A senator named Fufius was shown to the couch at Bethesda's left.
He was the man whom Atratinus had accused Caelius of assaulting during an election, and would be testifying as a prosecution witness. Fufius was accompanied by a very young courtesan. Bethesda raised an eyebrow, and I could read her mind: the girl was hardly older than Diana. But Bethesda seemed somewhat mollified when the senator gave her an appraising look and an appreciative smile.
Clodia had not yet appeared and her couch was unoccupied. Catullus scanned the faces of those who still stood and milled about. "Who will take the place of honor beside our hostess tonight? Let me see: husband Quintus is down in Hades, brother Publius is off making last-moment arrangements for tomorrow's festival, and lover Caelius-ah, he's on trial for murder, isn't he? Poison, wasn't it? Well, I suppose we wouldn't want a poisoner at our dinner party, no matter how superior his stud service. Still, someone will have to share the couch with our queen. Not one of her other brothers, I think; Publius would go crazy with jealousy. Perhaps that ranting freedman who spoke at the trial today. He has Publius's name, if not his looks, and we've seen that he can fill in for his ex-master, in public speaking anyway. But it's rather hard to imagine the likes of him lying with his head on her lap while she dabbles sauteed sparrow brains into his mouth, isn't it? Ah, there she is, our Lesbia. Almighty Venus! Where on earth did she get that dress?"
"You can see right through it," murmured Bethesda.
"I happen to know that the fabric comes from Cos," I said, showing off.
"Something new from a famous silkmaker there."
"I thought you weren't her lover," growled Catullus. Was he teasing me again, or truly angry? Suddenly he let out a barking laugh, so loud that several heads turned to look. "Oh no, not Egnatius!" he whispered. "I thought she was done with him."
Clodia took her place at her couch. Joining her was a tall, muscular young man with a full black beard and a dazzling smile. I recognized his face from the Salacious Tavern.
"Very handsome," said Bethesda.
"If a stud horse could stand upright and grin he'd look like Egnatius, and women would call him handsome, I suppose." Catullus curled his upper lip. "The foul-mouthed Spaniard with the sparkling smile. But then, don't Spaniards always have the whitest teeth? You know how they get such white teeth, don't you?"
Bethesda inclined her head inquiringly.
"If Egnatius is the lord of the feast, all I can say is: check your wine cup before you take a swig."
"What do you mean?" asked Bethesda. Catullus cleared his throat and began:
"Egnatius is forever smiling to show off that dazzling grin.
Go to a trial-"
He started to laugh and covered his mouth until he could stop. The senator and his courtesan leaned closer to listen. "No, wait, let me start over. I'll change it up a bit, especially for tonight. Let me think… " He clapped his hands. "Yes:
Egnatius is forever smiling to show off that dazzling grin.
In court tomorrow, Cicero will have everyone weeping:
'Pitiful poisoner, er, prisoner!'
– except for Egnatius, who'll grin.
And when Caelius is run out of town, his mother mourning,
'Only son! Good as dead!'-for her sake, Egnatius will grin.
It's a sickness, that grin: everywhere, everywhen.
Social grace? Social disease, I'd call it!
Look Egnatius, listen up: Had you been born Roman,
Or Sabine, or Tiburtine, obese Etruscan or Umbrian slob,
Or a swarthy Lanuvian with teeth just as perfect,
Or a Transpadane from my own dear, sweet Verona,
Or any man who cleans his teeth in the regular way,
Still I'd curse that grin. It's inane. It offends!
Ah, but you come from Spain-and Spaniards every morning, As we know, scrub their teeth white and rub their gums rosy With the stuff that squirts out of their bladders. Yellow cleanser! So flash that perfect grin-it only goes to show how much You've been guzzling from your own chamber-pot. I'd rather my own teeth should rot!"
The old senator clapped. His courtesan giggled. Bethesda grudged a crooked smile and whispered in my ear: "Are all his poems so vulgar?" "All the bits I've heard."
"Surely his love poems are different," she sighed, looking puzzled. Clodia's attraction to Marcus Caelius made perfect sense to her, but Catullus's appeal eluded her.
At that moment, Catullus's couch partner arrived. I should have known who it would be; his presence added the final measure of perverse imbalance to our little dining group. "Have I just arrived at the end of one of your poems?" quipped Trygonion, sliding onto the couch. "What fortunate timing."
Catullus scowled and snorted, but only to hide a deeper reaction. His jaw stiffened and quivered. He blinked uncontrollably. Not only had Clodia banished him back to Bithynia; she had seated him side by side with her emasculated pet. No one but me seemed to notice that Catullus was barely managing to fight back tears.
When everyone was seated, Clodia welcomed her guests with a very brief speech and the promise that she would strive to greet everyone more personally as the evening progressed; this evoked a low, suggestive whistle from a young man with a scraggly beard and a very bad haircut at a table nearby. His companions made a playful show of slapping him down for his presumptuousness. I saw Catullus wince.
The evening commenced with the arrival ofthe first course, a goose-liver paste fit for the gods of Olympus. An exquisite Falernian wine washed away all cares. Soon Bethesda was charming Senator Fufius with stories of her native Alexandria, while his neglected young courtesan played with her food and pouted. The senator seemed genuinely fascinated by everything Bethesda had to say. "I've never been to Egypt myself," he wheezed, "but of course with all this debate and controversy of late, one has to wonder what all the fuss is about." Even Trygonion and Catullus began to converse in fits and starts, if only because neither of them could keep his mouth shut for long. They traded barbs and competed at casting aspersions on various people in the room. They kept silent about those within earshot-the chief advantage of sitting next to them, I decided.
At length the dinner ended, or at least the first dinner of the evening; there would be more food and wine later. The time for entertainment had arrived. The guests moved to the garden, where folding chairs and couches had been placed in front of the little stage. I was happy to take my leave of Catullus and Trygonion, but the senator stayed close to Bethesda, with his courtesan following behind. Slaves continued to move among the guests, offering tidbits and delicacies to those with bottomless stomachs and making sure that no cup stayed empty for long.
The entertainment began with a mime show, one of those performances with a single unmasked actor speaking all the roles. The performer was new to Rome ("Just arrived in town," announced Clodia, "after spreading laughter from Cyprus to Sicily"), but the little playlets he performed were the old standards, raunchy skits about a slave talking back to his master, and a matchmaker trying to convince a husband he needs a second wife, and a doctor accidentally treating the wrong patient with a series of hilariously painful cures. The actor suggested costume changes in an instant with the barest theatrical devices-a scarf transformed him into a bashful young maiden, a hideously exaggerated bracelet made him a rich lady, a child's wooden play-sword turned him into a swaggering general.
The crowd tittered at every obscenity, groaned at the terrible puns, and roared with laughter at the climax of each skit. The actor was quite extraordinary; Clodia knew how to choose an entertainer. In the gaps between skits, Bethesda informed the old senator that mimes had originated in the streets and squares of Alexandria, where wandering actors would set down their boxes of props and put on impromptu shows for whatever coins the crowd might toss their way. That was still the only real way to see a mime, Bethesda insisted, though she supposed that the man Clodia had found was clever enough for a Roman audience.