Jack Stein

Professor Oakes

Lit 106

March 23, 2013

Life in the Late Republic: The Tale of Marcus Afranius

The sun had not even pierced the horizon before Marcus rose

out of bed (Spaeth 91). Already in his twenty-fifth year, he had

become a force in the market for linens and togas. Every citizen

in Rome who owned the latter knew him. Despite his wealth and

recognition, interestingly, Marcus had not taken a wife yet. His

father had never found him the proper match before he had died,

and the matter had seemingly passed with him (“Matrimonium”).

Anyways, Marcus seemed more interested in business than marriage,

but this year, 72 B.C. to be exact, was bad for the toga

industry. Moreover, his friends and business partners had started

gossiping about him behind his back about his lack of a partner.

His life was incredibly different from the contemporary

businessman’s in terms of routine and actions, but many of the

driving forces behind his modus operandi are the same. Today he

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would rectify his issues by seeing some of the most powerful,

wealthy men in the Republic.

Placing both hands on his throbbing head, he tried to

remember how much Spanish wine he drank at the tavern the

previous night (Beard). Rubbing his eyes, he looked around the

room, squinting to find a candle. “Where is it?” he asked himself

as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. His knew Galla would

know their location.

“Galla! By the Gods, Galla, where are you?” His patience

quickly wore thin from his pounding headache and the urgency of

his task. “If you are not up here with a candle, I will make you

wish Marius and his legions had killed you in Numidia”

(Goldsworthy 135). Marcus heard a plate fall to the floor and

crack into a thousand pieces. “If that was you, Galla, you might

as well just walk over to the auctioneer’s stall, and ask to be

sold to an iron mine!” That would strike fear into him, Marcus

thought with a cruel smile. Every slave knew that working for the

Roman state in one of the mines amounted to a death sentence

because of the ill treatment that they suffered (“Roman

Slavery”).

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He’s going to beat me for sure, Galla thought to himself as he made

his way upstairs. Marcus treated his slaves with the same

physical abuse that was common throughout the Roman world. If a

slave did not perform a task correctly, or simply earned their

master’s ire, they could be mistreated in any way (Hopkins 7).

Before he reached the apex of the stairs, he remembered the

candles. “Master, they’re in the cabinet by your bed!”

Marcus’s ears picked up the stamping on the stairs; he

continued to ruminate on the ineptitude of his slaves though.

They made good fighters, sure—Galla and his cook, Aelus, were

captured during the Jugurthine War in North Africa twenty years

ago—but not much else (Goldsworthy 135). His father had given

them to him four years ago after Marcus had moved out.

“Are you coming in? I don’t have all day.” Marcus wondered,

almost aloud, why his household was composed of hairy, stupid

barbarians instead of eloquent, disciplined Greeks. The only

Easterner he owned, Akakios, was a clumsy former teacher now

turned secretary. Marcus, like every other Roman, was a racist

who found those from the North and South to be hairy barbarians,

and those from the East to be effeminate eunuchs (“Roman

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Slavery”). If only I had outbid that damned Ostian fish merchant for the two men

from Armenia, he thought to himself. The city’s slave markets were

swelled by the recent successes of Pompey the Great in the Third

Mithridatic War. Eastern slaves were so abundant, they cost as

much as a day’s worth of bread (Goldsworthy 201).

Maybe I’ll go buy another one today at the market, Marcus thought. He

could get one cheaply this time around because of the recent

surplus. Slaves were considered nothing more than a commodity in

the Classical world. True, his purchase would probably be some

poor peasant pressganged into service by some Eastern noble, but

he may get lucky and find a former magistrate’s assistant. His

train of thought was broken by a light knock at the door.

“Enter,” Marcus said, massaging his temple as the weariness from

last night’s revelry began to catch up with him.

The door opened slowly. As he looked up, he saw the

Numidian’s slender frame saunter into his bedroom. The scars

around his neck and arms showed that he had been in bondage for

years. A long cut across his face came from a well-played sword

strike during the last years of King Jugurtha’s rebellion.

