Fic: Goldfinch [Original]
Apr. 25th, 2016 11:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
autiotaloTitle: Goldfinch
Fandom: Original
Rating: G
Word count: 1908 words
Summary: Gaius is distracted from his poetry composition.
Notes:. Written for the ‘terrible choices’ square of my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
genprompt_bingo card.
Goldfinch
With ardour like beating wings
I descend to Leda’s thighs
Gaius Iuventius Carduelis tapped the end of the stylus against his lips and considered the opening lines of the poem. He’d spent the best part of half an hour polishing the couplet and was heartily sick of it. Composing to a deadline brought out his insecurities; never mind the scrolls of his poetry that circulated Rome to be recited and discussed in the best households, this poem was the one that mattered—and so far, this poem was only two lines long.
A sigh escaped him as he leaned back in his chair. Hoping to find inspiration in the courtyard garden, earlier he’d moved his writing table from his bedroom out beneath the colonnade. Gaius put down the stylus and reached for the cup of watered wine. It tasted tart and refreshing, cut with the sharpness of a slice of lemon.
The sound of birdsong competed against the trickle of the fountain thinned by the summer heat. Scantily-clad nymphs fleeing from leering, sun-baked satyrs seemed to take refuge in the puddle to one side of the mosaic pavement. Bees bumbled lazily from flower to flower, occasionally detouring beneath the portico as if in search of cooling shade. The jasmine trained against the bare, unplastered wall of the main house sent out a drowsy-sweet scent.
From where he sat, Gaius could see a sliver of blue sky framed by the angles of the colonnade and the red terracotta roof-tiles of his father’s house. It was the perfect late Spring day, and he felt trapped. Caught by circumstance, snared by choice, entangled in his own ability.
He glanced at the tablet again. The wax had softened in the heat of the day, and his words resembled the scratchings on the bones of augurs. It would be so easy to wipe them clean, but he needed something for the literary soiree Caesius Bassus was hosting tomorrow night.
A flame of anticipation glowed inside him. Gaius’s first love was lyric poetry; Caesius Bassus was a noted lyric poet. Gaius had accepted the invitation for the opportunity to learn from the master rhetorician; only later had he heard the rumour that the emperor planned to make an appearance.
Until now, Gaius had considered it his great good fortune that he had never met Nero. He’d seen the emperor from a distance a number of times, in parades and at sacrifices and at the theatre, and last May he’d seen Nero on the Servian Walls, watching as Rome burned.
His stepmother, Valeria Messalla, was distantly related to the imperial family. She was eager for him to attend Bassus’ party. His father agreed, no doubt hoping for more reflected glory, but Gaius was unsure. The emperor was notoriously fickle, and after the events of the previous year, to be part of his circle was to live on the razor’s edge.
Gaius took another sip of wine, then set the cup aside in favour of the stylus. The wax yielded beneath the pressure of the sharpened point, tiny flakes peeling away. Composing poetry was every bit as physical as working in stone. The results may not be as imposing, but they could endure much longer than any statue—and when the emperor himself could be amongst the audience, it was imperative that Gaius got this right.
Heat shimmered from the walls. Sweat rolled down his back. The songbirds trilled a repeating phrase. His thoughts wandered. He wished he’d worn a Greek-style tunic that left his arms bare. To feel the breeze against his skin would be heavenly. Perhaps later, if—when—he finished the poem, he could take a walk to the old gardens of Maecenas and see what was being done with the restoration work on the Golden House.
He wrote:
Commercial congress stings
Less than Cupid’s dart
Gaius blinked at the lines. Hexameter followed by pentameter. Without realising, he’d slipped into the elegiac couplet. Curse it, now he’d have to change the subject. The charms of a tavern dancing-girl were not appropriate for an elegy, even if she shared her name with one of Jupiter’s paramours.
He erased the poem to leave the tablet blank. Clearly he wasn’t cut out to be an epic poet. Or rather, he had the ability, but not the desire. The very opposite of his imperial majesty.
The reminder made Gaius shiver despite the growing heat. A terrible choice lay ahead. His lips twitched at the melodramatic thought, but his amusement soon faded. He did have a choice, and the wrong decision either way could prove costly. His acquaintance Fabricius Veiento, a man who knew how to survive the foibles of emperors, had whispered that the best way to impress Nero was to show to a disadvantage against him. But if Gaius wrote deliberately bad poetry, he could risk alienating Caesius Bassus, whose good opinion he sought. Was it wiser to be politic or to be passionate?
Draining the contents of the cup soothed the bitter taste of indecision. Gaius sorted through the heap of scrolls on the table, copies of poems he’d not yet published. Earlier he’d thought them good examples of his work; now he scanned them for the merest whiff of sedition. He didn’t want to present verse so neutered by fear it was nothing more than a collection of random syllables, but neither could he risk giving insult to the emperor. In the past, Nero had enjoyed some of his cronies making a mock of him, but it was too soon after Piso’s treachery and Lucan’s death for Gaius to chance even the smallest jest.
