“That isn’t Pompey’s style,” I interjected. “Pompey waits until the war is almost over and then demands the command after someone else has done all the fighting. He did it in Spain, and in Asia and Africa. He’s not about to go salvage a situation where Romans have been repeatedly defeated.”
“Well, I think that Pompey is a great man!” said Catullus the poet.
“You poets are always enthralled by adventurers who pose as gods,” said Afranius. “They’re all just men, and Pompey’s not as much a man as some I know.”
“Mucia didn’t think so, anyway,” said Capito. Now Catullus’s face grew as red as Nero’s had been. This was an indirect gibe at his infatuation with Clodia. It was widely known that Pompey had divorced Mucia because she had slept with Caesar. This did not prevent Pompey and Caesar from being allies. Politics is politics, and marriage, well, marriage is politics, too.
“I think you are all jealous of his fame,” said the poet with some acuity.
“Deserving or not,” said Calpurnianus, “it will be a show such as Rome has never seen before. I’ve been out to visit his camp and he’s got a hundred elephants out there, with mahouts drilling them to perform tricks throughout the procession. He has a legion fully armed just to guard his treasure.”
This got my attention. “I thought he disbanded his troops when he reached Italy.”
“He petitioned to keep this lot under arms until his triumph,” Calpurnianus said. “They’ve been out there practicing for so long that they’ll be ready to celebrate the triumph within a few days of the Senate’s granting permission.”
“I hear that he’s celebrating three triumphs at once,” said young Nero. “The war with the pirates, the war in Africa and the one in Asia.”
A slave came in and whispered something to Capito, and our host rose from the couch. “I must go and speak with someone in the atrium. Please continue to enjoy yourselves. I shall return within a few minutes.” He left as his slaves began to set plates of sweet pastries before us.
“Pontifex,” said young Nero very respectfully, “everyone is talking about the rites of Bona Dea, to take place tomorrow night. I am a bit confused. Just who is Bona Dea?” By “everyone” I presumed he meant Clodius. We all turned to hear Catulus.
“That is a touchy question,” Catulus admitted. “We pontifexes are supposed to know all about our native religious practice, but the Good Goddess is rather mysterious. Some identify her with our old Italian goddess Ceres, whom the Greeks call Demeter; others say she is of Asian origin.”
“We’ve always expelled foreign mystery cults,” Afranius said.
“That’s what makes it touchy,” said Catulus. “The college of pontifexes has always been hostile to such practice, but since men are forbidden to ask about this rite, and women are forbidden to speak of it, we don’t even know if it’s foreign or native.”
In the midst of this learned discourse, Hermes leaned forward to fill my cup. As he did, he whispered in my ear: “Don’t eat the pastry.” I was long experienced at intrigue and conspiracy and gave no sign that I had received a warning.
“Where are the rites being held this year?” asked one of the men at Afranius’s couch.
“Caesar’s house,” I said. “He told me so himself this morning.” That caused something else to occur to me. “Isn’t it usually conducted by a Consul’s wife, or the wife of the senior praetor?”
“It was all rather confused,” said Calpurnianus, “because I’m a widower and my colleague Messala Niger just divorced his wife. Caesar was praetor last year, and since he’s Pontifex Maximus, he said he’d volunteer his official residence. It’s a great bother because every male must be excluded from the premises, including slaves and animals.”
“Even paintings, statues and mosaics of any male creature must be covered,” added Catulus the pontifex.
“Who is Caesar married to these days?” I asked. “I remember Cornelia died a few years ago.”
“Pompeia,” Afranius said, “and rumor has it he’s not happy with her.”
“More likely the other way around,” said Catullus the poet.
“Pompeia?” I said. “Is she Pompey’s daughter?” We began to hear voices raised in argument a few rooms away. Not an uncommon sound in a great house.
Calpurnianus shook his head. “No, she’s the daughter of Quintus Pompeius Rufus, whose father was Consul with Sulla the year he brought his army into Rome and exiled the Marians. Her mother—let me see—yes, her mother was another Cornelia, the daughter of Sulla.”