Page 18 of Brother at Arms

When we reached the Horrea Agrippina, we found an altercation in progress.

A largish man was trying to push his way into one section of the giant warehouse while three Praetorian guards strove to prevent him.

“It is mine,” the large man shouted. “You can’t keep me out.”

The three guards apparently believed they could.

“I am Marcus Flavinus Mena,” the man insisted. “That is my property in there. I want it.”

One Praetorian pinned him with a stern gaze. “It has been confiscated. Suspected smuggled goods.”

“Smuggled?” Mena jerked in shock. “What are you talking about? I imported those silks legally. Who told you it was smuggled?”

“Lucius Anneaus Seneca.”

Mena’s eyes widened until they bulged. “Seneca? Jupiter’s balls, that scheming conniving …”

He broke off as the Praetorian gave him a shove. “Out. Take it up with Seneca.”

Mena’s sandals slipped in the dust, and he started to fall. I put out quick hands to steady him, keeping him to his feet.

Mena swung to me, whatever he intended to snarl dying on his lips.

“Leonidas the Gladiator?” he asked, stunned. “Minerva, what a day this is. Barred from my own warehouse because of that double-dealing snake, Seneca, and kept from falling on my arse by the most famous gladiator in Rome.” He looked me up and down. “I thank you, dear fellow. Come with me, and I’ll stand you a cup of wine, maybe give you a coin for your trouble.”

“No need,” I began, but I felt a poke in my ribs.

Cassia stood silently at my side, her cloak hiding most of her face. Her nudge had been swift as well as hard, yet no one had caught it but me.

I sent Mena an arrogant stare, as a gladiator would, and said grudgingly, “Fine.”

A popina across the road was emptying as people went to the baths, but Mena began to trudge around the base of the Palatine.

A few domii dotted the lower slopes of this hill, but since the time of Augustus, the top of the Palatine had been taken over by the princeps and his family. The patricians who’d called the Palatine home during the Republic had been gradually forced to move to other hills or out of the city altogether.

Some of the older families had managed to hold on to homes that lined the lower Palatine. The houses themselves were nearly hidden from the streets by rows of shops built right into the front wall of each domus. Patricians long ago had realized that they could bring in income by renting out the long facade of their homes to shopkeepers and tavern landlords.

Mena led us to a popina of one of these domii, whose interior was far cleaner than the one I usually frequented. The landlord gave Mena a respectful nod and had wine on the table the moment we sat down.

Cassia disappeared. While slaves were not barred from popinae, Mena would be startled by her presence or at least disapproving. Cassia would take this chance to shop or seek some interesting gossip, which I’d learn about later.

The wine placed in front of me proved to be palatable. I sipped it in stony silence, which I’d learned made people open up to me more than my questions.

Mena stretched out his swollen feet and sighed heavily. “I ought to have known better than to trust a Stoic philosopher and playwright. Well, I have paid the price.”

Seneca, who’d gained fame from his writings, had once been Nero’s tutor. I knew little about him, except what Mena had just mentioned.

“You’ve seen his plays,” Mena said in disgust. “He goes on and on about living morally, yet he owns properties all over Rome and gouges people foolish enough to take loans from him. He rants about women wearing diaphanous silk yet readily went in with me on a scheme to import it from wherever it comes from.” Mena waved a hand and drank deeply of his wine.

“He is not usually a silk trader?” I asked.

“No, he pretends to sneer at it, saying we can’t trust goods that arrive from lands that lay who knows where. But how many peppers and spices do we bring from the sea beyond Egypt, to flavor the food our Seneca consumes by the bucketful? He is twice my girth, and I am not a slim man.” Mena patted his ample stomach.

I took another sip of wine. “How can he keep your shipment for himself?”

Mena sighed. “Because I was foolish enough to get into debt with him. Seneca lent me the money to buy this house and also for the silk venture. His interest is exorbitant, and I’ll be paying it to him long after my domus falls into ruin.” He gestured to the softly painted walls of the popina, which lacked the graffiti and erotic drawings usual in these places.

“You own this?” I asked.