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“Well?” Marcus asked, waiting for an insufficient reply from the

confused man before him.

“Good morning, master. I apologize for not waking you

sooner. Aelus and I were preparing breakfast and wished to know—“

Galla paused. He saw that further explanation would just elicit a

greater negative reaction than the one he would probably receive.

His master was in no mood to hear what the morning menu had to

offer. It consisted of the same thing everyday: bread, water, and

oil (Spaeth 92). I should’ve died with my brothers in the deserts of North Africa,

Galla thought to himself. Why doesn’t he just make good on his promises to

sell me off. Marcus always seemed like a depressed bore to the

slave. An unmarried man whose sole focus was gold and silver.

What an awful way to live, I wonder if he knows how his “friends” make fun of him

behind his back. They always commented on his lack of a wife, and how

peculiar it was. Every Roman man should be married by the time

they reached Marcus’s age; it was the socially correct thing to

do (Giovanni). Galla couldn’t help but furrow his brow at these

thoughts.

“Light some candles, and bring bread and water,” Marcus said

groggily (Spaeth 91). “Also, bring me a fresh tunic and toga. I

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need to look my best for today.” Marcus already knew that he was

running late. The first rays of the sun were quickly breaking

through the darkness of the horizon. He realized that his own

clients would be calling on him soon: beggars and poor citizens

whom he owed favors. He cracked a cruel smile, soon enough they

would owe him service; he would tell them to vote for Deterius,

that’s all he ever asked during election years (Spaeth 92). Then

Marcus thought of his own patron, Flavius Marcellus Nerva, the

current censor of the Senate. Marcus bit his lip, realizing he

would owe his patron the same favor he would be calling on his

own clients to fulfill. His thoughts soon returned to his

schedule.

Despite being an excellent merchant, his business in selling

linens had fallen on hard times. The linen trade had been

disrupted by Pompey’s campaign in the region, raising prices on

nearly every good from the East. This would be the first time in

his life that he would require a loan for conducting business. He

lacked the necessary funds to transport all of his linen and flax

from Egypt to the spinners in Greece, and from there, to Rome.

Marcus remembered Galla was still in the room. He looked over at

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his slave who was fishing for the garments he had ordered

prepared. There was still no food on the table. Marcus became

even more irritated. “How long have I owned you, Galla?”

Galla responded predictably, “About four years my master.”

Marcus got up from the bed and approached the slave. Shrinking as

his master approached, Galla busied himself nonchalantly looking

for a toga. Throwing aside different articles of clothing, he

finally found one. Quickly grabbing it, he turned around to see

Marcus face to face with him.

“And in those four years, has our daily routine ever, if

rarely, changed?” Marcus did not give the slave a chance to

answer. He slapped Galla across his face (Hopkins 7). Galla fell

back towards the wall, but did not fall, nor did he drop the

tunic. His only response was a meek, “My apologies master.”

Marcus could waste no more time. Looking over at the window, he

saw that the sun was starting to illuminate the morning sky.

“Don’t let it happen again, or the beating shall be twice as

rough. Now help me get this on,” Marcus ordered.

The woolen tunica, a long shirt worn as an under-garment

that came down to the knees or ankles, fit snugly against his

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body. Galla helped him put on the toga. Squeezing a piece of

cloth under the right arm, he made sure that half remained behind

him, and half in front (Vout 205). Galla helped to fold the back

part over his left shoulder, and then took the front part, and

performed the same action to the same shoulder (Vout 206).

Securing it in place with a silver brooch with a piece of smooth

amethyst on it, a ostentatious show of wealth, Marcus checked to

make sure the narrow stripe of his tunic was visible on his right

shoulder. If this strip didn’t show, how would people know he was

a wealthy eques instead of a regular citizen (Giovanni)? Seeing

that everything was in place, he put on his family’s golden

signet ring, a privilege only accorded to his class (Giovanni)”.

