“A marriage proposal?” she said coolly. “I had heard that you were not married.” The idea seemed to interest her about as much as looking for toads under rocks.
“Not at all. If that had been the case, my father would have called upon your guardian. No, I come on behalf of my good friend, Titus Annius Milo Papianus. He met you here a few days ago and was smitten, as might any man have been.”
Instantly, she grew more animated. “Milo! He is no ordinary man, to be sure. I found him fascinating. But his family is unknown to me. He has an adoptive name. How did that come about?”
“His father was Caius Papius Celsus, a landholder from the south. When he came to Rome he had himself adopted by his maternal grandfather, Titus Annius Luscus. This was strictly for political reasons, so that he would have city residency and membership in an urban tribe.” At least this was simple. A patrician pedigree might have forced me to drone on for an hour.
“But the rural tribes are more respectable,” she pointed out. “All the best families belong to rural tribes.”
“That was the old days, my lady. Power in Rome now resides in the urban mob, which Milo intends to lead. Forget names and lineages. Milo intends to make his own name and he is well on his way. Many men with fine old patrician names live in near-beggary. Marry respectability and that is all you get. With Milo you would lead what can only be described as an interesting life.”
“That does sound intriguing. I suppose he has a city house of suitable magnificence?”
“One of the largest and best-staffed in Rome,” I assured her. I suppose I should have told her that it was a fortress and its staff consisted of thugs, arena-bait and cutthroats such as one rarely encounters, but why deprive her of a unique surprise?
“I get so many suitors,” she said, “and they are all so boring. I am twenty-seven years old, you know. I had all but decided to remain unmarried, even if that meant remaining a legal child under the care of Lucullus. This is the first interesting offer to come my way. You may inform Milo that I am willing to entertain his suit. He may call upon me informally, but he is to understand that any agreement must be between the two of us. I have sworn to open my veins rather than submit to an arranged marriage.”
“Perfectly understandable. You could end up married to Cato otherwise. I am sure that this news will give Milo the greatest joy. Would you care for some more of this excellent Caecuban?” She shook her head. I do not believe she had so much as sipped at her own cup. I refilled mine. “Now that that is settled, I don’t suppose you would like to enlighten me concerning the scandalous evening that has become the delight of all Rome?”
“I’m afraid that I can’t,” she said.
“Ah. Forbidden by ritual law, like everyone else?”
“Not a bit of it. I didn’t go to Caesar’s house that night.”
The cup stopped halfway to my mouth. “You did not? But you were seen there.”
Her eyes didn’t flicker. “Then someone was mistaken or else lying. Only married women take part, and I wasn’t about to waste an evening gossiping with a pack of well-born girls half my age.”
“Then I must have been misinformed,” I said. “Please forgive me.”
“Why? I haven’t been offended. Tell Milo I shall look forward to hearing from him.” She rose and extended her hand, which I took. “Good day, Decius Caecilius.” I watched her walk away. That was pleasant, but it told me nothing of her truthfulness. Either she was lying, or Julia was. I knew which one I preferred to believe.
I found Hermes waiting on a bench in the atrium. He looked up, annoyed, when I gestured for him to join me.
“You look like you ducked out and went to a tavern,” he said. “Are you going to have to lean on me all the way home?”
“Nonsense,” I said. “No one gets drunk on vintage as fine as I’ve been drinking.” We left the house and walked toward the Forum.
“I’ve attended at banquets in houses as fine as this,” he said. “I never realized the guests were puking from sheer joy.”
“You are a vulgar little rascal,” I chided. “You should not speak about your betters in such a fashion.”
“You ought to hear how we slaves talk about you when there are no freemen about.”
“You aren’t earning yourself any favors this way,” I warned him.
“Hah. You probably won’t remember—uh-oh.” His eyes went wide and so, I confess, did mine. A crowd of brutal-looking men swaggered toward us, blocking the narrow street. In center front was the ugliest of the lot: Publius Clodius Pulcher.