attitude. We take you for who—or what—you are.
Quite who had stayed and who was new to the company after last October’s breakaway was not entirely clear. Renata, bless her plastered face, was one of the old gang, the fat boy who’d been gelded at the tender age of twelve another. Felix the dancer quite possibly another. But just as the Digger had been incorporated seamlessly into their society, so had everyone else.
At last, the blue parts of the canvas, at least this canvas anyway, had been refreshed and now the whole backdrop radiated brightness and sparkle. Just like the new play. The Digger leaned back, admiring the handiwork, not only on the canvas, but the production as a whole. For instance, too small to sustain a separate orchestra, Renata’s talents were augmented by the cast, who had been given training in at least one percussion instrument, whether cymbals, tambourine, castanets or sistrum. That was how it was with Caspar’s Spectaculars. Teamwork all the way. They were like raisins in a bun, the Digger thought. Separate, yet bound together in a warm and pleasant setting.
It took a moment before it filtered through that, for the word ‘they’, one should substitute the word ‘we’.
The Digger was also one of the raisins in the bun.
*
And the body in the grave pointed an accusing finger.
‘I am not the last,’ it said. ‘Am I ?’
Nine
There is no point being a sponsor of a Halcyon Spectacular if no one gets to hear about the wretched thing. Advertising is everything these days, and Claudia had no intention of her support being anything less than the talk of the town. Impossible, of course, if the players never set foot out of doors. They were, after all, her advertising hoardings. Let them bloody advertise.
‘I am not sure we have the time, dear lady, to indulge in the luxury of relaxation,’ Caspar protested, his turban askew and little round face daubed with paint. ‘Think of the scenery, the costumes, the script, the choreography!’
‘Think of the money.’ Once word got round, he’d be booked solid right through the summer.
‘Doris, Jemima, Erinna, Skyles, drop what you’re doing and get your glad rags on,’ Caspar ordered. ‘Adah, Ion, you go with them.’
‘But—’ they chorused in unison.
‘Butts are for billy goats.’ Caspar clapped his little fat hands. ‘Come along, come along, we haven’t got all day, we have an important engagement lined up.’ To Claudia he asked under his breath, ‘Which might be what, exactly?’
Actors! Don’t know the time of day it is. Don’t even know what day they’ve lost track of time on.
‘It’s the Festival of the Lambs,’ she reminded him, tapping the calendar nailed to the wall right in front of him and wondering, was wolf fur thick enough to wow them at the sacrifice or should she stick with beaver? Decisions, decisions. Quality or colour. Dear Diana, whatever was she thinking of! There would be more than enough colour with Caspar’s rainbow troupe. Especially if Jemima opened her mouth.
Slowly, so that everyone could get an eyeful, the multicoloured snake made its way down to the Forum. Being market day, the city was thronging with farmers, shoppers, beggars, hucksters, but all heads turned at the procession which stopped outside the tiny Temple of Janus. Claudia had deliberately taken her litter, looping up the drapes and sod the tramontana, to catch as many gawpers as she could. Gossip was still one of the best publicity devices on the market, and the sight of Gaius Seferius’s young widow bumping along in a litter draped in turquoise and silver and shouldered by eight hunks in matching tunics with a peacock of a companion was enough to set tongues wagging, never mind the human billboards bringing up the rear.
‘They know what to do?’ she murmured, alighting from the litter.
‘Trust me, madam, they are professionals .’ Caspar righted his turban and hitched up his belt. ‘Well, some of them,
Quite who had stayed and who was new to the company after last October’s breakaway was not entirely clear. Renata, bless her plastered face, was one of the old gang, the fat boy who’d been gelded at the tender age of twelve another. Felix the dancer quite possibly another. But just as the Digger had been incorporated seamlessly into their society, so had everyone else.
At last, the blue parts of the canvas, at least this canvas anyway, had been refreshed and now the whole backdrop radiated brightness and sparkle. Just like the new play. The Digger leaned back, admiring the handiwork, not only on the canvas, but the production as a whole. For instance, too small to sustain a separate orchestra, Renata’s talents were augmented by the cast, who had been given training in at least one percussion instrument, whether cymbals, tambourine, castanets or sistrum. That was how it was with Caspar’s Spectaculars. Teamwork all the way. They were like raisins in a bun, the Digger thought. Separate, yet bound together in a warm and pleasant setting.
It took a moment before it filtered through that, for the word ‘they’, one should substitute the word ‘we’.
The Digger was also one of the raisins in the bun.
*
And the body in the grave pointed an accusing finger.
‘I am not the last,’ it said. ‘Am I ?’
Nine
There is no point being a sponsor of a Halcyon Spectacular if no one gets to hear about the wretched thing. Advertising is everything these days, and Claudia had no intention of her support being anything less than the talk of the town. Impossible, of course, if the players never set foot out of doors. They were, after all, her advertising hoardings. Let them bloody advertise.
‘I am not sure we have the time, dear lady, to indulge in the luxury of relaxation,’ Caspar protested, his turban askew and little round face daubed with paint. ‘Think of the scenery, the costumes, the script, the choreography!’
‘Think of the money.’ Once word got round, he’d be booked solid right through the summer.
‘Doris, Jemima, Erinna, Skyles, drop what you’re doing and get your glad rags on,’ Caspar ordered. ‘Adah, Ion, you go with them.’
‘But—’ they chorused in unison.
‘Butts are for billy goats.’ Caspar clapped his little fat hands. ‘Come along, come along, we haven’t got all day, we have an important engagement lined up.’ To Claudia he asked under his breath, ‘Which might be what, exactly?’
Actors! Don’t know the time of day it is. Don’t even know what day they’ve lost track of time on.
‘It’s the Festival of the Lambs,’ she reminded him, tapping the calendar nailed to the wall right in front of him and wondering, was wolf fur thick enough to wow them at the sacrifice or should she stick with beaver? Decisions, decisions. Quality or colour. Dear Diana, whatever was she thinking of! There would be more than enough colour with Caspar’s rainbow troupe. Especially if Jemima opened her mouth.
Slowly, so that everyone could get an eyeful, the multicoloured snake made its way down to the Forum. Being market day, the city was thronging with farmers, shoppers, beggars, hucksters, but all heads turned at the procession which stopped outside the tiny Temple of Janus. Claudia had deliberately taken her litter, looping up the drapes and sod the tramontana, to catch as many gawpers as she could. Gossip was still one of the best publicity devices on the market, and the sight of Gaius Seferius’s young widow bumping along in a litter draped in turquoise and silver and shouldered by eight hunks in matching tunics with a peacock of a companion was enough to set tongues wagging, never mind the human billboards bringing up the rear.
‘They know what to do?’ she murmured, alighting from the litter.
‘Trust me, madam, they are professionals .’ Caspar righted his turban and hitched up his belt. ‘Well, some of them,
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