The slaves standing nearby gave the young men towels to wipe, and they had to stop the game for a while. Marcus knew his opponents well—Victorinus and Fuscianus. Both were from the Nobilis, whose ancestors repeatedly sat in the curule chair, became consuls and praetors and censors. Both lived on the Caelian Hill, not far from him.
The game was tenacious, protracted.
Fusсianus did not pose any threat to Marcus. Dense physique, clumsy, slow, he threw the ball in the direction of Marcus not as quickly as Victorinus, and catching it was not difficult. But despite his slowness, Fuscianus himself still successfully handled catching the balls launched in his direction by Marcus or Gaius Victorinus.
Of course, the great danger in the game was Victorinus. He had a quick reaction, mobility, as a bird sharply turned his head from side to side. He was an experienced opponent. But as happens even with such strong players, Gaius had a weakness, which Marcus noticed during the game—he was inattentive, carried away, and this inattention failed him.
“He's going to quit now!” thought Marcus, as Gaius led his eyes in his direction. The Victorinus did not know how to watch the face in such tense moments, which was very important. It's like a game of nuts that Marcus once watched by slaves, one hiding a few nuts in his fist, trying to keep his face unflappable, while others tried to guess their number. Showy indifference was one of the keys to success in that game. But not only that. As Marcus noted, composure often helped to prevail in other games. And if in games, why not in life?
Victorinus threw the ball in the direction of Marcus and he caught it, but at the same time Fuscianus threw to him and Gaius could not react quickly. The ball fell to the ground, rolled to the feet of Baebius Longus.
“Dropped it, dropped it!” Longus shouted. “How embarrassing you are, Gaius! A yokel! Missed so many goals!”
Indeed, Gaius was much inferior to Marcus and Seius in the number of goals conceded. He reminded Marcus of a crow, the same black hair, the same choppy bird movements. Tall and wiry, Gaius had small eyes close to his nose and a large nose that looked like a curved beak. Perhaps he should have been born among the family of Valerius, one of which was nicknamed Raven.
“I swear by Hercules, you don't think wrong!” Victorinus retorted, biting his lower lip with annoyance. “I missed less than Marcus.”
“Not less, but more!” Baebius Longus stomped his foot.
“Of course, more!” Fuscianus supported him.
“I think so well.” Victorinus did not retreat. “I can swear by all the gods that I am right, and you are wrong.”
“Do you want to swear? Really, Gaius?” Marcus came up to him and looked into his eyes.
“Yes, I'm ready!”
“If you swear, it's like Mucius Scaevola,29 as otherwise, we won't believe your oath. Hey, Cleont,” he ordered the slave, “bring the brazier!”
Hearing this sentence, Victorinus turned pale, but the young stubbornness made him stand his ground.
“Bring it to me!” he supported Marcus.
Alarmed by these preparations, Fuscianus and Longus came closer, they wanted to calm the debaters.
“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