The triclinium’s walls were painted with floor-to-ceiling murals, one on my left depicting maidens dancing in a landscape that resembled the terraced gardens outside the house. Satyrs cavorted near the ladies, sending them lascivious leers.
The center wall showed a long table laden with food, from whole fish to overflowing baskets of grapes and pomegranates, heaps of bread, and glasses of wine. One glass had overturned, sending droplets of purple liquid to the floor. Under the table, a cat gnawed on fish bones.
The right wall portrayed a beautiful woman in diaphanous silk reclining on a couch, one breast visible through her nearly transparent stola. A naked man with a large phallus knelt at her feet, licking the inside of her bared leg.
I’d seen far more erotic wall paintings and floor mosaics at other villas I’d visited, but I wondered if the lady of the house had commissioned it after her husband had died, or if he’d ordered the painting himself.
Several low, small tables surrounded on three sides by a dining couch took up most of the room. Domitiana, our hostess, lounged on one end of the couch, very much like the painted lady behind her did, except that while her thin blue silk stola clung to her every curve, it covered her fully. Domitiana’s only jewelry was a pair of delicate earrings of three gold hoops studded with precious stones, and her wig tonight was a dark brown affair of simple curls.
Possibly she’d chosen modest attire because another woman, a younger version of herself, lazed on the couch on the opposite side of the table. I concluded that this was Domitiana’s daughter, Severina. I’d only glimpsed her at the baths, and now I could view her fully.
She was in her very early twenties, I’d guess, with black hair that flowed in artfully arranged locks to the folds of her red silk stola. The fibulae that clasped the stola at her shoulders were beaten gold in the shape of bees, and a strip of gold and green cloth decorated her neckline. Her feet, perched on the couch, were shod in thin gilded sandals, and earrings similar to Domitiana’s hung from her ears.
Herakles and I were presented by the doorman, but we halted in the middle of the room, not invited to sit, while the two women looked us over. We both wore clean tunics and sandals, our skin scraped and washed at the baths. I’d visited my barber today and had a smooth face and hair trimmed back to my scalp.
Severina’s eyes brightened as she took me in, and she pointed a long finger at me. “I saw you. At the baths on the Quirinal.”
I acknowledged this with a nod. I wouldn’t speak unless instructed to.
“Sit.” Domitiana waved her hand at the expanse of couch next to her. “Drink, my friends.”
Herakles moved first, edging me out so he could recline closest to Domitiana. That left me to stretch out on the cushions nearest Severina.
Cups of beaten gold, filled with dark wine, reposed on the tables, well within reach. Herakles lifted one, grinned at Domitiana, and slurped.
I took a more hesitant sip of mine, but I tasted only wine, rich and full. An expensive vintage.
No others were joining us, I saw. Servants materialized to set dishes on the tables our couches surrounded, moving silently and efficiently before they vanished again.
I’d been invited to such meals before. Most often the triclinium would be full, with a dozen or more guests. I’d either be asked to join the meal, or I’d sit waiting until they wanted me to show off my fighting moves or talk about bouts. Sometimes guests would be cajoled by their friends into sparring with me—I’d judge the temperament of the crowd before deciding whether to gently best my opponent or pretend to let him defeat me.
Occasionally I was invited to dine with women alone—though not always for copulation—as we had been tonight.
Bodyguards lurked in the shadows in case Herakles or I decided to rob the house or ravish the two ladies without their permission. One I recognized as Severina’s, the same who’d given me a scowl at the baths. None of them had overly large noses or thick dark hair.
Musicians stationed outside the room began to play as the meal was served, sweet strains wafting out of the darkness. The first course consisted of flatbreads and cheese alongside small eggs, boiled and opened, the yolks mixed with herbs and salt. The food was elegant and tasty but nothing like the overly exotic meals Marcianus had found in Ajax’s and Rufus’s stomachs.
Next came platters of meat formed into balls and stuffed with anchovies; roasted pork; fish stuffed with breadcrumbs; and several different kinds of sausages. I disliked to eat much meat, but I dutifully chewed a few mouthfuls while Herakles happily gorged himself.
While we ate, Domitiana kept up a steady chatter with Severina about people they knew and what they’d each done during the week. Domitiana invited our opinions from time to time, while Severina only watched us with a secret smile as she replied to her mother.
The food continued, as did the wine. Once the main course was disposed of, servants brought out sweets, more to my liking. Fried bits of pastry dough dipped in honey covered the platters, surrounded by apricots, walnuts, almonds, pomegranates, grapes, and other fruits depicted in the mural above me.
With the dessert came the doorman announcing a stooped man in a toga.
“Tertius Vestalis Felix,” the doorman intoned.
I studied Severina’s husband as I chewed a handful of walnuts. He’d been a senator and a consul, I recalled Cassia telling me, and then a proconsul of a colony on the edges of the empire. Retired now, he had gray hair, a lined face, and an expression of resignation.
Severina’s smile never wavered as she rose. “I am honored, husband.”
Domitiana made room on her end of the sofa. “Dear son-in-law. Come and sit by me.”
The man walked slowly to Domitiana and settled himself on the couch. He seemed in no way dismayed or unhappy that two gladiators reposed next to his wife and mother-in-law. Herakles drained another cup and thunked it to the table as a servant darted forward with wine for the older man.
Severina reclined again, reaching for an apricot. She lifted it to her mouth and ate it with slow sensuality, but her husband only sipped wine and turned to answer a question from Domitiana.
He was deferential to Domitiana and she to him, though as a paterfamilias and former senator, Vestalis had no need to be so amenable. He could, within his rights, grab his wife and haul her home from this lewd entertainment, and beat her until she begged for mercy. A paterfamilias had the power of life or death over anyone in his household.