Silence broke into his musings. Abandoning the poems for now, Gaius got up and walked the length of the colonnade, his sandalled feet slapping lightly on the marble floor. A birdcage hung within sight of the sun but away from its heat, and a pair of goldfinches sat cuddled together on the higher of two wooden bars. The birds cocked their heads as he approached, then the male sidled to one side and began to preen.
Gaius whistled to them. The female fluttered down to the floor of the cage and dipped her beak into the little water trough he’d filled earlier from the fountain. She drank, then flew to the lower bar and cheeped at her mate. He began to trill, hopping back and forth, while the female continued to sing her counterpoint.
These were Gaius’s fourth pair of songbirds, and his favourites. His first pair of goldfinches had been a gift from his maternal grandfather. Gaius had grown up with their mellifluous twittering, a sound that had seemed so marvellous and pure against the clamour and bustle of Rome. His mother had sung to them, and she’d encouraged Gaius to sing, too; nonsense words at first, then lines of Greek poetry and Roman drama, until he’d been composing lyric to recite to the birds, and through them, to his mother.
His father mostly ignored the finches, the same way he mostly ignored Gaius’s poetry and indeed Gaius himself. During a dinner to celebrate his father’s second marriage, Valeria Messalla had referred to Gaius as Carduelis, goldfinch. Missing the inference that his son was nothing more than pretty and decorative, Gnaeus Iuventius Rufus had declared himself vastly amused by his new wife’s wit—and thus Carduelis became Gaius’s cognomen.
He liked it. To his mind, it was better than being labelled Rufus Minor, even if he did share his father’s dark red hair, and better than earning the cognomen Columella, like his friend Publius Manlius, who was as short and round as a column-drum.
Gaius moved closer to the cage. The finches bobbed up and down, bright eyes fixed on him. Their feathers glowed with vibrant health, flutters of gold along their wings, the contrast of red, black and white over their heads. Both birds chirped at him. Gaius whistled lightly, and the male hopped along the cross-bar and warbled a response.
Such a simple thing, and yet it brought him such pleasure. He smiled even as a dart of sadness pierced his heart. After his father had married Valeria Messalla, Gaius had left Rome for the farm in Latium he’d inherited from his mother. He’d used the excuse that he needed to check over the vine stock, but the reality was that he couldn’t bear to see another woman take his mother’s place. Especially a woman like Valeria Messalla, with her serpentine hair and cloying perfume of Damascus rose, and her wine-scented breath that she said came from using the lees to paint her lips.
Two weeks had turned into three, then four, then he’d stopped numbering the days, lost in the enjoyment of the countryside. How wonderful it had been to wake to a vista of rolling hills, of woodlands and tended fields. How empowering to speak with his mother’s steward—his steward, now—and learn how to manage the estate. How humbling to witness the slaves working on his land, and to learn their names and a little about them.
He remembered the wild goldfinches that gathered in the plum tree outside the windows of his study, their sweet trilling accompaniment to the poems that poured from him like the torrents rushing down the hillsides. The songbirds sparked gold and white, red and black and brown, and when they startled from the tree it was like a bouquet flung into the air.
His idyll ended after seven weeks when his father had summoned him back to Rome. The wild goldfinches twittered a farewell as he rode away.
By the time Gaius arrived back in the city, he’d decided to free his beloved pets. When he’d opened the door to their cage, they’d huddled inside. When he’d reached in to pick them up, they’d pecked him. Finally he’d left them alone with the cage door open, and he’d gone to attend the welcome home dinner his stepmother had arranged in his honour.
When he returned to his rooms, one little bird lay dead on the tiles and the other was clamped in the mouth of Valeria Messalla’s brindled cat.
Gaius had learned a lesson that day. Freedom was a dangerous thing. Though he was a Roman citizen with all the privileges of rank and wealth, he was as trapped as his finches.
He scattered a palmful of thistle seeds on the floor of the cage. The female hopped down to peck at the treats while her mate kept watch, head cocked and alert for danger.
Gaius’s heart squeezed. Even though these birds had not chosen one another but had been paired by their captor, they still looked out for one another, protected one another. Maybe, given how affectionate they were with each other and how loud their songs, maybe they loved one another.
If only he had someone willing to protect him. Someone he could rely upon. Someone he could trust. A mate.
The spark of an idea lit his mind as he watched the goldfinches. Though he still resided in his father’s house, he was beginning to make a name for himself with his poetry. More importantly, he had money of his own. Plenty of money, thanks to the most recent sale of his wine. Gaius frowned as the idea took shape. Instead of buying up ruinous, fire-devastated insulae in the Subura as his father was doing, perhaps...
