charismatic power he exuded, as palpable as the smell of myrrh and roses that spiced his clothing. His every movement was accomplished with an unstudied grace, and the low, calm murmur of his voice had a soothing quality like the drumming of rain on a summer night or the soughing of wind in treetops.
Except for Eco and myself, it seemed a typical dinnertime gathering for a Baian villa — a military man and a patrician, a painter and her protegee, a polymath and a builder, an actor, and their hostess. The host was missing — or more precisely, laid to rest on an ivory bier down in the atrium — but to take his place we would have the richest man in Rome. So far, however, Marcus Crassus had not deigned to appear.
Given such a sparkling gathering, the conversation was surprisingly desultory. Mummius and Faustus quiedy discussed the day's business and the provisions for Crassus's camp on Lake Lucrinus; Iaia and Olympias exchanged inaudible whispers; the philosopher brooded over his food while the businessman relished each bite; Gelina and Metrobius seemed oblivious of everything but each other. At length the slave boy Meto entered and whispered in Gelina's ear. She nodded and sent him off. 'I fear that Marcus Crassus will not be joining us tonight,' she announced. I had thought that the vague tension in the room was due to my presence, or to the air of death in the house, but in that instant the gathered household seemed to give a collective sigh of relief.
'Detained by his business in Puteoli, is he?' asked Mummius through a mouthful of sea urchin.
'Yes. He sends word that he will make provision for his own supper and ride back afterwards. So we need not wait any longer.' She signalled to the slaves, who cleared away the appetizers and served the main dishes — a sweet citron ragout of ham and apples, seafood dumplings spiced with lovage and pepper, and fish fillets with leeks and coriander, all served on silver platters, along with a barley soup with cabbage and lentils that we sipped from tiny clay pots.
As the meal progressed the conversation grew more animated. The principal subject was food. Death and impending disaster, political ambition and the threat of Spartacus were ignored in favour of the relative merits of hare and pork. Beef was debated, and roundly declared inedible. Faustus Fabius declared that cattle were useless except for their hides, but the philosopher Dionysius, who spoke in a lecturing tone, claimed that the barbarians of the North actually preferred the milk of cows to that of goats.
Sergius Orata seemed to be something of an expert on trading spices and other delicacies with the East. Once he had travelled as far as Parthia investigating the potentials of the market, and on the Euphrates had been induced by good manners to drink a local beverage made of fermented barley, which the Parthians preferred to wine. 'It was the exact colour of urine,' he laughed, 'and tasted like it!'
'But how would you know? Are you in the habit of drinking urine?' asked Olympias, who demurely lowered her face so that a strand of blonde hair fell over one eye. Iaia looked at her sidelong, suppressing a smile. Orata's bald pate blushed pink. Mummius laughed raucously.
'Better urine than beans!' exclaimed Dionysius. 'You know the advice of Plato: one must set forth for the realm of dreams each night with a pure spirit.'
'And what does that have to do with beans?' asked Fabius.
'Surely you know the opinion of the Pythagoreans? Beans produce great flatulence, which induces a condition at war with a soul in search of truth.'
'Really, as if it were the soul and not the belly that gets filled with wind!' exclaimed Metrobius, who leaned towards me and lowered his voice. 'These philosophers — no idea is too absurd for them. This one is certainly a windbag, but I think it all comes out his mouth and not the other end!'
Gelina seemed immune to both wit and crudity and ate in silence, picking restlessly at her food and calling for fresh wine in her cup more often than any of her guests.
Metrobius began to enlighten me about the differences between Roman and Baian cuisine. 'There is a greater variety of fresh seafood in the markets here, of course, and many maritime specialities unknown in Rome, but the distinctions are more subtle than that. For instance, any cook will tell you that the best cooking pots are made from a special clay found only in the vicinity of Cumae. In Rome such pots are precious and hard to replace, but here even the lowliest fisherman owns one, and so we have all sorts of peasant dishes that are as sublime as they are simple — this barley soup, for instance. Then there are the famous Baian green beans, more tender and sweet than those grown anywhere else. Gelina's cook makes a dish with green beans, coriander, and chopped chives, fit for a Bacchanalia. Ah, but the slaves have begun to clear away the main dishes, which means the second course must be on its way.'
