SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

“Something like that.”

“Well, an impressive drawing, accurate or not. You’ve a good imagination, and a great hand. I wonder…”

The man trailed off, scanning the exterior of the Colosseum. Foxx followed his eyes and saw a young boy, small wooden sword in hand, running back and forth among the arches. The child was engaged in mock combat with unseen adversaries.

“That’s my son,” the man said, a note of sadness in his voice. “He’s recently lost his mother. He’s been inconsolable, so I thought a trip to Rome might do us both some good. Warmer climate, exploring the ruins. Oscar—that’s his name—is fascinated with the Romans. Anything to do with their battles and armor and weapons. Mark my words, someday he’ll either be teaching classics at Oxford or developing strategy at the Royal Military College. He’s obsessed. But at least it keeps his mind off of…”

Foxx said nothing, letting the man talk. The late afternoon sun spread long shadows across the cobbles and a distant church bell tolled. Otherwise the streets were quiet, a few Romans hurrying home, or to mass.

The man continued. “We return to London in a few days. Oscar has wanted a souvenir of our trip, something unique. Do you perhaps do commissions? Something like your sketch there. He would be thrilled, as would I.”

“Commissions?” said Foxx, surprised.

“I’ll pay you, of course,” the man continued quickly, misinterpreting Foxx’s reaction. “Would five guineas do it?”

Foxx nearly choked. “F-f-five?” he stammered. That could keep him in Rome for another two months.

“Dear me, I’m sorry. That must be terribly insulting. Your sketches certainly are unique, and well contrived. I do hope I have not offended you, Mr…?”

“Foxx. John Foxx.”

“Mr. Foxx. Shall we say ten guineas, then? I hope that is more acceptable.”

Foxx nodded, stunned, and the man extended his hand.

“Settled, then. I’m Clifford Rotham. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Foxx.”

“Clifford Rotham? Earl of Lowestoft?” Foxx said, stunned once more.

“Yes, yes,” the man said. “But that matters not here, eh, Mr. Foxx? I’m just a father, trying to secure some measure of happiness for his son.”

Then he turned toward the Colosseum. “Oscar! Come here please.”

The boy disengaged from imaginary combat and walked toward them, sulking at being brought back to reality. Foxx knew all too well how that felt, and thought perhaps he could do something about it.

“Oscar, this is Mr. Foxx. What do you think of his drawing here?”

The boy stared down at the strutting gladiator and his scowl disappeared. “Brilliant!” he beamed. “Can he do one for me? Please, papa?”

“How about,” Foxx said, an idea forming, “I do one of you?”

The sketch of the boy fighting inside the Colosseum had been easy enough to manage, even in the fading daylight. They made their way inside the arena, and while Foxx set up the camera lucida and sketched the interior from the perspective of a spectator in the stands, the boy and his father, following Foxx’s instruction, found a flat spot down on the floor, careful to avoid the areas that had collapsed over the centuries.

By the time the boy was in position Foxx had finished his sketch. He thought of the gladiator and the Colosseum—to Foxx’s eyes at least—came alive. Colored banners streamed from the highest arches, canopies hung over long poles for shade, and bare-chested drummers beat giant sideways drums. The crowds were thick, the seats nearly full. Foxx could imagine the tremendous noise of such a spectacle.

Down on the arena floor, two gladiators—chained together at their waists and each bearing a short sword and small, round shield—battled a half-starved bear. The bear eventually lost, but not before delivering a nasty gash to the leg of one of his attackers.

Then the gladiator that Foxx had drawn earlier appeared from behind two wooden doors, and the crowd stood to cheer. He was far bigger than the two who had just killed the bear, and he was their next challenge. Though Foxx could not hear the crowd, he knew they were rooting for this lone champion, who raised a long spear over his head and pumped his arms.

The boy, Oscar, was juxtaposed over this scene in Foxx’s prism. Foxx called down to the boy to act like he was in combat with a gladiator. The boy started posturing, shouting, “How’s this, Mr. Foxx? Shall I jab, or swing wide?”

“Whatever you like!” Foxx called back, and drew the boy—attacking aggressively here, parrying there—so that little Oscar appeared to be battling the champion in different locations across the arena floor.

The lone gladiator, strong and swift as he was, should have defeated the two smaller combatants. But to Foxx’s surprise the pair eventually overcame him, by clever use of the chain that bound them together to trip him up and their swords to finish him off. As they stood over the fallen champion’s body, Foxx called down to Oscar.

“Stand over there. No, there! Yes, good. Now, lift your foot and bend your knee just so. Excellent!” And he drew the boy, foot atop the fallen champion, sword raised high.

Oscar was beside himself with the finished sketch, delighted to see himself drawn as an ancient gladiator—attacking, feinting, parrying, and finally victorious over a much larger foe.

His father was even more pleased.

“He hasn’t smiled this much since before his mother passed,” he said as he pressed the payment into Foxx’s hand.

Ten guineas, as agreed, plus one extra.

“For his happiness,” the Earl said. And then, as if an afterthought, he handed Foxx a small card. “If you’ll be in Rome next summer, please send word to me at this address in London. I’ll be sure to recommend you to those in my circle who will be making the Tour. If you do other Roman scenes—you know, the baths for the ladies, chariot races for the men—with your artistic skill, and a copy of Tacitus or Gibbon…why, Mr. Foxx, you could be a very wealthy man!”

They disappeared into the late December evening, the sketch rolled under the Earl’s arm and Oscar swiping emphatically at invisible foes.

December became January, which passed into February. With the money from the Earl’s commission, and frugal living, Foxx could afford to remain in Rome through summer.

He rented a small room near the Pantheon and spent his days sketching.

He mastered the trick behind whatever it was that made the camera lucida open a vista onto the past. All he had to do was draw the scene before him, and then think about some known historical event that occurred there. The more detailed his thoughts, the more specific the scene would be. And then, as if someone pulled back a curtain, the past came alive before him.

Tacitus and Gibbon, indeed! He found second-hand English copies of The Histories and The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire , read everything he could on the Renaissance masters, and daily congratulated himself for having paid such close attention to Harriet’s fervent historical discussions.

One glorious April morning during Holy Week, when the trees on Palatine Hill were a riot of pink blossoms and Rome was filled with pilgrims, he convinced a priest at the Vatican to let him into the Sistine Chapel between morning Mass and afternoon Vespers. After sketching the silent, gorgeous chamber he thought of Michelangelo, high on his scaffold, dabbing at the ceiling.

And then, through the prism, the chapel was suddenly filled with rickety wooden platforms. On the topmost stood the master himself, painting his fresco. From down below Foxx watched as the artist’s arm reached up and spread wet plaster, then applied a few strokes from his brush before it dried. Inch by inch, a small section of one of the Renaissance’s most celebrated frescos was painted before his eyes.