‘But that’s not what happened,’ I said.
‘No. Sertorius, with his overbearing personality, at last became so insufferable to his own followers that they murdered him. Sertorius’ one-eyed henchman Varius proved to be not such a capable general after all; in a sea battle off the island of Lemnos, Lucullus took him captive and destroyed his army. King Mithridates was bested on every front, and stripped of his most prized territories, which now pay their tribute to Rome. What’s done is done, and the outcome seems to have been inevitable all along; Rome’s triumph was assured from the beginning, by the grace of the gods, and it could never have been otherwise.’
‘You believe in destiny, then?’
‘Rome believes in destiny, Gordianus, for at every stage of her history, her destiny has been manifest.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, but doubtfully. It was in the nature of my work to poke and prod and peer beneath the surface of things, to turn back rugs, so to speak, and examine the detritus swept underneath; and from my experience, no man (and by extension, no nation) possessed such a thing as a manifest destiny. Every man and nation proceeded through life in fits and starts, frequently heading off in the wrong direction and then doubling back, usually making a host of catastrophic mistakes and desperately trying to cover them over before moving on to make the next mistake. If the gods took any part in the process, it was generally to have a bit of sport at the expense of hapless mortals, not to light the way to some predetermined path of greatness. Only historians and politicians, blessed by keen self-interest and blurry hindsight, could look at the course of events and see the workings of divine intention.
If Cicero entertained another view, I was hardly surprised. At that moment, he was swiftly and surely approaching the apogee of his political career. His work as an advocate in the courts had gained him the friendship of Rome’s most powerful families. His advancement through the magistracies had been marked by one successful election campaign after another. In the coming run for the consulship he was considered a clear front-runner. When I first met him, many years before, he had been young, untested, and much more cynical about the ways of the world; since then, success had tamed him and given him the rosy, self-satisfied aura of those who begin to think their success was inevitable, along with the success of the city and the empire they served.
‘And yet,’ I observed, ‘if things had gone only a little differently, Sertorius might have become king of the West, with his capital in Spain, and Mithridates might still be undisputed king of the East, and Rome might have been reduced to a mere backwater over which the two of them would be squabbling.’
Cicero shuddered at the thought. ‘A good thing, then, that Sertorius was killed, and Mithridates soundly defeated by Lucullus.’
I cleared my throat. It was one thing for Cicero to engage in philosophical speculation about destiny, but another to contradict the facts of recent history. ‘I believe it’s been left for Pompey to finally end the war with Mithridates, once and for all.’
‘Pompey is charged with ending the war, yes; but Lucullus fought Mithridates for years, all over Asia Minor, before he was recalled to Rome and forced to cede his command to Pompey. If Pompey appears to be making quick work of Mithridates, it’s only because Lucullus softened the ground for him.’ Cicero snorted. ‘Ever since Lucullus came back to Rome, he’s been owed a triumph for his many victories in the East, but his political enemies have successfully conspired to deprive him of it. Well, their obstructionism is about to be ended, and within a year, Lucullus will finally celebrate his triumph; perhaps – and I should be only too honoured – during the year of my consulship, should the gods favour my election. So please, Gordianus, don’t subject me to this line of argument about Pompey being the sole conqueror of the East. Lucullus broke the enemy’s back, and Pompey merely moved in for the kill.’
I shrugged. It was a controversy about which I had no firm opinion.
Cicero cleared his throat. ‘Anyway … how would you like to join him for a leisurely meal this afternoon?’
‘Join whom?’
‘Why, Lucullus, of course.’
‘Ah …’ I nodded. So that was the true purpose of Cicero’s desire to see me that morning, and the point of his digressions. The subject all along had been Lucullus.
‘Has Lucullus invited me?’
‘He has. And, let me assure you, Gordianus, no man in his right mind would refuse an invitation to sup with Lucullus. His conquests in the East made him very, very wealthy, and I’ve never known anyone who more greatly enjoys spending his wealth. His dinners are legendary – even those he consumes by himself !’
I nodded. Lucullus was a well-known Epicurean, devoted to enjoying the good life and indulging every sensory pleasure. Even during military campaigns he had been noted for the extravagance of his table. The multitudes in Rome were eagerly looking forward to his triumph, which, along with a fabulous procession, would also feature public entertainments, banquets, and a distribution of gifts to all who attended.
‘If Lucullus desires my company, why does he not contact me directly? And to what do I owe the honour of this invitation?’ In other words: what sort of trouble had Lucullus got himself into, and what would he expect me to do about it? I could leave the question of payment to another time; Lucullus was not miserly and could afford to be generous.
Cicero looked at me askance. ‘Gordianus, Gordianus! Always so suspicious! First of all, Lucius Licinius Lucullus is not the sort of fellow to dispatch a slave to deliver an invitation to a fellow citizen he hasn’t yet met. Not his style at all! He obtains new friends through those who are already his friends. He’s very strict about that sort of thing; decorum matters greatly to him. Which is not to say he’s stuffy; quite the opposite. Do you follow me?’
I raised a dubious eyebrow.
