Under Vesuvius(4)
“That is Gelon, the slaver’s boy,” the steward informed us. “I will get rid of him.”
I cocked an eye toward Julia. She was watching Gorgo, and the priest’s daughter was watching the handsome young horseman. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, her mouth a bit open, as if she were about to speak. Uh-oh, I thought.
“No need, Annius Hortensius,” I told the steward. “He may have business with me. I am praetor of the foreigners, after all.”
“His sort belongs in court, all right,” the man sniffed.
It has always seemed a little odd to me that, while we all make use of slaves and can hardly imagine life—much less civilization—without them, we harbor a great contempt for slavers, as if our own slaves appeared in the house by magic. Of course, the steward had been a slave once and doubtless had little love for the breed.
“I want to meet him,” Circe said. She was a brown-haired beauty who had spurned the suits of Marcus Antonius, Gnaeus Pompey the Younger, Catullus the poet, Marcus Brutus, Cassius Longinus, King Phraates of Parthia (really!), and many others less illustrious.
“He’s too far beneath you,” Antonia told her. “We Antonii, on the other hand, are known for our low tastes.”
“Rein yourselves in, ladies,” Julia advised. She was eyeing the boy, too. He alit gracefully, kicking one leg over the saddle and sliding down, catching himself with no trace of awkwardness. He strode toward us, smiling. He even had beautiful teeth. However stingily the gods may have dealt with him in the matter of pedigree, they made it up handsomely in physical attributes.
“Praetor! So soon among us! I am Gelon, son of Gaeto, merchant of Baiae. I bid you welcome to our district.” Here he performed a courtly bow, a gesture never performed by Romans but somehow dignified and without the groveling implications of the Oriental bow. “And to your lady, the distinguished Julia of the Caesars, and the lovely Lady Antonia, and this other Lady Julia whose name of preference I must learn, and to all your entourage, welcome again!”
The women cooed and fluttered like pet doves. So much for patrician dignity.
“You are uncommonly well-informed,” I noted.
“As it happened, a party of my father’s agents who returned yesterday from Capua, attended a ceremony at which the Capuans honored you.”
“Well, that explains it. We thank you for your very courteous welcome, Gelon, and we look forward to our stay in beautiful southern Campania.”
“Should you desire to see the many sights of the neighborhood, Praetor, please allow me to be your guide. It would be both an honor and a pleasure to me.”
“I may well take you up on that,” I told him. Behind me I heard scandalized little sounds from the stuffier part of my following. He was, after all, a slaver’s son and a foreigner to boot. But I didn’t care. I was the one with imperium and could do as I pleased. I was going to have to keep an eye on Julia, though.
“What are you doing here?” This indignant shout came from a bald, white-bearded specimen who, to judge by his white robe and laurel chaplet, had to be Diocles, priest of Apollo.
“I’m supposed to be here,” I informed him. “I’m the new praetor peregrinus.”
“Not you!” he cried, pointing a skinny finger at Gelon. “Him! That African slave seller! He fouls the holy precincts of Apollo!”
I was perfectly aware that he hadn’t meant me, but I couldn’t help having a little fun. “Oh, he can’t be all that bad, surely. His horses are as handsome as Apollo’s own. Could such splendid animals be owned by a man unworthy to approach your temple?”
The old boy tried to calm down and regather his dignity. “The honored praetor is pleased to jest. This lowborn foreign scoundrel has been seeking out my daughter at every opportunity.” He shot that lovely young woman a venomous glare, and she lowered her eyes, then stole another adoring glance at young Gelon.
“That proves only that he has good taste,” I said. Then Julia moved in to smooth things over, a task she undertook on my behalf with some frequency.
“Reverend Diocles,” she said, stepping close and laying a soothing hand in his arm, “forgive my husband’s levity. He is a very serious man in court but nowhere else. And this young man has acted most courteously. Please do not mar our arrival with rancor.”
Actually, I didn’t mind a bit of rancor. It livened things up. But the old man acquiesced with a fair degree of grace. “I would do nothing to make your arrival among us any but the most pleasant of experiences. Gorgo!” he snapped. “Go back inside.”