Under Vesuvius(8)
He approached, smiling. “Praetor, your notice does me honor.” He glanced toward the local officials who, noses high, affected not to notice him and added wryly, “More honor than some think I deserve.”
“That’s all right. I’m the one with imperium here, so I can do as I like. You’re Gaeto the Numidian, I presume?”
“I am he.”
“I met your son recently. The resemblance is not difficult to spot. Do you attend courts often?”
“At every opportunity. I like to get the first look at those who are condemned to slavery. If you had not given that man to the city, I would have bid on him.”
“I would think your business would be depressed of late, with all the Gallic captives flooding Italy.”
“Most of them are unskilled and useful only for farm labor gangs. I buy for quality, not quantity. And expert seaman are in high demand.”
“How would a captain prevent a slave sailor from escaping?” I asked him.
“Where would such a one go? The sea is a Roman lake. To sail beyond the Pillars of Hercules or to the eastern end of the Pontus Euxinus means living among savages. No, he would stay on his ship and follow his calling. After all, the work would be the same, the food the same, the dangers and the obedience to his captain the same as when he was free. Only the pay would be different, and what sensible man would trade living in civilization for life among barbarians over a handful of denarii?”
“When you put it that way, it makes sense,” I admitted. Then I remembered why I had summoned him. “Gaeto, I realize that this does not come under my official purview, but I fear that your son may be heading for trouble.”
The man frowned, a formidable expression on his powerful face. “Trouble, how so? If he has offended you in any way, I shall thrash him immediately.”
“Nothing like that,” I assured him. “But there seems to be something going on between the boy and the daughter of Apollo’s priest on the estate I am inheri—where I now reside.”
The frown was replaced with a smile. “Carefree, affluent young men pay court to beautiful young women. What could be more natural?”
“Naturalness does not come into it. You are a foreigner here and the people of this district are citizens, even the Greeks and Samnites among them. The priest is an aristocrat of ancient family, while your profession is, shall we say, held in low esteem. Your son could find himself the target of resentment. People would dredge up old stories about Jugurtha and the Numidian war and, next thing you know, a mob of local drunks would set fire to your house and stone you to death when you came running out with your clothes on fire and that would be a pity because, as the man on the scene with imperium, I am empowered to call in soldiers to put down civil unrest and I would indeed do so and then / would be the one everyone would hate and them my family would be very unhappy with me for alienating a whole pack of voters.” I said that last sentence in a single breath, a tribute to my oratorical training.
His smile turned grim. ”I see. I will talk to my son about this.” Then he brightened. “In three days, Baiae will give a banquet in your honor. I will be there.”
“I look forward to it.”
“I think you may find it an illuminating experience.”
And with that enigmatic utterance, he took his leave gracefully.
I THINK I CAN SAY WITHOUT RESERVATION that Baiae is the most beautiful place in Italy. It is situated on a jewellike little bay about eight miles from Cumae and about an equal distance from my new (and, I hoped, soon to be permanent) abode. It had been a part of Cumaean territory when that city was independent and served as its port. Because of its superb setting, salubrious climate, and hot springs, it had for centuries been a favorite spot for the great and wealthy to build their villas and it was the favorite resort for Romans during the hot months.
Also, its reputation for luxury and immorality were legendary, and that was the part that appealed to me. Since the destruction of Sybaris, Baiae has reigned supreme as the home of libertines, rakes, and voluptuaries. Its scandalous life goes on day and night, made possible by that marvel unknown in Rome, effective street lighting. Lamps, cressets, and torches are kept alight during the dark hours by a crew of diligent public slaves. Cato, upon seeing Baiae thus illuminated, was scandalized. “People should sleep at night!” he cried.
A town more different from Rome is hard to imagine. Its streets are broad and never steep. Lest the populace be troubled by the scorching sun, all the streets and plazas are covered by awnings of costly cloth. The streets themselves are paved with colorful tiles, swept and scoured clean by another gang of slaves. All the streets are lined with planting boxes and giant vases carved from tufa in which grow flowers and fragrant bushes in incredible profusion, so that the air always smells sweet, no matter which way the wind is blowing. Fine trees grow before the spacious porticos. There are many tiny parks and gardens scattered throughout the town, where exotic songbirds sing in cages hung from all the trees. Should the birds tire the ear, each park has its own consort of musicians and singers, also owned by the town.