Baecr had allowed his mind to drift. Drawing it back to the present he recognised that he and Marcus had walked a semi-circle towards the old Curia at the rear of the theatre. It was an unattractive annex to Pompey's grand design, mostly neglected and left to decay after the original Caesar was assassinated inside a century earlier.  

   Not far from the Curia stood an iron gate set within a protective wall shielding the theatre grounds from the outside world. To Marcus's confusion it was slightly ajar since he was sure he had closed it behind him earlier. Had someone else gone inside between then and now, was their unspoken question, alarmed by the possible implications if this were true.

  Dismissing any lingering thoughts of Caesar and the Curia, the unsettled brothers passed through the gate and entered an open garden. Baecr knew it well. It stretched a hundred paces or so to a short flight of steps leading up to the theatre-proper. On summer days he had visited there with Vetelia, watching her admire the colour and scent of shrubs and flowers, or sheltered together beneath shaded porticos when the midday sun had burned too fiercely. Then it had been a place of promenades, parties and grape-fueled drink, of other people’s jokes and laughter, families with young children sometimes, Phoebe included, a prelude to play and festivals, music and dance, when all people wanted was to have fun. Even he had enjoyed some uncommon happiness there. Now it was sombre and empty, drained of life except their own. To him its snow-frosted paths felt more like walkways to a mausoleum than to any place of entertainment.
  Once through the garden and inside the theatre the two men found themselves in near darkness. Marcus led the way holding his lantern out before him. The feeble light glazed more statues with unmoving eyes, muted witnesses to whoever and whatever had gone by before. Fortunately for their active imaginations it did not take them long to reach the cavea, the usually noise-filled heart of Pompey's theatre, now still and as silent as some forgotten grave. Roofless, the cavea lay open to the sky and once more moonlight on scattered snow replaced the need for the lantern, its flame dying to a bare flicker.

  Beneath the white, ethereal glow, it was possible to make out rows of stone seats rising upwards on three sides of the cavea. On its fourth side lay the proscenium, a wooden stage for actors to strut upon, giving voice to comedy or tragedy. Then behind the proscenium stood the scaenae frons, a three-story vertical backdrop with columns, doorways, windows and pilasters. Several lunar-lit figurines stood in niches, seemingly glaring down onto something unnaturally-shaped lying in the centre of the stage. At first this looked like crumpled sacking left by a careless hand. Closer, however, Baecr saw it was a strip of faded yellow curtain flecked with white. Around it was a darker stain. It haloed what he assumed was poor Hector's shrouded body lying in a ring of violent red. 

 

 

 

 

 

Scribbles​​​