while the other claims that it’s faultless?’
The luck of the draw?
‘For gods’ sakes, Julia, life’s not a straight road paved by other people for you.’
Believe me, it’s crazy paving, and worse, you have to lay it yourself.
‘But—’
‘But nothing. Try talking to Marcellus instead of at him, see what happens. Oh, and you might consider offering him an incentive to stay home.’
‘Bribing my own husband with sexual favours?’ Julia snorted derisively. ‘I should have known better than to come and seek advice from you. Anyway.’ She pulled her fur tighter to her body. ‘What’s all that nonsense in the atrium?’
Moving down the path, to where tubs of fragrant pale purple irises provided a backdrop to the stunning white Stars of Judea, Claudia informed her sister-in-law of her plans to sponsor the Halcyon Spectaculars.
‘But you can’t possibly allow that troupe to live here,’ Julia protested. ‘Think of the gossip. The scandal. If he knew what you were doing, my dear late brother would be rolling in his grave!’
Wouldn’t he just! Rolling about with laughter at Caspar’s gaudy dress sense, his ‘volumptuous beauties’, the little castrato, the dancer who could fold himself backwards in two. Funny the things you remember, she thought suddenly, plucking a Damascan iris and holding it to her nose. For instance, when Gaius laughed, he’d tip his head right back and bellow like a bull in a meadow full of heifers. Whereas his sister’s face would crack if she so much as smiled.
A thin claw laid itself on her arm. ‘My dear, if you’d only heard the piece they were rehearsing when I came in. Quite frankly, there’s no other word to describe it, it was lewd. Absolutely vulgar. In fact, disgusting would not be too strong a term.’
Claudia inhaled the scent of the yellow iris. ‘So you’ll be staying for Saturnalia, then?’
‘Very well,’ Julia sighed. ‘If you insist.’
*
It was all hands to the pump for Caspar’s Halcyon Spectaculars. Just like the big productions staged in giant, stone-built theatres which were watched by thousands of spectators, the backdrops still had to resemble three adjoining house fronts, complete with marble columns, statues and mosaics, and even though they were made of canvas and operated on a pulley system and the audience was small, the scenery must look fresh as well as realistic. For that reason, half the troupe were sprawled on their knees with paintbrushes in one hand and script notes in another.
The Digger among them.
Deft strokes from the Digger’s paintbrush filled in the blue bits on the canvas spread across the floor as Periander, the castrato, warbled his soprano solo. Light banter was the order of the day as red paint pots jostled with yellow brushstrokes, interspersed with practical jokes and good-natured backchat. There was no option for a small unit locked together for months on end but to rub along. Friction was a commodity everyone could do without, so you closed your eyes to faults and niggles and concentrated on the positive and, since the company came almost exclusively from low-born or slave backgrounds, this way of life came naturally. For the same reason, no one asked probing questions. And if they did, those questions didn’t get answered.
A plump female hand reached out and tickled Leonides’s leg as he passed, the whole group shrieking at the steward’s equal mix of outrage (that the unseemly incident had happened) and relief (that the hand had not belonged to Doris).
There was a unity about this company, the Digger reflected, filling in the clear blue summer sky, even though the very nature of their business meant that it was transitory. The female members fluctuated more than most, hooking up with men they met along the way, returning when the love affairs had soured, but the ambience went deeper than that. The group as a whole symbolized acceptance. Come or go, it doesn’t matter a flying fig to us was their
The luck of the draw?
‘For gods’ sakes, Julia, life’s not a straight road paved by other people for you.’
Believe me, it’s crazy paving, and worse, you have to lay it yourself.
‘But—’
‘But nothing. Try talking to Marcellus instead of at him, see what happens. Oh, and you might consider offering him an incentive to stay home.’
‘Bribing my own husband with sexual favours?’ Julia snorted derisively. ‘I should have known better than to come and seek advice from you. Anyway.’ She pulled her fur tighter to her body. ‘What’s all that nonsense in the atrium?’
Moving down the path, to where tubs of fragrant pale purple irises provided a backdrop to the stunning white Stars of Judea, Claudia informed her sister-in-law of her plans to sponsor the Halcyon Spectaculars.
‘But you can’t possibly allow that troupe to live here,’ Julia protested. ‘Think of the gossip. The scandal. If he knew what you were doing, my dear late brother would be rolling in his grave!’
Wouldn’t he just! Rolling about with laughter at Caspar’s gaudy dress sense, his ‘volumptuous beauties’, the little castrato, the dancer who could fold himself backwards in two. Funny the things you remember, she thought suddenly, plucking a Damascan iris and holding it to her nose. For instance, when Gaius laughed, he’d tip his head right back and bellow like a bull in a meadow full of heifers. Whereas his sister’s face would crack if she so much as smiled.
A thin claw laid itself on her arm. ‘My dear, if you’d only heard the piece they were rehearsing when I came in. Quite frankly, there’s no other word to describe it, it was lewd. Absolutely vulgar. In fact, disgusting would not be too strong a term.’
Claudia inhaled the scent of the yellow iris. ‘So you’ll be staying for Saturnalia, then?’
‘Very well,’ Julia sighed. ‘If you insist.’
*
It was all hands to the pump for Caspar’s Halcyon Spectaculars. Just like the big productions staged in giant, stone-built theatres which were watched by thousands of spectators, the backdrops still had to resemble three adjoining house fronts, complete with marble columns, statues and mosaics, and even though they were made of canvas and operated on a pulley system and the audience was small, the scenery must look fresh as well as realistic. For that reason, half the troupe were sprawled on their knees with paintbrushes in one hand and script notes in another.
The Digger among them.
Deft strokes from the Digger’s paintbrush filled in the blue bits on the canvas spread across the floor as Periander, the castrato, warbled his soprano solo. Light banter was the order of the day as red paint pots jostled with yellow brushstrokes, interspersed with practical jokes and good-natured backchat. There was no option for a small unit locked together for months on end but to rub along. Friction was a commodity everyone could do without, so you closed your eyes to faults and niggles and concentrated on the positive and, since the company came almost exclusively from low-born or slave backgrounds, this way of life came naturally. For the same reason, no one asked probing questions. And if they did, those questions didn’t get answered.
A plump female hand reached out and tickled Leonides’s leg as he passed, the whole group shrieking at the steward’s equal mix of outrage (that the unseemly incident had happened) and relief (that the hand had not belonged to Doris).
There was a unity about this company, the Digger reflected, filling in the clear blue summer sky, even though the very nature of their business meant that it was transitory. The female members fluctuated more than most, hooking up with men they met along the way, returning when the love affairs had soured, but the ambience went deeper than that. The group as a whole symbolized acceptance. Come or go, it doesn’t matter a flying fig to us was their
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