Drusus

Lucius nodded his head sagely. "Time is that one thing we cannot get back, I suppose." He scuffed the gravelled path with his foot, knocking up a little cloud of dust. It was funny that some days thoughts of the loss would be met by him stoically. Other days they felt like fresh, open wounds.

"I am sullying here with unpleasant thoughts. I cannot believe that the founder of this park intended it to be used for such glum reveries."

"Tell me, then, what is it that you do? Perhaps you are the keeper of the park?" he asked in jest.

@Sydney

"Oh no sir, please! Simple Lucius Licinius will do. I think we are both men of taste and that its a universal brotherhood, is it not?" he said. Leaving the atrium behind, he led Paulus through into the peristyle garden, towards his private study which was situated just off it. At this time of the morning his two garden slaves were doing some gentle pruning as well as watering the many tiers of plants. For display purposes, he had had the water feature turned on and it gurgled away gently. The uneven flow and splutter demonstrating that it really ought to have an engineer come out to take a look at it.

"A fine fellow, old Crassus. Too rich for his own good. Realised, the hard way, that money can only buy you so much. Didn't buy him good generalship, mind you. Trodden all over by Caesar and Pompey and then - poof - his head is being used as a prop in a Parthian play. There is a morality lesson in that, I suppose."

He opened the door to his study and invited Paulus to step in first. He left the door open for some natural light. There were no windows in this room which was otherwise lighted solely by an array of candelabra. Wall paintings of his family would dance in the golden light of these candles when lit. A slave had already been in and furnished the room with refreshments. A jug of watered wine. A platter with fruits and some soft, baked rolls from the nearby bakery. Macer indicated a chair. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

He filled a cup with wine and handed it across before filling one for himself. 

"I am not planning to sell much, if anything. Unless you think it would be worthwhile. I will level with you. I am a widower. It is not an easy state for me, I must admit. My late wife ran the house far better than I. I plan to remarry and, if I cannot make myself young again, I ought at least to make my home fresher and newer for a younger taste. My father's taste was very Claudian. We live in different times now. These Flavian days are much more liberal, I think. Well, to my mind at least. I would therefore value an expert opinion in the means of making this place more...accommodating...to the discerning eye of the Flavian times. I am told you have much expertise in this area."

@Sharpie

LIVIA LUCRETINA

30 | 29 May 43AD | Senatore | Fashionista | Bi-Sexual |  | Viva Bianca

Personality.

Livia is vain. There is no way to escape that and it is best that you just appreciate that straight up. Looked at it dispassionately, she has every reason to be. She is from a hugely wealthy senatorial family. That in itself breeds an inherent sense of superiority. Couple that with devastatingly good looks and - bang! - you have an explosive cocktail. Livia is used to getting what she wants. From childhood she was her father's favorite and was doted on. As she came into her good looks she saw the way that men (and women) would go out of their way to please her. She leaped on that. Soon she knew how to use seduction and even the subtlest of hints to get her own way. This was something she brought with her to her marriage and, although there was an element of mutual respect (if not love) in it, she soon had her husband dancing to her tune. Now a liberated widow and still young and in the full bloom of her beauty, she has access to a huge reservoir of cash (thank you father and husband!). Since her teenage years she has been obsessed with how clothes and cosmetics can enhance her physical beauty. She is now an expert in this area. Oh she will judge you if your outfit is dated. She sets the trends. She can be catty and bitchy about it. But she is also gregarious, fun, full of life. She enjoys partying, flirting and intriguing. She wants to get on in life. Ostensibly for the purposes of her children but, deep down, more for herself. 

Appearance

Livia is a glamorous woman. You can spot that a mile off. She wears the finest clothes, sourced from Rome's finest designers, all of which she has funds and access to through a generous bequest from her late husband's will as well as the continuing profits from his estates. She adores gems and gold and often wears as much jewelry as some of Rome's higher class courtesans but, of course, she has infinitely more class (or at least so she thinks). Her golden hair is, to her mind, one of her finest features and she goes to extraordinary lengths to ensure that it is kept luscious and pristine. Her personal hairdresser is one of the most spoiled slaves in her household! Despite having carried three children she still has an enviable body. A firm bust and slim. She knows she is attractive and revels in the trappings of that. 

Family

Father: Gaius Livius Lucretinus Aemilianus (deceased)

Mother: Daria Gnea (deceased)

Step-Mother: Antonia Vitellia 

Siblings: (1) Livia Aemiliana (born 45AD); (2) Gaius Livius Lucretinus Aemilianus Minor 

Half-Siblings: (1) Livia Caelia (born 64AD); (2) Livius Lucretinus Pax (illegitimate)

Spouse: Aventus Decimus Quintillius (deceased)

Children: (1) Aventus Decimus Quintillius Minor (born 62AD); (2) Gaius Decimus Quintillius (born 64AD); (3) Marius Decimus Quintillius (born 68AD)

Extended family:

Other:

History

Livia was born the first child and first daughter of the senatorial couple, Gaius Livius Lucretinus Aemilianus and Daria Gnea. Her father had reached the rank of consul and held various governor positions in the reign of Caligula and Claudius. A respectable man from an established family, he did not rock the boat and was considered a safe pair of hands. Outwardly he was the epitome of Roman respectability although behind closed doors his personal life did not tally up. He indulged himself too freely in his slaves. The result of one of these many slave concubines was Livius Lucretinus Pax who her father recognised for the love he bore his slave mother and freed with special dispensation.

Pax was brought up with the increasing legitimate household of their father. Livia was joined by a sister, Aemiliana and a brother, Gaius Minor. After the birth of her brother, Livia's mother became withdrawn and progressively more frail. She took less and less of an interest in her children and family affairs and instead closeted herself away - doing what, Livia never knew. In the absence of her mother, Livia was forced to step into the vacuum and became a maternal figure towards her brother and sister. Less of the loving kind (although she was, of course, very close to them) but more in a bossy, domineering way. 

As she grew out of childhood, Livia came into her looks. Fortunately for her, these were good looks. Very good indeed. Livia, always a quick child, spotted the difference in people's behaviour towards her quickly. Their indulgence was, for the most part, now tempered with something else. She could see it in the eyes of her male peers, her old playmates, in the household slaves and even in the friends of her father. She was no longer looked at in a doting way but instead something altogether more base, more carnal. As she grew older she came to appreciate more and more what exactly this was and how it could be used to her advantage.

