In due time and without hindrance, or accident, I reached the outer gate of my friend's villa.
The gate was opened by Cœlia, whose husband is promoted to the place of porter. Her face shone as she saw me, and she hastened to assure me that all were well at the house, holding up at the same moment a curly-headed boy for me to admire, whom, with a blush and a faltering tongue, she called Lucius. I told her I was pleased with the name, for it was a good one, and he should not suffer for bearing it, if I could help it. Milo thought it unlucky enough that it should be named after a Christian, and I am certain has taken occasion to remonstrate with its mother on the subject; but, as you may suppose, did not succeed in infusing his own terrors.
I was first met by Lucilia, who received me with her usual heartiness. Marcus was out on some remote part of the estate, overseeing his slaves. In a few moments, by the assiduous Lucilia and her attendants, I was brushed and washed and set down to a table—though it was so few hours since I had left Rome—covered with bread, honey, butter and olives, a cold capon with salads, and wine such as the cellars of Marcus alone can furnish. As the only way in which to keep the good opinion of Lucilia is to eat, I ate of all that was on the table, she assuring me that everything was from their own grounds—the butter made by her own hands—and that I might search Rome in vain for better. This I readily admitted. Indeed no butter is like hers—so yellow and so hard—nor bread so light, and so white. Even her honey is more delicious than what I find elsewhere, the bees knowing by instinct who they are working for; and the poultry is fatter and tenderer, the hens being careful never to over-fatigue themselves, and the peacocks and the geese not to exhaust themselves in screaming and cackling. All nature, alive and dead, takes upon itself a trimmer and more perfect seeming within her influences.
I had sat thus gossipping with Lucilia, enjoying the balmy breezes of a warm autumn day, as they drew through the great hall of the house, when, preceded by the bounding Gallus, the master of the house entered in field dress of broad sun-hat, open neck, close coat depending to the knees, and boots that brought home with them the spoils of many a well-ploughed field.
'Well, sir Christian,' he cried, 'I joy to see thee, although thus recreant. But how is it that thou lookest as ever before? Are not these vanities of silk, and gold, and fine clothes, renounced by those of the new religion? Your appearance says nay, and, by Jupiter! wine has been drunk already! Nay, nay, Lucilia, it was hardly a pagan act to tempt our strict friend with that Falernian.'
'Falernian is it?'
'Yes, of the vintage of the fourth of Gallienus. Delicious, was it not? But by and by thou shalt taste something better than that—as much better as that is than anything of the same name thou didst ever raise to thy lips at the table of Aurelian. Piso! never was a face more welcome! Not a soul has looked in upon us for days and days. Not, Lucilia, since the Kalends, when young Flaccus, with a boat-load of roysterers, dropt down the river. But why comes not Julia too? She could not leave the games and theatres, hah?'
'Marcus,' said Lucilia, 'you forget it was the princess who first seduced Lucius. But for that eastern voyage for the Persian Calpurnius, Piso would have been still, I dare say, what his parents made him. Let us not yet however stir this topic; but first of all, Lucius, give us the city news. How went the dedication? we have heard strange tales.'
'How went it by report?' I asked.