Under Vesuvius

2

I held my first assizes in Cumae, a town I had never visited previously. Cumae is believed to be the oldest Greek colony in Italy, perhaps a thousand years old at this time. It was once the capital city of Campania, but that was long ago. As all the world knows, it is the home of the Cumaean Sibyl, the hereditary prophetess of Apollo and, after the Delphic, the most widely consulted of the sibyls. Cumae is always full of people from all over the world who have come to seek her counsel and so, as praetor of the foreigners, there was business there for me to attend to.

Besides the foreigners, the resident Greeks, the Romans, and the Campanians, the other major population group was the Samnites. These people, who spoke the Oscan dialect, had for many years been firm allies of Rome. But within living memory, they had been our implacable enemies, contending for control of central and southern Italy. When my father was a young man, the word "Samnite" was used interchangeably with "gladiator," since most of our Samnite prisoners of war were assigned to that exciting if rather demanding profession.

While Julia and her ladies went to tour the sights of the town, I and my staff held court. The basilica was a fine one, an imposing structure built in the years since Cumae became a Roman colony. Although not as lofty as the vast new Basilica Aemilia in Rome, recently rebuilt by a member of the Aemilian family (using Caesar's money, of course), it had beautiful proportions and tasteful decoration.

Since the weather was splendid, a dais had been set up on the steps of the basilica, shaded by an elaborate awning and facing the town's forum. When I arrived, preceded by my lictors and surrounded by my staff, the bustle and hubbub of the forum stilled, the lounging idlers rose to their feet (save a few crippled beggars), and everyone faced the dais as a gesture of respect. This I took as a good sign. It meant that the people here were content, glowers and rude noises being the rule when they were not.

And why should they not be content? They were members in good standing of the greatest empire the world had ever seen, enjoying all its advantages without being involved with the political infighting of the capital; and Roman justice was always an improvement over whatever system had been in place previously.

A man in the striped robe and bearing the crook-topped staff of an augur solemnly proclaimed that the omens were propitious for official business. A priest performed the required sacrifice, and we were ready to proceed.

A young relative of mine named Marcus Caecilius Metellus stepped forward and proclaimed: "People of Cumae, attend! On behalf of the Senate and People of Rome, the distinguished Praetor Peregrinus Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger has come from Rome to hear your cases concerning foreigners and render judgment. Hail the Senate and People of Rome!" The crowd returned the salute fervently. Marcus had a fine, trained orator's voice. He was about eighteen at the time, just beginning his public career and soon to serve as military tribune.

A gaggle of local officials joined us on the dais. Like so many Italian towns, Cumae was governed by annually elected duumviri: two local magnates who kept close watch on each other, each determined that his colleague not steal more than himself. The holders of lesser offices-three praetors, a couple of aediles, and so forth-were mostly men who had held the duumvirate themselves, and they took the office in rotation. All these men were members of three or four prominent families who regarded office holding as an ancestral privilege. The same was true of the Senate at Rome, only the pool of families there was somewhat larger.

"Have we sufficient equites present to empanel a jury, should we need one?" I asked a duumvir.

"Easily," he answered. "This isn't Rome. We seldom use more than twenty or thirty jurors."

Roman juries often numbered in the hundreds. Even the richest men found that many difficult to bribe. Not that some didn't try, and successfully at that.

"It's a bad law, anyway," I said. "Any free citizen should be eligible for jury duty."

"That would lead to anarchy!" said an indignant official. "Only men of property are competent to make legal judgments." The rest made sounds of agreement. They were all equites, of course.

"We used to say that only men of property could serve in the legions," I observed. "How many of you have ever shouldered a spear?" They bristled, and Hermes gave me a nudge. I was starting things badly. "Oh, well, what's up first?"

Most of the cases that morning involved suits brought against foreign businessmen. By law, such men had to have a citizen partner. Usually, it was this partner, or his advocate, who argued on the foreigner's behalf. Except for an occasional question I had very little part in the proceedings except to listen. I was no legal scholar myself, but on my staff I had several men who were, and these could provide me with any necessary precedents.

Swift justice is the best justice, and I had all but cleared the docket before noon. The last item was the only criminal case of the day: a Greek sailor accused of killing a citizen in a tavern brawl. The man hauled before me in chains was a tough-looking specimen, his dark-tanned skin very little paled by his months in the town's lockup.