As she entered her teens her withdrawn, depressed mother passed away. Her father married Antonia Vitellia, the lover of the Augusta. Unlike many step-mother/step-daughter relationships, Livia warmed to the new elder female of the house. Perhaps because Antonia was a very independent and classy woman in her own right, capable of holding her own and taking no nonsense. She had to respect that. Her father, worried about the effect that a new bride would have on his precocious elder daughter resorted to spoiling her rotten, hoping this would assuage her feelings but never once spotting that there was actually no bad blood to pacify. This did not stop Livia from relishing in it. Showered with dresses, jewels, cosmetics and slaves she was the envy of all her friends and, indeed, of her siblings. In the eyes of her father, she could do no wrong.

It sounds foolish but it had not occurred to her by this stage that these times would not last forever. She was of marriageable age and her father was not lacking in suitors of all varieties bending his ear, hoping to be given the go ahead. Yet in Livia's mind she thought that this idyll would never end. She would be the apple of her father's eye forever. So, when she was called into her father's study and told she was to marry a proconsul many years older than herself, Aventus Decimus Quintillius, she was shocked. Then the tears came. And came, and came, and came. Her father, however, would for once not budge. Instead, in his usual manner, he sought to mollify her by setting her up with a hugely lavish marriage settlement - enough to make her a wealthy and stylish woman in her own right. It eased the grief, slightly.

Quintillius was not a brute. He was well aware of the jewel he had bought from her father. Unlike many a husband he did not treat his teenage bride with callous contempt and brute force. Yes, he took his pleasure in the manner of a husband but he was happy to indulge his wife's whims. His allowance to her was generous. Very much so. He allowed her a surprisingly loose rein, able to go visiting her friends and attend to her leisure pursuits as she saw fit. Livia could never love Quintillius but she could cherish him, and that she did.

From their union three sons were born. All healthy, large babies who survived the dangerous of early childhood. Having given birth to the minimum 3 children required under the Augustan Laws, she was permitted a great amount of legal and social freedom as well as respect. As a mother she took after her own. She did not hate her children - how could she! Yet she never felt a huge closeness to them. She remembered all the pain and discomfort, the fear of loss. The children were cared for by wet nurses, nannies and tutors. Her time with them was structured and often short. She wanted, and still wants, what is best for them but somehow this takes the guise of what is best for her. 

Soon after the birth of her third son, Quintillius sickened and died in a summer plague. Under the Augustan Laws, as the mother of 3 children, Livia was not required to remarry unless she chose to do so. Her dowry was untouched and had been well invested. Quintillius, in his will, had made her his principle heir and trustee for their children. Overnight she became a hugely wealthy woman in her own right. A seductive and heady combination.

Once the mourning was past came the days of indulgence. Livia found herself a role as one of the queens of Rome's high society. Her parties and salons were invitation only. Word on the street grew wilder in the telling of what these might involve: strange cults, drugs, orgies, debauchery, magic. The truth? Wouldn't you like to know!

Livia had about her a clique of Rome's desperate housewives - a clique in which appearance was everything, gossip was the daily bread and exclusion was worse than exile. Men buzzed around the group like flies, desperate to be allowed into their favours. Some were allowed, others not. Some would be scathing of Livia, branding her little better than a spoiled, upper class courtesan. Others would stare at her wide eyed and imagine each night what it was like to be her. Livia loved the polarisation of opinion. The only thing worse than being talked about was not being talked about. Let Rome talk. The more, the merrier!

But Livia is not happy. She has material wealth in abundance but the joys of that fade with time. She needs more, new heady highs. And where to find that? In power. Not just the power of local celebrity. Not just the power of sexual appeal. Real power. The power of life and death. The power to make and break fortunes, of whole peoples! There is only one way of getting into that. Her goal, therefore, is clear and, like the flight of an arrow, she has set herself a straight path for the top. Will she make it? She doesnt doubt it. Who will she crush or fling down on the way there? She doesnt much care.

Drusus | GMT | PM

"You do indeed!" Macer said in a booming voice, loud enough to fill the street. "You must be Paulus Annius? Of course, of course!" He strode across the street and helped the man out of the litter, extending his hand in greeting, clasping the other in a firm grip. "Do bear with me one moment whilst I dispense with the frippery," he said to him, much quieter, with a wink.

Backtracking his steps he bade farewell to his band of loyal clients thanking them all for their attendance that morning. They retreated a respectful distance before waiting for Dexippus to dispense the daily financial dole which they had all been after. Macer returned to the businessman, beaming a smile. "That is better. Now, please, do come in!" 

He led his companion into the domus of the Licinii, past the ornamental Aegyptian obelisks that flanked the front door and past the surly porter into the atrium. The black and white mosaic tiles of the floor gave off a pleasing glean in the morning sun. On the far side of the court a slave was busy washing them whilst another swept. Keen to ensure a good first impression, Dexippus must have ensured that the lazy staff were up earlier than normal to clean the common parts of the household to a higher than normal standard. Someone had even taken the time to buff the statue of Venus in the impluvium to half a shine. Macer spotted a passing slave and called out "refreshments to my study, for two" The slave bowed and retreated backwards, out of sight.

"You are, I am told, in the antiques and decoratives trade?" he asked. "You may find much here of interest, besides the antique man in front of you!" Macer was intentionally walking through the atrium slowly, allowing his guest time to soak up his surroundings. Not out of boastful pride but rather in the hope there were items of interest to the gentleman. He was always happy to discuss art. "Here, take a look at these," he said with almost boyish excitement.

He gestured towards a row of funeral masks of dead ancestors of the gens Licinia. His own father was up their at the penultimate end of the line. Next to that of his wife. He stopped further up. "Here, Marcus Licinius Crassus. Not a direct ancestor, of course, but he lacks his own these days. Augustus saw to that, the gentle soul. They say the Parthians poured molten gold down his throat after his defeat at Carrhae. Perhaps an apt end for him if you believe all they say about his avarice. Not that that in itself is a crime about these parts!" He chuckled.

"Perhaps we have a chair here that once graced his triumviral backside? What is the word for that in the business? Provenance! Howe would that be for provenance, eh? Might sell well, perhaps?"

@Sharpie

Macer gave an over-exaggerated sigh for comic effect. "It is far easier to discuss such matters with consulars rather than with women."

