THE STORY DOESN'T MAKE SENSE AND . . . MY UNDERPANTS ARE ON BACK TO FRONT
STILL THE IDES OF JUNE
NINE O'CLOCK
A little stage fright and performance anxiety is always good for digestion
Once inside, things continued to run smoothly – sod it.
Whenever an opportunity appeared for me to break from Porcia's grasp and climb over the closest stonework, one of Metrobius' very young and supple slave boys was always there to offer a sweetmeat or a leg up. Considering an actor trying to escape from an up coming performance was bound to raise un-necessary interest and speculation, I could see the old fleeing-rat trick would not cut it.
I was here for the duration.
To be honest I'd never seen anything like it in my limited acting experience.
For nobody's such as us, showing up at the vendor's venue always included a large degree of me and Gavius breaking our backs to manhandle the props and battered set off our cart. We would then encounter doorways always a foot too narrow or low – usually both – followed by scraping and damaging as much of the owner's furniture as possible. Our finale was to leave nasty scratches on our soon to be ex-patron's favourite mosaic of Alexander's Battle of Gaugamela.
However here in the lair of an actor whose abilities in his little toe far outshone our entire troupe put together, actors were not to be put to work – maybe he knew how much damage we'd do.
Instead, we were conducted quickly, by a well-manicured Greek steward – flouncing all the way in his disgusting mustard and lilac tunic that seemed to be the staff livery – to the largest of the three dining halls I'd spotted on our fleet-footed journey.
The room featured a raised stage that would make most commercial theatre owners envious. A good dozen tiered auditorium-style two-seater couches ringed about the central prominence in a semi-circle.
This green and polished burgundy lacquered affair was to the left of a three storey central atrium. Beyond, the Villa's four-winged square imposed itself around a lush and excessively decorated peristylium garden.
The acre or more of courtyard – that would give any would-be scabby-kneed weed plucker palpitations of fright – was festooned with cherubs and faeries squirting water from any number of orifices – in fact some seemed to have very serious plumbing issues with their anatomy.
Once ensconced upon plump cushioned couches, Baebius and Curtia were free to point towards where our dented copper helmets and splintered wooden swords were to go – in much the same way when Gavius and I were working – while sipping warmed spiced wine.
And I was there too, sitting behind them, doing just the same, with Porcia still dangerously close – sod it even more.
I calmed my nerves by trying to choose between a wicked almond pastry and a honey puff – I stuffed both in my mouth together to make matters easier.
The two of us were watching Gavius getting his bruises and scratches patched up by an artist armed with a palette of face paints, worthy in themselves to be upon a frescoed wall. That the young man was giving our Eunuch very special attention while Porcia was still untouched, had not yet occurred to the daft prat.
I suspected as the morning progressed he'd learn the hard way or enjoy it – I mean who can tell these days?
It was as all this was going on about us – and as the recalcitrant honey puff tried to choke me – that the sounds of marching feet, accompanied by a ridiculous sounding toy trumpet paraded from the atrium and into our sweeping performance hall.
I craned around Porcia's shoulder just in time to see our steward was the one with the sodding trumpet – and not making much of a go of it. He was announcing the arrival of a loftily held litter upon the shoulders of eight Numidians – the sort of position only absolute tossers not afraid of broken bones adopt – much to Curtia's delight.
The forty-ish powder-puff – more or less as I expected he would look – presented himself to Baebius in a most professional manner.
Descending from the scented heavens of his ceiling with all the flourishing pomp of a Consul on an Asian tour, our great Metrobius offered his hand to be kissed. Just to turn my stomach – and eject a very soggy honey puff back into my hand – my ready for everything boss then took the be-ringed fingers and kissed them.
No doubt having a good chew on the gold to check for purity as he went.
No one had mentioned this sort of shenanigans in my contract – then again I didn't have a contract, so as usual I'd have to flummox my way through.
Yet whilst readying myself to pucker up to the over-painted wall hanging – I could see why he made such a good woman, his tiny Greek style white tunic was showing a perfect set of legs – Porcia unexpectedly lurched me off my cushion and pushed me towards a rather flamboyant ivory inlaid bookcase.
Fearing my destruction – or the shelving's was close at hand – I swung about in time to see my mobster and his swank arm-candy were yet to notice my rapid departure. And then a strong hand came from where the books were supposed to be and yanked my tunic violently.
Before I knew it, with Porcia silently ushering me on, I was behind the shelves and in some sort of hidden hallway. A set of very large fingers still had a firm grip of my barely worn in clobber as I was frog marched towards another closed doorway ahead. Just as I thought my forehead was going to be the device to open it, the wooden portico swung aside at its own accord and there I was, whoever behind me and with Porcia, in the finest library I'd ever seen.
Books were stuffed tastefully in a thousand nooks scattered around fifty feet of walls. An enormous portico with vast blue lattice shutters let in a glowing greenish hue and the pleasant vapours of the Peristylium. From every bare corner one of the Muses winked back, stylus in hand pointing towards a bare bosom and erect nipples.
Personally I'd find reading in here difficult with so much distraction. But I wasn't that slow to believe all those books and me were about to be united in literary bliss.
For there, sitting on the reading-couch directly to my front, was a lanky old cove, either nearing sixty or dealt badly by the gods. A splotchy face that looked like a plate of mulberries mixed with porridge was focussing a ghostly set of blue eyes on a wooden postcard. Something told me I'd seen that grim complexion and wrinkles somewhere before.
Oh, yes – on a certain Denarius I had once owned.
From somewhere in the room I heard the childish snivelling whinge of another poor young whelp crying for his mother.
Fortunately I then heard my old Ma replying, “Oh, Quintus – don't be a little silly billy, that's you.”
