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.
“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