Free SPQR III: the sacrilege by John Maddox Roberts

when only a single service was owned by the entire Senate, and it was passed from one member to another when foreign ambassadors were to be entertained." Cato always talked as if there were something special about being a small, poor city-state. The world was full of such places, and he never seemed to admire any of them.
    "I think it entirely fitting and perfectly Roman," said Lucullus. "Thracian chieftains drink wine from the skulls of their enemies. Why should we not dine off the statue of an enemy of Rome?"
    "Utter sophistry!" Cato protested. The conversation turned to other things; Cato was too easy a target. About this time a group of women of the household entered and took chairs at the tables. At least they didn't join the men on the couches. That would have sent Cato into an apoplectic fit. One of these, a woman about my age who wore a peach-colored gown, was extraordinarily beautiful. She was as white-blond as a German, but her features were unmistakably Roman, and of the upper classes. Milo, who lay on my right, leaned toward me.
    "Who is the blond goddess?" He did not say this sarcastically. He had the stunned look of a man smitten. I turned to the man on my left, an old Senator who was a regular in Lucullus's circle, and asked him.
    "The lady Fausta," he answered. I turned back to Milo.
    "Tough luck, Titus. It's Fausta, Sulla's daughter."
    "What is wrong with that?" Milo asked. "I want you to introduce me to her." His eyes had a gleam I could only interpret as unhealthy.
    "In the first place, I don't know her. In the second, she's a Cornelian, and the gods need permission to call on that family."
    He gripped my shoulder and I stifled a scream. Milo had hands that could crush bone. He relented a little and leaned close.
    "Introduce me. You are a Metellan, and even a Cornelian will listen to somebody named Caecilius Metellus."
    "I'll do it!" I said. To my utterable relief, his hand left my shoulder. I studied the woman. She was something of an enigma in Rome, famous but rarely seen. She and her brother, Faustus, were twins, a portentous enough circumstance without being the children of the godlike Sulla. At his death, Sulla had entrusted their care to his friend Lucullus. Faustus had joined Pompey in Asia and distinguished himself in the wars there. Fausta had remained with Lucullus and for some reason had never married. The twins received their unusual names from their father, in honor of his legendary good fortune. He paid for it at the end, though. He died in terrible, lingering agony of a nameless cancer. The last year of his life must have made him wish he'd not lived the first fifty-nine.
    When the luncheon was over, the guests wandered around admiring the grounds, where you almost expected to see naked nymphs burst from the shrubbery, closely pursued by ithyphallic satyrs. Had satyrs not been in such short supply, doubtless Lucullus would have had them.
    We found Fausta clipping winter roses in a canopied arbor. She wielded the clippers while a little slave girl held up her skirts to collect them. I walked up to her and made the expected obeisance.
    "Lady Fausta, I've not had the honor of your acquaintance. I am Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, recently returned to Rome from a sojourn in Gaul."
    She spared me the slightest of glances, and her eyes flickered to Milo. "Charmed. And who is your friend?"
    I was a bit put out. Granted, Milo was enormous and handsome as a god, but I was certainly better born.
    "Allow me to present Titus Annius Milo Papianus, a-- just what are you, Milo?" I couldn't very well introduce him as my friend, Milo the gangster, although that was exactly what he was.
    Milo took her hand. "I am the man who is going to rule Rome, as your father did, my lady."
    She smiled up at him. "Wonderful. Men of ordinary ambition are so common."
    "I believe we are related," I said. "Wasn't your mother a Caecilia Metella?"
    "How long have you been in Rome, Titus Annius?" she asked, utterly ignoring