’
Catullus is not sure whether to be glad of this outbreak of plain speech, or to be afraid of it. Philoctetes, who is aft
er all a very good doctor, perhaps senses the tensing of his diaphragm.
‘Of course we are not sufficiently inexperienced,’ he adds smoothly, ‘as to make any immediate connection, my dear sir, between the maternal malady and that which troubles you for the present. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.’ He laughs lightly, while his fingers continue their expert probing.
At last the examination is over.
‘Stay indoors for the present, my dear young sir. Regard it as an unmatched opportunity for uninterrupted, unchecked – nay, untrammelled! – composition. I shall give highly specific orders to your household, above all to your excellent Lucius, regarding diet, room temperature and ventilation. The most minute attention to all particulars is an essential element of the holistic healing process.’
Lucius nodded agreement, with the air of one who recognizes his own excellence but sees no reason to bask in it.
‘You must not risk the seasonal miasmas that rise from our great Tiber at present,’ continues Dr Philoctetes. ‘You young men are apt to congregate at the Forum, enjoying your discussions, favouring the cut-and-thrust – or should I say the play? – of ideas, in the youthful exuberance of intellect. News of the moment, the ins-and-outs of politics – the very spice of life, in short. Even, perhaps’ (he lowers his voice reverentially) ‘even, perhaps, a meeting with some kindred spirit who also wanders the green slopes of Mount Parnassus. But you will stand too long in the wind, and then you will be tempted, no doubt, to frequent the bookshops and linger in the arcades. I consider all this highly injudicious, imprudent and injurious for your health at present.
‘Shun the vicinity of the Rostra, my dear young friend. Rest, relaxation, restoration are my recommendations, together with a most exacting adherence to the prescriptions which I shall have made up and sent round to you by this evening. All this being in hand, so to speak, I make bold to predict that within a few days you will begin to feel the benefit of my regimen – and perhaps – dare I say it – a few lines will emerge to delight and astonish all who love poetry?’ He brings his clasped hands together in front of his stomach and shakes them hard, like a priest delivering good news from the entrails.
Sometimes Catullus is sure that Dr Philoctetes is mixing him up with someone else. His poems – surely – can’t be much to this genial and prolix taste? But the idea of sickness acting as a poetic laxative has its appeal. Those few lines, easing themselves out – He smiles.
‘There, you see, it’s not such an unpleasant prospect.’
Dr Philoctetes lingers by the bedside, apparently not in the least of hurries in spite of the crew of supplicating patients that Lucius claims are always at his heels. He takes Catullus’ wrist again, finds the pulse and begins to count, silently.
‘Everything will go swimmingly, my dear young sir, if you will just put yourself in my hands.’
His words fall lightly, as if from far away. ‘Put yourself in my hands.’ Yes, it’s safe to do that. He’s a good doctor and Lucius was right to send for him.
Let go, sink down, think of nothing. Dr Philoctetes has taken charge of his little ship and is ready to steer it masterfully between rocks and whirlpools. Yes, Lucius and Dr Philoctetes are in this together. ‘Yield,’ they murmur. ‘Yield, and be cured.’
And so, later, when Aemilia comes to the outer door, he doesn’t hear the kerfuffle except vaguely, as a matter of raised but distant voices with which he doesn’t need to trouble himself. Lucius will sort it out. He closes his eyes and rocks on the waves which will carry him back to health, but the noise won’t go away. Lucius is arguing. Other voices join in and he recognizes them vaguely. His household is massing for a fight. But what about? It’s crazy to be shouting so loudly in the middle of the day, when no one’s even drunk yet.
A woman’s voice, harsh and piercing, rises above the others. The next moment Lucius hurries in, his face tight with annoyance.
‘There’s a woman at the door. She says she won’t go without seeing you.’
His heart turns over. It’s her. He can’t breathe.
‘She says she’s come from the house of Clodia Metelli with a message for you. She says it’s urgent.’
Not Clodia herself. Of course it couldn’t be. It was only fever that made it seem possible.
‘Shall I tell her to go away?’
‘No, tell her…’ He fights to gather himself up. ‘Can’t she give you her message, Lucius?’
‘She insists on seeing you personally.’
‘Then bring her in.’
Lucius stands there, radiating disapproval, then nods stiffly and goes out.
It’s Aemilia, of course. He should have recognized her voice. She’s wrapped in her cloak, and a fold is pulled right over her face. Lucius stands at her side like a gaoler.
‘It’s all right, Lucius, you can leave us now.’
‘Well, if she gives you any trouble, I’m only outside. And no more of that shouting and carrying on, young woman,’ he adds sternly to Aemilia, ‘or you’ll have me to answer to.’
