He explained that, if he remembered correctly, Pompey had just returned from a campaign in Spain. Within a week, having tidied up his affairs in Rome, he would march his army south to join the struggle against Spartacus. They would proceed along the Via Appia and pass within a short distance of Panarium.
“Will he take us along?” Carolyn asked.
“We’ll persuade him to. If not, we’ll think of something else. In the meantime, let’s try to blend in with these Romans.”
He would have added more but Flaccus appeared just then to take them to dinner. Stepping into the main hall, they walked toward the rear of the domus. The dying sun was entering through a hole in a roof (it was called a compluvium) and a dozen lamps were casting light from a variety of alcoves. Three servants stood with buckets at hand, just in case a fire started.
En route to the dining room, they passed a chamber that exhibited lines of masks on its walls. The features on each were detailed and realistic, and the collection created an eerie impression, as if a multitude of spirits were watching them pass.
“Why the masks?” Carolyn whispered.
“They are portraits of Pompey’s ancestors. Some go back hundreds of years.”
“They’re … peculiar.”
“Shh. We’re here.”
They were standing with Flaccus at the doorway of the triclinium. Boisterous voices were coming from within, and a crowd of servants were streaming back and forth, carrying wine and platters of food. Two slaves seated Felix and Carolyn on stools, washed their feet, and provided them with slippers. This operation done, they were ushered forward.
They gasped at the sight before them. They were in a room whose length was twice its width and whose walls were painted a mix of cheerful colours. There were lamps everywhere, and two more servants to prevent a fire from starting. Most peculiar were the dining arrangements. Instead of a regular table and chairs, three couches had been arranged to form a square with one side missing. The space in between contained three long tables, with sufficient room for slaves to pass into the middle. And instead of sitting straight, the guests were reclining on their sides, their faces turned toward the central space. All in all, it was a cozy setup.
The diners barely noticed as Flaccus guided them to the couch on the left — by custom this was reserved for the lowest-ranking guests. They were too caught up in the conversation and, besides, two fifteen-year-old foreigners were hardly worth their notice. Felix looked round the room and almost flinched in shock. Besides Pompey, there were another five people, two of whom he recognized. Containing his excitement, he reclined beside Carolyn on the couch.
“So tell us,” Pompey asked the man on his right, a sign his rank was the highest of those present, “how’s the war with Spartacus going?”
“We have five legions and are assembling three more,” this guest spoke crisply, holding out his goblet, which a slave filled with wine.
“Eight legions to deal with an army of slaves?” Pompey laughed.
“Your attitude explains why we’ve been beaten thus far. Don’t underrate these slaves, Gnaeus. They are capable warriors.”
“But they are slaves, nonetheless,” a portly man spoke up. “Doesn’t Aristotle argue that some are slaves by nature while others are born to rule?”
“With all due respect to Aristotle,” the general sneered, “Spartacus fights for a most precious possession, his personal liberty. This is why his motivation is high, and why he has performed so ably. At the same time, he will learn to his discredit that it is sheer folly to defy the authority of Rome.”
“Do you recognize these people?” Carolyn whispered.
“Only two besides Pompey,” Felix replied, nodding his thanks as a slave handed him a goblet. “On his right is Marcus Licinius Crassus, the richest man in Rome; while the fat guy is Marcus Tullius Cicero, a very able orator.”
“I don’t know what they’re saying, but they seem pleased with themselves.”
“You’re right,” Felix said, discovering there was wine in his goblet. “As far as I can tell, they are all big players on the political scene. Still, if they knew what I know, they wouldn’t feel so smug.”
In a low voice he described how each character would meet his end. Pompey would die years later in Egypt, murdered after his defeat by Julius Caesar. Cicero would be killed by a follower of Caesar — the infamous Mark Antony. And Crassus would die in the Syrian desert after witnessing the destruction of his accompanying army.
“It’s eerie,” Carolyn commented, “how you know these men’s futures.”
Felix was about to agree — it was strange to know how a living person would die — but their whispering had attracted the guests’ attention and they were now the subject of everyone’s stares. To conceal his agitation, Felix gulped his wine.
“What language are you speaking?” Cicero asked.
“It is a dialect of Celtic,” Felix lied, aware that the orator couldn’t tell Common Speak and Celtic apart.
“Pompey tells us that you are from Prytan,” Crassus said, “and you are descended from Druids?”
“That is correct, dux.”
“Tell us about Prytan and your people, then.”
Aware that Romans were curious about the world, Felix had prepared himself in advance for this question. He briefly described the size and climate of England, as well as its tribes and religious practices, explaining how the Druids worship nature and consider fire a purifying element. As he spoke, he knew no one would challenge his account: no Roman would set foot in Prytan for at least twenty years.
“How fascinating,” a man named Metellus spoke up. “It is remarkable how varied the world can be.”
Crassus laughed. “How backward, too. The boy’s account just goes to show that the world is waiting for the Romans to fill it.”
“Perhaps Prytan will experience the force of Roman arms,” Cicero agreed. “And will be fortunate enough to become a province. How does that prospect strike you, boy?”
“Perhaps it will be conquered,” Felix assented, aware the emperor Claudius would turn it into a province down the road. Without considering the wisdom of the remark, he added, “But the student of history cannot fail to observe that empires eventually come to an end. Indeed, the larger their territory, the faster they contract.”
The room greeted his statement with silence. Pompey was holding out his goblet but moved it suddenly when Felix spoke, causing wine to spill all over. Crassus sat upright, knocking into Metellus, who dropped a succulent slice of lamb. The other guests were murmuring aloud, shocked by Felix’s observation. Sensing he had spoken out of turn, Carolyn curled into herself.
“Pompeius informs us,” Cicero spoke, “that you have been adopted by Sextus Pullius Aceticus and trained in Roman customs?”
“That is correct, magister.” Felix glanced down at his goblet. In his nervousness, he had drained its contents.
“And yet, having received such instruction, you question our supremacy?”
“I meant no offence. I was merely pointing out that empires die, like all things human. Why are Babylonia, Assyria, and Egypt no more? Because they overreached themselves and committed terrible crimes.”
“Such as?” Crassus asked, his face a mix of ice and stone.
“Enslaving people is one example.”
The room started speaking at once. Someone was yelling that an economy without slaves was impossible; Cicero was quoting Aristotle again, how some populations are naturally servile;