A Brief History of the Private Lives of the Roman Emperors (32 page)

Quintus is carried up the hill in his litter, together with one of his dinner guests he had arranged to collect at the baths and the two clients, both his freedmen, who will receive their reward
for attending him throughout the day; this in the form of dinner, which will include an introduction to his ‘consular’ guest (of honour), the
quaestor
at the treasury, and some
titbits to take home in their napkins. On returning to the
domus,
Quintus, just as he is being helped off with his cloak and toga, is hit by the furore which precedes the best organized
dinner parties. The cook is put out by the arrival of the turbot (partly aggrieved at missing out on the kickback which would have been a perk to add to his
peculium
if he had ordered this
expensive item himself), and Ganymede I has burst into tears on seeing his successor, the newly purchased cup-bearer from Numidia. His wife, Cornelia, called after the saintly and efficient mother
of the Gracchi and possessed of all her namesake’s tact, has comforted both servants, who have been so long (too long?) with the family. His son has fluffed the lines written for him by
Quintus’ pet poet and is threatening not to perform. A Roman master would be perfectly entitled to flog the lot of them but Quintus enjoys the Games, eschews the lash in the home and is a
fair and just man. (Nor does he, like some of his contemporaries, serve inferior wine and food to less important guests.)

He has put on a loose, light, muslin garment which he might change between courses, because a good dinner can be quite a messy affair, and is checking the seating
arrangements in the
triclinium
with his
nomenclator
(usher), who will announce the guests and show them to the couch, one of three, on which they will recline, their left elbows
resting on a cushion, at an angle to the table. Slaves will remove the slippers of his guests and wash their feet.
Ministrators
(waiters) will bring in knives, different sorts of spoons, and
toothpicks.
⁶³
Quintus appoints his guest of honour as president of the occasion, making it his responsibility to organize, monitor and mix the wine,
reasoning that a treasury man would discourage too much drunkenness and bad behaviour, and having noticed, with approval but with some apprehension, the glad eyes shot in the direction of the
Numidian boy, who seems to have blossomed since his moment of purchase, only a few hours ago . . . The garlands are distributed.

After the hors d’oeuvres, his son, who has been sitting on a stool in front of him, declaims his poem (flawlessly), is applauded, blushes and withdraws. Course follows course and after
each the guests are brought bowls of water for their hands and the marble table is wiped. (Tablecloths did not appear in Rome until the time of the Emperor Diocletian.) The conversation is cheerful
but guarded since in
AD
64 Nero has reintroduced treason trials and in Rome even careful talk could cost lives. But the subject of Quintus’ new private bath, with the
designs passed round, is a safe enough topic and its inauguration (with, indeed, an
augur
) will be the occasion of a much bigger party, with poetry and music.

The clear Numentian wine, carefully measured out (at first) by the
quaestor
and in its seventh year of ageing, is appreciated
by all except for Quintus’ remote
cousin from Como – where he has estates near the elegant Pliny, whom he claims to know. Quintus had forgotten what a boor he is and resolves that he should stay remote. The man is continually
sick from over-eating the shellfish and gulping the wine and has to be helped by Ganymede I, who has vainly shaved his legs and thighs – and cut himself – in an attempt to postpone his
last supper as cup-bearer. The musicians, flute and lyre, please and the gyrations of the Spanish dancing girl draw applause, especially from the
questor
, whose measures are growing more
reckless with time – apropos of which, Quintus reflects, should not his guests be toying with the idea of departure?

The
cena
has been a success. People will talk about that enormous turbot, so big the cook had to borrow a dish big enough to contain it. The expense, even for nine guests, has been as
great as the fish, but so what? Quintus has spent on one evening the annual salary of a master mason, but he can earn that amount ten times over if his shipload of silk comes safely into port. And
his wife . . . his wife . . . has charmed the company. She is still beautiful (and so efficient) and maybe he has been neglecting her of late. As his guests pile into the night with their servants
and litters and sedan chairs and bodyguards with heavy sticks to deter the villains, Quintus decides he might pay her a visit, later on . . .

INDEX OF PROPER NAMES