Under Vesuvius(9)
The boating parties of Baiae are legendary, and the bay’s wharfs are lined with pleasure craft, from small gondolas suitable for four or five inebriated carousers to covered barges that would carry several hundred guests. For really splendid occasions, a great number of these barges could be yoked together in the center of the bay with the whole free population of the town aboard, along with enough slaves to keep them entertained.
Baiae has no penniless rabble like Rome’s. The greater part of the permanent population are equites, and even the shopkeepers enjoy a property assessment only slightly lower. Even the slaves are the envy of slaves in other parts of Italy. The very street cleaners live in barracks much finer than the tenements of Rome’s free poor.
Cato’s final word on Baiae was characteristic: “What a waste of fine farmland.” That alone was enough to make me fall in love with the place.
The delegation that greeted us when we were within a mile of the city was decked out in snowy togas, flower chaplets, and the insignia of many offices and priesthoods. Images of the gods were borne on litters, and musicians tootled while temple slaves in white tunics swung elaborate golden censers on chains, perfuming the air with fragrant smoke. A civic chorus (that old Greek specialty) sang songs of welcome.
“Not bad for a man who never even conquered a single nation of barbarians,” I said with some satisfaction. “I wonder if every praetor gets this treatment or just the ones married*to a Caesar.”
“I’m sure your own dignity is quite impressive enough, dear,” Julia said.
We were carried in her elaborate litter, rather crowded now, what with Circe and Antonia making a pair of sweet-smelling cushions behind us. I had wanted to ride, but Julia had vetoed that. It is all but impossible to wear a toga on horseback, and Julia declared that I must enter the town in my purple-bordered toga praetexta. An old-fashioned Roman would have walked, but there were limits to my respect for tradition.
“Noble Praetor,” cried the leader of this delegation, “all Baiae welcomes you! I am Lucius Lucillius Norbanus, duumvir of Baiae and master of the vintner’s guild.”
“And I,” said the man next to him, “am Manius Silva, duumvir of Baiae and master of the perfumer’s guild.”
In order of precedence, the others were introduced, officials and priests, distinguished foreign visitors including a couple of princes, a vacationing Parthian ambassador, and a deposed king of some country in the general vicinity of India.
“And now, Praetor,” Norbanus said, “allow us to bear you into the city in a manner befitting your rank.”
Whereupon I was led to another litter, this one open and furnished with a curule chair grandly draped with leopard skin. It was hoisted to the shoulders of ten stalwart, yellow-haired Gauls, and in this state I was carried to the city while beautiful young girls strewed flowers before me. What a pity, I thought, that such an office is held for only a single year.
The road to Baiae, like thost to most Italian municipalities, was lined with tombs, and just outside the gate of the city we paused at the most imposing of these, a great marble confection that had the appearance of being layered atop a much older, simpler one.
“This,” Norbanus announced, “is the tomb of Baios, helmsman of the ship of Ulysses. When the wanderings of that angry man were at an end, Baios settled here and founded our city.”
No matter where I go, every city claims a Trojan War veteran as its founder. I don’t even have to go anywhere, since Rome makes the same claim. Doubtless there is some reason for this but I can’t imagine what it is.
From the tomb, our little procession passed through the gate, which was little more than an ornamental arch, since this town was never meant to be defended, and into the city proper, where I was showered with enough flowers to glut the floral lust of a triumphing general. Somehow, I didn’t allow this to go to my head. I could tell that these people didn’t care a peach pit for another visiting Roman official. I was just one more excuse for a party. Well, that was fine with me. I liked parties as much as anyone. Maybe more than most.
We wended our way through the city to the bay, and there I was carried onto a bridge laid atop a line of boats; and this was not a simple boat bridge of the sort used by the legions to cross rivers and straits but an elaborate construction, painted and gilded, its roadbed covered with turf, its railings sporting statues of Triton and Nereids and other fabulous sea deities and covered by the inevitable awning, lest anyone get sunburned while getting to the festivities.
” The banquet was held on one of those artificial islands I mentioned earlier. This one consisted of a central barge you could have raced chariots on for size, surrounded by two-story barges, so that the whole thing was surrounded by a gallery and topped by an immense canopy held up by poles twice the height of ship’s masts and dyed, unbelievably, purple.