‘Come, slave, I invite you to join us while we dine,’ I said. ‘In public and in the presence of these Roman citizens, I call upon this company to witness what I do.’
It was a version of the required formula, and everybody understood what it implied. Cilla shyly took the stool — sitting upright rather than reclining, certainly, but officially a member of the dining party now, though she was not yet fully freed. One servant brought her a napkin and a wreath, while another brought a platter on which reposed a single piece of bread and a cup containing a very little wine. He knelt before her and presented it.
Cilla took the symbolic food and drink, and took a tiny mouthful from each of them in turn. She was trembling so much that I could see her fingers shake, but once the token helpings had duly passed her lips it was Marcus’s turn to stand up and declaim. ‘We have witnessed Cilla eating and drinking at a feast at the invitation of her master. I therefore declare that, by legal custom, she is considered freed and is henceforward no longer held in servitude.’
I applauded loudly and so did most of us — although Lucius contented himself with a brief and silent tapping of three fingers on his palm — and Cilla was overcome with so much self-consciousness that she swallowed the crumb of bread too fast and almost choked herself.
That broke the tension. Everybody laughed, and presently the secundae mensae were brought in, tray after tray of delicious honeyed things. Marcus’s kitchens had excelled themselves. There were sweet cakes, spiced cakes and peppered strawberries followed by apple and blackberry stew, fresh fruit, dried fruit, stuffed dates, figs, and — my personal favourite — a sort of sweetened pie made of raisins, bread and spices sprinkled with honeyed milk and butter and baked till it formed a crusty cake.
All the gentlemen left the table more than once to make use of the goose feathers and the bowl next door, though the ladies merely nibbled at the tempting treats and showed the refinement expected of their sex — it would have been ill-mannered on their part to go out and follow suit.
There was more wine and more music, although — since Lucius was ‘King of the Feast’ if anybody was, and there were females in the company — there was none of the elaborate ‘drinking on command’ that sometimes accompanies such events elsewhere. After a little time, the females withdrew — it is not considered proper for wives to drink too much — and then at last the dancing girls came on.
The performance might have lasted perhaps half an hour, although it seemed at the time to be over in a flash. Looking back I find it hard to imagine how girls can bend like that. They must have bones like anybody else, but the way they swayed and rippled and wiggled different portions of themselves was enough to make a blind man sit and stare. The costumes, too, were seen to full effect, the bright, floating fabrics parting now and then to reveal a tantalising glimpse of thigh or breast. They were accompanied by the middle-aged dragon-lady on a flute and the skinny fellow in the silver coat, who had appeared again, thumping out a rhythm on a hollow, empty cask.
There was no question of the apathy that had faced his conjuring: every eye was fixed on this performance from the start, though not all of the eyes were equally approving. I found that I was a little scandalised myself — especially when one of the more lissom of the girls began performing very close to me, affording a close view of her considerable assets and clicking a pair of wooden clappers in time to every bounce. I tore my glance away from the gyrating flesh and saw that every male in the room had a personal dancer doing much the same for him.
I wondered how Lucius was enjoying this. Presumably he was accustomed to such things at court, but only a faint pinkness round his patrician nose gave any indication that he was other than quite dispassionately bored — and even that hint of colour might have been caused by the quantity of watered wine that he’d imbibed.
I could not look with any decency at what was wiggling suggestively right before my face. I glanced round the room. Junio was revelling in this first experience (it was likely to be the last for a long time, too, I thought — I could not afford this kind of luxury, even if I had wanted to). He was watching every movement with eager eyes, leaning forward on his seat to get a better view, with a smile of youthful disbelief at what he saw.
Marcus, however, seemed preoccupied. I wondered if the dead body in the stable block was on his mind, or whether he was simply dismayed by Lucius. He watched the performance with less interest than he usually displayed — even when the dancers were not half as good as these — and I actually saw him glance towards the water-candle twice, as if he were impatient for the night to end.
I went back to watching my gyrating nymph, who had now retreated by a foot or two, and found I was quite sorry when the music stopped and the performance came to a memorable end with a tableau that was stunning in its suggestiveness. Marcus was the first to lead the clapping and my son and I joined in — though Junio was too breathless even to shout ‘Macte!’
Lucius, too, was sufficiently condescending to applaud and he watched the dancers all the way as they shimmered and shimmied through the door. Perhaps he had enjoyed it more than he allowed. Marcus seemed to think so.
‘There, cousin,’ he said, with a triumphant smile. ‘Hispanic dancing girls, Britannia style. Not naked, as you will observe, but sometimes what’s half hidden is more exciting than a nude. And these are the best available, is that not so, madam?’
The flautist manager, who was collecting up the scarves her troupe had strewn about, gave him a mirthless smile. ‘I hope so, Excellence. We set our standards high. Turn down twenty girls for every one we take. They aren’t all genuinely from Iberia, of course, but the best ones are, because they teach them young. You can’t learn to dance like that when all your bones are set.’ She waited, politely, to see if Marcus spoke, and when he didn’t she went on, ‘And now, if you’ve finished with me, Excellence, I must round up the girls.’
She disappeared, like an outsize female sheepdog, and we heard her yapping in the courtyard as she herded up her flock.
It was late now, and time for us male diners to retire as well. Our wives would be sleepily awaiting us, huddling over braziers in a room nearby, and my little party had a longish walk before we found our beds. We got to our feet — some of us a little more unsteadily than others — and slaves emerged smoothly from the shadows by the wall to remove our lopsided banquet wreaths and escort us from the room.
Marcus and Lucius led the way, of course. I was the last to leave, and already slaves were brushing the floor and scraping the portions of uneaten food all together on to one big dish, to set on the altar of the household gods. I grinned. They must be hoping that the divinities had no appetite tonight, so that in the morning they could have a feast themselves.
I turned and followed Junio out to look for Cilla and my waiting wife.
Chapter Eleven
When I got out into the atrium, it was to find Marcus and his cousin alone — apart from the usual attendant slaves, of course. The ladies were nowhere to be seen. Lucius was loudly complaining of the cold, despite the glow of a cheerful brazier which had been lit while we were lying down to dine.
‘The climate in this province is so unpleasant, cousin, that I don’t know how you have survived it for so long.’ He looked disparagingly round the handsome room, with its fine mosaic of aquatic scenes. ‘No wonder that your atrium is roofed, and you have opted for a pavement picture instead of a real pool. If the room was on the Roman pattern you would die of chill.’ He blew theatrically on hands. ‘Indeed, with your permission, citizens, I think I shall retire to my sleeping room.’