John Roberts - The Tribune's curse

The Nubians deposited us in the narrow street before the massive door of Milo’s house. The moment I stepped from the litter, I saw the effect of Fausta’s renovations. The entire block of apartments facing that side of the house was gone. Instead, the other side of the street featured a beautifully landscaped park, complete with fountains and pools in which swans paddled contentedly.

“What happened here?” I said, gasping. “Was there a fire?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Julia informed me. “Fausta thought this dingy neighborhood was too cramped, so she had some of the tenements demolished. Milo already owned them, anyway. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It’s pretty enough,” I admitted. “But his whole point in putting the main door on this side was that the street was too narrow for his enemies to use a battering ram against it. They could build a siege tower in that park.”

“It’s worth putting up with a little danger to live with proper dignity. Come along, the guests are gathering.”

We went inside, and a whole horde of pretty young slaves of both sexes swarmed around us, draping our necks with wreaths of flowers, placing chaplets around our brows, anointing our hands with perfume, and scattering rose petals before us. This was another change. I’d never seen anyone but strong-arm men in Milo’s house before. His lictors had been dismissed for the evening, but the six fasces were ranged on stands by the door in token of his imperium .

The atrium was changed as well. Fausta had knocked three or four rooms into one huge one, and had raised the ceiling as well and added a window of many small panes above the door to admit the sunlight that was now available owing to the demolition of the buildings across the street. The walls were painted with wonderful frescoes depicting mythological subjects, and the floor was covered with picture mosaics of outdoor scenes. Picture mosaics were a new fashion, introduced by the Egyptian ambassador. Around the periphery of the room were statues of ancestors. Her ancestors, not his.

“Have you ever seen such an improvement?” Julia asked me.

“It’s-different,” I admitted.

“Fausta brought me here when she began the renovations.” She shook her head. “As if Milo really expected her to live in that dark old fortress! I came to visit often while the work was going on. It gave me no end of ideas.”

I felt the first, small ticklings of trepidation. Fausta was a Cornelian, and Julia was a Julian, and Julia would have to go Fausta one better. At the very thought I began to tremble.

“Ah, my dear, you realize that it may be quite some time before we can expect to live on such a scale-”

She giggled, covering her mouth with a palm fan to do so. “Oh, Decius, of course I know that! These things take time. But sooner or later you must inherit from your father, and of course Caesar will favor you after your service with him, and you’ll have a praetorian province before long.” She placed a hand on my shoulder and kissed my cheek. “I know that it will be four, maybe five years before we can have a place like this. Come on, let’s see the rest!” Going shaky in the knees, I followed her.

We were headed for the impluvium when Fausta found us. She and Julia went through the customary embrace and exchange of compliments while I dawdled, wishing Milo would show up. Fausta was as golden blond as a German princess, one of the few Roman women who came by the look naturally. Her gown was likewise of Coan cloth, and it was of a single, transparent layer, but Fausta had the bearing to get away with it. She carried herself so regally that she could walk through a room naked and only after she was gone would anyone realize it.

“Come along,” Fausta said. “I’ve finally got the impluvium stocked. You must see it.” We followed her beneath an archway and into a vast area open to the sky. She had gutted the whole four-story structure and remodeled it. Where before there had been a vertical air shaft faced with windows of upper rooms, she had stepped each floor back from the one below so that now there were three balconies like theater seats built for gods. From each balcony were draped huge garlands, and upon them stood giant vases from which sprang colorful flowers and even small trees. Along the railings roosted pigeons and even peacocks, and incense burned in dozens of bronze braziers.

A change as great had been wrought on the floor. Before, there had been a modest catch-basin for rainwater. Now there was a veritable lake, and its pungent scent astonished me.

“Is this seawater?” I asked. “Exactly,” Fausta affirmed. “It’s so tiresome having sea fish brought all the way up from Ostia on barges, and it’s never really fresh when it arrives. I have the water brought up in casks. It has to be renewed frequently, but it’s worth the effort. I get so tired of river fish.”

I could see a variety of marine life disporting beneath the surface: mullets, tunny fish, eels, even squid. The water wasn’t perfectly clear, but I could see that the bottom was another mosaic, this one a colossal figure of Neptune in his shell chariot drawn by hippocampi . His hair and beard were the traditional blue, the trappings of his chariot and the head of his trident gilded with pure gold leaf. I saw a wading slave armed with a similar, but more prosaic, trident. The weapon darted out, and he pulled it back with a wriggling tunny fish impaled on the tines. The onlookers applauded as if he’d speared a lion in the Circus. Around the periphery, other slaves plied the water with eel forks.

“Can’t ask for anything fresher than that,” I said, my stomach rumbling with anticipation. I knew that Julia would have to have a pond just like it, only bigger, but I was willing to worry about it later. I could see that Milo’s previously Spartan concept of dining had gone the way of everything else.

“Decius,” Julia said, “Fausta is going to show me her new wardrobe. Do try to stay out of trouble.”

“Trouble? What sort of trouble could I get into in a place like this?” Julia rolled her eyes in exasperation and went off arm in arm with Fausta. Sometimes I had the feeling that my wife didn’t trust me.

The place was thronged with guests and their attendants, and I was delighted to see that Fausta hadn’t chosen the entire guest list. I saw Lisas, the seemingly perpetual ambassador from Egypt who had been in Rome as long as I could remember. He had a slave supporting him on either side, not because he was drunk but because he was so obese. His outrageous practices and unique perversions had been the subject of gossip for a couple of generations, but he was one of the most jovial and gregarious men I ever knew, which is just what you want in an ambassador.

Young Antonius arrived, already slightly tipsy, and began flirting with all women present, slave or free. I knew him slightly, and he waved to me with his wine cup. He was one of those ridiculously handsome, personable young men who never fear to do or say anything that comes into their heads, because they know they are universally adored and will always be forgiven.

I grabbed a cup from a passing server and began looking for Milo. I found his assembly room, which was filled with his thugs, all of them decently attired for a change, eating and playing games at long tables. Hermes was among them, playing knucklebones and probably losing. The walls were decorated with chariot races and animal hunts and gladiator fights, subjects dear to the hearts of Milo’s men but undoubtedly not chosen by the lady of the house. The grand families happily sponsored the Games, but they considered them far too vulgar to be fit subjects for domestic ornament.

These men all knew me, and I was the recipient of much backslapping and congratulation and well-wishing. Should Milo and I ever fall out, they would cut my throat with equal enthusiasm, but until then they were my boon companions. Plus, they knew that someday I might be judging them in court, and it is always wise to be on good terms with a man who could send you to the mines or the lions or set you free at his whim.