Suetonius as they made their way back to the palace. “The fire, the excitement, the struggles for power in their little world. Like Rome was in Cicero’s day, when oratory mattered, when lives were at stake.”
“I suppose so,” his friend replied carefully. “But, of course, one wouldn’t wish those dangerous days back again. We’re much better off without assemblies, elections, all that— ”
“Oh, quite, I didn’t mean…”
This was dangerous ground; they let it drop.
“What did you think of my speech?” Pliny asked after a moment’s pause.
“At least they didn’t throw cushions at you.” A smile, as usual, hovered on Suetonius’ lips. He found the world a source of constant amusement.
***
From the Sun-Runner to the Father, greetings.
The Lion has asked me privately to nominate his son to be initiated into the rank of Raven. Ordinarily, I would not consider it, but I fear that the Lion—especially at this critical time—must be given what he wants. You understand my meaning.
Until the day of the Sun, nama Mithras
Chapter Five
That evening
“Daddy, mommy, look at me, I’m a chariot driver!” Rufus, red-haired, fat-cheeked and sturdy, his mouth and fingers sticky with honey cake, stood up in his goat-cart, and waved his whip. His words were a jumble of Latin and Greek, he hadn’t sorted the two languages out yet. This birthday present, from uncle Pliny, carefully hidden in the palace stable until the moment of its presentation, was the best one of all. His other new toys—a hobby horse from Suetonius, a wooden sword from old Nymphidius, a kite from Caelianus, knucklebones, a top, a hoop, carved animals, a stuffed ball, a boat—all momentarily forgotten. The goat, which had stood motionless for some time, made a sudden jump, nearly tumbling the little boy out. Ione, his mother, ran to grab him, while Zosimus, his father, fumbled with the goat’s halter.
“Gaius, he’s too young for it,” Calpurnia protested, though she was laughing.
“No, auntie ’Purnia, I’m big! I’m four! Daddy, make the goat go.” Zosimus shot a worried look at his master and mistress. His own gifts, a writing set and an alphabet book—what else would a secretary give his son?—lay unnoticed where they had been instantly dropped.
“Rufus, give the other children a turn now,” Ione said.
Caelianus’ twelve- year- old boy and Nymphidius’ eight-year-old granddaughter were looking envious. Pliny swept the boy up in his arms, swung him around, and set him down. “You know what that goat wants? I’ll bet he wants an apple. Let’s feed him, shall we?” Pliny was enjoying himself as much as little Rufus; more, if that were possible.
Suetonius, reclining at the adults’ table, surveyed this picture of domestic joy and was puzzled. Rufus was a bright and engaging little boy but he was, after all, only the son of two freed slaves. Pliny had a reputation for generosity to his slaves and freedmen, but even so, to make such a fuss over the child, putting on this party with gifts from every member of the staff as if Rufus were his own—and that was the point, wasn’t it? Pliny and Calpurnia were childless. Suetonius was childless too, but that was by choice; and he had left his wife—by their mutual consent—back in Rome. Pliny and Calpurnia were different. You only had to watch them around little Rufus. They seemed determined to be as much the boy’s parents as Zosimus and Ione.
And there was an odd pair, when you thought about it—not that Suetonius thought about it much, but you couldn’t help wondering. Zosimus was a precise, serious man of about thirty, a talented reader and musician, a more than competent secretary, who had been born a slave in the household and later freed. He was deeply loyal to Pliny, his former master, now his patron. But as a father he was ill at ease, awkward with the boy, as if he hardly knew what to do with him.
How different was Ione! She was a minx. Pretty, vivacious. Just beginning to show signs of a new pregnancy that rounded her features becomingly. She had been purchased as a girl, Suetonius gathered, and trained as a lady’s maid. It wasn’t known where she came from, probably sold by her starving parents, but Greek, of an uneducated variety, was her native tongue. She and Calpurnia were very close, more so perhaps than was proper for a mistress and her servant; always whispering together, sharing secrets like a pair of sisters. About five years ago, Pliny had freed Ione and married her to Zosimus. All