The light seemed to dance off of the wolf’s head that marked him

out as a member of the Afranius family. Turning to Galla, he gave

the slave a halfhearted expression of gratitude and hurried

downstairs. Already, there was a commotion at his front door.

Entering his atrium, the wide entranceway to his home,

Marcus looked around the room for Akakios and Aelus. Soon enough,

both appeared from the dining room. Akakios seemed overburdened

by the several scrolls of paper and wax tablets he carried, while

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Aelus looked as groggy as his master. Handing him a plate with

some bread and a cup of water, Marcus chewed the food quickly,

and washed it down in haste. Akakios, as always, was babbling

about some client or account. Dismissing Aelus with a wave of the

hand, the cook went off to busy himself, and Marcus turned to his

secretary. The Greek’s hands were stained with ink and wax. His

frail form denoted an intellectual purpose rather than a physical

one. Despite his clumsiness, he was essential to Marcus as his

personal aide. “Who calls on me today?” Akakios instantly fell

silent, and then began to rattle off names.

“Julius the baker asks for a toga for his son when he comes

of age next week. Also, Marcellus, one of your linen hawkers,

begs that you loan him some money for a lawyer (Mierow 596). He

did not say what he had done, but there is a rumor that says he

struck a citizen he was bartering with. There are about a dozen

others wishing for grants of food and money, mostly ex-slaves and

newcomers to the city (Spaeth 92).” Akakios looked at his tired

master. Marcus gave him an extremely annoyed look, one that

begged the question “why hasn’t this been dealt with already?”

Sensing this, Akakios answered that the newer clientele were

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given the pittance of food and coin they wanted. The poor were

hungry, and sometimes the best way to get a meal was to become

someone’s client. In return for the gifts, they were usually made

to do something menial for their patron.

Marcus asked the same question he always asked the over-

encumbered Easterner: “Did you tell them to vote for Lucius

Marcellus Deterius in the next tribune elections?” The tribunes

were important administrators in the Republic who were directly

elected by the people. Each of the ten members possessed a veto

that could be used on legislation found not to be in the public’s

interest. As such, it was a particularly powerful position to

hold.

Akakios nodded his head in affirmation. “Excellent,” Marcus

said under his breath. By the time elections were called for next

year, Deterius would definitely win. Moreover, he could use this

to gain more leverage with Nerva when asking for the loan.

Remembering the other two men, Marcus called for Galla again. The

slave, not wanting another disciplinary reminder, showed up

immediately. “Take the baker to the warehouse today, and let him

select any toga he wishes for his son. Carry it for him back to

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his shop, and after that, make sure he tells every citizen who

buys his bread to vote for Deterius. Also, he owes us three-dozen

loaves of bread. I want you to personally make sure several of

those reach the house today. Do you understand?” The slave gave a

slow nod, and vanished out the door. Moving towards the door, he

asked Marcellus to come in.

“Good to see you, Marcellus, how is your shop doing?” The

stout, balding man looked around at the opulent interior of

Marcus’s home before answering. The first thing he noticed was

the frescoes on the wall that depicted different gods and

goddesses in battle. Tables pushed up against the wall held an

assortment of silver and glass vases as well as some amphora

(large jugs usually filled with wine or spices). The wealth of

the equites was truly enviable (Giovanni). Looking back at his

well-clad patron, Marcellus remembered the question. “It goes

well sir, our profits were up last month with the start of

winter. Citizens can’t seem to get enough of our heavy wool

products.” He hoped the answer would soften the coming rebuke.

“There was some trouble, though, with a customer who pulled a

knife on me when a sale turned sour. I caught him trying to pay

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with several counterfeit coins.” For once in this long morning,

Marcus seemed interested. He had a special place in his heart

reserved for violence towards thieves, as did many Romans

(Johnson 167). He couldn’t recall the last time he had seen

combat between a pair of fighters in months.

“They should throw that miscreant into the Tiber or make him

fight in the arena,” Marcus declared with a smile. Marcellus did

not share his enthusiasm. Taking note of the lack of enthusiasm

on Marcellus’s face, the patron asked: “Why then, are you being

sued for assault?” Marcellus looked around again, not sure how to

answer.

