I, Virgil, page 11
It took me a minute to realise what he meant. Then the whole thing became obvious, and I cursed myself for a fool.
Venus was Caesar.
I must have been the only person in the theatre who had not known it from the start. Laberius, as I said, was a political satirist who appealed to all classes from the lowest to the highest – witness that day's audience. And he had his knife into Caesar. His Venus was as perfect a bit of character assassination as I have ever seen. To Caesar's notorious sexual ambiguity was added the extra fillip that Venus was the ancestress of the Julian clan. The burlesque ending to the scene ought to have told me, if nothing else: Caesar's sensitivity over his baldness was almost legendary.
'Laberius will never get away with this, surely?' I turned back to Gallus. 'I mean, satire's one thing, but this stuff...' Words failed me.
'Oh, he'll burn his fingers sooner or later. Not that Caesar minds much so long as he keeps away from straight politics.'
'You mean this isn't straight politics?'
Gallus laughed and did not answer.
The orchestra had struck up a rollicking dance tune, and onto the stage bounced – there is no other word for it – one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen.
'Now this is Cytheris,' Gallus said.
She was dark-haired and lithe as a willow-sapling. The bells on her girdle – and she wore nothing else – jingled as she sprang onto her hands and walked across the stage, clapping her feet in time to the music. Another girl, wearing, if anything, rather less, came on behind her and tossed a ball in the air, which Cytheris caught neatly with her feet and began to juggle, while the audience beat time. Then she tossed the ball back to her assistant and flipped herself right-way-up. The audience cheered.
Two more girls came on, dressed as minimally as Cytheris's assistant. They held short coloured batons. Forming a triangle with Cytheris at its centre, the three began to toss the batons back and forth to each other in time to the music, weaving a complex pattern of red, yellow and blue in the midst of which Cytheris performed the bump-and-grind of the Greek kordax- dance.
I could almost feel the waves of lust from the audience around and behind me. Gallus, in contrast, sat smiling quietly, with an occasional sideways glance at my face.
The hand-drum beat a quick tattoo and the music cut off abruptly just as the last hand snatched the last baton from the air. All four girls faced the audience, bowed, and left the stage to riotous applause.
'Well, what do you think of her?' Gallus turned to me.
'She's certainly...talented,' I said, rather stiffly.
He shot me a sly grin.
'Oh, she's talented all right,' he said. 'You take my word for it.'
I was saved from replying by the resumption of the performance. Venus re-entered, again wearing her wig, and delivered a soliloquy. Laberius had stood the plot on its head. Venus, it seemed, may have been desperate to get Mars into bed with her, but her feelings were no longer reciprocated: Mars, she told us, had found someone else.
Now that I understood the play's political nature, I knew what to expect, even before Mars made his entrance. Where they had got the actor from I do not know, but with his faintly-protruberant eyes and fish-like expression he was the exact image of Pompey: he had only to stop and look straight-faced and pop-eyed at the audience to bring the house down. He was dressed in the caricature of a soldier's uniform, with a long scabbarded sword that kept mixing itself up, to the audience's delight, with the huge phallus that drooped from beneath his tunic – a fact which the two actors made much use of, since it was Venus who had the job of untangling it while complaining of her lover's unfaithfulness. The dialogue was explicit both sexually and politically; and, although I cannot say that I enjoyed it much, extremely witty.
I will not try to describe the whole play – you can probably imagine it, if you have not actually read it: the usual mixture of knockabout comedy and smutty jokes grafted onto an emaciated plot, but with the political aspect to pad it out and give it substance. Cytheris did not appear again until the last act. She played Mars's new mistress Potentia – that is, Power.
Mars entered pushing her on an immense bed, decorated with matrimonial wreaths; and although she had not a single line her short white dress with its broad purple senator's stripe made the playwright's intentions clear enough for even the least politically-minded of his audience. Having placed the bed centre-stage, the War-God raised his monstrous phallus, spoke a few solemn words in the true Pompeian manner on the burdens of office and of doing one's duty by the state, and jumped on top of her. Cytheris parted her legs, and the audience roared. Beside me, Gallus was almost crying with laughter. I sat immobile, writhing with embarrassment and wishing the thing would end.