Perhaps he could buy himself a protector.
Fandom: Original
Rating: G
Word count: 1908 words
Summary: Gaius is distracted from his poetry composition.
Notes:. Written for the ‘terrible choices’ square of my
genprompt_bingo card.With ardour like beating wings
I descend to Leda’s thighs
Gaius Iuventius Carduelis tapped the end of the stylus against his lips and considered the opening lines of the poem. He’d spent the best part of half an hour polishing the couplet and was heartily sick of it. Composing to a deadline brought out his insecurities; never mind the scrolls of his poetry that circulated Rome to be recited and discussed in the best households, this poem was the one that mattered—and so far, this poem was only two lines long.
A sigh escaped him as he leaned back in his chair. Hoping to find inspiration in the courtyard garden, earlier he’d moved his writing table from his bedroom out beneath the colonnade. Gaius put down the stylus and reached for the cup of watered wine. It tasted tart and refreshing, cut with the sharpness of a slice of lemon.
The sound of birdsong competed against the trickle of the fountain thinned by the summer heat. Scantily-clad nymphs fleeing from leering, sun-baked satyrs seemed to take refuge in the puddle to one side of the mosaic pavement. Bees bumbled lazily from flower to flower, occasionally detouring beneath the portico as if in search of cooling shade. The jasmine trained against the bare, unplastered wall of the main house sent out a drowsy-sweet scent.
From where he sat, Gaius could see a sliver of blue sky framed by the angles of the colonnade and the red terracotta roof-tiles of his father’s house. It was the perfect late Spring day, and he felt trapped. Caught by circumstance, snared by choice, entangled in his own ability.
He glanced at the tablet again. The wax had softened in the heat of the day, and his words resembled the scratchings on the bones of augurs. It would be so easy to wipe them clean, but he needed something for the literary soiree Caesius Bassus was hosting tomorrow night.
A flame of anticipation glowed inside him. Gaius’s first love was lyric poetry; Caesius Bassus was a noted lyric poet. Gaius had accepted the invitation for the opportunity to learn from the master rhetorician; only later had he heard the rumour that the emperor planned to make an appearance.
Until now, Gaius had considered it his great good fortune that he had never met Nero. He’d seen the emperor from a distance a number of times, in parades and at sacrifices and at the theatre, and last May he’d seen Nero on the Servian Walls, watching as Rome burned.
His stepmother, Valeria Messalla, was distantly related to the imperial family. She was eager for him to attend Bassus’ party. His father agreed, no doubt hoping for more reflected glory, but Gaius was unsure. The emperor was notoriously fickle, and after the events of the previous year, to be part of his circle was to live on the razor’s edge.
Gaius took another sip of wine, then set the cup aside in favour of the stylus. The wax yielded beneath the pressure of the sharpened point, tiny flakes peeling away. Composing poetry was every bit as physical as working in stone. The results may not be as imposing, but they could endure much longer than any statue—and when the emperor himself could be amongst the audience, it was imperative that Gaius got this right.
Heat shimmered from the walls. Sweat rolled down his back. The songbirds trilled a repeating phrase. His thoughts wandered. He wished he’d worn a Greek-style tunic that left his arms bare. To feel the breeze against his skin would be heavenly. Perhaps later, if—when—he finished the poem, he could take a walk to the old gardens of Maecenas and see what was being done with the restoration work on the Golden House.
He wrote:
Commercial congress stings
Less than Cupid’s dart
Gaius blinked at the lines. Hexameter followed by pentameter. Without realising, he’d slipped into the elegiac couplet. Curse it, now he’d have to change the subject. The charms of a tavern dancing-girl were not appropriate for an elegy, even if she shared her name with one of Jupiter’s paramours.
He erased the poem to leave the tablet blank. Clearly he wasn’t cut out to be an epic poet. Or rather, he had the ability, but not the desire. The very opposite of his imperial majesty.
The reminder made Gaius shiver despite the growing heat. A terrible choice lay ahead. His lips twitched at the melodramatic thought, but his amusement soon faded. He did have a choice, and the wrong decision either way could prove costly. His acquaintance Fabricius Veiento, a man who knew how to survive the foibles of emperors, had whispered that the best way to impress Nero was to show to a disadvantage against him. But if Gaius wrote deliberately bad poetry, he could risk alienating Caesius Bassus, whose good opinion he sought. Was it wiser to be politic or to be passionate?
Draining the contents of the cup soothed the bitter taste of indecision. Gaius sorted through the heap of scrolls on the table, copies of poems he’d not yet published. Earlier he’d thought them good examples of his work; now he scanned them for the merest whiff of sedition. He didn’t want to present verse so neutered by fear it was nothing more than a collection of random syllables, but neither could he risk giving insult to the emperor. In the past, Nero had enjoyed some of his cronies making a mock of him, but it was too soon after Piso’s treachery and Lucan’s death for Gaius to chance even the smallest jest.