"Name?" I demanded.

"Parmenio," he said.

"Would you prefer to be tried in Greek?" I asked him in that language.

He seemed surprised at such consideration. "I would."

One of my lictors smacked him across the back with his fasces. " 'I would, sir!' " he barked.

"I would, sir. That is very kind of you, sir."

"Do you have an advocate?"

"Not even a friend, sir."

"Then will you speak on your own behalf?"

"I will, sir."

"Very well. Lictor, call up the witnesses."

A half score of men who had the look of professional idlers came forward and they all told substantially the same story. Upon a particular date they had been carousing in a particular tavern when an argument broke out between this foreign sailor and a citizen. Flying fists had escalated to flying furniture and the citizen had ended up dead on the floor, brained by a weighty, three-legged stool.

"What have you to say for yourself?" I asked the defendant.

"Not much, Praetor. We were playing at knucklebones and I won most of his money. The last roll, he said I threw the Little Dog when anyone could see that I threw Venus. I called him a liar and he called me a boy-humping Greekling. We fought. I did not intend to kill him, but I did not want him to kill me, either. Also, we were both drunk."

"Admirably succinct," I told him. "Would that all our lawyers appreciated brevity. This is my decision. The fact that you were drunk is neither here nor there. A self-induced incapacity does not constitute a defense. You have killed a citizen, but you did not lurk in ambush or provide yourself with a weapon in advance, and these facts are in your favor. Also, you have not wasted this court's time with a windy self-justification and made us all late for lunch and the baths.

"So I will not sentence you to the cross or the arena. I declare this killing to be death by misadventure in a common brawl. For shedding the blood, not to mention the brains, of a citizen and disturbing the public order, I sentence you to five years as a public slave, your owner to be the town of Cumae. Perhaps five years of cleaning the local sewers and gutters will lead you to a more sober, thoughtful life."

The relief that rolled off the man was all but palpable. The crowd applauded and declared that this was a sterling example of Roman justice at its best. The truth was, homicide was not regarded as a particularly serious crime, as long as poison or magic were not involved, and a killing in a fair fight hardly qualified as murder at all. It was this man's misfortune that the dead man was a citizen and he was not. No doubt he was already plotting his escape.

I declared the court adjourned and was looking forward to a pleasant afternoon of eating, bathing, and socializing when I noticed a striking man who had stood among the onlookers and now wore an expression of disappointment. He was very tall, with a dark, hawk-featured face and dense, square-cut black beard. He was dressed in a long robe of splendid material, worked with a great deal of gold thread. I sent a lictor to summon him.

He approached, smiling. "Praetor, your notice does me honor." He glanced toward the local officials who, noses high, affected not to notice him and added wryly, "More honor than some think I deserve."

"That's all right. I'm the one with imperium here, so I can do as I like. You're Gaeto the Numidian, I presume?"

"I am he."

"I met your son recently. The resemblance is not difficult to spot. Do you attend courts often?"

"At every opportunity. I like to get the first look at those who are condemned to slavery. If you had not given that man to the city, I would have bid on him."

"I would think your business would be depressed of late, with all the Gallic captives flooding Italy."

"Most of them are unskilled and useful only for farm labor gangs. I buy for quality, not quantity. And expert seaman are in high demand."

"How would a captain prevent a slave sailor from escaping?" I asked him.

"Where would such a one go? The sea is a Roman lake. To sail beyond the Pillars of Hercules or to the eastern end of the Pontus Euxinus means living among savages. No, he would stay on his ship and follow his calling. After all, the work would be the same, the food the same, the dangers and the obedience to his captain the same as when he was free. Only the pay would be different, and what sensible man would trade living in civilization for life among barbarians over a handful of denarii?"

"When you put it that way, it makes sense," I admitted. Then I remembered why I had summoned him. "Gaeto, I realize that this does not come under my official purview, but I fear that your son may be heading for trouble."

The man frowned, a formidable expression on his powerful face. "Trouble, how so? If he has offended you in any way, I shall thrash him immediately."

"Nothing like that," I assured him. "But there seems to be something going on between the boy and the daughter of Apollo's priest on the estate I am inheri-where I now reside."

The frown was replaced with a smile. "Carefree, affluent young men pay court to beautiful young women. What could be more natural?"