His question was apt. What exactly was it that Macer was seeking? Although he was by no means long in the tooth, he was not unaware that a man in his 40s was no longer young. Whilst plenty of his peers did not marry at all until well beyond his current age he had always thought that doing so brought its own bevy of problems. Keeping up with someone younger being the main one. Keeping up with their expectations, before anyone rushes to apply unseemly thoughts to that!

Cheap comfort of that sort was easy enough to come by. If one did not feel like running ones own household slaves like a form of Parthian harem then the city catered to all manner of taste. No, Macer was looking for something beyond the physical aspects of marriage.

"It is mercenary to say that I would like a future bride to be comfortably well off and to bring the same to the partnership," he suggested. In theory, dowries remained the property of the females in marriage. If there was to be divorce, the dowry was to be returned. If the husband unfairly or forcibly took from it during the union without consent he could be prosecuted. The wife could invest it as she would. She could even share it if she was that was inclined. His late wife had done so. It was, in truth, the only reason they had been solvent until such a time as the use of her money brought the family estates back into a profit-making state. "Life in Rome is hard. There is a career to be made and that does not come cheap. Estates to run. It would be a great comfort to have a wife as partner in these labours."

More children was certainly to be expected. He had not yet reached the three required under Augustus' laws to grant him a great slough of benefits. Besides, the more children, the more secure the family line. He would certainly not complain about the means of creating them, providing the wife wasn't ghastly looking.

"As to their age I confess I am not so fussy about that. An older woman may appreciate the finer points of the situation better than one in the first flush of youth. Yet, then again, I would not want to hitch myself to some jaded harridan who has already picked up a chest of bad habits and an unhealthy contempt for men. So there is something to be said for a younger woman who doesn't come with baggage."

He sighed again.

"It is tough! Perhaps we are best to seek the counsel of your kin? Failing that, I suppose I could always try the Oracle at Delphi."

@Gothic

Late March 74AD

The House of Lucius Licinius Macer

Macer let out a short grunt of contentment as Crito, the barber, applied the warm towel to his face. On this crisp March morning the heat of the towel was giving off gentle wisps into the cool air. With practiced hands the Greek freedman patted the towel on his jowls. Leaving it in situ he turned back to his counter, whistling distractedly as he used a small bowl to whisk up the shaving lather to a fine froth. Taking a brush of horse-hair he whipped away the towel and began lathering Macer's cheeks and chin up with the whitish-grey ointment. Macer always enjoyed visiting Crito's barbers. Not just because it was right outside his house. Not because, as a family freedman, he owed him his patronage. Rather because, sat on the chair facing the small street, he could watch the comings and goings of the world as it came alive each day. He fancied himself a local Caesar on a petty throne. Many of the people hereabouts were his clients or staff. His bodyguards kept them at a deferential distance but, nevertheless, they still bowed and qpueeked their greetings and good mornings as they raced to their daily businesses. As usual, Macer's steward, Dexippus, stood at his master's side and kept a careful eye on the entrance to the insula over the street, calling out to any of its residents who were late on their rent. 

The froth applied, Crito called out to his apprentice who hurried to him with a bag of razors and a whetstone. Continuing his whistling, Crito set to honing the edges of the blades on the stone. Despite the tunelessness of his warbling, Macer recognised that he was whistling the theme of one of the most popular tavern ballads at present. A fine drinking song, "I love her, but I'll not do that!" A raucous and increasingly vulgar ballad to titillate the plebs although he couldn't suppress a wry smile at some of the verses and had to admit it had a catchy tune. He had even caught his somber steward humming the tune late at night as he sat hunched over ledgers and invoices. 

Crito gently tilted Macer's head and with a flick of the wrist ran the blade across his cheek with a soft scraping. His almost effortless grace came with years of practice. Good Crito had once been his late father's personal groom. Freed in his will, Crito had wanted to remain close to the family in whose service he had spent the majority of his life so Macer had been perfectly happy to turf out the last occupant of his domus' taberna, a drunken leather-worker, and install Crito here in his own establishment. It did a fine business but it was accepted that it would be off-limits whenever Macer and his entourage required his ministrations.

The barber wiped the blade, coated in froth, on a towel hanging from his belt. His apprentice brought a tray of weathered pottery beakers full of spiced wine and handed them out to the few bodyguards and hangers-on that Macer had brought with him. Even though this was literally outside his front door, it was appropriate for a man of means to travel in company. For his clients this was part of their job. They would attend his morning salutio and be at his disposal until he dismissed them, each with a small monetary gift and, for the chosen few, perhaps an invitation to dinner. As for the slaves...well...this was their job. What else would they be doing?

Another rasping stroke saw the brittle stubble removed from his pink cheek. "You did send for him, yes?" he said. The remark was aimed at Dexippus. In speaking he accidentally ingested some of the lather and spat it out, pulling a face. Crito dabbed Macer's lips and continued his work. "Of course, dominus. I sent your litter to collect him directly." Macer grunted and gave a short nod. Crito, his aim spoiled, tutted slightly and with a firmness only allowed to a master barber, pulled Macer's head back into position.

The man had been recommended to him - actually, well, no - recommended to Dexippus. One of the Saepta Julia's best auctioneers and general men of business, or so he had been told. Dexippus was a fastidious and careful man. He would have been sure to do his due diligence thoroughly. He reported that his place of business was legitimate, well stocked and staffed and, more importantly, was regularly frequented. The bankers had been checked to and gave him a clean bill of financial health. A good start. 

Macer had been long from Rome. Too long for any of his old connections to be of much use. No senator could rightly engage in business. It was deemed unseemly. Not only that but it was a perfectly valid reason for the transgressor to be struck off the Curial Roll by zealous, pompous censors. That didn't stop half the House of Hypocrites from regularly breaking these conventions. After all, how were the rich to stay rich? Exactly. There was nothing wrong in engaging in mutually advantageous partnerships. Having the appropriate face on an enterprise. So, whilst he had called the respectable gentleman to him with a view to re-furnishing his domus as part of his hunt for a new, younger bride, his secondary (and more pressing aim) was to sound out prominent local businessmen as to their openness to engaging in some money-making. Legitimately so. Well, almost. Legitimacy was in the eye of the beholder anyway. 

Crito was by now finishing up his art. Slapping his cheeks with some perfume Macer whinced at the sudden sting on his bare skin. A commotion further down the street suggested that his guest may be arriving. Handed a towel, Macer scrubbed his cheeks himself whilst Dexippus handed coins to Crito. "A pleasure, as always, my friend," Macer said as he stood.

