“Domina,31 guests have arrived for you, Senator Lucius Julius Servianus and matron Annia Galeria Faustina.”

“Take them to the triclinium and tell the chefs it's time to have lunch.” Domitia in hesitation turned to Regin, “I think we will invite the boys later. Let them play some more!”

“Good!” Marcus's great-grandfather agreed.

The brazier has already warmed up. The flames, dancing inside, burned the sooty walls, raised stinging tongues to the sky. Marcus approached the iron that was burning, feeling the enveloping heat, the smell of a burning tree. The sides of the roaster have acquired a crimson tint; charcoal coals high, almost to the knees, threw out the tongues of flame. Gaius stood beside it pale, silent, but full of determination.

Oh, that's pride!

Surprise mixed with reproach stirred in Marcus's soul. Previously, he did not pay attention to whether it was good or bad to be proud. Probably, for the state is good, because the Romans are not used to losing in the dispute, which means that pride pushed them to be better than others, to become stronger. The best should be villages, cities, their country. The plank had been rising all the time, forcing them to improve in this effort. But the greater perfection achieved, the more sacrifices were made.

“Don't, Gaius!” he said conciliatorily. “I don't need your oath on fire. If you think you're right, then you're right.”

“No!” Victorinus turned impulsively to him. “You don't believe me, and I'll prove it.”

He reached out to the fire, but he was hesitant to take the last step. He was slow, looked like one bewitched at the high flame. “Here's a fool!” thought Marcus. He moved decisively to his friend, and with force grasping his shoulders, dragged away from the dangerous place.

“Stop it! You're acting like a boy. We're adults! Our great emperor said that next year I will get a toga virilis.”

Fuscianus and Baebius Longus joined Marcus with apparent relief. They put their arms around the two boys’ shoulders, and led them to the drawn triangle, near which lay small balls.

The game wasn't over yet.

In the triclinium, Senator Titus's wife Antonina Faustina, whom everyone called Faustina the Elder, so as not to confuse her with her daughter Faustina the Younger, sank on a bed near Regin and Lucius Servianus. Lucilla's Domitia was near, slightly to the right. Actually, etiquette didn't allow women to lie next to men—it wasn't very decent. They used to sit on chairs. But the republican times have sunk into oblivion, and in the coming era of the princeps old social traditions were pushed back in favor of women's freedoms.

Faustina passed thirty-five. Her pleasant face was distinguished by a smooth matte skin color. Black hair was styled into a tall tower. She decorated her head, fingers, wrists, and neck with a variety of rings, bracelets, and chains of gold and silver. Her hair was crowned by a diamond tiara—Faustina loved expensive trinkets.

She seemed a kind, compliant matron, with a calm disposition. However, the pleasant expression of her face was at times spoiled by the barely visible arrogance shown in the overly raised thin eyebrow as she listened to someone, or in a sharp lip bend that looked like a scornful grin.

In front of each of the guests was put a small table with a bronze countertop on wooden carved legs, on which the servants brought all sorts of food made by the skillful chef Domitia. In large cups wine was poured, as usual, diluted. At the exit in the triclinium arranged citharode, playing an unfamiliar melody and quietly singing songs in Greek. To these melancholic sounds, they began their conversation.

They started with Tetrapharmakon, Hadrian's favorite dish. It consisted of pheasant, ham, pork udder and crispy pie—Domitia gave special instruction to the chef, knowing that Faustina liked this dish.

“You, dear Domitia, have a wonderful cook!” Faustina praised. She took more pieces of food and ate with appetite, rinsing her fingers after each dish in the scented water served by the slave in a small cup. She loved to eat well, which was evident in the second chin that appeared and the figure that began to grow fat.

“I'm always happy to please guests, especially in such a simple matter as food,” Domitia glanced at Regin and Servianus. They also ate, paying tribute to the hospitality of the hostess, but without much appetite. In old age, food does not give such pleasure as before, when women and feasts are carried away. And now what is left for them, old people? Only thermals, hot and cool baths, life-giving springs in Baiae,32 and of course politics.

They had not yet begun the important conversation for which they have gathered.

In fact, the issue of water supply to the homes of individual senators supporting Servianus was a secondary matter. The main thing was another thing—to establish who was more influential, who was more powerful, to whom would Hadrian listen.

“So, Regin, you think that the esteemed patricians are not worthy of the same grace, the same amenities as other families,” Servianus began suddenly, looking at Faustina. “Aren't they the same as Valerius, Julius or Marcius?”

Regin chuckled. “The ball is thrown!” a comparison with the trigon came to him, a game he had just watched. “We'll have to get it back.”

“Oh gods, no Lucius!” He uttered the words emphatically calmly, smiling kindly. “I've always stood for justice. But let me tell you, not all the honorable husbands of the Senate have water going to their city houses, and I don't understand why it is? After all, almost everyone lives in villas where there is water, as here at Domitia and in my neighborhood.”

“This water is needed in the insulae,33 which are owned by senators. For example, Valerius Homullus,” here Servianus pauses with value, “especially needs such improvement, because he has three insulae, in which many residents of the city are rented apartments.”

Again, the ball is in my direction! thought Regin and grinned sarcastically.

“Hm, a private improvement at the expense of Rome's budget? I don't know if our great emperor would like it.”

“Perhaps you, Servianus, missed my ball!”

He, stretching the hard wrinkles of the face smile, portraying a prudent, good host. The prefect of Rome Regin wanted to show Faustina that he was guarding the city’s interests and would not allow funds to be squandered in favor of some Homullus. He thought that Titus Antoninus, known for his modesty and commitment to the laws, would appreciate such efforts, and Faustina would undoubtedly pass this conversation on to her husband.

But she reacted unexpectedly.

“Can't you make a small exception for someone?” she asked, raising her eyebrows arrogantly and mockingly, and Regin felt as if the ball had been thrown at him from the wrong side. The left hand did not have time to react, the ball fell to the ground and rolled towards Servianus.

“I think it's time to taste the fruit,” suddenly intervened Domitia on the right of the hostess, recalling that Faustina once shared with her impressions of those people who often visited their house. Homullus's surname was one of the first. Narrow-minded man, as Regin believed, Servianus was smart enough to set a dangerous trap, as Regin believed.

In the voice of Marcus's mother through nervousness, it was felt by all present and satisfied with himself Lucius Servianus, whose meaty face melted into a smile, deciding to amplify the effect.

“As for the princeps,” he called Hadrian one of his many titles, “I don't think there will be any difficulty with his approval. I was at his reception recently, and he deigned to inform me that he had almost settled on the heir nomination. You know, his health leaves much to be desired lately. But now Caesar has gone back to Syria. The war in Judea continues, and he wants to personally check how things are going. Unfortunately, we have lost many warriors from the Spanish and Deiotariana legions. Now one of your relatives Sextus Julius Sever commands there.”