Slaves entered bearing silver trays that flashed in the lamplight, bringing baked pears stuffed with cinnamon, roasted chestnuts, and cheese seasoned in fermented berry juice. Outside, the sky darkened from deep blue to black spangled with bright stars. Gelina shivered and ordered the braziers to be brought nearer.
The leaping flames were reflected in the silver platters, so that the delicacies on each table seemed to float upon pools of fire.
'A pity Marcus Crassus is not here to enjoy such a feast,' said Metrobius, picking up a stuffed pear and breathing in its aroma. 'Of course, with Crassus here, the discussion would have turned on nothing but politics, politics, politics.'
Mummius glowered at him. 'About which some people know less than nothing. A good political discussion might keep certain people quiet for a change.' He popped a chestnut into his mouth and smacked his lips.
'The table manners of a barbarian,' Metrobius muttered to me under his breath.
'What did you say?' Mummius bolted forward.
'I said you have the able manner of an agrarian. Your family still farms, do they not?'
Mummius sat back slowly, looking sceptical.
'Perhaps we should discuss something we all have in common,' suggested Metrobius. 'What about art? Iaia and Olympias create it, Dionysius contemplates it, Orata buys it. Is it true, Sergius, that you've contracted to. construct and decorate a new fish pond for one of the Cornelii down in Misenum?'
'True,' said Sergius Orata.
'Ah, these villa owners on the Cup and their love of a decorative fish pond. How they cherish each and every bearded mullet! I've heard of senators who give each fish a name and feed them by hand from infancy, and when the mullets are grown they cannot bear to eat them.'
Gelina finally smiled. 'Oh, stop, Metrobius. No one is that silly.'
'Oh, yes, they are. I hear the Cornelii insist on surrounding then-new pond with all sorts of pretty statues — not for the enjoyment of their human guests, but for the edification of their fish.'
'Nonsense!' Gelina giggled and drained her cup, then held it up for a slave to refill it.
Metrobius looked utterly serious. 'Of course, the problem is that the mullets — well, I hate to pass on such vicious gossip — but they say that the mullets of the Cornelii are so stupid that they can't even tell the difference between a Polyclitus and a Polydorus. You could switch the head of Juno and Venus and they wouldn't know. Imagine that!' Amid the general laughter Metrobius wagged his finger at Orata. 'So be careful, Sergius, what kind of statuary you bring over for the Cornelii's new pond! No need to spend a fortune on a Mad Mullet who won't appreciate the difference.'
Orata blushed amiably. Mummius looked apoplectic. Faustus Fabius, I noticed, had one restraining hand on Mummius's thigh, clutching hard enough to whiten his knuckles, while with his left hand he raised his cup to his Lips to hide his smile.
Gelina was suddenly talkative. 'If you wish to discuss art, we should talk about Iaia's project downstairs, in the anteroom to the women's baths. It's delightful! From the floor to the ceiling on all four walls, octopi and squid and dolphins all cavorting beneath the skylight. It makes me feel so serene and protected, as if I were at the bottom of the sea. Such shades of blue — dark blue and pale azure and blue-green seaweed. I love blue, don't you?' she said tipsily, smiling at Olympias. 'Such a lovely blue colour you're wearing tonight, so lovely with your lovely blonde hair. What talent you both have!'
Iaia pursed her lips. 'Thank you, Gelina, but I think everyone here has already seen the work in progress.'
'No!' Gelina said. 'Gordianus hasn't, nor has his charming boy, Eco. They must be shown everything. Do you understand? We must conceal nothing from them, nothing at all. That's why they're here. To see, to observe. He has a sharp eye, they say. Not the eye of a connoisseur, I mean, but the eye of a hunter. Or a Finder, that's what you call yourself, isn't it? Perhaps tomorrow, Iaia, you can show him your work, and let him contemplate the wonder of your flying fish and terrible squids. Yes, I don't see why not, as long as there are no women in the women's baths, no women bathing, that is. Why not? I'm sure Gordianus appreciates art as much as any of us.'
