A short distance beyond the turn, a stone bridge spanned the swollen Bedesis River, whose yellow water churned on to border Ravenna’s west and north walls. In the gray light, where the pine forest had been cleared, farms seemed deserted; it was too sodden to work outdoors. After the carriage slowed to cross the boards of another bridge, this one over a creek, a high wall and two-level gatehouse appeared faintly through the misty air. Coming closer, Arcadia saw sentries huddled on its upper porch, a vantage point that gave them a clear view of traffic on the lane. No one could approach the villa unseen.
“The senator’s farm is better protected than the legion camp,” Arcadia muttered, and was startled when the mute suddenly grabbed her hand, grinning as he held it up to point at the gatehouse roof. Despite the dull light, the sheen of rain made a golden rooster on its top shine brilliantly.
“Yes, the villa of the rooster.” Arcadia shook her hand free, and brushed at mud on the driver’s sleeve. When he looked at her, she mouthed slowly, “I’m sorry you had to pick me up in this poor weather.” Perhaps he could lip-read, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a friendly contact at the villa who could drive a carriage.
Guards opened twin wooden doors in the stone wall and waved the mute through with their spears. The main villa was located a few hundred paces beyond the gatehouse. A paved courtyard was surrounded on three sides by a portico that sheltered entrances to the buildings. The center house was built on two levels. A fountain in the middle of the courtyard overflowed, splashing water on paving stones already puddled by rain.
After the mute circled the carriage around the fountain and halted at the portico of the main house, a well-dressed slave materialized from behind a pillar to carry Arcadia’s case. As she stepped down, the driver grinned at her again, a look she felt resembled a satyr’s leer.
So much for having a friend here. Nevertheless she smiled at him and slipped a silver half-siliqua into his hand.
When the slave opened the villa doors, Arcadia caught her breath, overwhelmed by the magnificence of the entrance atrium. Rather than being paved in tile or mosaic, the floor was made of fitted slabs of Tibertine marble. In the center, rainwater sloshed off a roof opening that angled toward a rectangular pool beneath. The rim was bordered by a design of sea creatures, whose open mouths channeled the overflow into an underground cistern. The splashing sound might have been pleasant in summer, but the winter downpour grated on Arcadia’s already tender nerves.
She was briefly startled by a life-size bronze statue of the senator that greeted visitors from under a portico. After Arcadia realized it was not the man himself, she guessed it was probably a copy of his statue in Rome. She wrinkled her nose at a pervasive smell. The one incongruous element in the elegant setting was the unmistakable odor of chicken dung that hung on the wet air. I was warned, Maximin did tell me he raised chickens, but what was that about escaping the stench of Ravenna’s sewers?
The slave took Arcadia’s cloak, and divested of the damp garment, she looked up. Publius Maximin stood next to his statue, affecting the same stance. He posed for a moment, then came forward in a swirl of bay scent, both hands extended, smiling.
“My dear. How kind of you to indulge me with your visit.”
“Thank you Senator. Your entranceway is … magnificent.”
“Yes, isn’t it. You must be chilled. We’ll go into my reception room before you’re shown to where you’ll stay. Marpor will take your bag there.”
The tablinium floor was warm, and the walls were decorated with paintings depicting scenes from Roman history. Several masks hung in a row beneath the paintings. At a table one of the most handsome men Arcadia had ever seen sat painting a wooden mask. He wore a short tunic that revealed muscular arms and legs. A silver band circled his black curly hair in a style reminiscent of a statue of a Greek athlete that her father owned.
Maximin swept a hand out to indicate the paintings and masks. “The destiny of Rome, another of my passions,” he explained. “That’s Jason over there. The clever lad carved those masks, which represent famous people in the city’s past. The murals begin with Aeneas over here.” Maximin slipped a hand around Arcadia’s arm and led her to the first painting, where the Trojan hero was shown carrying his blind father Anchises away from the burning citadel. “Do you know the story, my dear?”
“After Troy was destroyed, didn’t Aeneas’s mother, Venus, guide him to the mouth of the Tiber?”
“Very good, Arcadia. I see that your superior beauty is complemented by superior intelligence.” Maximin squeezed her arm and moved on to show her the masks. “The twins, of course, are Romulus and Remus. Next is Tarquin, the last Etruscan king.” The senator indicated the next personage. “Ah, here’s a hero of mine, Publius Scipio, victor over Hannibal at Carthage. We need a leader like him in Africa now, to drive out the cursed Vandals.” He passed several effigies without identifying them, then stopped at one of a glowering man. “Here’s another favorite. Lucius Sulla restored senatorial power after the Populares rammed through laws limiting our influence.”
The dictator Sulla. Arcadia recalled what her tutor had taught her about the older contemporary of Julius Caesar. After gaining power in a bloody civil war, Sulla had declared a dictatorship and posted lists of his enemies in the forum. More than six thousand of them had been hunted down and killed, including ninety senators who had opposed him. Their confiscated property had been auctioned off. If this is Maximin’s hero, heaven help Ravenna!
“The next mask is of Julius Caesar,” he continued, “but I don’t wish
