Francesca has work to do: editing of the Domus Aurea book has to be finished before the end of the month. On her laptop, she has the images that will accompany the text. We look at the mighty brick pillars that are thought to have been supports for the coenatio rotunda, the circular dining hall, of which Suetonius wrote that its ceiling ‘would turn constantly day and night like the Heavens’. Archaeologists believe that it was in fact the floor that rotated, under a depiction of the night sky, and that the mechanism was powered by water. The book will include a diagram of how the revolving dining room might have functioned. Francesca shows me the diagram, and an animated film in which the viewer is taken on a flight over the lake and the vineyards of the Golden House, past the colossal statue of the emperor, before swooping into a courtyard, where our virtual tour of the interior begins.
Emma comes in. ‘Take a look at this,’ says Francesca, beckoning. The camera slows down, so that we can appreciate a spectacular painted wall – the frescoes of the Domus Aurea cover more than ten times the area of the Sistine Chapel frescoes, Francesca tells us. Pointing to the hole in the centre of the vault, she tells her mother about the boy who, one day in 1480 or thereabouts, fell into a hole in the Esquiline hill and found himself in what he took to be a painted cave, but which was in fact one of the three hundred rooms of Nero’s Golden House. Within a mere forty years of the emperor’s death the palace had been built over so thoroughly that no trace of it was visible above ground. After the discovery, holes were cut into the hill so that people could descend into the fabulous grotto. Raphael himself had explored the ruins. ‘Can you imagine what that must have been like?’ wonders Francesca. ‘Raphael dangling on a rope, peering into the murk.’ I marvel with her. But water pouring in through the holes has caused great damage, as have the roots of the trees that were planted on the hill when the site became a park. When it rains, the weight of the soil and vegetation on top of the Domus Aurea increases by as much as thirty per cent. ‘It’s a big problem,’ Francesca tells her mother. Emma takes her daughter’s word for it, but she is not convinced that all this work on the wreckage of Nero’s palace is the best use of however many millions of euros of public money are being lavished on the project. It might be better to just call it quits, she suggests. The old frescoes are pretty, but she’ll take the Sistine Chapel any day, she apologises. She leaves us to enjoy the pictures of ancient brickwork and rubble-strewn corridors. We hunch over the laptop; the incorrigible ruin-buffs.
It’s ridiculous how little Francesca is earning at the moment, Emma protests to me. It’s insulting. ‘She’d be better off working in one of our shops,’ she says. Francesca shouldn’t have to be working at Christmas. Nicholas has to do a few hours, of course, but that’s to be expected: his company depends on him; he’s well paid, as he should be. ‘It’s a waste of her intelligence,’ she tells me.
‘She enjoys what she does. Many people can’t say that,’ I answer.
‘She could enjoy what she does and get paid properly,’ Emma counters. The discussion follows its customary course, to resignation. ‘My daughter is an economic invalid, and it’s your fault,’ says Emma, administering a whack with a towel. The course of Francesca’s life, my sister pretends, was diverted into its present unlucrative channel by my influence. ‘All those afternoons with you in the British Museum,’ she says. ‘You and Mr Martin,’ she curses, clamping her teeth on the name of the teacher who had escorted young Francesca around Pompeii, turning the girl’s head, while her classmates improved their tans.
Emma and Nicholas at work in the kitchen all morning, preparing the two Christmas feasts: one for the meat-eating seniors, and one for Francesca and her husband and their child. Every now and then, Emma tells me, her daughter makes some sort of attempt to convert her to the cause of virtuous eating, but not with the zeal of earlier years. The turkey is no longer lamented as the ‘murdered bird’. Today is a domestic carnival; all tribulations are set aside. Emma will make no mention of the current state of the retail environment, nor will her husband refer to the impact of recent political developments on his company’s business; Francesca’s dwindling income will not be a topic; likewise the closure of the museum. We are fortunate people. The food is sumptuous, and the wine is special – and, I am sure, unconscionably expensive.
We withdraw to the living room. A corner has been set aside as Jack’s play area; assisted by his father, he assembles a wooden train track. Emma’s gift from Francesca is a set of nature documentaries, her favourite genre. When she needs to unwind, she gives herself up to the spectacle of the natural world. In keeping with the season, she selects a winter-themed programme. We follow an Arctic fox on the hunt, then a polar bear. The camerawork is remarkable, as is the definition of the new TV set. Crystals of snow glint like diamonds on the fox’s whiskers. After fifteen minutes we’re off to the Southern Hemisphere, to observe a flotilla of penguins endeavouring to ride ashore on the waves. Geraint brings Jack over to watch the comical birds as they skid on the ice; they waddle through blizzards in their thousands. When things take a violent turn – seals ambushed by killer whales – Jack is carried back to his trains. The black water, the luminous ice, the spray of blood – the colours are sumptuous. State of the art, as the blurb on the box proclaims. Back in the Arctic, a polar bear waits at a breathing hole. It has been waiting for hours; sooner or later, a seal will put its head up. The tension is high. Emma, anxious for the seals, takes her husband’s hand; they have been married for more than thirty years, and still they hold hands. Contentment and prosperity; there is a vein of envy in my affection.
When the programme is over, Emma takes Jack in her lap to read to him. With one hand she turns the pages, and with the other she holds her grandson; her fingers are spread on his chest, and he places his hands over them, as if to secure their protection. ‘Giraffe,’ says my sister, and Jack tilts forward to touch the page. ‘That’s right,’ says Emma; she kisses the top of his head. ‘Gorilla,’ she says, and again Jack puts a finger on the book. ‘Very good,’ she says, and she angles her head so that he can see her smile of praise, which becomes a gaze of adoration, which is returned. At risk of embarrassing myself, I withdraw to the kitchen. Pans have to be scoured.
Geraint has brought a sample of the material with which he’s working: a tangerine-coloured square of sponge, a quarter of an inch thick. Inserted into clothing, it will protect people whose occupations entail a risk of severe impacts – oil rigs, demolition, motorbike racing. Non-Newtonian fluids are the key to the technology, he tells us. On Francesca’s laptop we watch a video of students messing around in a pool of cornstarch and water. Two of them run across the surface of the mixture again and again. Their footprints vanish within seconds. Then one of them stops running, halfway across, whereupon he slowly sinks. It’s the same principle, Geraint explains. Emma inspects the fabric, turning it over three or four times, as if checking a magician’s prop; she crushes the square in her palms. ‘Sweetheart, if you’d be so good,’ says Geraint, and Francesca passes the mallet to him, then places her hand on the table, forming a fist. He lays the square over the back of her hand. ‘Ready?’ he says, and at Francesca’s nod he brings the mallet down. It bounces off, as if it had struck wood. ‘Nothing,’ Francesca assures us. The demonstration is repeated. ‘Can I have a go?’ asks Emma. She invites me to place my fist on the table. She puts some effort into her second blow, like a medieval agent of the law maiming the hand of a thief.