"Naturalness does not come into it. You are a foreigner here and the people of this district are citizens, even the Greeks and Samnites among them. The priest is an aristocrat of ancient family, while your profession is, shall we say, held in low esteem. Your son could find himself the target of resentment. People would dredge up old stories about Jugurtha and the Numidian war and, next thing you know, a mob of local drunks would set fire to your house and stone you to death when you came running out with your clothes on fire and that would be a pity because, as the man on the scene with imperium, I am empowered to call in soldiers to put down civil unrest and I would indeed do so and then / would be the one everyone would hate and them my family would be very unhappy with me for alienating a whole pack of voters." I said that last sentence in a single breath, a tribute to my oratorical training.

His smile turned grim. ''I see. I will talk to my son about this." Then he brightened. "In three days, Baiae will give a banquet in your honor. I will be there."

"I look forward to it."

"I think you may find it an illuminating experience."

And with that enigmatic utterance, he took his leave gracefully.

I think I can say without reservation that Baiae is the most beautiful place in Italy. It is situated on a jewellike little bay about eight miles from Cumae and about an equal distance from my new (and, I hoped, soon to be permanent) abode. It had been a part of Cumaean territory when that city was independent and served as its port. Because of its superb setting, salubrious climate, and hot springs, it had for centuries been a favorite spot for the great and wealthy to build their villas and it was the favorite resort for Romans during the hot months.

Also, its reputation for luxury and immorality were legendary, and that was the part that appealed to me. Since the destruction of Sybaris, Baiae has reigned supreme as the home of libertines, rakes, and voluptuaries. Its scandalous life goes on day and night, made possible by that marvel unknown in Rome, effective street lighting. Lamps, cressets, and torches are kept alight during the dark hours by a crew of diligent public slaves. Cato, upon seeing Baiae thus illuminated, was scandalized. "People should sleep at night!" he cried.

A town more different from Rome is hard to imagine. Its streets are broad and never steep. Lest the populace be troubled by the scorching sun, all the streets and plazas are covered by awnings of costly cloth. The streets themselves are paved with colorful tiles, swept and scoured clean by another gang of slaves. All the streets are lined with planting boxes and giant vases carved from tufa in which grow flowers and fragrant bushes in incredible profusion, so that the air always smells sweet, no matter which way the wind is blowing. Fine trees grow before the spacious porticos. There are many tiny parks and gardens scattered throughout the town, where exotic songbirds sing in cages hung from all the trees. Should the birds tire the ear, each park has its own consort of musicians and singers, also owned by the town.

The boating parties of Baiae are legendary, and the bay's wharfs are lined with pleasure craft, from small gondolas suitable for four or five inebriated carousers to covered barges that would carry several hundred guests. For really splendid occasions, a great number of these barges could be yoked together in the center of the bay with the whole free population of the town aboard, along with enough slaves to keep them entertained.

Baiae has no penniless rabble like Rome's. The greater part of the permanent population are equites, and even the shopkeepers enjoy a property assessment only slightly lower. Even the slaves are the envy of slaves in other parts of Italy. The very street cleaners live in barracks much finer than the tenements of Rome's free poor.

Cato's final word on Baiae was characteristic: "What a waste of fine farmland." That alone was enough to make me fall in love with the place.

The delegation that greeted us when we were within a mile of the city was decked out in snowy togas, flower chaplets, and the insignia of many offices and priesthoods. Images of the gods were borne on litters, and musicians tootled while temple slaves in white tunics swung elaborate golden censers on chains, perfuming the air with fragrant smoke. A civic chorus (that old Greek specialty) sang songs of welcome.

"Not bad for a man who never even conquered a single nation of barbarians," I said with some satisfaction. "I wonder if every praetor gets this treatment or just the ones married*to a Caesar."

"I'm sure your own dignity is quite impressive enough, dear," Julia said.

We were carried in her elaborate litter, rather crowded now, what with Circe and Antonia making a pair of sweet-smelling cushions behind us. I had wanted to ride, but Julia had vetoed that. It is all but impossible to wear a toga on horseback, and Julia declared that I must enter the town in my purple-bordered toga praetexta. An old-fashioned Roman would have walked, but there were limits to my respect for tradition.

"Noble Praetor," cried the leader of this delegation, "all Baiae welcomes you! I am Lucius Lucillius Norbanus, duumvir of Baiae and master of the vintner's guild."

