Gaius and Achilles by Clodia Metelli

Author:Clodia Metelli [Metelli, Clodia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Sitting on a bench drawn up close to the small stage, Tiberius observed intently as the young man went through the graceful motions of the dance yet again, to the accompaniment of flutes and kithara. As the dancer brought down his slender foot, the clacking of the scabellum fastened to his heel, kept the rhythm to hypnotic effect. The pantomime was loosely based on Euripides’ Bacchae, and was a particularly demanding piece in terms of the range of characters and emotions that the single actor-dancer must assume. From playing an arrogant young tyrant, he must take up the mask of an ancient prophet ecstatically dancing, a young woman first crazed then grief-stricken, then, finally, the God himself in all his glory and terror. Just now, it was the role of Dionysus that was being danced.

They were preparing for a performance in a private house, some rich equestrian’s fiftieth birthday, and this was the first time that Antyllus had rehearsed for it in costume. A small neighbourhood temple of Minerva allowed them to use the building, equipped with a recessed stage designed for cultic performances, for rehearsals, in return for a small donation.

Even as he narrowly assessed each step, monitored each exquisite gesture, eloquent with meaning, Tiberius did not fail to marvel at the boy’s beauty; his limbs were delineated in a tunic of the finest gauze, his wrists and ankles adorned with twists of silver from which hung a myriad bells. The song came to an end and the boy stood still, poised. Though his golden mask gave him the terrible serenity of a young god, Tiberius could tell that the boy was anxiously awaiting his verdict.

“That was great, Antyllus, almost perfect; only a few things still to get just right...” Tiberius jumped up on the narrow stage and, with a gesture to the musicians to begin the song again, began talking Antyllus through his performance for the fifth time that morning.

The boy repeated the opening steps of the dance without the slightest sign of weariness or impatience, and Tiberius remarked to himself, once again, the contrast between Antyllus’ notoriously moody and quarrelsome everyday persona with how focused and dedicated he was once actually on stage. After this fifth performance, he made sure to praise him, knowing how thirsty the boy was for such words though the warmth they gave him would be chilled quickly enough under the icy blast of his own relentless self-excoriation.

“We’ll take a break.”

The boy nodded, took off the mask with some relief and, stepping down from the stage, went over to a trestle table where a pitcher of cold water and bowls of fruit had been set out. Tiberius had paused to exchange a few words with the musicians, when an unknown man entered the rehearsal room; he wore a drab brown tunic and sturdy travelling sandals, a satchel was slung over one shoulder.

“Are you Tiberius Fadius Gallus?”

“I am.”

The man reached into his satchel, “I have a letter for you from my master, Gaius Manlius Torquatus.

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