Free Hero of Rome by Douglas Jackson

because membership of the ordo didn’t come cheap, as Falco explained in his dry monotone.
    ‘It has its compensations: prestige, which counts for little unless you are a certain type; access and patronage, which counts for more, particularly when that patronage comes from the Senate. We have our say upon who gets what contract, which buildings must be demolished and which must stay; we adjudicate in land and water disputes, all of which can be lucrative and creates a bank of favours which will one day be returned. But the cost …’
    ‘Yet not so onerous as election to the augustales ,’ Petronius interrupted from Valerius’s left.
    ‘Easy for you to say, since a quaestor is above such lowly appointments,’ Falco huffed. ‘No payments to the treasury or public munificence from you, eh, Petronius?’
    ‘ Augustales? ’ Valerius enquired. The title was new to him. A slave brought wine in a silver cup and he accepted it, vowing only to sip, watered or not. The ripe, fruity scent reached his nostrils. No vinegar here. This was as good as anything that would be served at his father’s table.
    ‘The priests of the temple, those who officiate in the annual ceremonies central to the cult of Divine Claudius,’ Petronius continued airily, taking a deep draught from his cup. ‘It is a great honour … if you are a certain type.’ Valerius noted the repeat of Falco’s pointed phrase of a few moments earlier. ‘However, it also carries great responsibilities.’
    Valerius knew that in Rome to be elected to the priesthood of one of the great temples – Jupiter Capitolinus or Mars Ultor – brought with it substantial power and that such an appointment was only open to the knightly classes. ‘Yet even at a price, it must be greatly sought after by the members of your council,’ he said.
    Petronius laughed, but Valerius felt Falco shift uneasily behind him. ‘No Roman citizen would be foolish enough to accept it. We leave that honour to the Brittunculi.’ Falco drew breath and the conversation in the room went quiet. Valerius saw the smile freeze on Lucullus’s face, but Petronius carried on as if nothing had changed. ‘For them, it is as close as they will ever come to being a Roman. Ah, at last. The food.’
    Valerius watched as the dishes were set on the table. In Rome, a banquet like this would be an opportunity to show a flair for the exotic; peacocks still in their livery, swans artfully displayed to seem almost alive. But this was wholesome, rustic fare. Sizzling cuts of beef, venison and suckling pig. Duck, pigeon and partridge, and birds smaller still which looked like particularly plump sparrows. A great fish, probably from the river below, and oysters and crabs from the coast, which he knew to be just a few miles downstream. He set to with a will. Army rations could always be supplemented, but somehow they were still army rations. It had been many months since he’d sat down to such a feast. His companions, too, ate greedily; all except Lucullus, who nibbled at the food, still wearing his fixed smile.
    Petronius raised his cup theatrically. ‘Your health, sir. Would that we supped like this every day. No toast required with this wine.’ The comment provoked a burst of laughter. Toasted bread was often crumbled into inferior wines to disguise the bitter taste.
    He saw Valerius’s look of surprise. ‘Oh, yes.’ He lowered his voice so the young tribune had to lean towards him to hear his next words. ‘Lucullus, our British friend, is responsible for everything you see around you. Food and drink, the couch you lie on and even the upkeep of the building. He is a fine fellow. A friend of Rome and an augustalis . He cannot be a member of the ordo because although he has chosen a Roman name he is not a Roman citizen, nor ever will be. But as one of the priests of the temple he enjoys great honour among certain of his people and even influence in the Roman community.’
    ‘He must be a very fortunate