"And I," said the man next to him, "am Manius Silva, duumvir of Baiae and master of the perfumer's guild."

In order of precedence, the others were introduced, officials and priests, distinguished foreign visitors including a couple of princes, a vacationing Parthian ambassador, and a deposed king of some country in the general vicinity of India.

"And now, Praetor," Norbanus said, "allow us to bear you into the city in a manner befitting your rank."

Whereupon I was led to another litter, this one open and furnished with a curule chair grandly draped with leopard skin. It was hoisted to the shoulders of ten stalwart, yellow-haired Gauls, and in this state I was carried to the city while beautiful young girls strewed flowers before me. What a pity, I thought, that such an office is held for only a single year.

The road to Baiae, like thost to most Italian municipalities, was lined with tombs, and just outside the gate of the city we paused at the most imposing of these, a great marble confection that had the appearance of being layered atop a much older, simpler one.

"This," Norbanus announced, "is the tomb of Baios, helmsman of the ship of Ulysses. When the wanderings of that angry man were at an end, Baios settled here and founded our city."

No matter where I go, every city claims a Trojan War veteran as its founder. I don't even have to go anywhere, since Rome makes the same claim. Doubtless there is some reason for this but I can't imagine what it is.

From the tomb, our little procession passed through the gate, which was little more than an ornamental arch, since this town was never meant to be defended, and into the city proper, where I was showered with enough flowers to glut the floral lust of a triumphing general. Somehow, I didn't allow this to go to my head. I could tell that these people didn't care a peach pit for another visiting Roman official. I was just one more excuse for a party. Well, that was fine with me. I liked parties as much as anyone. Maybe more than most.

We wended our way through the city to the bay, and there I was carried onto a bridge laid atop a line of boats; and this was not a simple boat bridge of the sort used by the legions to cross rivers and straits but an elaborate construction, painted and gilded, its roadbed covered with turf, its railings sporting statues of Triton and Nereids and other fabulous sea deities and covered by the inevitable awning, lest anyone get sunburned while getting to the festivities.

" The banquet was held on one of those artificial islands I mentioned earlier. This one consisted of a central barge you could have raced chariots on for size, surrounded by two-story barges, so that the whole thing was surrounded by a gallery and topped by an immense canopy held up by poles twice the height of ship's masts and dyed, unbelievably, purple.

"There can't be that much purple dye in the world," I muttered. That dye is the most expensive substance known to man. The purple border of my toga praetexta had cost enough to buy an excellent farm complete with staff. I had nearly had a seizure when presented with the bill. Oh, well, the expenses of office were intended to keep the riffraff out.

A herald of thunderous voice announced us, naming the most distinguished members of my party. Then we got to meet all the local grandees, most of them wealthy equites like the duumviri. These were mostly heads of various guilds and syndicates. I quickly discerned that few of these were involved in the actual manufacture of their products. Rather, they were importers, distributors, and speculators in goods, mainly high-priced luxury items but also staple products like wine, grain, oil, and garum.

The men for the most part observed the sumptuary laws, their clothing, while of the highest quality, consisting of the usual white tunic and toga and no more than a few gold rings by way of jewelry. Their wives, however, provided a sharp contrast. Each sought to outdo the others in showy finery or shocking immodesty. All were draped with jewels and pearls; their hair was dressed into towering, complicated styles, adorned with more jewels and pearls and powdered with gold dust. And then there were the gowns.

In Rome, the infamous, all-but-transparent Coan cloth was worn by a few rich, scandalous women but only at private parties attended by the fashionable set. Here in Baiae, women wore it at public banquets. It was frequently forbidden by the censors, who, it seemed, failed to impress the women of Baiae.

"This is shocking!" Julia said in a strangled voice as these women lined up to be presented.

"I'm getting to like this place better by the minute," I told her.

"You would."

"Look," I said. "There's a woman wearing a dress you can't see through." I inclined my head toward a tall lady with flaming hair whose gown was a startling emerald green.

"That gown is pure silk!" Julia hissed. "She just wants to show that she can afford such a thing. Who can afford pure silk? I've only seen such dress at Ptolemy's court."

We were conversing in the subdued tones one uses at such occasions, smiling and nodding as we did. Catilina's wife and daughter had owned silk gowns, but I didn't want to call Julia's attention to my relationship with the latter lady.

