Roma

The black stone, even more than the statue of the goddess, was the centerpiece of the new temple. It was said to have fallen from the sky, and its shape roughly depicted an even more primitive image of the goddess, an amorphous mass suggesting a massively pregnant female with no distinguishing features. The black stone, too, was unlike anything previously worshiped in Roma, but when the galli in the Phrygian city of Pessinus offered it as a gift, along with a request to establish Cybele’s worship in Roma, a verse had been found in the Sibylline Books that called on the Roman people to accept the gift and welcome the new goddess.

Whatever its religious function, the importation of Cybele possessed a political dimension as well. Men of vision, like Scipio, believed that Roma’s future now lay to the East. After Ha

Perhaps because he was thinking of the galli and their sacrifice, Kaeso touched the golden fascinum that hung from the necklace he wore. He had put away the heirloom many years before, and had virtually forgotten about it, until he happened to come across it while going through a box of old things. The glitter of the gold caught his eye, and on a whim he decided to begin wearing it again on special occasions, as had been the practice, so he had once been told, of his ancestors.

Touching the fascinum led to another train of thought. He cleared his throat and said to Scipio, in an offhand way, “All these new religions flooding into Roma—some official, some…not so official. What do you think of the so-called Cult of Bacchus? They say it offers initiation into secret rites that promise an ecstatic release from the material world.”

Scipio looked at him sidelong and raised an eyebrow. “The Cult of Bacchus is controversial, to say the least. Like everyone else, I’ve heard about it. It seems to be an offshoot of a Greek cult that worships a god of wine and madness. How much of what I’ve heard can be believed, or how widespread the cult’s become, I don’t know. I do know it has no recognition from the state.”

“So it’s not illegal?”

“Not technically, I suppose. But, from what I’ve heard, the cult’s ‘ecstatic’ rituals are nothing more than drunken orgies where every possible sexual act is encouraged. Also…” Scipio lowered his voice. “The initiation of men into the cult requires that they submit to anal penetration—as if they were slave boys! I’ve also heard that the cult is nothing more than a front for a group of ruthless criminals. The so-called priests and priestesses are forgers, blackmailers, even murderers.” Scipio took a deep breath. “I would advise you, Kaeso, to steer clear of any cult that has no official status, especially the Cult of Bacchus!”

“Yes, of course,” muttered Kaeso. He hurriedly changed the subject. “I’m a grandfather now!”

Scipio smiled. “So I’ve heard. Congratulations.”

“My daughter struck a lucky match when she married young Menenius. No man could have given her a more beautiful baby. I only wish my wife had lived to see little Menenia.”

“Yes, I was saddened to hear of Sestia’s death.”

Kaeso shrugged. “To be honest, I was never much of a husband to her. Nor was I much of a father to Fabia. But the role of grandfather seems to suit me. I dote shamelessly on Menenia, as I never doted on her mother or grandmother. And what about you, Scipio? You’ve just had a daughter.”

“Indeed I have! If you think you dote on Menenia, you should see me with Cornelia.”

Kaeso nodded. “Curious, that your daughter and my granddaughter should be almost exactly the same age.”

“Perhaps they can grow up to be friends, as you and I have been friends, Kaeso.”

“I should like that,” Kaeso said. “I should like that very much.” He gazed steadily at Scipio. His chestnut hair, kept short, was now mixed with silver. In his rugged features, all trace of the boy was gone, except in his eyes, which sometimes glowed with youthful exuberance when he laughed. This was one of the reasons Kaeso had invited Scipio to sit beside him in the theater that day, because it would give him such pleasure to see Scipio laugh.

They were distracted by the sound of applause and a flurry of movement. Many in the audience spontaneously rose from their seats. Plautus had just entered the theater and was making his way to the empty seat next to Kaeso. At the age of sixty-three, the Umbrian playwright was the grand old man of the Roman stage. The audience knew him by sight and gave him a standing ovation.

The galli alone failed to recognize him. They looked at one another in puzzlement, then stood and joined uncertainly in the applause.

Plautus embraced Kaeso, then exchanged greetings with Scipio. The three of them sat, and the applause gradually dwindled.

“So, my flatfooted friend, what’s the play today?” said Scipio.

Plautus shrugged. “Oh, a trifle I’ve titled after the main character, a wisecracking slave. It’s called Pseudolus.”

“A trifle? Your masterpiece!” declared Kaeso.

“Spoken with all the conviction one would expect from the owner of the company!” Plautus laughed. “Oh, the dialogue sparkles in places, I must admit; but not nearly so brightly as words may sparkle in real life. I refer, Scipio, to the dialogue you exchanged with your old enemy Ha

Scipio had already told the anecdote to Kaeso, when they met outside the theater, but he obligingly related it again. “It’s true. While I was in Ephesus, I learned that Ha

“What did you two talk about?” said Plautus.

“This and that. At one point, I asked him which general, in his opinion, was the greatest of all time.”

“A leading question!” said Plautus. “What was his reply?”

“‘Alexander,’ Ha

Plautus slapped his knee. “Outrageous! Really, I could never invent a line like that, or a character like Ha

“It’s Carthaginian flattery, don’t you see?” said Scipio. “Devious and indirect. But…I was flattered nonetheless.” He sighed. “Someday, I have no doubt, Ha

Kaeso shook his head. “There’ll never be another man big enough to take your place.”

Scipio laughed, a little sadly and a little bitterly. “Sweet words, my friend, but alas, I grow smaller every day, and the space I occupy becomes easier to fill. I feel my influence waning. The world has grown tired of me, just as the world has grown tired of Ha