Then there was the seventh member of the club, who came in about ten minutes later while the other six men sat at the table talking. He was Edward, the Prince of Wales and heir apparent to his mother’s crown. Though he had come late to scholarship-for the SPQRs’ common interest was Roman history-at Christ Church he had been keen, and he and Francis Russell had been friends. That he knew the least of the seven was no obstacle; doors opened at the sight of him that would have been closed shut to the battering of money and even position, usual position. He was candid, friendly, and yet slightly remote. Theirs was his only intellectual pursuit. The rest of the time, married though he was to Princess Alexandra, he was with women and friends, living the life of a playboy.
“Marius,” said the future duke, and was first to shake the prince’s hands.
There were a few hard and fast rules of the SPQR, and one was that names didn’t matter. Weft and the prince could shake hands, for those few hours, as equals, Aurelius and Marius. Lenox was called Julius, and when the prince came to him the royal lips moved slightly: “Well, Julius, how goes it in Oxford?”
“Well enough,” said Lenox, momentarily dumbstruck.
“I wish you all luck there. This is still England…”
The meeting opened with a ceremonial glass of Roman honeyed wine, which the chef at Boodle’s prepared a week in advance. Russell said the traditional opening words.
“Gentlemen, welcome again to this tiny club of ours. Tonight we honor the long dead, for the happiness and instruction they bring to our short lives. Drink with me once, and be my friend forever.”
For supper there was soup, fish, steak, and finally Boodle’s orange fool, made of sponge cake, orange, lemon, heavy cream, and sugar; it tasted delicious with a glass of champagne. Talk over supper was general and avoided their common interest, which was reserved for the postprandial hour. They talked about politics, horses, friends, hunting, cricket, books, their lives. Over dessert everybody was responsible for a paragraph of praise and celebration of the person to his left. Lenox spoke of Beacham, the engineer, with fond and witty brevity, and in turn had to listen to Weft’s encomium.
The great hour, though, was the brandy hour. When it arrived they all felt slightly more solemn, unbuttoned their cuffs, gave great sighs of contented fullness, and sipped their drinks to the accompaniment of a lecture. At this meeting it was Weft’s turn, and the young scholar gave a lively account of gossip’s role in the second Catiline conspiracy (he was a great lover of Cicero, Weft). The speech met with thundering applause and a lively round of questions. Even the prince asked a question-rare for him-on a minor point of Senate history and was congratulated on its aptness. Lenox challenged Weft’s translation of a line of Sallust and gained the small concession from the room at large, though Weft stuck with his original reading. Hallam brought forth an exceedingly rare Roman coin he had acquired at auction and, as a first order of business, made a present of it to the SPQRs, which was greeted with many toasts and great excitement.
(“A silver didrachm of Claudius,” said Hallam authoritatively. He was reckoned to know of such things. “You can all see the uneven cut, as well as Claudius standing in his four-horse chariot. From A.D. 46, would be my guess. One of the rarest early coins.”
“But where shall it be housed?” Hilary asked.
“If the palace will do, I can arrange for its presentation and safekeeping,” said the prince with a noble turn of his head. “It shall come to every meeting.”
Nobody would say otherwise, though Hallam looked slightly crestfallen, and indeed there was much excited talk about a possible SPQR collection-and then a long argument about whether Cambridge or Oxford was a better ultimate location for the hypothetical archive.)
Then there was a motion from Russell to cap the total number of members at any one time at eight, except in the case when a legacy of the seven original members present, or more specifically a son or grandson, had a sufficient interest and knowledge of Roman history to gain admittance to the group.
Now, this was a controversy. A faction comprised of Lenox, Hilary, and Beacham suggested that the number be higher-twelve, say-though with no obligation to reach the cap, because there might well be two deserving candidates to come forth in the future. Russell pointed out that compatibility was as serious an issue as knowledge, and that the group would begin to grow too generic if it got much larger, without the bonds of friendship that they all enjoyed. The prince, Hallam, and Weft all said that they could see both sides of the argument, with Weft leaning toward Russell’s side, Hallam the other way, and the prince refusing to commit. This was all very vexing to Russell, who had expected to sail through the vote unanimously. Eventually, though, he agreed to compromise on the number nine. Everyone conceded that finding three eligible candidates in their lifetimes was unlikely, and so nine became the number. Weft added that they didn’t even have an eligible candidate on the horizon and expressed his doubt that the issue would become problematic anytime soon. Still, it had been a pleasing argument and given them all time for another glass of brandy, and so none of them regretted it.
Lenox gave the closing remarks. These were different each time, and responsibility for them rotated among the men. In general they were meant to pledge the renewal of every man’s friendship with every other. He removed a sheet of paper from the thin brown folder he had brought, and read.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “we come here every two months to celebrate the ancient culture which all of us love. And if I may say so, they are six of the happiest nights of the year for me. I read something of the old texts every day-Virgil, Polybius, Tacitus, Ovid-and I may say that they are common in my life. But it is uncommon to meet with a small group of other people so sympathetic and friendly, so lively and intelligent. It is uncommon that we all feel at ease with each other, in our short interactions together. It is uncommon that we have this felicity in our lives. As Marcus Aurelius pointed out, we are only passing creatures-but happy and fortunate ones. Please raise your glasses with me that these passing hours of our lifetime are so blessed with good spirit and friendship.”
The applause bespoke recognition, somber, affirmative, and genuine. They raised their glasses, their room visible as a small square of light in the late darkness of the city.
CHAPTER FORTY
W ho was Major Peter Wilson, late of the 12th Suffolk W 2nd, cofounder of the September Society, and recently deceased?
The next morning was rainy, too, and after rising late (and slightly foggy-headed), Lenox in his slippers and robe had taken himself to his old thinking post by the fire. Sipping his cup of tea, he pondered Wilson’s strange and superficially senseless death. Wilson must have had a good pension, had certainly had a distinguished career, and enjoyed-theoretically-a group of close friends. The more Lenox thought over the idea of suicide, the more improbable it seemed.
When he finished his breakfast, Lenox donned a blue morning coat and set out to walk the short distance to Park Lane. He had decided to pay another visit to the September Society’s (and Biblius Club’s) talkative doorman.
The rain was thin and driving, bitter, and the buildings along St. James’s Park looked gray and dull, lifeless even where they were dimly lit. A rolling fog had appeared, too. It became denser as Lenox came nearer the Thames, until the streets were almost impenetrable beyond a few feet. When he reached Carlton Gardens and the stout building that housed the two clubs, he found a different, older doorman present.