Cicero snorted. ‘Very well, then, it was I who mentioned your name to him and suggested he might wish to make your acquaintance. And not for any nefarious purpose; the context was entirely innocent. What do you know about Lucullus’ circle of friends?’
‘Nothing, really.’
‘Yet if I were to mention their names, you’d no doubt recognize them. Famous men, well regarded in their fields, the best of the best. Men like Antiochus of Ascalon, the Greek philosopher; Arcesislaus, the sculptor; and of course Aulus Archias, the poet. Those three are Lucullus’ constant companions.’
‘I’ve heard of them, of course. Is it Lucullus’ habit to collect friends whose names all begin with the same letter?’
Cicero smiled. ‘You’re not the first to notice that; “the three A’s,” Lucullus sometimes calls them. A mere coincidence, signifying nothing – as I’m sure Aristotle would agree, notwithstanding his own initial. Anyway, as you can imagine, the conversation at Lucullus’ table can be rather elevated, with discussions of philosophy and art and poetry and so on; even I sometimes find it a bit challenging to carry my weight – if you can imagine that!’ He laughed aloud at this self-deprecation; to be polite, I managed a chuckle.
‘Of late,’ he continued, ‘Lucullus has been most interested in discourse on the subjects of truth and perception – how we know what we know, and how we distinguish truth from falsehood.’
‘Epistemology, I think the philosophers call it.’
‘Exactly! You see, Gordianus, you are not entirely without refinement.’
‘I don’t recall claiming that I was.’
Cicero laughed, but I did not join him. ‘Anyway, Lucullus was saying that he’s grown weary of hearing the same points of view expounded over and over. He already knows what Antiochus and Arcesislaus and Archias will say, given their points of view – the philosopher, the artist, the poet. And he knows what I will say – the politician! Apparently some particular problem is bothering him, though he won’t come out and say what it is, and our tired ideas are of no use to him. So, when I dined with him a few days ago, I told him I knew a fellow who might very well have something new to offer: Gordianus the Finder.�
�
‘Me?’
‘Are you not as obsessed with truth as any philosopher? Do you not see the true shape of things as keenly as any sculptor and cut through falsehood as cleverly as any playwright? And are you not as sharp a judge of character as any politician? More importantly, would you not enjoy an unforgettably lavish meal as much as any other man? All your host shall ask in return is your company and your conversation.’
Put that way, I could see no reason to refuse. Still, it seemed to me there must be more to the matter than Cicero was willing to admit.
To reach the villa of Lucullus, one passed outside the city walls at the Fontinalis Gate, travelled a short distance up the Flaminian Way, and then ascended the Pincian Hill. A stone wall surrounded the property; entry could be obtained only through a guarded iron gate. Even after one passed through the gate, the villa could not be seen, for it was surrounded by extensive gardens.
The gardens had excited much comment, for Lucullus had collected hundreds of trees, flowers, vines and shrubs from all over Asia Minor and had transported them, at great expense, back to Rome, along with a veritable army of gardeners. Some of the plants had taken root in the soil of Italy, while others had not, and so the garden was still a work in progress, with here and there a bare spot or a plant that appeared less than content. Nonetheless, the consummate artistry of Lucullus’ landscapers was evident at every turn. To follow the stone-paved path that wound up the hillside towards the villa, decorated here and there with a rustic bench, or a statue, or a splashing fountain, was to encounter one delightfully framed vista after another. Unfamiliar flowers bloomed in profusion. The leaves of exotic trees shivered in the warm breeze. Trellises were overgrown with vines that bore strange fruit. Occasionally, through the lush greenery, I caught a glimpse of the temples atop the Capitoline Hill in the distance, or the glimmer of the sinuous, faraway Tiber, and the sight compelled me to pause and take it in.
Cicero accompanied me. He had been up this winding path many times before, but seemed happy to take his time and indulge my wide-eyed wonderment.
At last we reached the villa. A slave greeted us, told us that his master awaited us in the Apollo Room, and asked us to follow him.
I heard Cicero release a gasp and then a groan. ‘The Apollo Room!’ he muttered under his breath.
‘You know the place?’ I asked, my wonderment increasing as we traversed terraces, porticoes and galleries. Everywhere I looked, I saw bits and pieces of Asia Minor that Lucullus had brought back to adorn his Roman home. Greek statues, ornamental plaques, sculptural reliefs, carved balustrades, dazzling tiles, magnificent rugs, shimmering draperies, colourful paintings in encaustic wax, superbly crafted tables and chairs, even entire marble columns had been shipped over the sea and up the Tiber to confront Lucullus’ engineers, architects and decorators with the formidable task of creating from their disparate elements a harmonious whole. By some miracle, they had succeeded. Opulence and abundance greeted the eye at every turn; gaudiness and ostentation were nowhere to be seen.
‘Lucullus entertains guests in various rooms, depending on his mood,’ Cicero explained. ‘To each room is accorded a specific budget for the meal. The simplest meals – and they could be called simple only by the standards of Lucullus – are served in the Hercules Room; the plates are of simple silver, the food is traditional Roman fare, and the wines are of a vintage only slightly beyond the means of most of us mere senators. Lucullus finds the Hercules Room suitable for a simple afternoon repast when entertaining a few intimate friends – and that’s where I presumed we would be eating. But the Apollo Room! The couches are sumptuous, the silver plate is stunning, and the food is fit for the gods! The wine will be Falernian, you may be sure. No delicacy which Lucullus’ cook can imagine will be denied to us. If only Lucullus had warned me, I should have avoided eating altogether for the last few days, in preparation. My poor stomach is already grumbling in dread!’