@Sharpie

The House of Lucius Licinius Macer stands on the Esquiline Hill. Set away from the main public highways, this large urban domus is a product of the Late Republican Age, when the House of the Licinii was in the ascendent. Since then, it has been showing its age although it does still impress - at least on those who are not used to better luxuries. From the quiet street it fronts, it does not look much. The tabernae, or lock up shop, on the left of the vestibulum, is a local barbers, run by one of the family's freedmen. The lock up shop on the right is a popina, or fast food shop, specialising in all manner of congealed warm stews and chickpea concoctions, lathered in fish sauce. 

Two ancient Egyptian obelisks, twice the height of a man flank the main doorway, brought back as spoils by an ancestor. The interior of the house is in stark contrast to the drab street-side appearance. The colonnaded atrium has a floor of black and white mosaics set in elaborate mathematical spiral patterns. Set in the midst of the impulvium is a life sized statue of Venus, covering her modesty as if caught mid-bath. The walls are set with niches for the funeral masks and busts of prominent ancestors of the Licinii. The main bedroom is directly off this, generally away from public view by decorated in Eastern style with black and gold silks and drapes.

The main oddity of the House is that the main entertaining room, the triclinium (dining room) is set at the far rear of the House and is surrounded by an elaborately well kept peristyle garden. The triclinium is decorated in natural themes, with scenes of animals, birds and hunting on the walls. A small water feature sits in the peristyle which is otherwise given over to tiers of seasonal flowers and trellises of ivy and vines. The master's study is set opposite the entertaining room at the other side of the peristyle garden. The walls are covered in wall paintings of the current owner, his late wife and a number of their ancestors. 

Perfection! By your leave, I will set up a post for us if that's ok?

@Sharpie

Thank you muchly!

Hey there, can I get in on this too, please? Request for Lucius to have a Domus on the Esquiline, please and thank you!

Hey Sharpie, sorry for coming late to the party here, but think there might be some scope for a possible link with my character - Lucius Licinius Macer. Recently widowed senator, big investments overseas and now back in Rome to try and climb his way up the political/power ladder and, in the process, is looking not only for fancy products to do up his domus with (and use as gifts/bribes for others) but also is ever keen to dip into fair (or foul) business prospects - through one of his freedmen, of course, as personal involvement in finance would be frowned upon by the senatorial bigwigs!

@Sharpie

"Well you must be visiting the right temples to ensure that you are keeping such good fortune! You must tell me your secret," Lucius joked. Good fortune was something of a magnet. In his experience, the fortunate attracted good fortune. The unfortunate, bad fortune. Throw as many handfuls of incense into the censer as you wish and slaughter umpteen of the fattest, whitest lambs and still it would do you no good. If the stars dictated that you were not one of the elect, then there was little that could be done. To that end he had never really doubted that Quintus Sulpicius would be in any way put out or troubled, at least publicly. Such an eminent man would, no doubt, find his way rose bestrewn. Or at least so Lucius thought in his inner, gloomy monologue.

His host's comment had caught his attention. "Forgive me for sounding like the worst sort of Syrian carpet trader and jumping on what was probably no more than a kind comment, but any assistance in that regard would be truly appreciated."

It would indeed. There was a lot on his mind. Foremost was securing a new bride. His children required a maternal figure. He required more children. After all, the law gave precedence and benefits to those who had three children or more. All thanks to the great and pious Augustus who, of course, had only had one child of his own. The father of so much, including Imperial hypocrisy! Besides the pressing needs of the home, there were few better ways to secure personal advancement that an advantageous marriage into the right circles. Money helped. Influence helped more. What Lucius needed was the right patronage - to settle himself within the coterie of the right person or persons who would use their clout to kick him up the ranks of the cursus honorum. Imperial favour could help a candidate overcome tiresome administrative hurdles - cut through some of the miles of red tape. 

The problem was that, in his early forties and so long absent from the capital, Lucius really didnt know where to start in finding a new bride. There were professional match makers but before resorting to them he ought to at least have some idea of the lie of the land, so to speak.

"Tragic admission, but I am unsure where one even starts to look these days. The name of an old family will, I am sure, attract plenty of parents hoping to offload a daughter, but you must be assured of the quality. It is better to go find a gem rather than have someone come and sell you it. The searching adds to the value, perhaps?"

@Gothic

Macer could not help but grin. Ahh, it was refreshing and infuriating in equal measure to be back amongst the blue bloods of Rome’s high society. You certainly didn’t find people like these out in the provinces! Even the half mad Greek client kings of the East, half of whom married their siblings and the other half thinking they were gods, could not hold a candle to the inherent dignity, uprightness and pomposity of your standard Roman noble. Macer was very much the same in his ways. It was what set Rome apart. In the city without a King, every senator had been the equal of a monarch. Of course how such a heritage now tallied with the not-so-veiled reality of the Principate was another matter. It had been a while since he had had the opportunity to cut and thrust in sentences of double meaning, where more was left unsaid than said. A curia full of masters of dissimulation. He had missed it! Being open and honest was too tawdry. Where was the politics in that?

Life in the city is pleasant enough. That was true. Although how true that was during the days of the riots, prescriptions and civil wars was debateable. Macer had avoided all that. He was unsure if Metellus had. “Rome stinks but, I think it is said, money and power do not.”

“I am glad all is well with your kith and kin. A happy, thriving family is a blessing to any man.”

The imp of the perverse had now taken hold of Macer. It was an incorrigible habit of his: to try and sound out his interlocutors on awkward points. Besides, it helped to know where a man stood on matters of importance. The Senate may have been made into political eunuchs by the Deified Augustus but the late, great power-snatcher had not done away with the defunct member altogether. The relatively recent past showed that the Senate could still, if roused, he a force to be reckoned with. It was a shame, in many ways, that a lack of coherent leadership and a profligation of self-interest had prevent a return to Republicanism when there had been the chance. Macer supposed that after having been shown the fruits of absolute power, the people of Rome had acquired a taste for it and, drunk on change, felt little compulsion to return to the drab dregs of national heritage. Why would one man return government to the hands of its traditional holders when he could take it for himself?

Cyprianus had kept the reins of power to himself. They had to be torn from him. A Praetorian Prefect raising himself to the purple off the back of a mob. Fires, blood, murders, civil war. Now a decade of peace. Things were quiet. Perhaps too much so. If Roman history had taught anything it was that the longer the calm, the fiercer the storm.

