by AM Kirkby
***
The party didn't really start till the shadows were already gathering, though servants had been preparing the tables and couches all afternoon. The boy still ached, though he'd massaged away the worst hurts with warmed oil. His hair was newly plaited, and tied loosely at the back of his head, falling in braids down his back; one of the household women had brought him a fresh white tunic, and a plain blue tebenna that he'd slung over one shoulder.
The general hadn't told him much, but he'd been given more detailed instructions by the major-domo. He should join the other servants, to start with; his particular duty would be pouring the wine. One of the girls was in charge of watering it appropriately; watered to taste at the start of the evening, it would grow progressively more dilute, he knew, as the guests became more inebriated. The general was smart like that; or at least, he employed smart servants. He was smart enough to drink his own wine unwatered, too; his feats of drinking had been legendary when he was still only a fighting man.
“If anyone takes a fancy to you, you join them,” he was told. But the major-domo didn't mention anyone in particular, and he wondered whether the general had taken him into his full confidence, or whether his bluff manner concealed a plot within the plot, things hidden even from the high servants of the household.
When he arrived, most of the guests were still strolling in the atrium, only a keen few already sat or sprawled on the couches in the dining room. He noticed the general, usually so sparingly dressed, had put on a huge golden brooch to fasten his tebenna, instead of his regular bronze clip; the tebenna was proudly striped with the purple of rank. He could identify a couple of guests as regular visitors, one older man with grizzled, tightly curled hair, and another whose eyebrows had gone white while his hair remained dark; both military men of the general's generation. There was a middle-aged woman, running a little to fat, and a younger woman with her whose arms and ankles glistened with thick gold; two younger men trailed them, holding an animated conversation in an undertone, one of them waving his hands excitedly.
Despite his disappointment with the task the general had given him, he couldn't suppress some excitement at the occasion. Simply looking at the amount of jewellery some of the guests wore reminded him what wealth and power those assembled here represented; if not the greatest of Vulci, certainly some of the more influential. He was well trained to impassivity, though; not letting his eyes wander, he moved with the ease of the athlete to his station,
where he could see the girl already mixing the wine in the huge krater. He looked down at the dark purple surface of the wine, so dark it hardly reflected the sun.
“When do I serve the wine?”
“When they ask for it. Now, if they want.”
He waited while she filled the oinochoe. What did we do before the Greeks taught us how to drink, he wondered; did we belt it unmixed from horns like the Celts? Supporting the bottom of the heavy jug on one forearm, he stepped forward.
“Here. Here, boy.”
The man who'd called him was already sitting on the end of a couch. Next to him, a chubby man with scant wisps of blond hair reclined, laughing at what seemed from his expression a rather cruel joke. The sitting man held out his wine-cup.
“Not too much mixed, is it?”
“It's quite dark, sir.”
The man squinted at it. It seemed to pass inspection; he tossed it back quickly, then held his cup out for a refill.
“I have to ask. Tite Avle's hospitality is renowned...”
“... not in a good way,” the fat man said, and laughed, before holding out his own cup.
The other guests were coming in now, and he was busy for a while; he had to refill the oinochoe twice before all the guests were served, and he realised he'd forgotten how many cups the first guests had had already. Not that anyone had asked him to count their drinks, but he had a feeling that he ought to know; the general might ask him later, and in any case, he'd want to be told if any of them showed signs of getting too drunk. He had only a moment's respite; someone roped him into serving the first dishes, roasted birds and sweet fruit-scattered breads.
As he passed one of the couches to set down a dish of quail, he felt hands brush his thighs. Embarrassed, he thought he'd walked too close; but when he passed next time with the wine, he felt it again. He turned to see who it was; some old woman, he thought, spoiled with soft living. But it was a young woman; older than him, perhaps in her mid twenties. Her black hair was intricately curled, her cheeks reddened with powder. He saw that she'd drawn black lines around her eyes, which shone brightly. She doesn't need to, he thought; she'd be beautiful without it.
“He'll be master of the horse before he's finished, you know.” The general had reached out to grip his wrist tightly, pulling him across the young woman's couch, making him stand directly in front of her.
“Very talented with the horses. You know I won a bet with my own head lad over him, don't you?”
“You did mention it.” Her voice was sweet but mixed with an acid undertone, like honey and vinegar.
“Oh, I did?”
