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!
'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.
While our own slaves and the villa's made our quarters ready, we were given a tour of the place. We Metelli were not exactly paupers, but there were too many of us to concentrate so much wealth in one place. In truth, only a handful of men could match the splendor of Hortalus's properties, of which this was only one. The collection of Greek sculpture was breathtaking, and most of it was displayed in formal gardens landscaped especially to provide a setting for them. He had no fewer than three originals by Praxiteles, including a stunning sculpture of the Graces. You see copies everywhere, but this was the original.
We saw the huge fish ponds that had been Hortalus's passion. He had written long books on the subject and for many years had engaged in a rivalry with his friend Phillipus, who was afflicted with the same mania. The ladies of our party were delighted with the grotesquely fat fish, who gathered at our approach to be fed, mouths agape like baby birds. Urns of fish food stood by for the use of anyone inclined to this activity. Julia and her friends tossed out enough food to founder a pride of lions. Then the tour continued.
'If you would be so good, Praetor,' Annius said solemnly, 'how did you last find my patron?' We were making our way toward the temple.
'In a very bad way, I fear,' I told him. 'You and the rest must prepare yourselves for the worst. However,' I added with some satisfaction, 'I have reason to believe that he has made excellent provision for you all.'
'What temple is this?' Julia asked. 'It is so lovely!'
'This is the Temple of Campanian Apollo,' the steward said proudly. 'It is the oldest Greek sacred structure in Italy, founded by colonists more than four hundred years ago. The great Hortensius has made its maintenance and enrichment his dearest project. All the decayed old marble he replaced with the finest Parian. The tile roof he restored with glittering bronze. Where the trees of the sacred grove had died, he brought in and had planted full- grown trees from the holy precincts of other temples.'
'He's never been one to do things by halves,' I acknowledged.
'Is there still a priest in residence?' Julia wanted to know. 'Are ceremonies still performed here?'
'Oh, yes. Southern Campania has a large Greek community, and they have always supported this temple. The priests of Apollo hold a hereditary office, and the current one is a direct descendant of the founding priest, who was a citizen of Athens. His name is Diodes.'
At this moment a lovely young woman emerged from the temple accompanied by two slave girls who bore long ivy wreaths. She wore a simple, elegant gown of dazzling white belted with gold. Under her careful direction, the girls began to drape the wreaths around the altar.
'And this is Gorgo, daughter of Diocles,' the steward said.
'We must meet her,' Julia insisted.
As we crossed the well-kept lawn one of the slave girls caught sight of us and spoke to her mistress. The young woman in white crossed to the top of the stairs and awaited us there, her hands folded modestly before her. When we drew near, she inclined her head gracefully.
'The Temple of Campanian Apollo welcomes the praetor and his lady,' she said in beautiful Attic Greek. Julia answered in the same language, which she spoke as perfectly and as naturally as she did Latin. All upper-class Romans learned Greek, but with the Caesars it was something of a mania.
'So you knew we were coming?' I said after the steward formally introduced us.
'The whole district has anticipated the arrival of the distinguished Senator Metellus and Lady Julia.'
Meaning that everyone wanted to meet Julius Caesar's niece. One more praetor wasn't likely to cause much of a stir.
'Here comes part of the district now,' I noted.
A little party of horsemen was approaching along the paved road leading to the temple, their mounts clopping along on unshod hooves. Hermes gave a low whistle. It was meant for the horses. They were superb, far more splendid than my own. The riders were an exotic lot. Four were tawny-skinned, bearded men with their hair dressed in numerous plaits. They rode bareback, each controlling his mount by a single rope halter looped around the animal's muzzle. Each wore a brief, white tunic and carried a sheaf of javelins in a quiver across his back.
Their leader was an extraordinarily handsome young man who sat a Roman saddle and wore Greek dress, but whose skin was the same desert color as his followers'. His mount was draped with an elaborate caparison that trailed hundreds of tassels of scarlet and gold.
'Numidians,' I observed, 'horses and men both. What brings them here?'
'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!'
