Under Vesuvius(2)

“Oh, wonderful!” Julia exclaimed. “And this is truly to be ours?”

“Nothing set in stone so far, my dear, but at least we have the use of it for now.”

“It will be ours,” she stated with great finality.

The villa belonged to my father’s good friend and patron, Quintus Hortensius Hortalus, the great orator, jurist, and scoundrel. The old villain was then on his deathbed, and had summoned me to his side when he learned of my election. I found the once-imposing old man wasted away to almost nothing, his incomparable voice reduced to a whisper. I had fallen afoul of him more than once and had even tried to prosecute him for criminal acts upon occasion, but he had always regarded this as mere politics and never held it against me. Now, seeing him in such a pitiful condition, I could summon up no hostility against him. A whole era of Roman political life would die with him.

“Congratulations, my boy,” he croaked out. “Imperium at last, eh?”

“It comes to most of us if we live long enough,” I told him. “But thank you anyway.”

He managed a croupy laugh. “You haven’t changed. And praetor peregrinus, at that. That’s good. You’ll get to travel about, let the people see your face. They’ll remember, and that will be of value, when the time comes. Listen, my boy, I wish I had time for chitchat, but I don’t. I have a villa in Campania, near Baiae.”

“It is famous,” I said.

“Yes, well, nobody’s in it right now, and you will need a place to live when you’re in the district, and accepting the hospitality of a local grandee would be a bad idea. Sure as Jupiter is randy, that man will have a case before your court and he’ll expect favorable treatment. Believe me, I know how it works. Why not use my villa?”

“That is most generous,” I said fervently. The very thing he had mentioned had been on my mind as well.

“Good, good.” He mused for a while. “You know, I’ve no one worth willing the place to, so—well, just see if you like it.”

Now all my old hostilities disappeared completely. At any other time I would have been suspicious, the prospect of an inheritance being a classic means of control. But he was clearly dying and had nothing to gain from me. I babbled my thanks and made my exit. Half the important men of Rome were outside waiting to pay what would almost certainly be their final respects to a man who had been one of the most distinguished senators of the age. But he stopped me before I reached the door.

“Decius.”

I turned. “Yes, Quintus Hortensius?”

“Hang on to that wife of yours.”

“You mean Julia?” I said, astonished.

“Who else would I mean? Besides being a charming woman, she’s a Caesar, and her uncle Julius is the coming man. Forget the rest, no matter what your family says. Being married to his niece could save your neck someday.”

“I intend to keep her,” I said. Already, he was drowsing. Even dying old men talked of Julius Caesar.

Now we made our way toward the big house and I allowed myself to believe that this could be mine. All along the path fresh garlands had been strung between the herms in honor of our arrival. I had sent a runner ahead to advise the staff of our approach. It is always a bad idea to drop in on such a place unannounced. Then you just get to see what the place really looks like when the master’s not around.

There were at least a hundred people awaiting us before the house. At such an establishment, this was a mere skeleton staff. A man as wealthy as Hortalus could easily have five hundred household slaves alone when he was in residence, with several thousand more tending the fields.

“Welcome, welcome, Praetor!” chorused the well-drilled staff. “Most happy and gracious Senator and Lady, thrice welcome to the Villa Hortensia! All honor to the Praetor Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger! Evoi! Evoi!”

“Goodness!” Julia said. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Old Hortalus had the most important men in Rome calling on him,” I told her, “not to mention foreign kings and princes. He probably has a Greek chorus master to drill his slaves in these little ceremonies.” Nonetheless, I was flattered.

A tall, dignified man came forward, a staff of authority in his hand. “Praetor, my lady, I am Annius Hortensius, freedman of the great Hortensius Hortalus and steward of the Villa Hortensia. I bid you welcome. Please regard this house as your own and myself as your personal servant. All that may be done to render your stay pleasant will be performed with utmost diligence.”

He introduced us to the housekeeper, a formidable woman belted with keys and graced with a face of iron, and the principal servants, most of them freedmen and women. The rest would be known to us only by their occupations.