But Laberius was not done with us yet. As the bed heaved up and down under Mars's divine efforts, Venus entered, spied the pair and gave vent to a tirade against both. Hitching up her skirts, she revealed a stuffed property phallus even bigger than her lover's. Holding it upright, she dived onto the bed which, either by accident or design, promptly collapsed; at which point Vulcan reappeared and cast his net over the three struggling figures.
That signalled the end of the play – not that I think the audience could have taken much more without damaging itself physically. It only remained for Vulcan to step forward and deliver the epilogue:
You see, my friends, our farce is play'd
With all its actors duly laid.
POTENTIA has got her oats
From P*** and C***, the rutting stoats.
Great VENUS, skewer'd and skewering, sighs
At every glance from MARS's eyes.
He now to me must make amends –
So put your hands together, friends!
And they did. I was surprised that the theatre did not come down about our ears with the mere noise of the cheering, let alone with the stamping of feet.
'Come on, Virgil.' Gallus was applauding with the best of them. 'Admit you enjoyed it.'
'It was...different,' I said. 'But I still don't see how Laberius gets away with it. Caesar's one thing, he's in Gaul. But Pompey's at Rome. And he must know what's going on.'
'Laberius has powerful friends,' Gallus said. 'Besides, ridicule's a dangerous weapon to counter. Taking it seriously only makes you look more ridiculous.' He got up. 'Now come and I'll introduce you to Cytheris.'
Octavian would, I am sure, have written splendid mimes, although his talent for propaganda took a blacker turn; and when I think of what he did to Gallus I cannot help comparing Caesar's treatment of poor Laberius.
Laberius did go too far. He cracked one joke too many, and Caesar took the subtle revenge of ordering him to appear as an actor in one of his own plays – which of course meant automatic loss of citizenship. Laberius complied, but the dignified prologue in which he conveyed his apologies moved Caesar to pardon him and restore his rank. The humiliation was warning enough, and Laberius never penned another joke, blue or otherwise.
Octavian would never have exercised such effective yet kindly poetic justice. He might pardon outspokenness (so long as it was a substitute for action), he might even pardon outright treason (so long as the traitor's teeth were drawn, and pardon was expedient); but he would never pardon an attack on his self-love. Self-love is the very centre of Octavian's being. Touch that, and you touch Octavian on the quick, and set yourself beyond all hope of mercy. As Gallus found to his cost.
Gods – especially self-created gods – do not laugh at themselves, nor do they allow others to laugh at them. To do so would be to admit that they fall short of perfection.
28.
I was pleasantly surprised by Cytheris.
You will forgive me, I am sure, my preconceptions. When one sees a girl stripped almost naked dancing on her hands to please the crowd at a mime, one naturally makes certain assumptions as to her character and intellectual capability. In Cytheris's case, such assumptions would be completely unfounded.
Not that Gallus wanted her for her mind: that was obvious from the way his fingers stroked her hip as he introduced us. But he was clearly prepared to treat her as an intellectual equal, and this impressed me.
'Cytheris is almost a neighbour of yours, Virgil,' he said. 'She's from Ravenna.'
'Hardly a neighbour, then,' I smiled. 'But I wouldn't have thought that there would be many Greeks in that part of Italy.'
Cytheris laughed.
'That's only my stage name,' she said. 'Really, I'm plain ordinary Volumnia.'
'Hardly ordinary,' I said. ‘Or, indeed, plain.’
She smiled a dazzling smile.
'I thought you said your friend didn't like women,' she said to Gallus; then, turning back to me as he reddened and began to stutter: 'How did you enjoy the show?'
'Oh, Virgil's a serious scholar,' Gallus recovered himself. 'He doesn't believe in enjoying himself. I thought you were magnificent.'
'Come on, now,' I said. 'I'm not so prim as all that. I liked it very much.'
'Nonsense. I was watching you. You sat through it as if you had a poker up your rectum.'