“Oh I am sure the residents of the Palatine would sooner have us forget many of those of damned memory. And for good reason! An equite as Princeps! Even as a usurper it still goes against the grain!”

@Brian

“Travelling can open the mind but it can close it too,” Lucius mulled. He tutted. “Now, look at what you’ve done, making me sound like some wizened old Stoic! It is true, though. Yes, it can be amazing to see the wondrous things that exist on foreign shores but what the story tellers forget to mention is that for every day spent viewing the ancient singing statue of Memnon in the Aegyptian desert or the great temple at Halicarnassus there are long, uncomfortable, dirty and weary weeks spent getting there. For every one palace seen, you must stay in countless flea-ridden, over-priced inns. For every natural wonder, hours of staring at the horse’s backside of the traveller in front of you. After a few months or indeed years of travelling you realise that home isn’t quite so bad. Once something is seen it is seen. The novelty wears off. You soon yearn for those things you formerly found boring and mundane in your previous life. Take my word for it, it is mighty hard to get a decent meal, night’s sleep or bath outside the city of Rome. Not impossible, just hard!”

Lucius gave a light bow. “A delightful name although I must confess I have not had the pleasure of knowing your parents or kin or husband as the name is new to me.”

“Apart from the lack of creature comforts I am afraid my return is presaged by more sombre affairs. My late wife passed at the end of last year. I returned for the sake of our children and well, I suppose, as for my own sake. I wouldn’t say I had been away for an age but I confess that on return I find much changed – for the better, I suppose. It seems I was fortunate to be away during the great furore before the arrival of our great and glorious Caesar all those years ago. It seems that peace and stability suit the city well enough, even though I cant imagine it will last forever. Roma never lets her citizens rest on their laurels, I think.”

@Sydney

Dear all,

Just to give some pre-warning that my posting may be a bit on and off for a little while. My partner is due to give birth to our first child in 2 weeks time so we're kind of in the middle of the 'drop zone'! I do not intend to give up posting (I've only just started!) but just wanted to give warning in case I go quiet for a few days every now and again!

Thanks all!

"I do not need to be asked twice" Lucius joked, taking the offered up and raising a silent salute to his temporary, moving host. "To your good health"

The gentle, swaying motion of the litter was calming and lulling. The steady drumming of rain on its roof, together with the tramping of their joined entourages through the streets formed a nice backdrop. 

"I am well...at least, of sorts, I suppose. I have only been back, what, hmm, maybe a few weeks now. My wife...passed. Several months ago now. On the journey back from Tarraconensis. We had been in that neck of the woods surveying my late father's estates - injecting some capital, getting the places up and running again. Well, the poor soul must have picked up something whilst there for she quickly worsened and, by the time we were back in Italia, there was not much that could be done."

He paused and sipped at his drink. No one wanted to hear a litany of woes. 

"So, that leaves me with the running of my son and daughter. It is a burden. Not an intolerable one but parenting is a partnership. It is rarely as well done on one's own. Maybe I will marry again, I don't know. I do not know how my children will fare without a woman's touch around the house. It isn't appropriate to leave them too much in the care of slaves."

"Now, tell me happier things! How are you and yours?"

@Gothic

Macer smiled at the boy’s comment. “They are indeed,” he said back, “although sometimes I wonder if it is more fun for the spectators or for the racers who get all the cheers!” Although meant in jest there was a serious element to it. Some of the team’s best racers lived in better conditions than some equites and even the poorest senators. Huge fortunes could be won from a successful career. Teams would offer the best charioteers huge incentives to switch the allegiance and transfer across. They could be hired to attend parties to add glamour or even to turn up at the opening of a new eatery or shop to add a touch of celebrity. Once their racing days were done they could seamlessly move into the realm of coaching. He had met enough of these rare breed of uber-successful racers to know that it wasn’t just the glitz and the glamour of a successful careers that they craved, rather it was the exhilaration of the cheers of the mob, of being loved by the masses. Society would always deem them to be “nefas” – undesirables – but if the person had come from nowhere then why should they care the sneers and frowns of old men? Sometimes Macer could almost envy them their nonchalance.

He turned back to the father. “Far too long than was good for me. It was my ancestor’s seemingly wise decision to invest heavily in Gaul and Hispania. Probably at the time they didn’t fancy putting anything down in the East, not with Anthony and the Parthians there. Wise, perhaps, in the long run but I don’t think any of them ever actually bothered to go there. If they had they might have decided that the sun, sea and sand of the East was far more appealing – Parthians notwithstanding – than the Celt-infested, wood-covered and constantly-drizzling Gaulish provinces. Hispania, admittedly, is a little better. But that is not saying much! Rome has many defects – the mob, the heat, the noise, the cost – but, trust me – after a year or two away you positively crave for a return to her, warts and all!”

“Tell me, though, how have you been? What news of the city and life in general? Rome is quieter than when I left it, that is for sure. It seems I missed quite an…eventful…time. Our glorious Caesar seems to have his head screwed on with his regard to us, dear Conscript Fathers. A refreshing change from some of the previous fellows, deified or otherwise.”

@Brian

“Well said,” Lucius replied. “No disrespect intended at all but I thought you looked far too nice to be someone following in the footsteps of Plato and the like. Some of those I’ve seen have been in such a state that dogs follow them barking in the street. They probably take it as a great badge of honor. Whether it is or not I am not one to say, but I certainly wouldn’t want one at my house. House-trained guests only, please!”

The military question was always a bit of a sore topic for Lucius. It was expected of most young Roman males to enter the armed forces in some junior officer’s position at least for a little while as part of the necessary tick-list of roles that the cursus honorum expected them to follow. His father had been very adamant that, once he had completed his mandatory time on the junior magistracies that he ought to go off and serve for a year or two with the legions, if only to say that he had done it. Although these were no longer the days of the Republic, it was still expected of those who reached the highest offices to sometimes general forces in their provinces if only on behalf of Caesar rather than for their own glory. It was therefore helpful to have a military grounding. Lucius, however, had had other ideas. He had hopped off to Greece for a short period of final education and then used his proximity to the wonders of the East to essentially go on a protracted leave of absence and simply amuse himself in personal travels in the region. All the while his peers back home would have been serving in frost-bitten border garrisons in the north. Lucius personally thought he was not the poorer for not having undertaken such service but he was conscious that, compared to others, his want of such a military education was apparent.