Silence broke into his musings. Abandoning the poems for now, Gaius got up and walked the length of the colonnade, his sandalled feet slapping lightly on the marble floor. A birdcage hung within sight of the sun but away from its heat, and a pair of goldfinches sat cuddled together on the higher of two wooden bars. The birds cocked their heads as he approached, then the male sidled to one side and began to preen.
Gaius whistled to them. The female fluttered down to the floor of the cage and dipped her beak into the little water trough he’d filled earlier from the fountain. She drank, then flew to the lower bar and cheeped at her mate. He began to trill, hopping back and forth, while the female continued to sing her counterpoint.
These were Gaius’s fourth pair of songbirds, and his favourites. His first pair of goldfinches had been a gift from his maternal grandfather. Gaius had grown up with their mellifluous twittering, a sound that had seemed so marvellous and pure against the clamour and bustle of Rome. His mother had sung to them, and she’d encouraged Gaius to sing, too; nonsense words at first, then lines of Greek poetry and Roman drama, until he’d been composing lyric to recite to the birds, and through them, to his mother.
His father mostly ignored the finches, the same way he mostly ignored Gaius’s poetry and indeed Gaius himself. During a dinner to celebrate his father’s second marriage, Valeria Messalla had referred to Gaius as Carduelis, goldfinch. Missing the inference that his son was nothing more than pretty and decorative, Gnaeus Iuventius Rufus had declared himself vastly amused by his new wife’s wit—and thus Carduelis became Gaius’s cognomen.
He liked it. To his mind, it was better than being labelled Rufus Minor, even if he did share his father’s dark red hair, and better than earning the cognomen Columella, like his friend Publius Manlius, who was as short and round as a column-drum.
Gaius moved closer to the cage. The finches bobbed up and down, bright eyes fixed on him. Their feathers glowed with vibrant health, flutters of gold along their wings, the contrast of red, black and white over their heads. Both birds chirped at him. Gaius whistled lightly, and the male hopped along the cross-bar and warbled a response.
Such a simple thing, and yet it brought him such pleasure. He smiled even as a dart of sadness pierced his heart. After his father had married Valeria Messalla, Gaius had left Rome for the farm in Latium he’d inherited from his mother. He’d used the excuse that he needed to check over the vine stock, but the reality was that he couldn’t bear to see another woman take his mother’s place. Especially a woman like Valeria Messalla, with her serpentine hair and cloying perfume of Damascus rose, and her wine-scented breath that she said came from using the lees to paint her lips.
Two weeks had turned into three, then four, then he’d stopped numbering the days, lost in the enjoyment of the countryside. How wonderful it had been to wake to a vista of rolling hills, of woodlands and tended fields. How empowering to speak with his mother’s steward—his steward, now—and learn how to manage the estate. How humbling to witness the slaves working on his land, and to learn their names and a little about them.
He remembered the wild goldfinches that gathered in the plum tree outside the windows of his study, their sweet trilling accompaniment to the poems that poured from him like the torrents rushing down the hillsides. The songbirds sparked gold and white, red and black and brown, and when they startled from the tree it was like a bouquet flung into the air.
His idyll ended after seven weeks when his father had summoned him back to Rome. The wild goldfinches twittered a farewell as he rode away.
By the time Gaius arrived back in the city, he’d decided to free his beloved pets. When he’d opened the door to their cage, they’d huddled inside. When he’d reached in to pick them up, they’d pecked him. Finally he’d left them alone with the cage door open, and he’d gone to attend the welcome home dinner his stepmother had arranged in his honour.
When he returned to his rooms, one little bird lay dead on the tiles and the other was clamped in the mouth of Valeria Messalla’s brindled cat.
Gaius had learned a lesson that day. Freedom was a dangerous thing. Though he was a Roman citizen with all the privileges of rank and wealth, he was as trapped as his finches.
He scattered a palmful of thistle seeds on the floor of the cage. The female hopped down to peck at the treats while her mate kept watch, head cocked and alert for danger.
Gaius’s heart squeezed. Even though these birds had not chosen one another but had been paired by their captor, they still looked out for one another, protected one another. Maybe, given how affectionate they were with each other and how loud their songs, maybe they loved one another.
If only he had someone willing to protect him. Someone he could rely upon. Someone he could trust. A mate.
The spark of an idea lit his mind as he watched the goldfinches. Though he still resided in his father’s house, he was beginning to make a name for himself with his poetry. More importantly, he had money of his own. Plenty of money, thanks to the most recent sale of his wine. Gaius frowned as the idea took shape. Instead of buying up ruinous, fire-devastated insulae in the Subura as his father was doing, perhaps...
Perhaps he could buy himself a protector.
