I understood the implication and said that naturally I should be glad to pay my share of the cost of producing the book. It was indeed a great honor for me that he set his respected name as a seal on the quality of my book. Then I had to leave him and speak to some of the other guests. There were so many that I was quite confused; I also drank far too much wine. Finally I was filled with despair when I realized that none of those present in fact cared about me or my future. My book to them was only an excuse to eat rare dishes and drink the best wine of Campania, study and criticize each other, and secretly marvel at my father’s success, for which he, in their eyes, had no personal qualifications.
I longed for Claudia, who, I thought, was the only person in the world who really understood me or cared for me. She had naturally not dared come to my reading, but I knew with what excitement she was waiting to hear about it, and I suspected that she had not had much sleep. No doubt she would be outside her hut, looking at the stars in the winter sky and staring toward Rome as the vegetable carts rumbled along and the cattle lowed in the distant silence of the night. I had become so used to these sounds during the nights with her that I loved them. The very thought of rattling cartwheels brought Claudia to life so clearly in my mind that my body began to tremble.
There is no more depressing scene than the end of a large party, when the torches smolder and reek in the arcades, the last guests are helped by their slaves into their litters, the lamps are extinguished, spilled wine wiped up from the glossy mosaic floors and the vomit washed from the marble walls of the water closets. Tullia was of course delighted with the success of her party and talked excitedly with my father about this and that guest and what he or she had said or done. But I felt quite outside it all.
Had I been more experienced, I should have realized that this was due to the after-effects of the wine, but young as I was, I did not. So not even the company of my father tempted me when he and Tullia refreshed themselves with some light wine and fresh marine fruit while die slaves and servants cleared up the great rooms. I thanked them and left alone, without thought for the dangers of Rome at night, only longing for Claudia.
Her hut was warm and her bed smelled sweetly of wool. She filled the brazier so that I should not be cold. At first she said she had not expected me after such a grand party and the success of my book. But she had tears in her eyes when she whispered, “Oh, Minutus, now I know that you really love me.”
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After a long spell of joy and a brief period of sleep, the winter morning crept into the hut. There was no sun and the gray winter felt like an ache in the soul as, pale and tired, we looked at each other again.
“Claudia,” I said, “what will happen to you and me? With you I seem to be beyond reality, as if in an alien world beneath the stars. I am happy only with you. But it cannot go on like this.”
I suppose I was secretly hoping she would hurriedly reply that things were best as they were and we could go on as before, for we could hardly do otherwise. But Claudia let out a great sigh of relief.
“I love you more than ever, Minutus,” she cried, “because you have brought up this delicate subject yourself. Of course things cannot go on as they are. As a man, you can’t possibly understand with what awful fear I await every monthly change. Neither is it worthy of a true woman to do nothing but wait until you feel like visiting me. In this way, my life is nothing but fear and agonizing waiting.”
Her words hurt me deeply.
“You’ve managed to hide those feelings very well,” I remarked harshly. “Up to now you’ve let me believe that you are happy simply that I come to you. But have you any suggestions?”
She gripped both my hands hard and looked straight into my eyes. “There’s only one possibility, Minutus,” she said. “Let’s leave Rome.
Abandon your career. Somewhere in the provinces or on the other side of the sea, we could live together without fear until Claudius is dead.”
I could not meet her eyes and drew my hands away from hers. Claudia shuddered and looked down.
“You said you enjoyed holding the lambs while I sheared them,” she said, “and fetching wood for the fire. You praised the water from my spring and said that my simple food was better than ambrosia in heaven. We could find the same happiness in any corner of the world, as long as it is far enough away from Rome.”
I thought for a moment and then said seriously, “I neither deny nor take back my words. But such a decision is too far-reaching to be decided on the spur of the moment. We can’t just go into voluntary exile.”
Out of sheer malice, I added: “And what about the kingdom you’re waiting for and the secret meals you partake in?”
Claudia looked downcast.
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