Cytheris laughed at my embarrassment, and placed a hand on my arm.
'Never mind,' she said. 'It's not to everyone's taste. I'm not so keen on it myself, but I have to eat. Speaking of which...' She smiled up at Gallus.
'Join us, Publius?' Gallus said.
'Of course he will,' Cytheris said before I could make the excuse I had ready. She gathered my right arm up in her left and put her right round Gallus's waist. 'Even serious scholars must eat. Where are we going?'
'I thought we'd slum it at Rufio's. That's not too far.'
'All right.'
The cookshop had a small, private garden at the back. Gallus was obviously expected; a table had been laid and the dinner arrived so promptly that it must have been ordered in advance. I looked around with interest: even this, to me, was an adventure. Like most people who can afford it I preferred to eat at home or with friends. Cookshops, like roadside inns, are chancy things at best, and so best avoided.
This particular cookshop, however, proved to be the exception. The food was simple – no dubious sauces to disguise the taste of meat which was often sub-standard and far from fresh, but cold country ham, cheese, salad, and the most delicious olives I had ever tasted. The wine, too, was far above the ordinary.
'Rufio's a freedman of my father's,' Gallus explained when I asked him about it. 'He knows what he'd get if he poisoned his ex-master's son and heir.'
And he winked at the owner himself as he bustled about with the wine. The man – he looked like a Spaniard – broke into a broad smile and nodded.
'So you didn't like the mime, Virgil,' Cytheris said.
'It was a little...near the bone for me,' I admitted.
Gallus laughed.
'Near the bone!' he said. 'If Laberius had shaved Caesar any closer he'd've made a eunuch of him.'
'Yet when you consider Laberius as a dramatist there's little difference between him and Aristophanes,' Cytheris said.
I must admit I was surprised. Mimic actresses do not usually profess a knowledge of classical Greek drama. Nor are they quite so articulate.
'Except in quality,' I said.
'Oh, yes, naturally.' She took a bird-like sip at her wine. 'But at least he serves the same basic purpose.'
'Which is?'
'To mention the unmentionable. To drag dark things into the light and set them in perspective. To question the rightness of political actions. All of that's necessary in a healthy society.'
'Don't you think you're dignifying it just a little?'
She looked at me directly: a thing I find disconcerting in a woman.
'No, I don't think so. Isn't what we do better – and more useful – than trotting out the stale domestic comedies of boring old Menander? You don't think it's significant that Greek theatre lost its cutting edge when Philip of Macedon destroyed the city-states? Or that Aristophanes wrote his best plays before free speech died in Athens?'
I was becoming interested.
'Then you consider politics essential to drama?'
'Of course. Politics and morality. What other subjects are there? Look at Sophocles. And not only drama. Take any of the arts, especially poetry...'
Gallus had been listening to us with a smile on his face. Now he held up his hand.
'This is not,' he said firmly, 'the time for intellectual discussion. Now shut up, the pair of you, and eat your dinners.'
Cytheris kicked him lightly on the shin.
'Barbarian,' she said. 'A typical Gaul, isn't he, Virgil?'
I found myself smiling.
'You don't write poetry as well, I suppose?' I said.
Cytheris, her mouth full of sausage, shook her head, swallowed.
'Too difficult. I've enough trouble with other people's words. What I'd really like to do,' she selected a piece of lettuce, 'is act in proper plays instead of throwing my boobs around and ending up on my back nine times out of ten.'
'Only nine?' Gallus said. 'Anyway, whoever heard of a female actor? A proper one, I mean.'
'Why not? You think I couldn't play Hecuba as well as any man?'
'You'd be bored stiff inside of a month.'
'I'm bored stiff enough as it is.' She grinned. 'As you should know.'
Gallus gave a bark of laughter.
'Careful,' he said. 'Virgil's blushing again.'
'How much of that was true?' I said quickly, to cover my embarrassment. 'About Pompey and the Senate, I mean?'
'The alliance?' Gallus pitted an olive. 'Poetic licence at the moment, but it's not far outside the truth. The Senate needs a strong man on its side to counter Caesar, Pompey needs respectability. Oh, they'll circle each other for a while yet like two dogs sniffing each other up, but that's what it'll come to in the end.'
