Solar Wind. Book one - страница 20

Domitia Lucilla, with her hair tied up in a high hairstyle, looked young enough. In the morning, the slaves performed cosmetic procedures with her, placing whitening ointments on her face, painting her eyelashes, making her lips bright. Her tunic and the top handkerchief, which she covered her head with, generously sprinkled incense, and now Marcus's mother stood before Regin blossoming, fragrant, alluring.

He repeatedly had the idea to find her a husband from a noble family, to connect the two patrician branches, to further strengthen their influence. But Domitia resisted. She was a wealthy, well-off woman and didn't need anything. Her factory brought a good income and Regin, being the prefect of the city, knew the exact sums coming from the sale of bricks with the label “Domitia Lucilla” printed on top.

“Wouldn't it be easier to agree on everything with Faustina in private?” Domitia broke her silence. “She is a relative; she'll understand!”

Regin chewed his lips, thought, answered.

“We must demonstrate our strength to Servianus, this pompous peacock who made his way to the consuls thanks to Domitian. I have always had a low opinion of him, although some have kept saying about his mind, about some outstanding abilities. Let him know in advance that Antoninus will be on our side, then, perhaps, we do not have to resort to pressure in the Senate, to organize a war there. Our Hadrian doesn't like strife. He wants to enjoy the peace in Tibur, tired of travel and public affairs.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a slave who had come from the depths of the atrium.

“Domina,31 guests have arrived for you, Senator Lucius Julius Servianus and matron Annia Galeria Faustina.”

“Take them to the triclinium and tell the chefs it's time to have lunch.” Domitia in hesitation turned to Regin, “I think we will invite the boys later. Let them play some more!”

“Good!” Marcus's great-grandfather agreed.

The brazier has already warmed up. The flames, dancing inside, burned the sooty walls, raised stinging tongues to the sky. Marcus approached the iron that was burning, feeling the enveloping heat, the smell of a burning tree. The sides of the roaster have acquired a crimson tint; charcoal coals high, almost to the knees, threw out the tongues of flame. Gaius stood beside it pale, silent, but full of determination.

Oh, that's pride!

Surprise mixed with reproach stirred in Marcus's soul. Previously, he did not pay attention to whether it was good or bad to be proud. Probably, for the state is good, because the Romans are not used to losing in the dispute, which means that pride pushed them to be better than others, to become stronger. The best should be villages, cities, their country. The plank had been rising all the time, forcing them to improve in this effort. But the greater perfection achieved, the more sacrifices were made.

“Don't, Gaius!” he said conciliatorily. “I don't need your oath on fire. If you think you're right, then you're right.”

“No!” Victorinus turned impulsively to him. “You don't believe me, and I'll prove it.”

He reached out to the fire, but he was hesitant to take the last step. He was slow, looked like one bewitched at the high flame. “Here's a fool!” thought Marcus. He moved decisively to his friend, and with force grasping his shoulders, dragged away from the dangerous place.