First to be presented was the wife of Norbanus, one Rutilia, who wore an astounding wig made entirely of hair-fine gold wire. Her close-pleated gown of pale saffron Coan cloth displayed a more than ample body and that her use of cosmetics did not end at her throat.

"You honor us with your presence," Rutilia said. "The two of you really must be our guests at a little evening entertainment Norbanus and I are hosting in a week's time."

"It would be our honor," Julia answered. "Is it a special occasion?"

"Of course. It is in honor of your arrival. I can promise that all the most fashionable society of Baiae will be there without all this-" she waved gilded fingernails toward the glittering throng "-vulgar crowding."

"Well," I said, "we wouldn't want too many millionaires treading on our toes, would we?" Julia nudged me in the ribs.

"We shall be anticipating the event eagerly," Julia assured her.

"Wonderful." She beamed. "Well, I mustn't monopolize you. So many boring people to meet, eh?" She bowed slightly and made her way off, swaying and jiggling fetchingly.

And so we went through the greeting line. Last of all was the tall, red-haired lady in the emerald silk gown. Apparently she thought the extravagant dress was display enough, for her gold, jewels, and pearls were relatively restrained.

"And you would be?" I asked.

"Jocasta, Praetor," she said, "wife of Gaeto the Numidian." She had a furry voice, very pleasing to the ear.

"Then you would be the mother of that charming young man we met, Gelon. He does you great credit." Apparently, Julia did not find her voice or perhaps other attributes as pleasing as I.

"I wish I could claim him, but Gelon is the son of Gaeto's eldest wife, Riamo. She has never left Numidia and rules over the household there."

"And is your husband here?" Julia asked, looking out over the multitude. "My husband has met him, but I have not had the pleasure."

"Oh, he is certainly here," the woman said, smiling. "There are very few gatherings in Baiae to which Gaeto is not invited."

"How-" Julia searched for a word, a rare practice for her, "-how enlightened."

And then we were swept off to be greeted by another pack of notables, after which it was time for the banquet proper to begin. We were led to an empty couch on a dais, where the magnates of the district reclined on couches at a long table. Other tables and couches stretched in long rows down the full length of the great central barge, and soon the servers were bringing in the first courses.

In traditional fashion they first brought out eggs prepared in every imaginable fashion, some of them from birds I had never heard of. This being a coastal town-and the banquet held on the water to boot-it was fitting the most abundant and imaginative part of the feast were the fish courses. There were great varieties of shellfish along with the finned variety and great concoctions of lampreys, eels, octopi, squid, dolphin, and even skewered whale flesh. All this was accompanied by splendid wines, and soon the occasion was most convivial.

The talk was light and frivolous, which was not unusual. After all, this was not a pack of dry old philosophers debating the merits of Pythagoras's harmonic theories. But there seemed something strange about all the talk, and eventually I realized what it was.

"Julia," I said in a low voice, "do you realize that nobody has mentioned Julius Caesar once? Or Pompey or the eternal struggle between the populares and the optimates!"

"Odd, isn't it?" she said. "These people aren't interested in senatorial politics. They gauge status by wealth, not breeding. They compete through display and by outentertaining their peers, not by currying favor with the masses."

"I find it a great relief. In Rome, I always find myself sprawled next to some old patrician who thinks he's my better because his ancestors settled in Rome fifty years before mine, around a thousand years ago."

"Well," Julia said, "in Rome you certainly wouldn't see their sort at the same table as the city's elite." She nodded toward the end of our table, where Gaeto and his flame-haired wife reclined between a shipping contractor and a priest of Mars, with their wives, and all of them getting along as convivially as any born peers.

"You're letting your patrician snobbery show, my dear," I chided her.

"But the man's a slaver!" she protested.

"Your uncle Julius just made slaves of a whole nation."

"Conquest is honorable," she pointed out, "and degradation is the price of defying Rome. It's not the same as making a living buying and selling human beings."

That was it, of course: the buying and selling part. Just slaughtering a pack of barbarians and selling off the survivors was not the same thing at all. Patricians weren't supposed to engage in trade. I wondered what she would think had she been present to see Uncle Julius auctioning off thousands of prisoners at a time, wheedling up the price with the touch of an expert. The slavers used to follow the legions like vultures, and Caesar knew exactly what he could get from them. I suppose Julia thought it was all right for him to sell them, since he hadn't exactly bought them.

