had turned their backs on him, it is rumored as payment-in-kind for the time he spurned their offer to participate in their coalition at Luca.
“I see reconstruction of your house is continuing apace,” Crassus said, glancing at me to summon more food servers. I, in turn, gave the nod to Lucius Curio. I would not miss a single syllable of this! Curio turned with a huff from his own place in waiting, and even among the crowded assembly, I could hear the sound of knuckles cracking as he departed.
“No thanks to Clodius,” Cicero answered. “We will never be rid of the stench left by his arson, or the acrid reminder of what Roman politics has allowed itself to become.”
“Now, now,” Crassus said, “let’s leave politics at the door this night. This is a happy occasion.”
“Of course, you are right, dear friend. Politics and happiness can no longer co-exist in the city, let alone in the same house. I am done with politics, and shall concentrate on the rediscovery of happiness. I shall withdraw from active pursuits to concentrate on my writing. But you, Marcus, your political star rises to heights even Icarus never knew. Of course we all know what happened to him.” (Oh, the man never rests!) “No, after Luca, I have willingly surrendered to the will of the people, or at the very least to the will of Crassus, Pompeius and Caesar. Thank the gods that you three know what is best for the rest of us. Will you drink with me to the Republic, Marcus?”
“With all my heart.” Crassus raised his goblet. “To the Republic!” he cried, and the toast was repeated as it surged throughout the house.
When the noise had died down, Cicero resumed. “Is it not a blessing that the interregnum has passed? Black, you may be unaware, is my least favorite color.” He paused for a long moment, but Crassus refused to fall into his trap. “What, you took no notice of those senators who refused to attend the games, who shunned the Latin festival on the Alban mount, and who declined to feast in the Capitol on Jove’s sacred day? You must have seen them, donning black togas as if in mourning? How stifling, to suffer so throughout the summer, the poor dears.”
“I did notice one thing,” my lord said offhandedly. “Your toga remained as bright and pure as the snows on Vesuvius.” Well spoken, dominus. Yet I fear there is much truth in Cicero’s accusation. The world is out of balance.
“I stood in sympathy with them, Marcus Licinius, yes, in sympathy. I was as unhappy as any with your manipulation of the elections, but I have a skin condition, you see…”
“Where are your wife and daughter?” Crassus asked, casting about not only for Terentia and Tullia, but for a change of subject.
“They have little taste for parties these days. Their home is in ruins, after all. I only stopped by to congratulate you, Marcus, on your election. Consul for a second term. Well done.”
“I am honored by your confidence, Marcus Tullius, but you know as well as I that the vote will not be taken until next week.”
Cicero laughed, a short, nasal snuffle. “Oh, I take your meaning now, Marcus,” he said, as if comprehension had just dawned. “You would have me harken back to a time when the outcome of a contest was not known until after the voting. How nostalgic.”
“Honored Father and illustrious friend,” Publius interrupted, “do you know the sign of an unsuccessful party? I thought not. Permit me to tell you. It is when the conversation begins to bore the ladies.”
“As so often happens,” Cicero said, waving off a platter of roasted chicken legs practically thrust beneath his nose by a server pushed at arms length by Curio, “it is the children who must lead the old ones out of the woods. Enliven us, and recount Caesar’s prediction of your father’s failure. I am intrigued.”
Publius glanced at his father. “I fear I have misspoken. It was nothing.”
“It was some thing, else you would not have voiced the sentiment with such scorn.”
“Why, little Roman,” said a new voice, “do you insult this warrior by pressing for an answer different from the one he has just given you?”
“Merciful—” Cicero started off with his hallmark scorn, but censored himself mid-huff as he turned into the barreled expanse of Culhwch’s chest. The Celt had cleaned himself up for the party: his breeches were almost stain-free and he wore a shirt. This did