The Tribune's Curse(11)

“The changes here have been—remarkable, Titus,” I said.

“Has Fausta been showing you how she’s ruining me?” His grin was rueful.

“Only a part, and it frightens me to see the look it puts in Julia’s eye. How are you going to curb her extravagance when you go to govern your province?” We still had a rule that a promagistrate’s wife had to stay in Rome while he was abroad.

He grimaced. “I don’t plan to go. I’m like you, Decius: I don’t want to leave Rome. I’ll follow Pompey’s example and send my legate to run the place and send me the money. It’s the only way I’ll ever keep up with her. Come along, let’s eat. I’m famished!”

I went with him into the triclinium, which had been remodeled on a scale with the rest of the house. It was large enough for full-sized banquets, and for that evening it had been laid out with places for at least eighteen guests instead of the usual nine, apparently on the chance that each guest would bring along a friend, which was permitted under the newly loosened rules of etiquette.

Another departure from tradition was that the women reclined at the table along with the men, instead of sitting on chairs. I almost wished Cato could be there so that I could enjoy the shocked look on his face.

Julia came up to me, trailed by her maidservant. “Aren’t these paintings wonderful?”

I studied them for a few moments. They depicted the banquets of the gods, with Jupiter taking his cup from Ganymede, Venus winking across the table at a sour-faced Mars, Vulcan enchanting his mechanical servitors, and all the rest of the company having a high old time while the Graces danced for them.

“Well,” I said, “if Fausta gets tired of the guests, she can just look at the walls and feel she’s among equals.”

Julia swatted me with her fan, laughing. “You’re incorrigible. She’s put me next to that fat Egyptian. I hope he doesn’t try anything disgusting.”

“Just put up with him,” I advised. “He can only dream. He’s long past carrying out any of his intentions. Besides, he’s one of my favorite people in Rome. And he’s incredibly useful and a veritable mine of gossip. If Lisas hasn’t heard about it, either it didn’t happen, or it isn’t going to.”

“I’ll see what I can get out of him.”

She wandered off, and I was led to my place. I flopped down, and Hermes took my sandals and settled himself to wait on me, a duty he hated. I saw that there were seventeen places occupied, the place traditionally called the “consul’s place” being left vacant, as it always was in a praetor’s house, just in case a consul should decide to show up.

I was delighted to see that the man on my right was none other than Publilius Syrus, who was quickly winning a place for himself as Rome’s most famous actor, playwright, and impresario. On my other side was Caius Messius, a plebeian aedile that year who had celebrated an uncommonly fine Floralia.

“This is extraordinarily lucky,” I said to Syrus. “I’ve been meaning to look you up, since I’ll be aedile next year.”

“Spoken like a true Metellus,” said Messius. “Already planning your ludi, and you haven’t even been elected yet. Well, you can’t pick a better man to arrange your theatricals than Syrus. The plays he put on for me went over wonderfully. My election to the praetorship is assured.”

“I have two new dramas in the works,” Syrus told me. “And six short comedies.”

“Nothing about Troy, I hope. That war’s been done to death.” Even worse, Caesar had been secretly hiring poets and playwrights to write about Aeneas, on the pretext that Caesar’s family, the gens Julia, were descended from Julus, son of Aeneas. And the grandmother of Julus was none other than the goddess Venus herself. We had all been blissfully unaware of the divine ancestry of Caesar until he decided to tell us about it.

“One of the dramas concerns the death of Hannibal, the other the deeds of Mucius Scaevola.”

“Those sound like safe, patriotic themes,” I said. “Right now, anything about a foreign war looks like a reference to Caesar or Gabinius or Crassus. What about the comedies? I don’t suppose you have anything that would poke fun at Clodius, do you?”

His smile was a bit strained. “I have to live in this city too, you know.”

“Oh, well, forget it. I suppose the usual satyrs, nymphs, cowardly soldiers, conniving slaves, and cuckolded husbands will do well enough.”

“I have a good one about King Ptolemy of Egypt,” he said. “You know he came here last year, begging for money and support?”