the heavy purple curtain of the doorway was drawn aside to admit another comer, a man in the prime of his age, of tall commanding presence and handsome countenance. He bestowed one rapid glance upon the occupants of the room, and ere their eyes, in turn, were drawn towards him, his lips were wreathed in a bland smile.
‘The Prefect Sejanus!’ announced the slave at the door.
As the name of the most powerful man in Rome fell on the ears of the company, it banished the laughter from their lips. Following the example of their host, they pressed around the new arrival, eager to salute him. Flaccus, the elderly dandy, who was a small man, tried to strain himself, like the frog in the fable, into an individual of imposing appearance. Torquatus posed himself into a caricature of a philosopher of elevated and dignified severity. Even the nerveless Pansa elevated his tremulous eyes, and rose from his chair. But when the first greetings were over, the conversation soon fell back once more into a current of liveliness and jest, under the influence of the imperial minister’s good humour and indiscriminate affability.
‘Come, friends, it is time to get to table,’ said Apicius; ‘and for the laggards who are yet absent, let them abide by what their unpunctuality may bring them. Ha! here comes one. Caius, I cannot enter my dinner as an equal attraction to love; but yet, for once – ’
‘What is the finest feast to a man in love! Heed him not, Martialis,’ said Sejanus, grasping the hand of the newcomer. The latter, a young man of about thirty, smiled in response to a shower of badinage which followed this initiative, until a slave entered and announced the feast in readiness to be served.
‘Come, then!’ cried the host; ‘we lack one, but he is ever behind – ’tis part of his religion. Let him take the empty place when he thinks fit.’ So saying, he took Sejanus, as his most distinguished guest, by the hand, and, followed by the others, led the way to the dining apartment, where a table, blazing with an equipage of precious metal, awaited them.
It is no purpose of these pages to enter into a detailed description of the extravagance, the innumerable and curious dishes, of a Roman banquet of the first order. Antiquaries have already done so in accounts which are easily to be met with. The recital of the ingenuity, invention, and wealth lavished on a meal is extraordinary to modern measurement of luxury and extravagance. Fish, fowl, and beast were brought from the ends of the earth, in order that jaded appetites might nibble at them, or at some particular part of them, dressed by a chef of the highest art; and, in the present instance, nothing was likely to be lacking from the feast of one who won historic fame as a gourmand.
Nor was the entertainment deemed sufficient of itself, but it must be served in an apartment of splendour equal to the occasion. That of Apicius did not aspire to the novelty and outlay brought to bear on the saloon of Nero’s golden house of a few years later, which was constructed like a theatre, with scenes which changed at every course. But, for a private individual, of a period just launching fairly into degraded luxury, his dining-room was, perhaps, the most magnificent in the city.
Along with the cunning of workers in ivory and precious metals, the hand of the painter and sculptor had adorned it with the best children of their genius. In the centre of the apartment was placed the square dinner-table, which had the repute of costing the owner a fortune in itself. It was made from the roots of the citron tree, whereby the perfection of beautiful markings was obtained. It was highly polished, and the massive legs which supported it were of ivory and gold, elaborately carved at the extremities into the semblances of lions’ feet. On three sides of the table were ranged three couches of the same costly workmanship. They were spread with deeply-fringed cloth of gold and cushions to match. The latter were to assist the diners in their attitude, for the Roman reclined at full length at his meals; and, while he reached for his food with his right hand to the table, on a lower level than the couch, his left elbow and hand, aided by the cushions, supported his head and upper part of his body in a convenient lounging posture.
The knotty face of Torquatus involuntarily twisted into a grimace of delight as he and his companions stretched themselves in their places around the glittering table. The failing eyes of Pansa emitted a feeble flash as they fell on the old jars of Falernian wine of the Opimian brand, the most celebrated vintage of all, and perfectly priceless.
When all the diners were placed according to the marshalling of the slave who acted as master of ceremonies, the slippers of each guest were drawn off by their own domestics, who attended them to table. A company of musicians struck up a slow measured strain, and the professional carver of the establishment forthwith commenced to show his dexterity in dividing the dressed viands to the beat of the music. Then the diners spread their napkins of fine linen edged with gold fringe, and directing their servants to set before them whatever delicacy they fancied, they forthwith gave their utmost energy and attention to the business of the evening with a zest as critical as keen.
Torquatus gobbled and ravened like a beast of prey. The hard, protuberant muscles of his face heaved and fell, and worked, incessantly, under the skin, which soon began to shine and glisten with perspiration. Charinus, the exquisite, nibbled at the most curious and highly-seasoned delicacies, with the pampered appetite of a gourmand. The first deep draught of old Falernian restored Pansa and restrung his drooping nerves. His eyes brightened, his face lightened, and, with a smack of his lips, he reached briskly forward to the golden platter, which his slave had just placed before him. It was the custom of his countrymen to temper their wine with water; but, beyond cooling it with the snows of the Apennines, Pansa approved of no such folly, so that his slave troubled the water pitcher no more than to give an appearance of decency. As cup rapidly succeeded cup his vivacity returned and his tongue became witty. It was a marvellous restoration. The guest who in the greatest measure followed his example, though still at a considerable distance, was Caius Martialis, who occupied the place next and above his host, on the left hand, or third couch. Dissipation had placed its marks on the noble features of this young man, and he appeared to drink and talk with an increasing recklessness, and even desperation.
Whilst in the middle of the first course the last guest entered the room to make up the number of nine – three to each couch, the number of the muses. The new-comer was rather short in stature and thick-set, with squat, dark features, as though descended from negro blood. As he came into the room he glanced round with a supercilious look. Scarcely bending to his host, he bowed more markedly to Sejanus, whilst the remainder of the company he seemed to ignore utterly. The seat reserved for him was the lowest on the couch next his host – the worst at the table. He took it with a scowl, amid the ill-concealed smiles of the others. Apicius himself, after bidding him welcome, sank back on his cushions with a sigh of triumph and relief. Zoilus the millionaire, the son of a slave, the great rival of himself in the extravagance of Rome, had on a splendid silk garment, but it was only edged with gold, whereas his own was most beautifully figured and wrought with the same all over.
The enormous acquired wealth of this individual, and his ostentatious use of it, made him a very noted leader of fashion; but, while people applauded and truckled to him they scoffed aside at his innate vulgarity and arrogance. He began his dinner, at once, by asking haughtily and ill-humouredly for some unusual dish. It was at once supplied. Apicius ate calmly on, and the rest smiled and winked covertly. It was a trial of strength between the champions of luxury. The same thing happened more than once throughout the banquet; but nothing, however rare, in the range of culinary art was lacking from the plate of Zoilus that his ingenuity could suggest. The face of Apicius, though calm and stoical, covered a heart devoured by anxiety. A slight defection of his cook, a slight oversight in the study of their records, a trifling mistake or misadventure in the combination of their ingredients, might have opened the way for his rival’s adverse, if courteous criticism. But everything was perfect. The household, from its officers downwards, had surpassed itself. The result was the perfection of culinary and decorative art, combined with the utmost variety and rarity. Praises flew from lip to lip. Some were fired into ecstasies of admiration and wonder; pleasure sat on every countenance, except that of Zoilus. He had remained silent for full a quarter of an hour. His ingenuity was exhausted, and his enemy’s armour unpierced. It was the culminating point of the complete pre-eminence of Apicius. He gave a sign, and the butler, with much solemnity and ceremony, set a magnificent dish on the table with his own hands, amid a flourish of the musicians.
The guests