Fourteen men clad in togae praetextae reclined on couches as Lucius’s servants brought out the stuffed dormice. They drank from amphoras mixed with equal parts Pompeiian wine and water.
“Excellent gustatio, Lucius,” remarked Gnaeus, already red in the face. He raised his goblet in Lucius’s general direction and indicated the dormice.
“We’re just getting started,” said Lucius with a smile, pleased that his dinner party was off to a good start. Gnaeus was especially important to please. Rumors held that he would stand for the consulship next year – and probably win. As a novus homo, Lucius wanted to make sure he impressed the right people. He hoped that he’d had the wine mixed properly. It was too early in the evening for his guests to grow tipsy.
Lucius’s servants were freedmen. They’d been his slaves until the previous year, when he’d manumitted them all. He preferred having clientes to slaves. Although he couldn’t say it in present company, he felt proud every time he saw them with their shaved heads and the pileus – the symbol of liberty and citizenship. He’d been uncomfortable with slavery ever since he’d been a small boy, and as soon as he’d become pater familias for the entire Cornelius-Aurelius household, he’d freed all of his father’s slaves. Strangely, bestowing citizenship and liberty upon twenty-four men gave him a feeling of greater power than ordering them about ever had. He saw to it that they received one-hundred sesterces whenever he requested that they wait upon his dinner party guests.
As the wine flowed and the dormice disappeared, the guests grew more relaxed. Publius told several off-color jokes, and even Marcus felt comfortable speaking up. He was a quiet man. Currently he served as one of the ten tribunes of the people.
As the roasted chickens were brought in, Horatius piped up. He wasn’t well-liked among the senators. His father had been a novus homo, and Horatius’s efforts to ingratiate himself with more powerful senators came off as transparent and unflattering. Lucius would have preferred not to invite him, but he had no choice. The man was married to Lucius’s sister.
“I propose a toast,” Horatius said. Perhaps he thought that sharing a cognomen with a great Roman hero made him more popular in the Senate. It didn’t. Gnaeus sighed audibly. “To what?” he bellowed out.
“To Rome,” said Horatius.
The senators all glanced at one another. Nobody could object to that, but it was so obvious that Horatius was just trying to prove how loyal he could be to the Roman state.
They all raised their glasses and drank to Rome. “I propose a game,” said Horatius when they had all swallowed their wine.
“A ludus?” asked Lucius. “Don’t you think it’s too early? We’re still on the mensae primae.”
“Ah,” said Horatius with a wave of his hand, “not a real game. I mean a topic of conversation.”
“Then you should have said as much,” said Gnaeus. “What is the topic?”
“I propose we each go around and say why we’re proud to be a Roman. Everyone has to say something different. You can’t say what someone said already.”
A few more sighs. Gnaeus rolled his eyes. But, again, nobody could object.
Publius said he’d go first. “I am proud that Carthage has been destroyed,” he said. “And that Rome reigns victorious over the sea.”
Everyone nodded.
“Lucius?” someone asked.
“I’m proud to be a citizen. To be a part of a distinguished assembly that has existed for centuries, in which free men can rise by their own effort and prowess.”
Horatius jumped in. “I’ll go next,” he said. “I’m proud every time I see the fasces. I’m proud of the superiority of Roman arms and the superiority of our roads and aqueducts. We are the pinnacle of civilization. We have perfected civil government. Rule by the best!” He lifted his goblet and drank again.
As the plates were being cleared, in preparation for the final course, Gnaeus bellowed out. “I grow tired of this game. Too easy. Let us change the topic. All of you have children. Let’s change out our children for our nation. Each of us must boast not of his nation but of his children. I’ll start.”
There was another round of nods. Only Gnaeus had the status to alter the topic of conversation from something so boring and anodyne, while skillfully avoiding an abrupt and unseemly tack. This new topic would surely peter into general gossip and less stilted conversation.
“I am proud that my daughters have married this year. And married better than any in Rome, I daresay. They will each do well. I love my daughters not merely for their beauty, but for their resourcefulness and good marriages. They will direct their households well.” He smiled at Caius and Gaius, his friends and his daughters’ new husbands. Both had lost their first wives young.
Caius went next, after thanking Gnaeus. “As all of you know,” he said, “Cornelia died bearing my son. But she would be proud to know that he recently competed at the Circus Maximus. And won. My son is the fastest charioteer in all of Rome, and I love him for it.”
After this, all the men went quickly, each devoid of any chagrin and ready to proclaim that they loved their children for feats of athleticism, academic success, physical appearance, political achievement, and civic virtue.
“I love my daughters for they are the most beautiful in all of Rome.”
“I love my sons for they are the most pious in all of Rome.”
With each boast, they began to laugh and to make a sport of trying to top each other with more and more ridiculous claims.
Finally, it came to Marcus, who had barely spoken all evening. He appeared grave. He’d drunk less than the other guests and he’d grown more solemn as the other guests had grown rowdier and bolder in their boasts about the supposed excellences of their children.
“Enough of this,” he said. “I will not play this silly game. It is a mockery, a foolishness.”
He spoke slowly. “I have two daughters and two sons,” he said. “My daughters are not the most beautiful, nor the most virtuous, in all of Rome, though they have virtue and beauty. They are beautiful enough to me. My sons are not the bravest, nor the most in possession of virtus, though they are young men of courage and strength. I do not love my children for their valor, for their excellence, for their physical beauty or mental acuity. I need no reason to love them other than the one I have. I shouldn’t need an excuse to love them, just as I shouldn’t need an excuse to love my country. No. I love my children for the same reason I love Rome. And it is the only reason I need.”
The rest of the guests had been cowed by this, but Gnaeus felt bold enough to speak out. “And what reason is that?” he asked.
“Because they are mine,” said Marcus. “I love my children because they are mine, not for any quality they might possess. Just as I love Rome because it is mine, because it is my home, not because its fleets are victorious or its roads are the envy of all the world. Rome has many things to love. Perhaps the thing I love most of all is the Roman law, which rules over rich and poor alike and which marks civilization from barbarian. But I don’t need the Twelve Tables to love Rome. My children are my own and my nation is my own and I shouldn’t need any other reason to love them.”
All fell silent at this. Gnaeus and Horatius looked peeved. But Lucius raised his goblet. His face showed seriousness for the first time all evening. “I’ll drink to that,” he said. He drank and all the other men followed suit, even Gnaeus and Horatius.