“Sadly no. Or, rather, simply no – I’m not sad for not having done so. It is better to experience the wonders of the Empire yourself, being your own master, than instead see but a fraction of it from inside some dusty garrison camp in the middle of nowhere, with only grizzled veterans, surly slaves and mules for company. No, my travels are all of my own. From Aegyptus to Pontus and over to the very borders with the barbarian Parthians. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing all manner of strange things. The priests who crown and worship a live crocodile in Crocodilopolis on the shores of the Nile. Rich men who give up everything to go live in caves or on top of mountain peaks in Syria. The horrific rites of monstrous gods they worship in the northern parts. Compared to some of these, Rome is reassuringly calm, which is something I never thought I would say. You may not be a philosopher but perhaps you would still like to see things like this, if you haven’t already?”

“Lucius Licinius Macer,” he said, finally introducing himself, “non-military, simple enjoyer of life. At your service, domina.”

@Sydney

Rufus’ litter staggered its way up the street, sweeping the riff-raff before it like the prow of a mighty ship. The litter was impressively sumptuous, as was to be expected of such a distinguished personage. All the better for its size on a day like today! “Clearly Isis and Serapis have heard my prayers,” Lucius called as he hurriedly descended the steps. His slaves bustled behind him, several of them visibly put out as they would obviously have to follow in the palanquin’s wake and suffer the effects of the weather. They could dry off at home. Taking the senator’s hand firmly to help clamber aboard and then shake it warmly in greeting “Well, at least some of them anyway. If Venus is waiting for me at my house then I know they will have granted me them all!”

The curtains of the litter fell back into place and with a lurch he felt the bearers haul it up off the ground. He was impressed at their strength not only to carry the monstrosity but also to simply hold it steady whilst they awaited further orders.

“Yes, yes,” he continued, adjusting himself on the cushions, “my thanks indeed, Quintus Sulpicius.” He was, of course, familiar with the great man from the everyday course of business in the capital, even if he had been away for a number of years. The web of aristocratic connections was an intricate one with so many threads it was often impossible to see how two people could not be connected by some relationship of marriage, acquaintance, business or rivalry. Even if his name, face and deeds were not familiar to him through the grapevine, it was hard not to know a former Consul at least by name – for after all their names grace the year in which they held the consulship. How many times had he written “in the year of the consulship of Quintus Sulpicius Rufus and…”?

His connections with the Imperial family were well known although, from what he had heard since his return from the provinces, he was less active amongst them than might otherwise be the case. Clearly a mark of distinction was being in close proximity to power without the need to flaunt it. Surely a good person to know particularly if he was trying to shape up and make something of himself.

“What brings you out to this neck of the woods in such weather?”

@Gothic

“Gods below, it is a poor sign when a man cannot see what is in front of his face!” Lucius chuckled “Perhaps this bilge water they serve here has done something to my eye-sight, I’d not be surprised! Of course I will join you and your boy, if you’ll have me!” The prospect of readily available, better quality wine was, of course, decided not the main reason for deciding to take up on the offer. It was certainly part of it though. Gathering the hems of his clothes about him he stood up and barged his way through a gaggle of fellow spectators. Several steps inadvertently caused him to smacks shins or knees into the back of respectable matrons. They and their husbands looked round and tutted angrily but Lucius appeared not to notice any of this and continued to plough his way through until he finally reached his destination.

Holding his hand out he gripped the proffered wrist of his peer. “Salve, Lucius Caecilius, it has been a long time!” He could claim no great existing friendship with the man but, whilst the empire was vastly expansive, its upper political circles were decidedly not so. The majority of the senatorial families either knew each other or certainly knew of each other. The networks of friendship, marriage, alliance and competition twisted through all the families, binding them tightly together as if by tendrils of ivy with shared past, present and future. “The fault, of course, is mine – I have been gone too long from Rome.”

As he waited for a servitor to bring him a cup he leant forward and smiled at the boy on the other side of Lucius. “How now, young man,” he said with a smile, “enjoying the day?” It was good of his father to bring him here, expose him to the realities of Rome. There were few better places. His father certainly would never have done so. That had caused him to escape his father’s tutors whenever possible and go on forays to the Circus himself. He had not brought his own son today and now wondered why he hadn’t. In theory, he had done so because the boy was due lessons from his tutors. In reality, he had never really had it even cross his mind to bring him. He had assumed that he would rather he at lessons and had simply not invited him. A pained look crossed his face as he realised the foolishness of his lack of thought. This was something his late wife would have managed. If he had said he was going, she would have suggested he bring the boy. He would happily have done so. Had he relied upon her to such an extent that now, without her, he could not even be relied on to show such a simple act of affection to his own son?

Now was not the time for that. If anything, another cup of the good stuff would settle the worry back into place. “You have picked a fine day for a bit of sport. The warm up race got quite hot, as you can see,” he said, gesturing to where the track assistants were removing the last vestiges of the collision.  

@Brian

Late January 74CE

Outside the Temple of Isis and Serapis

Rome

Although the sun was close to reaching its zenith a heavy blanket of iron-grey bulbous clouds coated the sky, allowing only glimpses of golden rays through chinks in the otherwise impermeable celestial canopy. Yet the good people of the city were by nature attuned to the passage of time, regardless of whether or not they possessed fancy water clocks or other time keeping devices. The citizens of Rome knew, by an innate, internal clock when their mealtimes were and so, even though the sun was obscured, their natural urges told them that refreshment was near and consequently the streets were flooded with workers of all varieties being disgorged from workshops, stores and offices to a range of eateries, public and private, across the city. It was into this hubbub of people that Lucius stepped as he descended the steps at the front of the Portico of the temple, down into the seething massed of people of all colours, clad in all hues of garments, like a multi-coloured river, contaminated with human flotsam. In accordance with the practices of the Temple, he had the folds of his toga lifted up to serve as a hood over his head. He pulled this down now and felt a few stray flecks of drizzle brush his skin. A promise that the clouds above would unload their cargo imminently. The group of slaves he had brought with him had respectfully waited outside and now, on their master’s return, bustled around him.

Having gone through the notions of the morning salutio at his domus, Lucius had cordially dismissed his clients with the usual trinkets and then, on a whim borne out of habit rather than any particular piety, decided to visit the Temple of Serapis. During his years in the East, where Isis and Serapis featured large in the religious mindset of the Hellenistic nations there, he had very quickly come to be familiar with their stories, their temples, their priests and their rights. When in Egypt, he had even received permission from the Imperial Prefect (on whose licence he was allowed into the country, the private property of the State) to travel down the Nile to the gargantuan ancient temples of Memphis and there see the strange rights of the Apis Bull, cultic to Serapis. The two headed god with his strange head-dress and Grecian garb was a familiar site and he had even transported several statues of the same to furnish the domus of the Licinii.