“Anyway, he'll make a good horse trainer.”
“Oh no, he'll make master of the horse all right. He's clever.”
“Clever with horses.”
“Greek-style clever. Tactics, that sort of thing.”
“Oh.” One eyebrow raised delicately, she pouted at the general. “Tactics, hm? What about politics?”
The general's mouth tightened for a moment. “That's more your sort of thing, Ramtha, isn't it?”
She smiled grimly. “Master of the horse. How delightful. So, Master. Pour me a cup of wine.” She held her cup out towards him, deliberately holding it just short of where he could easily reach it, so that he had to bend forwards to take it. He could smell her perfume, a strong and unusual scent - not floral, as the fashion was, but rather spicy and bittersweet. It reminded him of those citrus fruit the general had bought from a Phoenician trader one winter, in an unusual burst of extravagance; small orange fruit, whose skin burst with strong smelling liquid on to your hands if you squeezed them. He'd never seen them again.
The general had let his wrist go, and he was about to straighten up after pouring her wine, but she refused to take back the cup.
“I think the Master of the horse should rest, if you can spare him.” She was speaking to the general, deliberately ignoring him, her head turned to one side. Her nose was sharp, her eyes brilliant; only a slight sulkiness about the mouth spoiled what might otherwise have been a beautiful profile.
“I suppose I can spare him for the night.” The general turned, beckoned another servant with a slight upwards tilt of his chin; his staff were well trained, none of them needed a shout or a clap of the hands to bring them to him. The boy winced as he remembered how the general had had to shout at him that afternoon; that shouldn't have happened.
The woman patted the couch beside her, turning her head to smile at the boy. He set the oinochoe on the table and sat obediently at the head of the couch; she stretched lazily, lifting one leg slightly and running her foot up the couch as if stroking it. There wasn't much room; he had to sit tightly up against her, his body against the arm she leant on. He was surprised by the warmth he could feel through his tunic.
“Sometimes I wonder if I need a master,” she said, turning so that she could look up at him through thick, dark eyelashes. In another woman it might have been conquettish, he though, or ludicrous, but she could get away with it; more surprising, the general was letting her do it. He must want something badly, the boy thought.
“She's taken a shine to you, eh?”
He was too embarrassed to answer the general's question, but that didn't seem to matter; the general just laughed, picked up his wine, and sank a cupful in one swallow. The boy reached for the oinochoe, but the general had already grabbed it before he got there.
“Leave it, boy.” The general's voice was dark with wine already. “You'll have your hands full w
ith Ramtha.”
Despite her louche opening, Ramtha was surprisingly easy company once they got into conversation; she'd had her fun with him, and having put him neatly in his place could afford to relax, like a cat with its paw placed on the mouse that it had finished playing with, but wasn't letting go. She proved surprisingly knowledgeable about some aspects of war, too, wanting to know how the hoplite phalanx operated, how infantry warfare differed from the old tradition of chariot skirmishing. He explained how they formed a wall with their shields, how the tight body of the phalanx could advance against looser formations, or hold ground against a cavalry attack, and he saw how even though she adopted the aristocratic pose of disinterest when others were watching, her eyes were keen and bright.
After a while, though, she began pressing wine on him, and he realised he was beginning to lose count of how much he'd drunk. It should have been well watered by now, but it tasted strong, full of tannin that clung to his teeth; he was becoming warm with the slight madness that drink always brought, and aroused, too, as she pressed her side against his. He could feel her breasts through the thin linen of her dress; that didn't help him think straight.
Then she started talking to him about the latest fashions; not something he knew much about, in this household of men, and though of course he noticed some of the better looking women, he wasn't so much concerned with what they wore as what they might look like without that covering. (Better not to think about that, now; he took a mouthful of wine, thinking it might cool his head, and of course it did nothing of the sort.) She took the hem of his blue tebenna in her fingers; it was nice cloth, she said, soft and well woven, but the colour wasn't quite... more saturated shades would suit him better. Looking round, he could see that several of the guests were wearing bright reds and deep orange.
“Like that red?” he ventured.
“I was thinking of purple.”
“But only generals can wear purple!” he blurted, then felt his mouth twitch as he realised he'd spoken too loudly. The fat blond man had turned to look at him, frowning; he didn't dare look at the general.
“Precisely,” she said, patting him on the knee. “You'll have to earn your purple, master.”