Sweating, Marcellus stammered out that he was being accused

of acting in a way wholly unprofessional for a Roman merchant. He

went on to describe how the man wished to be compensated for his

injuries, several large bruises and cuts. As the portly man

continued to speak, Marcus’s anger started to boil. Get to the point

already, Marcus kept thinking to himself. Finally, after several

minutes of complaints and half-truths, Marcellus finally asked

for one favor. “Sir, would you please loan me three hundred

denarii to hire a lawyer?” Marcus did not look pleased, that was

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a year’s worth of salaries for a common day laborer; in other

words, money Marcus didn’t have. His mouth tightened a bit, and

his brow furrowed.

Marcus rubbed his head again. “Fine, I’ll give you the

money, but for this, you will be transferred to the market on the

Aventine Hill. If I catch word of you fighting with another

citizen again, you will never hold another job with me. Do you

understand?” The clearly frightened hawker bobbed his up and down

quickly, his face red with embarrassment and fear. Everyone knew

the Aventine as one of the seedier parts of the city, one rife

with foreigners and the poor (“The Aventine”). “Akakios, write

down our agreement and prepare it for signature. Are there any

citizens outside to bear witness to this contract?” The secretary

looked up from the piece of papyrus he scribbled on. Saying yes

to both, he went over to the door and called in one of the last

clients waiting to be met.

“Your patron asks that you bear witness to the following

contract in exchange for two denarii. Do you agree?” The man

nodded in affirmation. Reaching for a red candlestick, the

Eastern slave melted several large drops onto the papyrus beneath

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the writing. Marcus took his ring and firmly pressed it into the

warm liquid (“Roman Law”). As he removed it, the face of the wolf

could be seen almost perfectly. Marcellus followed suit, but

since he lacked the wealth of an eques, simply signed his name.

The poor client did the same thing, and then was shown out after

receiving the two days worth of pay (“Roman Law”). “Now that our

business is concluded, Marcellus,” Marcus tried his best to hold

back his contempt for the man who was costing him a small

fortune, “I must go and call on my own friends.” With that,

Marcellus was shown the door by Akakios, and Marcus departed for

Nerva’s home.

Making his way through the streets of the Capitoline, Marcus

could not help but be jealous of the large villas that the richer

patricians and senators owned. Some had lines of men stretching a

hundred feet back looking for money, food, work, etc. from their

patrons. Rounding the corner of the street with Akakios, Marcus

silently thanked the gods that he could go to the front of these

crowds because of his status in society. As he continued on his

path, he saw the distinctive markings of Nerva’s home. The walls

of the villa were emblazoned with frescoes of Apollo bringing

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light to the city. Nerva was a stern, calculating man, perfect

for the role of acting as Rome’s morale arbiter as well as a

financier for his friends (“Censor”).

Outside of his villa, several imposing slaves stood guard

outside of his home while a group of men clad in dirty, soiled

togas and tunics kept their distance. Making his way past these

lower class plebians, Marcus presented himself to an older Greek

slave who recognized him almost instantly. “My master has been

expecting you, please follow me.” Marcus did as he was told while

the men behind him shouted out curses for his cutting the line.

Standing in the hall with his much younger wife, Lucilla, Nerva

looked older than his forty-seven years. Catching sight of

Marcus, Nerva came over with his wife to greet him.

“If it isn’t my favorite eques, Marcus Aemillius Afranius.

You are late, it would seem. I was expecting you before the sun

rose over the city walls, please don’t let it happen again…

You’re a good man Marcus, but everyone knows a good Roman must be

punctual.” Marcus tried to hold back a biting retort, knowing

that his future as a businessman relied on this meeting.

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“You are right of course, censor.” Nerva beamed when he

mentioned his title. These rich men are such disgusting contradictions,

Marcus thought to himself.

