The Sacrilege(58)
“I am amazed that anything can fell Milo. He is of doubtful birth,” Lucullus pointed out, “and his activities are little more than criminal.”
“As to his birth, he has been from birth a Roman citizen, and there is no higher birth than that.”
Lucullus clapped his hands. “Bravo. If this were one of the popular assemblies, I should rise to my feet and cheer.”
“If his activities lack a certain gentility, is it more respectable to slaughter foreigners than to brawl in the streets of Rome? Besides, once he has come to great prominence in the state, his youthful excesses will be forgotten, as is always the case. Look at Crassus. At Sulla, even. Both of them were abhorred as degenerate young reprobates, but the highest elements in Rome were kissing their backsides soon enough. Just wait. Soon all Rome will be puckering up for Titus Milo.”
“I’ll admit he couldn’t have sent a better man to press his suit. I almost want to marry the rogue myself now.”
“Then you will allow him to pay court to Fausta?” I said.
“There is a small but significant difficulty,” he said.
“What might that be?”
“A frog croaking in my fishpond has as much influence with her as I have. I am the executor of her father’s will, but she doesn’t think that extends to her person, whatever the law might say. She is a Cornelia, and a daughter of Sulla, and she is not about to submit herself to a mere Licinius like me. We get along well enough, but that’s about all. She gets on better with Claudia, and that’s a bad sign. But if Milo is willing to risk his future happiness with a haughty demigoddess of a Cornelia, he has my permission to chance it.”
“Might I speak with her?” I asked.
“I’ll send for her, but I can promise you nothing beyond that.” He raised a hand so slightly that it might have been mistaken for an involuntary twitch. But his slaves were sensitive enough to detect his slightest wish. One came running and all but prostrated himself. “Tell the lady Fausta she has a visitor in the garden,” Lucullus murmured. The man dashed off with winged heels.
Lucullus rose. “I wish you the best of fortune, Decius. The woman is self-willed, but not without a certain intelligence. She regards the sort of men I favor as too dull to hold her interest. If any man could strike her fancy, I suppose it would have to be someone like Milo.”
He left me in the garden, leaving likewise the golden pitcher. I helped myself to another cup. Caecuban like that didn’t come my way every day. While I waited for Fausta I lazed back in my chair, trying to imagine what it would be like living as Lucullus did. Without turning my head very far, I could see at least fifty slaves working in the garden. This, I knew, was only a fraction of his household staff. The table was fine porphyry, and the pitcher that sat on it was solid gold. It looked as if it would weigh more empty than a common pitcher when full. I determined to empty it and find out.
What must it be like, I thought, to pass a particularly lovely spot when traveling between, say, Rome and Brundisium, decide that you fancy the place, turn to your steward and say: “Buy all the land for ten miles around and build me a villa there.” And then pass by a year later and see a mansion the size of a middling town, fully landscaped, decorated with the pick of the loot of Greece and Asia, and ready for you to move in if you should feel like resting from your trip. I thought this seemed like an extremely pleasant way to live. The problem was that the only way to amass such wealth was to conquer some extremely rich kings, as Lucullus had.
By the time Fausta arrived, a warm, fuzzy mantle had settled over the world. It was truly excellent Caecuban.
“I am terribly sorry to have kept you waiting so long, Decius Caecilius.” She was no less beautiful than when I had seen her before, dressed in a gown of saffron linen over which she had thrown a brief pallium of fine white wool.
“I came unannounced,” I said as I rose, “and to wait in the house of Lucullus is to live like a king. Who can complain of that?” A slave hovered nearby with a tray, from which I seized a goblet which I filled for her. The old rules against women drinking with men were fast fading, especially for informal occasions such as this. Ordinary rules never applied to women like Fausta in any case.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the cup but not drinking. “Word is spreading that you are investigating the profanation of the rites. Is that why you are here?”
“I am hurt,” I said. “Everyone thinks that all I do is snoop. Actually, nothing could be further from my thoughts at this moment.” This was not strictly true. “Actually, I come in the guise of Cupid.”