room.
‘Alabaster!’ breathed my uncle. ‘If I told you their cost, if I hinted at it ... But I am no piddling chairwright. I am Lucullus, Bedmaker to Emperors!’
His face reddened again, abruptly. ‘And then,’ he said, ‘I try to engage a sculptor. A man of reputation, of dignity; one would imagine, of principles ... An’ what does the filthy wretch do?’ His voice rose to its former pitch. ‘He tries to beggar me,’ he yelled. ‘Ask a price that would reduce the Augustus himself to scrounging in the market-place!’
I said, ‘Wouldn't it have been easier ...’
‘But I am not deterred,’ shrieked Lucullus, dancing with passion. ‘Sod the sculptor, and all his traitorous tribe. Let the thieving rats squabble with dogs for crusts; I’ll do the work myself!’
He took a turn up and down the office, as far as its cluttered state allowed, twitching and mumbling, kicking irritably at the stacks of rubbish that rose on every side. One pile collapsed, sending up a cloud of dust; my uncle burst out swearing afresh, then rushed to me to grip my chin in his fingers. He turned my head to the light, nodding and cursing to himself. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you’re a Paullus all right, worse luck …‘ He seated himself again, heavily, squinted at the pair of us and picked up the letter again. ‘Form your own opinion of his worth,’ he muttered. He fixed me with a calculating eye. ‘So you want to be an architect,’ he said. ‘How much are you prepared to pay me for your training?’
I opened my mouth again, but couldn't for the moment think of anything to say He rose again, and gripped my arm. His fingers were surprisingly strong. ‘Since you obviously haven’t got a bean,’ he said viciously, ‘I’ll not charge you for your apprenticeship. But you’ll get nothing else from me; I’m not having you under my roof, wasting my food and money. You’ll have to make your own way, same as I did.’
As we re-entered the workshop, the din, which had abated considerably, rose once more to its former pitch. At the far end of the place, beneath the one grimy window, an elderly, sallowfaced clerk, whom I was later to discover was the missing Abinnaeus, sat working at a desk. Uncle Lucullus deposited me at his side. ‘Brother’s boy,’ he said abruptly. ‘Must be mad. See what you can do with him....’
So I began my apprenticeship with my uncle, and four of the most curious years of my life.
My feelings on that first day can probably be better imagined than described. To reach Rome, I had ridden seventeen hundred miles. I had crossed mountains, skirted seas. I was hungry, tired and thirsty, but the suddenness of my induction left me too bemused to argue.
I had been parted abruptly from Marcus; I could only hope that I would see him again. I couldn’t believe my uncle meant what he said; that he would neither pay me nor give me board. I was to come to know him better. When I was finally released from my chores--I had been set to smoothing a stack of cheap paper, with ivory combs and a shell--I met him on the stairs. He didn’t betray by the flicker of an eyebrow that he had ever seen me before; just stumped past me, head rolling and nodding, and hurried away along the street.
Marcus was waiting for me in the street, still with a broad grin on his face. He hadn’t been idle; he was carrying one of our saddlebags across his shoulder and a bulky parcel of bread, cheese and wine. I fell into step with him silently. As we walked he told me he had already found a job for himself, in a big farrier’s yard down towards the Tiber, and had secured a room for us. We headed down towards Subura, buildings rising grimly beside us under the lowering sky. He stopped finally outside a tall, dilapidated block of flats. ‘Well,’ he said, nodding, ‘this is home. I got a top-floor room. At least we shan’t have anybody dancing on the ceiling.’
I stood and looked round me at the rubbish-choked street, up at the
‘Alabaster!’ breathed my uncle. ‘If I told you their cost, if I hinted at it ... But I am no piddling chairwright. I am Lucullus, Bedmaker to Emperors!’
His face reddened again, abruptly. ‘And then,’ he said, ‘I try to engage a sculptor. A man of reputation, of dignity; one would imagine, of principles ... An’ what does the filthy wretch do?’ His voice rose to its former pitch. ‘He tries to beggar me,’ he yelled. ‘Ask a price that would reduce the Augustus himself to scrounging in the market-place!’
I said, ‘Wouldn't it have been easier ...’
‘But I am not deterred,’ shrieked Lucullus, dancing with passion. ‘Sod the sculptor, and all his traitorous tribe. Let the thieving rats squabble with dogs for crusts; I’ll do the work myself!’
He took a turn up and down the office, as far as its cluttered state allowed, twitching and mumbling, kicking irritably at the stacks of rubbish that rose on every side. One pile collapsed, sending up a cloud of dust; my uncle burst out swearing afresh, then rushed to me to grip my chin in his fingers. He turned my head to the light, nodding and cursing to himself. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you’re a Paullus all right, worse luck …‘ He seated himself again, heavily, squinted at the pair of us and picked up the letter again. ‘Form your own opinion of his worth,’ he muttered. He fixed me with a calculating eye. ‘So you want to be an architect,’ he said. ‘How much are you prepared to pay me for your training?’
I opened my mouth again, but couldn't for the moment think of anything to say He rose again, and gripped my arm. His fingers were surprisingly strong. ‘Since you obviously haven’t got a bean,’ he said viciously, ‘I’ll not charge you for your apprenticeship. But you’ll get nothing else from me; I’m not having you under my roof, wasting my food and money. You’ll have to make your own way, same as I did.’
As we re-entered the workshop, the din, which had abated considerably, rose once more to its former pitch. At the far end of the place, beneath the one grimy window, an elderly, sallowfaced clerk, whom I was later to discover was the missing Abinnaeus, sat working at a desk. Uncle Lucullus deposited me at his side. ‘Brother’s boy,’ he said abruptly. ‘Must be mad. See what you can do with him....’
So I began my apprenticeship with my uncle, and four of the most curious years of my life.
My feelings on that first day can probably be better imagined than described. To reach Rome, I had ridden seventeen hundred miles. I had crossed mountains, skirted seas. I was hungry, tired and thirsty, but the suddenness of my induction left me too bemused to argue.
I had been parted abruptly from Marcus; I could only hope that I would see him again. I couldn’t believe my uncle meant what he said; that he would neither pay me nor give me board. I was to come to know him better. When I was finally released from my chores--I had been set to smoothing a stack of cheap paper, with ivory combs and a shell--I met him on the stairs. He didn’t betray by the flicker of an eyebrow that he had ever seen me before; just stumped past me, head rolling and nodding, and hurried away along the street.
Marcus was waiting for me in the street, still with a broad grin on his face. He hadn’t been idle; he was carrying one of our saddlebags across his shoulder and a bulky parcel of bread, cheese and wine. I fell into step with him silently. As we walked he told me he had already found a job for himself, in a big farrier’s yard down towards the Tiber, and had secured a room for us. We headed down towards Subura, buildings rising grimly beside us under the lowering sky. He stopped finally outside a tall, dilapidated block of flats. ‘Well,’ he said, nodding, ‘this is home. I got a top-floor room. At least we shan’t have anybody dancing on the ceiling.’
I stood and looked round me at the rubbish-choked street, up at the
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