I, Virgil by David Wishart

Author:David Wishart
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: military, Rome, historical
ISBN: 9781444732719
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2011-12-21T20:27:50.362000+00:00

34.

It must have been July, or perhaps August, the year of Caesar's death. I had spent the day in Naples, and had just turned into Demetrius's bookshop near Potters' Row when I collided heavily with a dark-haired boy on his way out, his arms full of books. I apologised profusely.

'That's all right, sir,' the boy said. 'My fault. In too much of a hurry as usual. Dad says I'll meet myself coming back one of these days.'

I picked up a book that had fallen to the pavement and glanced at the title: Gaius Lucilius's Satires.

'An interesting choice,' I said, handing it back. Lucilius was not a fashionable author. His Satires – written about a century previously – were a miscellaneous collection of Latin hexameter verses; lively, romping poetry in the old rustic tradition, but shaggy and raw-boned as a porter's mule. I was surprised that Demetrius had them in stock.

The boy smiled.

'I like him,' he said. 'He has a voice of his own. Roman, not Greek. I'd like to polish him up some time.'

He was not boasting, merely stating a fact. I found myself smiling in return.

'You're a poet, then?' I said.

'Not yet.'

'At school here?'

He laughed.

'No,' he said. 'At Rome. Or was, anyway, up to last year.'

I noticed then that he was older than I had thought, seventeen or eighteen at least, but very short for his age. I apologised again.

'That's all right,' he said. 'A lot of people make that mistake. I'm used to it.'

We had gradually drifted back into the shop. Demetrius, a fat, balding Greek with one eye, was talking to the chief copy-slave. He made to come over, but I waved him back.

'You're staying in Naples?' I said.

'Only for a few days, visiting my uncle. I'm on my way to Athens to study.'

This interested me still more. Athens was – is –the place where young men of good family (and long purse) go to finish their education. This young man hardly seemed of that class. His dress, although respectable, was not expensive, and by his speech I would have placed him no higher than middle-class provincial. He noticed my ill-concealed surprise (he was clearly an observant lad) and laughed again.

'Oh, I'm no aristocrat,' he said. 'Uncle's got a potter's shop a few doors down. And Dad's an ex-slave.'

I flushed, feeling that perhaps I had offended him, but he did not seem to mind. I doubt if I have ever met anyone quite so self-possessed.

'My grandfather was a potter, too,' I found myself saying.

'Really? Here in Naples?'

'No, in Mantua. I used to play in his shop when I was a child.'

'I still do, in Uncle Titus's. It drives him mad.'

It was my turn to laugh. His naïve directness, after the rarefied conversation of Siro and Parthenius, was refreshing. It reminded me a little of Valeria's.

The young man had rearranged the books under his arm into a more manageable bundle.

'I'd best be off. Uncle will be wondering where I've got to.' A thought seemed to strike him. 'Look, why not come round for a cup of wine? If you're not too busy, that is.

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