Introductions were made. Claudia Severa was dark-eyed and dark-haired like her husband Brocchus, although her skin was fashionably white, and lightened further by make-up that seemed strong in comparison with Lepidina’s. Her hair was also tied back, but a servant had teased the fringe into a row of curls and combed up the top to make it look very thick. It made her already round face look rounder, but that drew attention to her big eyes, giving her a gentle, doe-like appearance. She was in dark pink, with gold bracelets, earrings, necklace and brooches, and pale shoes, the tops of whitened calfskin. She greeted Crispinus with a peck on the cheek, standing on the balls of her feet to reach him for she was very small. Claudius received a similar welcome, perhaps a little less sincere, and it was obvious both men were known to her. Ferox and the former slave had to make do with a warm smile and a gentle press of the hand.
Vegetus’ wife Fortunata was different, her dress expensive red silk that shimmered in the lamplight, barely concealing her full figure. Ferox thought that she might be a Gaul, from somewhere in the far north-west by the shape of her face and her green eyes. She was quite tall and a little plump, but much of her weight was carried on breast and hips and she walked with grace. Her hair was so fair that it was almost white, arranged in an ornate confection of curls and combs rising into a dome. If it was not a wig, then a small army of servants had spent hours creating such a monument. With each movement heavy bangles clinked together on her arms. Her sandals were similar in style to the ones worn by Lepidina, save that the soles were built up much higher. Fortunata welcomed all of the men with a kiss – her lips soft and moist, lingering a little too long for courtesy on Ferox’s cheek. Her manner as much as her name proclaimed that she had been a slave, like her husband, although probably not one working as an administrator’s assistant.
Crispinus joined the host and hostess on the main couch. To their right were Brocchus and Claudia with Claudius Super beside them. In each case the lady reclined between the two men. The couches were large and well cushioned so that there was plenty of room, save perhaps on the third one, which Ferox shared with Vegetus and Fortunata. Both were smothered in enough scent to make even Philo’s eyes water. The freedman also spread across the cushions, taking up almost half the space. Ferox had the uncomfortable sense that he was about to fall off, the back of the freedwoman so close that he felt the thin silk of her dress brush against him whenever she moved. The guests lay on their sides so that they could see the main couch.
It had been years since Ferox had attended a formal dinner and he realised that he no longer had the stamina of the past. Food kept arriving, dish after dish of well-presented and finely cooked food. Cerialis was fond of poultry. They had small chickens, one for each diner, and two large geese carved for them by the slaves. A supervisor was always in the room, and another grey-haired slave who cut portions and served as necessary. Other slaves wafted in and out, moving silently, taking old dishes and replacing them with new, or serving wine.
‘Falernian,’ Cerialis announced when the first cups were poured. ‘I can never resist it even though there are other vintages. And after all “cups were meant for joy”.’ He beamed happily. ‘“Cease this impious row, my friends, and rest as you are, propped on your elbow, or would you not wish me to drink my share of dry Falernian?”’
‘I do love Horace,’ Claudius Super declared. ‘Quite my favourite of the great poets.’ The generous condescension in his voice suggested that composing verses was something he could do in his sleep.
‘I am fonder of Virgil,’ Aelius Brocchus said. ‘And I should be loyal to Martial of course, if we include more modern singers of songs.’ Crispinus smiled in understanding.
‘Oh, because he is from Iberia, like you,’ Claudius Super said after a moment, obviously pleased with his deduction. The man was flushed, making Ferox wonder whether he had begun drinking before he had arrived. For himself it had been a long while since the vintage mattered. Drink was something to provide occasional oblivion, and strength had come to matter more than taste. Tonight, he drank slowly and made sure that each cup held far more water than wine. His knowledge of literature was modest, not because he disliked reading but because books were expensive and bulky, very hard to obtain in this part of the world and even harder for a man to carry around. He let the conversation flow around him and said nothing. Even he could sense that Claudius Super was not well read, but believed that he was. Cerialis’ knowledge tended towards famous passages, almost as if he had studied to masquerade as an educated man.
Ferox had half forgotten how much he hated reclining to eat. In spite of his schooling in Gaul, the spell in Rome after that and the formal dinners in the army since then, it did not seem natural. A man should sit at the table – something Romans only did as a sign of deliberate denial of comfort. He felt far more at home visiting the houses of local chieftains, sitting on stools or cross-legged around a fire, or eating alone in his quarters at Syracuse, without fuss or making a great pantomime of it all.
A slave girl with long brown hair offered him fish stew. She was a pretty girl, as were all the female slaves serving them, neat and tidy in simple buff-coloured dresses and slippers. He smiled in thanks, but declined.
‘It is good,’ Aelius Brocchus said encouragingly, spooning up the contents of his own dish with evident pleasure. Ferox saw a bowl filled with oysters being carried in and felt his usual revulsion at the sight of this delicacy.
‘I am not fond of food from river or sea,’ he said, for the man’s goodwill was genuine. ‘My people believe it is bad for the soul.’
Sulpicia Lepidina chuckled gently, mistaking his words for a pun, but the sound was covered by a guffaw of laughter from Claudius Super. No one joined in – not even Fortunata who giggled whenever she thought that a joke had been told – and he fell into embarrassed silence.
‘Do you believe in the soul?’ Crispinus asked. The young tribune spent more time listening that talking, but when he spoke tended to be direct. Everyone’s face turned to stare at Ferox, apart from Vegetus, who continued to eat. Fortunata frowned as she looked at him, her face barely a foot away.
‘Yes. When you see a dead man all you see is flesh and bone.’ He tried to shrug, a difficult thing to do in this posture, and made do with moving his head gently from side to side. ‘I must apologise to the ladies.’ He glanced at each in turn. ‘I had not meant to speak of such grim things, but it does explain my sense. Our bodies are no more than meat. The spirit, the spark, the life itself leaves at death. That is the soul and that is eternal.’
Crispinus was interested. ‘Yet can it be seen?’
‘It is the life and light in a man or woman,’ Ferox said, ‘how can it not be seen? Without it we are no more than statues.’ He was not comfortable talking about such things, so hoped to end their interest. ‘You wonder whether you can see it. Well, my people say that the rattle in a man’s throat as a blade takes his life is the soul leaving. At least you can hear it.’ He did not apologise this time, largely because Fortunata screwed up her face in obvious distaste. Another slave girl, this time with black hair and golden-brown skin, appeared, offering freshly baked white bread, so he took some.