“Have you met my new, young wife, Lucilla? She’s my new

muse.” Marcus looked over the young bride. She was beautiful, but

this betrayed the censor’s plans of using her for nothing more

than children, it seemed (“Matrimonium”). I wonder which family gave

this pretty bird over to him in exchange for an alliance (“Matrimonium”). Rome

was known for such terms in the political dealings of the Senate.

Nerva leaned closer to Marcus and said, “You should get a

wife soon. Certain friends are beginning to talk. It’s simply

unnatural for a man of your age to be without a wife”

(“Matrimonium”). Marcus tried his best to contain a look of shock

and disgust. Holding back his anger by reminding himself of the

task at hand, he smoothly said, “You’re wife is extremely

beautiful, but if we could, I’d like to discuss getting a loan

from you for the purchase and transportation of linens, one that

amounts to about 4,000 denarii. I can pay you back by this time

next year with interest.” Marcus tried to scan his patron’s face.

Nerva’s brow furrowed a bit, then relaxed.

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“That is a heavy sum, my friend, but I believe I can do

that. When last I took the census, your wealth amounted to well

over 26,000 denarii. That is more than enough for you to remain

part of your class (Giovanni). Yes, yes… I will make this loan to

you.” He tapped his chin, deep in thought. “In return, Marcus, I

want 10% interest as well as thirty of your best togas at a

severely lowered price.” The client looked at his patron with

both thanks and anguish. The interest is fine, but by the gods, thirty togas! At

least he’ll be paying me something for them. “But censor Nerva, please

remember all of the work I’ve done to get Deterius elected.

Thousands of voters will line up for him when next year’s

elections occur,” Marcus said in the hopes that this would get

him a better deal.

“That is true, word is you’ve been campaigning quite

handily. Hmmm… fine, I wont include the togas.”

“Deal,” Marcus declared beaming.

After Nerva’s secretary slave, a former Armenian magistrate

who was born for the task, brought out the papyrus, both men

placed their signet rings in the hot wax to conclude the deal

(“Roman Law). After many goodbyes and vows of friendship, Marcus

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exited the large villa and headed to the forum, knowing that he

could move on to the next stage of his plan.

The sun was nearing its apex in the sky. All around him, the

city was in the throes of morning. Men opened their shops, the

poor looked for a day’s work, and slaves hustled about on errands

for their masters. Earth’s greatest city had woken up. The Forum,

a huge rectangular plaza that was surrounded by all of the

important government buildings and temples, was being filled

slowly as the sun crept up into the sky (Spaeth 93). On the steps

of the Senate, Marcus saw different politicians making secret

deals and exchanging tenuous vows of friendship. On the rostra,

the raised speaking platform at the opposite end, different

citizens were making speeches to anyone who would listen (Spaeth

93). Marcus couldn’t care less for their propaganda or their

proselytizing. He was in search of two brothers he barely knew,

but who would help save his business.

Akakios assisted his master in finding them. Their message

stated that they would be close to the Temple of the Vestal

Virgins, one of the holiest sites in the city. The priestesses

who ruled over that cult possessed the sacred duty of never

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letting their fire, which symbolized the hearth of Rome, from

going out (“Vestal Virgins”). Upon entering its vicinity, Akakios

pointed to two well-clad individuals with strikingly similar

features. The secretary recognized them instantly as the men they

were looking for. “Master, the man on the left is Antoninas

Lucius Galtrax, and the man on the right is his younger brother

Quintus Lucius Galtrax. The former is the primary operator. You

should address him first. Oh, and they are both equites like you,

notice their rings and togas” (Giovanni). Akakios was proud that

he could do his duty. If a secretary couldn’t name his master’s

acquaintances, what good was he?

Marcus shot the slave a quieting look as they approached the

two men. Antoninas immediately noticed them and waved. Marcus

smiled back at them, realizing that courtesy was the best

strategy. “Antoninas and Quintus, my old friends. I assume you

received my letter about the shipping I required?” The brothers

nodded simultaneously.

Quintus spoke first: “We did, and we appreciate the terms of

the agreement. The amount you agreed to pay will certainly cover

any costs. Our ships will leave tomorrow for Alexandria.”

