about the meaning of life. Sometimes I was pleased with my little successes and sometimes I was depressed because it all seemed so meaningless to me. Chance and fortune ruled over one’s existence, and death was sooner or later the hopeless lot of every person. I was, of course, both happy and lucky, but every time I achieved something, my pleasure became clouded and I was discontented with myself again.
At last the day I had so eagerly prepared for arrived. I was to read my book in the lecture hall in the Imperial Library on Palatine. Through my friend Lucius Domitius, Emperor Claudius himself sent a message to say that he would be present in the afternoon. As a result, everyone who sought the Emperor’s favor competed for a place in the hall.
In the audience were some officers who had served in Britain, members of the Senate committee on British matters, and Aulus Plautius himself. But some people had to remain outside the doors, and complained to Claudius that there was no room for them despite their enormous interest in the subject.
I began my reading early in the morning, and regardless of my understandable excitement I read without faltering and was myself kindled by my own reading, as is every author who has taken great pains to polish his work. Nothing disturbed me, either, except Lucius Domitius’ whisperings and gestures as he tried to indicate how I should read. A far too sumptuous meal was brought, which Tullia had arranged and my father paid for. When I continued afterwards about the religious customs of the Britons, many people were nodding, although I thought this the most interesting part of the book.
Then I was forced to break off when Claudius arrived as he had promised. He had Agrippina with him and they sat down on the bench of honor and invited Lucius Domitius to sit between them. The lecture hall was suddenly crammed full, but to those who complained Claudius said firmly, “If the book is worth hearing, it can be read again. Make sure you are there then. But go away now. Otherwise the rest of us won’t be able to breathe.”
Actually, the Emperor was slightly drunk and often belched loudly. I had not read more than a few lines when he interrupted me.
“I’ve a bad memory,” he said. “So allow me, as first citizen, due to my rank and age, to tell you where you are right and where you are wrong.”
He began to give his own long-winded interpretation of the Druids’ human sacrifices and said that in Britain he had sought in vain for the large plaited wicker baskets in which prisoners were placed before being burned alive.
“Of course, I believe what reliable eyewitnesses tell me,” he said. “But I rely most on my own eyes and so I can’t swallow your statement whole. But please go on, young Lausus.”
I had not read much further when he again interrupted with something he had seen in Britain and considered it necessary to discuss. The audience’s peals of laughter confused me somewhat, but Claudius had some knowledgeable remarks to make about my book.
Finally, in the middle of it all, he and Aulus Plautius became engrossed in a lively discussion on the details of the Emperor’s campaign. The public encouraged them by calling out “Hear, hear,” and I was forced to stop reading. Only Seneca’s calming influence made me suppress my irritation.
Senator Ostorius, who seemed an authority on all matters British, joined in the discussion. He maintained that the Emperor had committed a political blunder by breaking olf the campaign without suppressing the Britons.
“Suppressing the Britons is easier said than done,” snapped Claudius, justifiably affronted. “Show him your scars, Aulus. That reminds me that everything in Britain is in arrears because I’ve not had the time to appoint a Procurator to succeed Aulus Plautius. There’s always you, Ostorius. I don’t think I’m the only person here who is tired of hearing how you know best about everything. Go home and prepare for your journey. Narcissus will write out your letters of authority today.”
I think my book had already shown the audience that it was no easy task civilizing the Britons. Everyone laughed, and after Ostorius had humbly left the hall, I was allowed to finish my reading in peace.
Claudius kindly allowed me to continue by the light of lamps as it had been he who had interrupted me and caused the delay. When Claudius began to applaud, the whole audience burst into loud clapping. No more corrections to my book were forthcoming, for it was already late and everyone was hungry.
Some of those who had been listening came back with us to my father’s house, where Tullia had arranged a banquet, for her cook was famed all over Rome. My book was not talked about much more there. Seneca introduced me to his own publisher, a fine old man, pale, bowed and shortsighted from so much reading, who offered to publish my book in an edition of five hundred in the first instance.
“I’m sure you can afford to publish your book yourself,” he said kindly. “But the name of a well-known publisher increases the sale of a book. My freedmen have a hundred experienced scribeslaves who on one dictation can copy any book swiftly and without many mistakes.”
Seneca had praised this man, who had not abandoned him even when Seneca had been in exile but had faithfully supplied the bookshops with the many writings he had sent to Rome from Corsica.
“Naturally I earn most from translations and revisions of love stories and travel books from the Greek. But not one of Seneca’s works has yet made a loss.”
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.”
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