The temple to Serapis in Rome had, for a long time, been an outsider even within the very heart of the city. Conjoined with his forced consort, Isis, in a cultural mish-mash of deities, the joint temple stood hard by the great expanse of the Saepta Julia and next to the Pantheon and the Baths of Agrippa in the busy centre of the city. Surrounded by offices, shops and better end residential insulae it was a miracle that such stillness resided inside the walls when outside all was the raucous din of urban life. On arrival, Lucius had left his small escort outside and entered the richly decorated internal colonnades which led back from the street towards the twin inner sanctums to the gods. The easily recognisable priestesses of Isis swarmed about the place with shaven heads, in long white tunics with eyes made up with more kohl than a Parthian concubine. Their brethren, the priests of Serapis, were only a little more restrained – less make up but instead all wearing elaborate white headbands, set with large gold stars on their forehead. Ushered into the inner precinct, Lucius made silent prayers at the foot of a giant terracotta statue of the double-headed God, whose body was hung with gold and ivory offerings. Braziers of incense were swung by priests as they chanted hymns in both Greek and Old Kingdom Egyptian. As he turned to leave, one of their number was quick enough to spot a man of the upper class and scurried to him, holding out a bronze bowl, into which were etched cavorting dolphins, and pressed him to make a donation for the glory of the Great God. Although it appeared that the Great God had enough materials to attest to his glory at present, Lucius still reached into the folds of his toga and dropped a handful of coins (more so that he would otherwise have wished) into the bowl with a metallic clatter. Holding the bowl to his forehead and bowing deeply, the priest sped Lucius on his ways with protestations of blessings that would surely come his way from the munificence of his Celestial Master.

Despite uttering some half-hearted prayers for the soul of his late wife and for guidance on the way forward, Lucius felt little better for his trip. In the East he had seen some people swept into raptures on attending the ceremonies of the strange regional cults. He had even seen how followers of a strange Jewish sect which seemed to worship a dead criminal convulse and speak in tongues on hearing preaching from their priests. Seen peoples’ face running with tears, in beatific rapture from processions, stories and prayers. He felt nothing of the sort. Just a…a hollowness. Maybe it was Serapis himself who was doing nothing for him. If, in Rome, you did not like the service of a tailor, a whore, a barber or a butcher you would simply stop using their services and frequent somewhere else. In a world in which so many gods co-existed perhaps the same should be done of them. If Serapis did not answer his prayers maybe Magner Mater would? Or Quirinus? Or Mithras, the crucified god or one of the savage demons of the German forests?

Such thoughts trotted through his mind as his small coterie of slaves fussed about him, shooing away beggars as they readjusted the folds of his toga. The specks of drizzle started to intensify in number. Looking up at the clouds, Lucius guessed that it would not be long before Jupiter made his presence known with a rumble or two of thunder and a deluge of rain. He had no desire to be caught up in that. Within minutes of such a downpour Rome’s streets would run with filth regardless of the well kept sewers. That was not to mention the inevitable stampede for shelter. It was a long walk to his domus and, in his current mood, carousing in the public centres of the city had little relish to him. He turned to one of his slaves and told him to seek out a litter for hire. How quickly that would be was another question as others seemed to have had the same idea.

@Gothic

Lucius gave a whoop of delight and clapped his neighbour on the back so firmly that he was jolted forward. With a grimace the equite, now nursing a bruised back as well as a sore pocket, handed over a small pouch of coins. Grumbling to no one in particular, the man gathered the folds of his cloak about him and slowly edged his way along the row of seats to the exit. “Never bet against Green, my friend!” Lucius called after him, still fondling the purse. “A fan of the Blues is always a poor man!” Several others nearby chuckled, others pretended to ignore him. Still chuckling to himself, Lucius cracked the tension out of his neck and stretched his legs, not caring that in doing so he jostled his neighbours, their tuts of disgust lost in the noise of the race day crowd.

The warm up race had, despite its position early in the day’s programme, been an exciting one. The track attendants had been busy almost from the off – Lucius could remember his groan when one of the Green’s quadrigas had taken the turn at the first corner too early. A rookie mistake – who had hired the man?! The chariot had flipped amidst a cloud of sand and the screaming of flailing horses, legs broken in the tumble. Only by the grace of the Gods had the foolish charioteer managed to avoid being crushed by one of the Blues. He had cut the reins that bound him to the wreck but had been in too much pain to move. As the other racers pounded off into the distance, the specialist team of track slaves bustled to the scene. Several lifted the injurer charioteer away whilst others put the horses out of their misery with mallets and dragged their carcasses and the wooded remains of the quadriga out of the way with ropes and hooks. A crimson stain still splashed across the relevant part of the track now the race was done although the same slaves were now sluicing it with water and raking the mess away. Fortunately for Lucius, the other members of the Green’s Junior Team had more sense that their peer. One of the remaining two, who must be new as Lucius had never heard his name before, had handled his rig exquisitely and, after a last minute overtaking of a Blue, had clinched the victory but about the breadth of a horse’s hair. The plebs in the stands had gone wild as, to be fair, had several of the equites and senators nearer Lucius. He himself had given a mighty bellow borne out of pure tension. His reaction was much more restrained than some – he could see from his vantage point the usual small scale fracas break out in the plebeian stands where supporters of the rival teams, fuelled by cheap wine, set upon one another with fists and cups in the wake of victory and/or defeat.

His body now mercifully less tense and his pocket now a fraction heavier from a well placed gentleman’s wager he gestured to one of the attendants loitering on the aisle. The young man caught his eye and Lucius mimed a drinking motion. The man looked back vacantly. Lucius mimed again, clearly mouthing the word “wine”. The attendant continued his blank look, tilting his head slightly like a dog would. “Gods below!” Lucius shouted “Wine! W-I-N-E! Wine you blockhead!” He held up the pouch and clinked it emphatically to make the point that he would be paid for what he returned with. The attendant rushed off to one of trackside bars. Hopefully he would pick one of the better ones which served half passable vintages. The majority of the trackside watering holes catered to less discerning palettes. The difference, in their minds, between wine and vinegar was purely academic. From experience he could safely say that cheap trackside bar hangovers were of the very worst sort.