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Antoninas interjected, “We would appreciate though if you

offered us a bit more to cement our new alliance.”

Marcus grew tired of making deals and having to change them

constantly. He thought quickly and responded, “What if I give you

ten of my best togas?” The brothers looked at one another and

nodded in agreement.

“Thank you Marcus. We expect the money and the togas soon.

Good doing business with you.”

Marcus was not done. “Excuse me, but before we depart, may I

ask how your sister, Drusa, is doing?”

“Fine, why?” Quintus responded. His eyes betrayed his

suspicions.

“I was only thinking that, since she has come of age, that

maybe it was time for her to get married. Seeing that there are

very few suitors in the city with the same financial security and

prospects as mine, I propose that Drusa becomes my wife”

(“Matrimonium”).

Both brothers’ jaws dropped. Antoninas looked amused at the

prospect, while Quintus seemed annoyed. “Though the prospect of

our two families becoming one is an interesting idea, we do not

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think it is proper for us to speak about this at this junction.

That is not to say that we won’t consider it though.”

Quintus looked at Antoninas in horror. “But brother, Drusa

is barely fifteen, shouldn’t we wait—.”

Antoninas cut him off. “I am the eldest brother and heir to

our father’s house. I am now Drusa’s protector, and I feel that

Marcus would make a good husband. He is a very trustworthy man

who could give her a good life. I told him we will discuss it

later and we shall” (“Matrimonium”). Pausing for a moment to

regain his composure, “May we just sign the papers now, and talk

about this on the morrow at our home? Quintus seems tired, and it

is almost time for siesta.”

“Of course. I cannot wait to see you tomorrow. Please bring

along your sister so that we may make each other’s

acquaintanceship.” Motioning over to his slave, Akakios fumbled

with a piece of papyrus he was holding, but finally managed to

write down the terms of the agreement for the shipping. All three

applied their rings to the hot wax, and Akakios stowed it away

after it had dried. “Goodbye, my friends.” Now that fool Nerva and his

friends can shut his mouth about my lack of a wife, Marcus thought while

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smiling. He had grown tired of the constant gossip. Now he could

ensure the family line; it also helped that Drusa was a pretty

catch ((Matrimonium”).

Back at his house, Marcus strolled through his garden, an

essential piece of any upper class Roman’s home (“Roman Houses”).

The sun was already at midday, and he was incredibly tired; his

lunch of bread, olives, cheese, and fruit weighed him down

considerably (“Daily Life”). Finding a couch by the large peach

tree in the garden, Marcus laid down to nap for about three

hours. The siesta provided him with some much-needed rest after

his long, stressful morning (“Daily Life”). All across Rome,

wealthy and middle class men would be engaging in the same

exercise (“Daily Life”). A silence enveloped the city for a time

as almost all work stopped. His slaves knew to wake him later in

the afternoon so that he could go to the bathhouse. Resting his

head on a pillow, Marcus thought about his business and the deals

he had just made. Soon enough though, he fell into a deep sleep.

Galla interrupted Marcus’s dreams with light shake. Getting

up, he looked at the sun to gauge what time it was. The sun

appeared to be approaching a late afternoon hour. Perfect, Marcus

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said to himself, as he and Galla walked back into the house to

prepare for the baths. Galla grabbed several towels, a strigil (a

hooked metal tool used to scrape off dirt and bathing oil), and

some oil (“Roman Baths”). Telling Akakios and Aelus to have

dinner prepared for him by the time he returned, he and Galla set

off together as they did everyday. Going to the baths for Marcus,

as well as every other Roman, was a daily affair meant to ease

one into the evening. Wealthier citizens would bring their slaves

along to guard their clothing, as well as act as attendants.