'And Caesar?'
'He's got his hands full with the war in Gaul but that won't last forever. When he wins it – which he will – he'll want a triumph and a consulate. That will be when things get interesting.'
'He'll have deserved them, surely.'
Gallus poured himself another cup of wine.
'Try telling that to some of these knot-heads in the Senate,' he said. 'They'd sooner give the consulate to the slave who mucks out the senatorial privy than to Caesar.'
'The Senate can't prevent it, surely. Consular elections are by open vote.'
'They don't have to. Caesar's caught in a cleft stick. To run for consul, he must come to Rome, only he can't because of his governor's status.'
'He can run in absentia, then,' I said. 'There're precedents. All it takes is –' I stopped.
Gallus nodded.
'That's right,' he said. 'All it takes is a dispensation from the Senate. You see how it works? The bastards only have to wait until his command runs out in two years' time and they've got him cold as a private citizen.'
'Caesar can do a lot in two years.'
'Only if Pompey decides to play ball and further his interests from the inside. If he sticks with the Senate then that's another matter. The door's shut in his face. The constitutional door, anyway.'
'All right. So supposing he doesn't feel like handing back his armies when his time runs out? Supposing he decides to stay on?'
'Then he's in open rebellion, and isolated.' Gallus shrugged. 'You see why the Senate needs Pompey so badly? With him on their side Caesar's stymied constitutionally.'
'And militarily?'
'That too. He may have an edge, but it's not one to gamble on. He won't go that way if he can avoid it.'
'You've heard Caesar's latest bon mot, of course?' Cytheris put in.
Gallus grinned at her.
'No,' he said. 'Tell us.'
Cytheris poured wine into her cup.
'It seems that he was' – she smiled demurely – 'letting his hair down at a party, and someone asked him about his plans. "Once I'm finished in Gaul," he said, "I'm going to dance on the members of the Senate."'
Gallus hooted.
'He has style, I'll say that.' He raised his cup in silent salute.
'You think he means it?' I said.
'Caesar's always at his most serious when he makes a joke. Of course he means it.'
'Then there'll be trouble?'
‘If the Senate don't wake up to the real world, yes. And if Pompey doesn't come off the fence, or makes the wrong choice.'
'You think it'll come to fighting?'
'Not if Caesar can help it. He doesn't want war, can't afford it. But if the Senate are stupid enough to back him into a corner then he'll turn. And then they'll find that the wolf has teeth.'
. . .
It was two and a half years before the wolf finally turned. When it did, it was to tear Rome's throat out.
29.
They were busy years for me, as far as my poetry was concerned. Not that I wrote much, or at least much of any worth – a few short poems, a longer piece, nothing very memorable. However, I was studying hard under Epidius, Parthenius and Siro and, with Pollio's help, building up a circle of friends. My rhetorical studies gradually but inexorably fell by the wayside: even my parents were compelled to admit, both from my own letters and those sent by Proculus and others, that I was not cut out to be a lawyer. It was a great disappointment to them.
Proculus was almost his old self again, after months of bitter struggle. When he had returned to the house on the Esquiline he had been nothing but a mumbling bag of bones, an old man with a face all pits and hollows like a nursery demon. He still carried the burden of the two deaths – it had bent his back and turned his hair completely white – but time had made it bearable, and it did not gall his shoulders as it had once done. He even talked of them, sometimes, Cornelia and Valeria. It was more than I could bring myself to do, and I admired his courage.
The winter after the events I have described brought fresh grief, although, I am ashamed to say it, not more poignant. A letter from my mother mentioned in passing that she was suffering from intermittent stomach pains: she had tried various remedies and even gone the length of consulting a Greek doctor in Cremona, with no better result. Because the bearer had himself fallen ill on the way, the letter, dated late October, did not arrive until just before the Winter Festival. Two days later I received a second message (I cannot call it a letter), this time from my father and dated the last day of November, to say that my mother was dead.