For as long as I had known him, Cicero had suffered from irritable bowels. He suffered least when he maintained a simple diet, but like most successful politicians his life had become a whirlwind of meals and parties, and to refuse a host’s offerings would seem churlish. ‘My stomach is no longer my own,’ he had complained to me once, groaning and clutching his belly after a particularly rich banquet.
At last we passed through a doorway into a magnificent hall. Along one wall, doors opened on to a terrace overlooking the gardens, with a view of the Capitoline Hill in the distance. The opposite wall was covered with a glorious painting celebrating the god Apollo and his gifts to mankind – sunlight, art and music – with the Graces and the Muses in his retinue. At one end of the room, set in a niche, was a towering statue of the god, scantily clad and resplendent in his beauty, carved from marble but painted in such lifelike colours that for the barest instant I was fooled into thinking I saw a being of flesh and blood.
The room might have accommodated scores of guests, but the gathering that day was much smaller. A group of dining couches had been pulled into a semicircle near the terrace, where the guests could enjoy the warm, jasmine-scented breeze.
We were apparently the last to arrive, for only two of the couches remained empty, those situated at either side of our host. Lucullus, reclining at the centre of the semicircle, looked up at our arrival, but did not stand. He was dressed in a saffron tunic with elaborate red embroidery and a belt of silver chain; his hair, grey at the temples but still plentiful for a man of forty-six, was combed back to show his prominent forehead. Despite his reputation for high living, his complexion was clear and his waist no larger than that of most men his age.
‘Cicero!’ he exclaimed. ‘How good to see you – and just in time for the mullet course. I had them delivered from Cumae this morning, from Orata’s fish farm. Cook’s trying a new recipe, something about grilling them on a stick with an olive stuffing; he tells me I shall wish to die after one taste, resolved that life’s pleasures can achieve no higher pinnacle.’
‘No matter what the pleasure, there’s always another to top it,’ responded one of the guests. The man’s features were so like those of our host that I realized he had to be Lucullus’ younger brother, Marcus Licinius. They were said to be very close; indeed, Lucullus had held off running for his first office until his brother Marcus was also old enough to run, so that they could both be elected to the curule aedileship as partners; the games they had put on for the populace that year, the first to ever feature elephants in combat with bears, had become legendary. To judge by his comment, and by his clothes – a Greek chiton with an elegantly stitched border of golden thread – Marcus was as much an Epicurean as his older brother.
‘Wanting to die after eating a mullet! Have you ever heard anything so absurd?’ This comment, followed by a laugh to soften its harshness, came from the guest seated opposite Marcus, whom I recognized at once: Cato, one of the most powerful senators in Rome. Cato was anything but an Epicurean; he was a Stoic, known for expounding old-fashioned virtues of frugality, restraint and service to the state. His hair was closely cropped and he wore a simple white tunic. Despite their philosophical differences, he and Lucullus had become staunch political allies, firm friends, and – with Lucullus’ marriage the previous year to Cato’s half-sister, Servilia – brothers-in-law.
Reclining next to Cato was Servilia herself. To judge by the ostentation of her red gown, silver jewellery and elaborately coiffed hair, she shared her husband’s Epicurean tastes rather than her brother’s Stoic values. Her tinted cheeks and painted lips were not to my taste, but she projected a kind of ripe sensuality that many men would have found attractive. Her generous figure made it hard to be certain, but it looked to me that she was just beginning to show signs of carrying a child. Servilia was Lucullus’ second wife; he had divorced the first, one of the Clodia sisters, for flagrant infidelity.
The three other guests were the Greek companions of Lucullus whom Cicero had previously mentioned to me. The poet Archias was perhaps
ten years older than his patron, a small man with a neatly trimmed white beard. Antiochus the philosopher was the most corpulent person in the room, with several chins obscuring his neck. The sculptor Arcesislaus was the youngest of us, a strikingly handsome and exceedingly muscular fellow; he looked quite capable of wielding a hammer and chisel and moving heavy blocks of marble. I realized that it must be his Apollo in the niche at the end of the room, for the face of the god was uncannily like a self-portrait; it was likely that he had painted the wall as well, which gave the same face to Apollo. Clearly, Arcesislaus was an artist of immense talent.
I felt an unaccustomed quiver of discomfort. After years of dealing with Rome’s elite, often seeing them at their weakest or worst, I seldom felt self-conscious in any company, no matter how exalted. But here, in the company of Lucullus’ brilliant inner circle, in a setting so overwhelmingly opulent yet so impeccably refined, I felt decidedly out of my depth.
Cicero introduced me. Most of the guests had some knowledge of me; their not-unfriendly nods at the mention of my name reassured me, if only a little. Lucullus indicated that Cicero should take the couch to his right and that I should recline to his left.
Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4) Page 95