Making their way down the streets of Rome, Marcus couldn’t

help but notice all those stirring from their siestas. Many wore

tired expressions while others looked revitalized. Slowly, the

duo wound through the city until they finally reached their

destination. Upon entering the spacious and open atrium, Marcus

paid the balneator, the bath’s manager, a few quadrans (the

lowest denomination of Roman money) (“Roman Baths”). Handing

Galla his toga, Marcus made his way into the open Atrium, and

began jogging around the court. Having built up quite a sweat

from this, he concluded by doing several stretches (“Roman

Baths”). Moving into the apodyterium, a locker room like area for

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undressing, Marcus handed Galla his tunic and sandals, and walked

into the caldarium. The caldarium was the hottest bath in the

complex, meant to open up the pores for the later scrubbing

(“Roman Baths). Slowly sinking beneath the water, Marcus felt his

muscles clench, and then immediately relax (“Roman Baths”).

Spotting several friends socializing, Marcus waded over to them

and began socializing. He told them about his day, and they about

theirs. Socializing at the baths was considered a must in Roman

society (Spaeth 94).

Although he enjoyed the heat of the water and the light

discussion amongst friends, the heat was beginning to grow

uncomfortable. Heading back to the apodyterium, he called on

Galla, who came with the strigil and oil. His master laid down on

one of the open stone tables, while Galla applied the oil to his

back (Spaeth 94). The perfumed liquid smelled of lilac, but

nothing could beat the feel of the strigil across his back as

Galla wiped it off. Turning over, Galla did the same thing to his

chest and abdomen. As Marcus looked around, many of the other

tables were also occupied as the same scene was being repeated.

Deciding that the time was right to go wash off in the

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frigidarium, the coldest bath, Marcus thanked Galla and sent him

back to the apodyterium until he was ready to leave (“Roman

Baths”).

Full of men washing themselves and swimming, the frigidarium

was a nice relief from the heat of the caldarium. Slipping into

the water, Marcus felt the cold-water rush over him, closing his

recently opened pores. I needed this, Marcus thought to himself in

satisfaction. Sitting there for what seemed like hours, he

finally got out, and found Galla in the apodyterium (“Roman

Baths”). After changing, he still felt revitalized and in good

health. Marcus and Galla made their way back to the house as the

sun began to set. If only I could go take a bath more than once a day, Marcus

thought to himself (“Roman Baths”).

Around the house, Akakios and Aelus had lit candles. By the

time Marcus and his slave returned, the opening course of the

cena, the final meal of the day, was laid out (“Roman Meals”).

Marcus took the small salad of greens, leeks, and egg over to the

couch and began eating. He ate in silence, thinking about the

success of his day. To drink, Marcus consumed a sweet mixture of

wine and honey with his meal. Having finished that, the main

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course of pig sausages and bread came out (“Roman Meals”).

Accompanying this was Marcus’s, and for that matter Rome’s,

favorite sauce, garum. This salty spread was manufactured by

fermenting dead fish intestines for a long period (“Roman

Meals”). Spreading a spoonful over his sausage, Marcus ate them

quickly. After this, Aelus brought out fig pudding for desert,

which Marcus enjoyed slowly (Spaeth 94). After putting aside his

plate, Marcus dismissed his slaves to any other tasks and errands

they had left to do, and went up to his bedroom.

Sitting at his candlelit desk, Marcus looked out the window

at the darkness of the city. Although only around seven, he was

very tired, as was the rest of the city (Spaeth 95). Rome went to

sleep early, but rose in the wee hours of the morning as well.

There was still work to be done, however. For the next two hours,

Marcus wrote letters to different members of his family, as well

as his business partners. Filling out an order form for the

number of linens he wanted, he made a mental note to send Galla

with it to Ostia, Rome’s principal port. As time went on, Marcus

could feel his weariness overtake him (Spaeth 95). Placing his

stylus down, the twenty-five year old took off his clothes and

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went to bed. His last thoughts of the day were about the future.

The problems of this year are solved, but what of next year, or the years after that? Will

Drusa like me? Will we have boys or girls? These thoughts eventually drew

Marcus into the realm of sleep.

Marcus awoke the next morning, and placed both hands on his

head. Peering out the window, he noted that the horizon was

slowly turning a light purple. I’m running late.

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