The servers brought out a specialty of the region: a fish stew containing a great variety of shellfish in a savory broth tinged with aromatic saffron. This is one of my favorite dishes, and I forgot all about slavers and Caesar while I dug into the scallops and oysters, cracked crab claws, and, at intervals, dipped bread into the broth.

"I see we've found your weakness," said a woman named Quadrilla. She was the wife of the duumvir Manius Silva. She was a small, dark woman and her Coan-cloth gown rested on her like a shadow. On her head she wore a silver diadem set with black pearls. Her vulpine little face was engagingly acerbic.

"Keep me supplied with this," I told her, "and you'll have nothing but favorable judgments from me. This must be what the gods eat on their better days."

"My husband exaggerates," Julia assured her. "Much as he loves good food, he is boringly conventional in his public duties. I wish I could say the same for his off-duty activities."

While these women discussed my shortcomings, I let my gaze roam over the crowd. Everyone seemed extraordinarily happy, except those who were too inebriated to feel much of anything. In true Baiean fashion, there were specially trained slaves to carry these off to their litters before anything unpleasant happened. I saw my freedman, Hermes, arm wrestling with a man who, from his short, two-striped tunic and small topknot, I took to be a charioteer, the two of them surrounded by attractive young women. Hermes was strong, but men who have spent years holding and controlling the reins of a quadriga have hands and arms like iron. Hermes lost the contest and his wager, but he seemed to care little for his defeat. He smiled blissfully as the girl next to him, her hair dyed a startling purple, massaged his sore arm.

A short distance from us, Circe and Antonia had planted themselves at either side of young Gelon. The lad seemed quite accustomed to such feminine attention and was regaling them with something that made them rock with immoderate laughter. I looked all over but did not see Gorgo, the priest's daughter. The priest himself was at our table, but was not looking as merry as the rest, perhaps because he was sharing the table with Gaeto.

By late evening the party began to break up. It might have gone on all night, but a stiff breeze sprang up off the sea and the boatmen advised that the great raft be taken apart and towed ashore. Before leaving, I got up and addressed the community.

"People of Baiae, at last I have found the one place in Italy where people truly know how to live!" This brought vigorous applause and shouts of agreement. "Now that I've seen Baiae, I may not even bother going to Pompeii and Puteoli. What would be the point?" At this, the crowd roared with approval. "In fact, I may just settle here permanently!" Raucous clapping and pledge making ensued.

On that note, the wind redoubled and everyone hastened to get ashore. Our litter was brought over the boat bridge from shore, and we crawled in. I was replete with the all the delicacies I had taken aboard and my head was only lightly buzzing from the wine. The bridge rocked with the growing waves, but our lurching steadied as the bearers took us ashore.

"I am going to have to get one of those Coan-cloth gowns," Circe said.

"I already have one," Antonia informed her. "I'd have worn it tonight if I'd known it was the fashion."

"Not in my party, you wouldn't," Julia said. "The dignity of the praetor has to be upheld, and it wouldn't look good if the women in his entourage dress like trans-Tiber prostitutes." She affected to ignore their laughter. "I suppose there's something to be said for transparent gowns. How else would we know that Rutilia, the wife of Norbanus, gilds her nipples or that Quadrilla, the wife of Silva, has a navel stretched three times its natural size to accommodate that huge sapphire?"

"How did she do that? I wonder," Circe mused.

"Started with a small, navel-sized sapphire," Antonia said, "and replaced it with a larger one and then a larger, until she could accommodate that stone."

"The concubine of the marble merchant has Scythian tattoos all over her thighs and buttocks," Circe remarked.

"They were Thracian, not Scythian," I told her. "I've seen those designs before."

"I can see where your attention was all evening," Julia said. Then she grew thoughtful. "They are a strange lot of people. With all that wealth and dazzle I expected them to behave like rich, jumped-up Roman freedmen, all vulgarity to go along with their ostentation. But they are as suave and cultured as any of the better class of Romans, considering how many of them are tradesmen."

"A little light on the gravitas, though," Antonia said. "And that suits me just as well. I'll take frivolity over heavy political talk any day. Or night."

I was wondering about Gaeto's words to me. He'd said that I might find the banquet "illuminating." Had he meant this social leveling? Certainly, I would never have expected to see a slaver at the table of honor at a banquet in Rome. Or anywhere else.