Lucius leaves, but sure enough, his footsteps stop as soon as he’s out into the hall. He’ll be listening, because it’s for the family’s good that he knows everything about them. How else can he best protect their interests? And he knows that Catullus knows he’s listening. Lucius is no snooper.
‘Pull back your cloak,’ says Catullus. ‘I can’t see your face.’
‘There’s no call for you to see me, is there?’ asks Aemilia.
He feels a surge of anger. ‘No, and there’s no need for me to listen to a word you have to say either. I’ll call Lucius back.’
‘Don’t do that!’
‘You’ve got a message for me: right, let me see you deliver it.’
Slowly, sulkily it seems, she pulls back her cloak and he sees her face.
‘Who did that to you, Aemilia?’
‘No one. It was an accident.’
There is a raised weal down her right cheek. Her nose is swollen, and her eyes puffy. Her injuries are so fresh that the bruises haven’t come out yet.
‘Who did that to you?’ he repeats.
She shrugs her shoulders. ‘You’ve got to come and see my mistress now this minute. She’s in a bad way. That little bird of hers has took and died.’
He stares. ‘Her sparrow?’
‘Yes. She found it at the bottom of the cage this morning, on its back with its claws sticking up.’ She shudders. ‘I can’t abide the look of a dead bird, nasty things they are.’
‘And she did that to you,’ he says, not making it a question.
She shrugs again. ‘She can’t help herself.’
‘I’ll come,’ he says.
Immediately, Lucius is back in the room. ‘Don’t you understand that this is a sickroom? Gaius Valerius Catullus cannot possibly leave the house.’
Catullus does not want to contradict Lucius in front of Aemilia. ‘Wait outside,’ he tells her, and when she has gone, ‘Get them to order a litter for me, Lucius. I’m going to the Palatine.’
‘You heard what Dr Philoctetes said. It’s serious. You can’t play about with your health.’
‘I’m twenty-six years old, Lucius.’
‘And how old was your mother when she died?’ asks Lucius, his voice strange and hard.
‘Why, Lucius!’
‘She was twenty-eight years old, that’s all. She should have lived to see you with children of your own.’
He has never thought of it like that. He is almost as old as the age his mother reached, and Marcus has passed it. Lucius’ hands straighten the bedclothes, folding and patting them smooth, then folding and patting again.
‘If she’d taken care of herself – but no, she didn’t choose to. She was pulled down like a deer.’
He has never heard this note in Lucius’ voice. There’s an edge to it, acute, personal and suffering. But he can’t think of that now. He needs all his strength to get to Clodia.
Eight
He’s here, where he didn?
??t want to be. At her house on the Clivus Victoriae, where the long forbidding frontage says: ‘Here is power.’ He is admitted, and asked to wait. There’s still some fever on him, which makes the brilliant tiles of the entrance-hall mosaic pulse with colour. Diana stands there, arm upraised. She has loosed her punishment on Actaeon, and his human flesh has been swept away into the substance of a stag. Now his own hounds will hunt him down. Actaeon’s human spirit is still alive, trapped behind stag eyes that watch what is happening with horror. He leaps into the air, arching his neck to get away from the jaws of his hounds.
Catullus stops, and looks into the eyes of the man-stag. There’s no escape for Actaeon. His hounds raven around him, snarling as they prepare to leap for his throat. Behind him, trees crowd together, blocking the paths. Diana watches intently. Her concentration is pitiless, pure and beautiful. She stands close enough to hear the crunch of bone and gristle when the hounds destroy Actaeon.
This mosaic artist has broken all the rules. Diana isn’t wrapped in a cloak hastily thrown over her by her maidens when they spot Actaeon’s human eyes on her. She remains naked, as if to show the man that she’s invulnerable, no matter what impious crime he’s committed in daring to see her body. Let him see it as the dogs tear out his throat.
The mosaic bristles with horror. The naked, ruthless goddess, the man clothed in a stag’s flesh. Actaeon’s fate is terrible, but his knowledge of it is worse. The goddess is about to feed the man to his own dogs.
Catullus bends to examine the work more closely. What an artist. It seems almost impossible that such drama could be made from thousands of pieces of coloured stone. How come he has never really noticed the mosaic before? He must have walked over it a dozen times, on his way into a dinner or an evening party, and yet he never saw how beautiful it was.
‘Clodia commissioned it when we rebuilt the front of the house.’
He starts. Clodia’s husband is there, on the other side of the vestibule, watching him. How long has he been standing there?
‘It’s a superb piece of work.’