The ancient world remains a popular subject for novels. It seems that every generation tries to see its present in the past it writes - or, indeed, the past it reads. This week, I again found myself reading a novel set in Ancient Rome - this time Helen Dunmore's 2008 recreation of the city in the time of the poet Catullus. I also watched Mary Beard's documentary about Pompeii, on Tuesday evening. One scene, in which Beard made a brave attempt to recline on a cold marble poolside triclinium at one of the richest villas in the excavated city, reminded me of a crucial scene near the end of Dunmore's novel.
In Counting the Stars, Dunmore tells the story of Catullus's affair with Clodia Metelli, the wife of a senator and the likely inspiration for Lesbia, the fictionalised woman to whom he addresses his best-known love poems. At first the young newcomer to Rome is fascinated by Clodia's beauty and sophistication. Not only does she appreciate and admire his skill with words, she inspires him to write with real passion. But as Catullus comes to understand the danger Clodia poses to all those devoted to her, he has to face up to her dark and amoral side.
No-one close to Clodia is safe, from her slave and confidante, Aemilia, to her powerful husband, Metellus Celer. The pet sparrow which awakens her tender emotions is probably the only creature she truly cares about. In these early days of the Roman republic, life near the centre of power is never secure, and Clodia shows herself more than capable of undermining or disposing of her enemies.
Towards the end of the novel, Clodia and Catullus sit beside the fish pool Metellus Celer had built according to the latest fashion. There are ornamental water jets, and Clodia tries to operate them without the aid of a slave. She explains that this was intended to be a place where she could come and relax, escaping the demands of public life.
But as they look into the pool, it becomes plain that the landscaping has not worked. The marble benches are cold and unyielding, as Mary Beard will find those in Pompeii; the water jets either refuse to work, or control themselves in a most alarming way. And the carp in the pool, far from adding a sense of tranquillity and harmony, are either eating each other or showing clear signs of a fatal infection.
In moral terms, then, the prestige and luxuries of Clodia's lifestyle are shown to be as decayed and redundant as the mossy garden pools of the unearthed Pompeii. There can be no real rest for the Clodias of this world. Catullus suggests a merciful poisoning of the fish, but Clodia is shocked at the idea of killing her pets in that way: " . . . I'll give them to the slaves. They'll be thrilled. I shouldn't think they've ever tasted carp."
For someone reading this in the Irish Republic after the economic boom, it is tempting to see our own society in that pool along with that of the early Roman Republic. Whether big fish or small fish, we are all tempted now to devour each other. The rapidly decaying ghost estates can seem unbearably similar to the emptying life of Clodia, as she sits amid the remains of her dream home. But were we ever really in Clodia's league? Perhaps we were more like Catullus, just passing through, our eyes gradually forced to open. Or was it that we never really moved beyond the role of the slaves, who ran so eagerly to empty the pool and devour the decaying carp?
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