He loved the races. Always had and always would. Ever since he had escaped to the track as a boy. He loved the atmosphere. He loved the thrills. The sights, the sounds, the spectacle of people from all walks of life thrown together. A moving tapestry of the make up of Rome. From the highest families in the land to slaves, foreigners and those classed as nefas by society – the underclasses. Some people had made fortunes within these walls, either from a life on the track or from good fortune in bets in the stands. Conversely, others had lost everything. Here Fortune’s wheel could turn just as quickly as those of the racing chariots.

Sensing movement further along the row of seats, someone was clearly edging in, looking for a space before the next race took place. The stands had filled up early. A few races to warm the blood before the noontime sun pushed people either into business or pleasures indoors. Not looking up as the newcomers edged along closer Lucius spoke up “Salve, citizen, space here if you need it.”

@Brian

The openness and boldness of her response made Lucius laugh – a trilling sort of guffaw that made several passers by turn around as it broke the stillness of the garden. He had been away from the company of young women for far too long. Were they all now so bold? The young lady must be at least half his age, if not more. Back at that age the women he had know had been…well…demure. Maybe that was just the coterie he had known. Women under the crushingly protective traditionalist thrall of senatorial fathers. Actually, that wasn’t wholly true for he had known other women who were much, much bolder – brazen, in fact – although that had, of course, been part and parcel of their profession. Judging by her deportment and garb she was surely not one of the latter. He couldn’t imagine his late wife as having ever made such a witty, quasi-philosophical bit of repartee.

“Well said, Madame Philosopher! Well said!”

I have surely dwelled too long away from the capital. He couldn’t imagine any of the women even of the larger provincial towns he had stayed in from East to West being ready enough to sally with such a comment.

“I always thought that the old adage of look but don’t touch was a trifle over zealous. That said, I am sure a great number of my acquaintances and neighbours would be unhappy if I was to put such a thought into practice and start fondling their artworks and antiques.”

He now, liberated by her actions, decided to pick his own rose from the bush. He would hardly be hurled from the Tarpeian Rock for the minor appropriation of Caesar’s property. After all, it would surely grow back.

“Do you make it a habit of philosophising in and around Rome’s public spaces? If so I must say I applaud your choice of setting. I have heard of old Greek philosophers of old living in tubs whilst they mused upon life, the universe and everything and, during my travels in the East, I heard of some who have taken off to the wild wastes of the deserts and mountains at the calling of the God or conscience to go and mull things over there. Whilst I imagine that doing so is free from distraction, I cannot help but think it is life’s myriad little distractions that teach us much more about the world and ourselves than you might get from staring at a cave’s walls in the middle of nowehere.”

@Sydney

Hey Brian,

Another new joiner here too - also with a senator - also called Lucius! Lucius Licinius Macer, from an old Republican family with a long pedigree but not so powerful and not so rich any more. He's a recent widower as well with 2 children. In the marriage market and looking to try and progress his career (so far he has not risen above Quaestor but is ready to try and plot/ingratiate/schmooze with whoever necessary to come in out of the cold). 

The unexpected voice of a young woman, coming from his left, jolted Lucius out of his reverie. Now brought back to the present he was not sure how long he had been lost with his thoughts. To the outside, he would have seemed to have been staring intently at one of the rose bushes, perhaps oddly so. In reality he had been staring far beyond them, back into the past, back to a memory which they brought back to him. He had dismissed his bodyslave to go fetch him a jug of watered wine from one of the vendors that loitered around the peripheries of the gardens. So absorbed had he been in his thoughts that he did not know whether the slave had been gone for seconds or for half an hour, not knowing whether or not he should be chastised. He grimaced unintentionally.

Lucius was not usually given to sentiment. He was not a cold, emotionless Stoic, like the great Cato. Nor was he, on the other hand, one of those folk given to wearing their hearts on their sleeve and to who displays of emotion were not just commonplace but were instead daily practices. Something about the Gardens of Sallust, however, tugged at his store of memories – happy, sad, repressed or otherwise. His late wife had been fond of the place. Her love of the outdoors had cost him a small fortune thanks to the largescale landscaping works she had prevailed upon him to commission in his family’s ancient domus. The scrubby, half-bare peristyle garden of his youth had, with surprising swiftness, been converted into a riot of colour and greenery, filled with urns full of flowers and trellises of climbing wines and creepers. Second hand statuary nestled in faux-grottos and arbours made from cunningly crafted, hand-bound arboriculture. To top it all she had bought not one but two slaves specifically for the purposes of keeping her private version of Rome’s parks alive and well in the domus of the Licinii.

Not that she had any cause to use it anymore. What vistas did the dead across the Styx behold? Presumably no longer the verdant colour of these gardens. Bleakness. Blackness. He had previously tried to shake the thought away but to little effect. Their marriage had not been one of choice. Unless, he supposed, one constituted choice here as meaning the choice he had made from a list of financially eligible heiresses the match-makers he had hired had drawn up. Then came the marriage contract with her father. All very business-like. He had never so much as spoken to her before their wedding day. He had never, even, anticipated that some form of closeness may grow between them. Marriage, he had always thought, was business. Procreation and finance. A partnership of the genders, the profits of which were children and the absence of penury. That he had, over time, come to find himself attached to his wife had, at first, worried him before he came to cherish, appreciate and need the bond. Now all that was gone. He was left with only the remains of her dowry, their two children and a clutch of memories as the mementos of all that had been.

He supposed it was with that in mind that he had turned his steps to the Gardens of Sallust that morning after bidding his clients farewell after the morning’s salutio. Still garbed in his toga, bordered with the senatorial double purple stripe and with his crimson slippers of his class on, he blended in well with the other strollers this morning. The public slaves and freedmen charged with the care of the Gardens did a good job in keeping the riff-raff out.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Delicate, but watch the thorns." The voice snapped him back to the present. He turned to see a young woman standing next to him, staring almost whimsically at a rose she had plucked. Could she even do that, was his first thought! She had a mass of gold-flecked auburn hair delicately coiled about her head. Her style, voice and the very fact she was at liberty to stroll here at this time of the day suggested a lady of some class and distinction. Lucius smiled back.

“Most decidedly so. A beautiful things befit a beautiful garden,” he said. “The Gods, I think, made us a lesson when they made roses: beauty is dangerous; it is often safer to look rather than to touch.”