"I'd thought of that, too. That's a two-man job, though."
"You like to snoop. Get one of the praetors to appoint you iudex pedaneus." This last was an official appointed to investigate crimes and disputes.
"I'm not on the list of names to be drawn from," I told him. "I won't be old enough for more than a year."
"That's unfortunate, but if Clodius is trying to poison you, you may not have much attention to spare for other matters."
The town house of Lucullus was the size of many country villas, an amazing thing in the tight-packed city. His staff of slaves and freedmen was rumored to number in the hundreds. That was not unusual for a country estate, but town houses were usually more modest. I gaped like any visiting foreigner at the fabulous statuary, the ponds and fountains, the spectacular gardens, where he had had full-grown trees brought in and planted.
A triclinium is supposed to accommodate nine dinner guests comfortably, with room to wedge in a few extras. The triclinium of Lucullus would have housed a full meeting of the Senate. I was told that this was one of several dining halls, and not among the largest. We flopped onto couches upholstered with pure silk and stuffed with down and precious herbs. The platter set before me was two feet wide, as thick as my thumb and made of solid silver.
The opening course was, as usual, eggs. But these had been wrapped in an incredibly fine foil of hammered gold. It seemed that we were to eat them foil and all. Cato fastidiously unwrapped his. The next course was suckling pigs. They had rubies for eyes.
"This is your modest afternoon repast, Lucius?" Cicero said.
"Yes, when I've nothing in particular to celebrate." He made a signal and musicians began to play. A troupe of beautiful Greek boys came in and began a Pyrrhic dance.
"Don't get him started," warned Hortalus, my father's colleague in the Censorship. "When he wants to show off, he brings out the gold table service. It's as massive as this."
"I was wondering what happened to that big golden statue of Mithridates you captured, Lucius," said Celer.
"Absurd!" Cato protested. "There was a time when only a single service was owned by the entire Senate, and it was passed from one member to another when foreign ambassadors were to be entertained." Cato always talked as if there were something special about being a small, poor city-state. The world was full of such places, and he never seemed to admire any of them.
"I think it entirely fitting and perfectly Roman," said Lucullus. "Thracian chieftains drink wine from the skulls of their enemies. Why should we not dine off the statue of an enemy of Rome?"
"Utter sophistry!" Cato protested. The conversation turned to other things; Cato was too easy a target. About this time a group of women of the household entered and took chairs at the tables. At least they didn't join the men on the couches. That would have sent Cato into an apoplectic fit. One of these, a woman about my age who wore a peach-colored gown, was extraordinarily beautiful. She was as white-blond as a German, but her features were unmistakably Roman, and of the upper classes. Milo, who lay on my right, leaned toward me.
"Who is the blond goddess?" He did not say this sarcastically. He had the stunned look of a man smitten. I turned to the man on my left, an old Senator who was a regular in Lucullus's circle, and asked him.
"The lady Fausta," he answered. I turned back to Milo.
"Tough luck, Titus. It's Fausta, Sulla's daughter."
"What is wrong with that?" Milo asked. "I want you to introduce me to her." His eyes had a gleam I could only interpret as unhealthy.
"In the first place, I don't know her. In the second, she's a Cornelian, and the gods need permission to call on that family."
He gripped my shoulder and I stifled a scream. Milo had hands that could crush bone. He relented a little and leaned close.
"Introduce me. You are a Metellan, and even a Cornelian will listen to somebody named Caecilius Metellus."
"I'll do it!" I said. To my utterable relief, his hand left my shoulder. I studied the woman. She was something of an enigma in Rome, famous but rarely seen. She and her brother, Faustus, were twins, a portentous enough circumstance without being the children of the godlike Sulla. At his death, Sulla had entrusted their care to his friend Lucullus. Faustus had joined Pompey in Asia and distinguished himself in the wars there. Fausta had remained with Lucullus and for some reason had never married. The twins received their unusual names from their father, in honor of his legendary good fortune. He paid for it at the end, though. He died in terrible, lingering agony of a nameless cancer. The last year of his life must have made him wish he'd not lived the first fifty-nine.
When the luncheon was over, the guests wandered around admiring the grounds, where you almost expected to see naked nymphs burst from the shrubbery, closely pursued by ithyphallic satyrs. Had satyrs not been in such short supply, doubtless Lucullus would have had them.
We found Fausta clipping winter roses in a canopied arbor. She wielded the clippers while a little slave girl held up her skirts to collect them. I walked up to her and made the expected obeisance.
"Lady Fausta, I've not had the honor of your acquaintance. I am Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, recently returned to Rome from a sojourn in Gaul."
She spared me the slightest of glances, and her eyes flickered to Milo. "Charmed. And who is your friend?"
I was a bit put out. Granted, Milo was enormous and handsome as a god, but I was certainly better born.
"Allow me to present Titus Annius Milo Papianus, a- just what are you, Milo?" I couldn't very well introduce him as my friend, Milo the gangster, although that was exactly what he was.
Milo took her hand. "I am the man who is going to rule Rome, as your father did, my lady."
She smiled up at him. "Wonderful. Men of ordinary ambition are so common."
"I believe we are related," I said. "Wasn't your mother a Caecilia Metella?"
"How long have you been in Rome, Titus Annius?" she asked, utterly ignoring me. Well, it wasn't that much of a relationship. My family produces even more daughters than sons.
"A little over eight years, my lady." After his initial burst of arrogance, he seemed almost tongue-tied, a marvel I never expected to behold.
"Titus Milo, you say? I believe I've heard the name. Don't your followers get into street battles with the men of Clodius Pulcher?"
"Not lately," Milo said, bashful at receiving such praise.
"How enthralling. You must tell me all about it."
"Well, I'll leave you two to get acquainted," I said. They ignored me. I gave it up as a futile task and walked away from them. I had discharged my duty as Eros.
Full-bellied and with the balance of a fine day ahead of me, I decided to make another call on a friend, this time with more than social aims in mind. I headed down the Palatine toward the river. I had a call to pay at the Temple of Aesculapius.
For the first time I crossed the splendid new stone bridge that linked the bank with the island. This had been built the year before by the tribune Fabricius. At the temple I inquired after the physician Asklepiodes and found that he was once again in residence at the Statilian School, which had been displaced by the building of Pompey's new theater. The new school was situated in the Trans-Tiber district. Armed with directions, I crossed to the far bank into the city's newest district, which, unconstrained by walls, sprawled over a sizable patch of ground without the suffocating closeness of the old city.
The new school was a splendid affair, with none of the prisonlike air that so many such institutions have. The walk leading to the school was paved with stone and lined with statues of champions of years past. An archway tunneled through the building, leading to a wide exercise yard whence came the clatter of weapons as the men went through their arms drill. I paused to admire the spectacle, and possibly calculate odds for the next games. The trainees fought with practice weapons, but the senior veterans actually used sharp weapons. The blade artistry of some of these men was wonderful to see. No soldier ever gains this sort of expertise, because soldiers spend much time practicing formation fighting and even more on labor details, digging and building. Gladiators do nothing but train for single combat.