shared the polymath's corner. Almost bald except for a fringe of orange hair like a victory wreath, Orata had the portly build of a man grown fat on his successes. His plump, bemused face seemed out of place amid the general gloom. When he happened to look my way, I could not tell whether he liked me at first sight or was craftily smiling to conceal some other reaction. For the most part he seemed to take little notice of me at all as he busily ordered the table slaves assigned to his divan to slice the pits from his olives and fetch more cumin sauce.
The elderly actor Metrobius, who reclined at my right, gave me a nod as I was introduced and then immediately turned his attention to Gelina. He reclined on his right side, she on her left, so that their heads were together. They spoke to each other in hushed voices, and occasionally Metrobius would reach out and clasp her hand reassuringly. His long, flowing robe covered him from head to foot; the finely spun linen appeared funereal black at first glance, but upon closer inspection I saw it was actually a very dark purple. He wore gold around his neck and wrists, and a great jewel-encrusted ring on his left hand, which flashed in the light whenever he lifted his cup. Metrobius had been Sulla's great love, it was said, the dictator's companion and friend throughout his life, outlasting all of Sulla's many marriages and liaisons. Whatever physical allure he had possessed in youth was long gone, but there was an assertive dignity in his great mane of white hair and a kind of robust beauty in the weathered wrinkles of his face. I recalled the night ten years ago when I had seen him perform for Sulla, and remembered the spell cast by his presence. Even with his attentions directed toward Gelina, I could feel the 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
The elderly actor Metrobius, who reclined at my right, gave me a nod as I was introduced and then immediately turned his attention to Gelina. He reclined on his right side, she on her left, so that their heads were together. They spoke to each other in hushed voices, and occasionally Metrobius would reach out and clasp her hand reassuringly. His long, flowing robe covered him from head to foot; the finely spun linen appeared funereal black at first glance, but upon closer inspection I saw it was actually a very dark purple. He wore gold around his neck and wrists, and a great jewel-encrusted ring on his left hand, which flashed in the light whenever he lifted his cup. Metrobius had been Sulla's great love, it was said, the dictator's companion and friend throughout his life, outlasting all of Sulla's many marriages and liaisons. Whatever physical allure he had possessed in youth was long gone, but there was an assertive dignity in his great mane of white hair and a kind of robust beauty in the weathered wrinkles of his face. I recalled the night ten years ago when I had seen him perform for Sulla, and remembered the spell cast by his presence. Even with his attentions directed toward Gelina, I could feel the 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
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