“Okay, Marcus,” Longus said conciliatorily, “let him swear by Hercules. That's enough!”
Marcus turned away, stepped aside. His big eyes darkened, and his face became sullen.
“I don't like liars!” he said passionately. “Everyone should be responsible for their words, as the teacher Diognetus said.”
“But, Marcus, listen,” Ceius Fuscianus tried to stand up for his friend, “Gaius just wants to swear, to turn to the gods. He didn't commit a crime.”
Ever since childhood, his father took Fuscianus to the courts, so that his son would listen, watch how justice was carried out. The eloquence of judicial lawyers, of which there were many in Rome, made a proper impression on the boy. And now, as a lawyer, he was putting his foot to the side, taking a steady position; he raised his right hand and began gesticulating with it.
Marcus went even further, to where oaks, pines, and myrtles grew, in the shadow of the thick foliage. He leaned his back against the oak tree, feeling the power of the tree, the humming of the trunk, as if he was chasing excited blood through the veins. The foliage above his head rustled restlessly, as if wanting to hide the feelings raging in Marcus's soul.
He did not want to harm Victorinus, though he understood that the flaming roaster would cripple his hand. But deep-down Marcus, as inside the roaster, blazed destructive passions, which still had to be curbed. It is hard to take yourself in hand; it is difficult to control every step when the intention to force, humiliate, and crush drives one crazy.
How to learn to own yourself, if the innocent lying of Victorinus, his friend, a good Gaius, in general, caused in him such cruel and brutal desires? Isn't that what Emperor Hadrian warned him about, saying that Caesar should not be a slave to pernicious passions. He whispered in his ear, tickling his beard, “Let yourself go! Let yourself go!”
But Hadrian, a paradoxical man, meant the opposite by this: you need to let go of yourself so as not to plunge into passions, but to rise above them, subject them to reason. Hadrian as if to say that this is how Caesar should rule, supporting the stoics, who saw in uncontrollable passions only a source of evil.
Meanwhile, two slaves dragged a low iron roaster and, kneeling, began to fan the fire.
“The boys play for a long time,” said Domitia Lucilla.
She stood with Regin under the canopy of a small portico and looked into the garden, where the tunics of the young men were white. Behind the backs of Domitia and Regin along the marble columns froze silent and significant busts of seven Greek sages, so revered Roman nobility. Bearded philosophers Thales of Miletus, Solon, Pittacus and others listened carefully, as if they wanted to understand the essence of their conversation and give the right advice.
Regin, the man of stinging warehouse, with stiff, imperious wrinkles on his face, looked at the garden with faded watery eyes. Autumn had already come into its own, covering the trees in gold leaves, bending branches to the ground with the gravity of the fruit. Slaves brought meat, fruits, and vegetables to the city every day, which had been matured in the estates of patricians and rich freedmen.
Summer was over, and the holidays followed one after another. It seemed that until recently everyone was singing hymns to the goddess of fertility Ceres, and the Plebeian Games were ahead. To win over the people, Regin added to the money of other organizers and their funds.
“It's good to be outdoors,” he remarked, in a squeaky voice. “This is how the ancients were advised, for mobile activities develop the body and mind. Are they fighting in a trigon?”
“Yes,” Domitia replied with a subtle grin. Regin, as an old warrior, saw the flashes of war in everything, and even here he could not resist comparing the harmless trigon with the battle.
“I used to be good at it, now I can't. Speed is not enough.”
“But in the affairs of the state, you have time,” flattered Domitia, who tried once again to please the domineering and ambitious relative.
Regin often visited the Domitia Lucilla, the benefit of their villa was located close, and they could always go to each other without resorting to palanquin,30 and even more so to the wagon.
“That's right!” Marcus's great-grandfather agreed sympathetically, stretching his wrinkled lips into a smile. “Have you complied with my request?”
“Yes, I invited Faustina, but I don't understand why? She is Marcus's aunt and sister of my late husband, and she and I see each other so often on family holidays.”
Catillius Regin slyly squinted.
“I want to talk to Senator Servianus here at the villa. As I was informed by the faithful people, Servianus was at the emperor's reception. He asked for individual senators, people from his party who make up my opposition.”
Domitia was surprised.
“Are they dissatisfied with something?”
“Rome is a big city, and I am its prefect. In my power is concentrated huge sums of money that give me the opportunity to influence the right people, make serious decisions, convince unreliable senators. This, as it turns out, they do not have enough. So, they pester me with petty Senate inspections, slow down my orders or completely ignore them. Now Servianus asks for them! You see, they need running water in Roman homes. This will not happen!”
“Why do you need Faustina? I always felt she wasn't very good at politics. Titus's wife is a little frivolous, windy, and she does not have a state mind.”
Regin looked closely at Domitia.
“I know that. Gossip came to me that her hobbies are not entirely appropriate for the venerable matron. These baths… At the time of my youth, most love relationships were tied up in them, but now Hadrian had forbidden joint washing.”
“It's like it's stopping someone!” Domitia smirked.
“So, why do I need Faustina? In the Senate, there are some hesitating people, like a swamp. Such people have always been there. They do not know who to join and do not want to rush with a choice. Faustina's husband Antoninus has a certain influence among this group and I need him to take my side—everyone knows that Antoninus loves his wife and listens to her.”
Domitia Lucilla, with her hair tied up in a high hairstyle, looked young enough. In the morning, the slaves performed cosmetic procedures with her, placing whitening ointments on her face, painting her eyelashes, making her lips bright. Her tunic and the top handkerchief, which she covered her head with, generously sprinkled incense, and now Marcus's mother stood before Regin blossoming, fragrant, alluring.
He repeatedly had the idea to find her a husband from a noble family, to connect the two patrician branches, to further strengthen their influence. But Domitia resisted. She was a wealthy, well-off woman and didn't need anything. Her factory brought a good income and Regin, being the prefect of the city, knew the exact sums coming from the sale of bricks with the label “Domitia Lucilla” printed on top.
“Wouldn't it be easier to agree on everything with Faustina in private?” Domitia broke her silence. “She is a relative; she'll understand!”
Regin chewed his lips, thought, answered.
“We must demonstrate our strength to Servianus, this pompous peacock who made his way to the consuls thanks to Domitian. I have always had a low opinion of him, although some have kept saying about his mind, about some outstanding abilities. Let him know in advance that Antoninus will be on our side, then, perhaps, we do not have to resort to pressure in the Senate, to organize a war there. Our Hadrian doesn't like strife. He wants to enjoy the peace in Tibur, tired of travel and public affairs.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a slave who had come from the depths of the atrium.
