Oleg Krasin
Solar Wind. Book one

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Belated difference

Even before coming to Tibur, Hadrian thought about who to appoint as consuls in the new year.²⁵ He sorted through the candidates of patricians, pondered, stroking his stalwart Molossian dog, who ran around the hall, knocking on the tiles with long claws. Hadrian left his beloved greyhound in Greece—he had many dogs at every estate. He liked dogs more than people, because compared to them they demanded nothing but their master's love.

Sometimes he wondered how glorious it would be if dogs surrounded him instead of people. Faithful, unpretentious, inexpensive, big savings for the budget of the country.

This dog's name was Gilax, which in Greek meant “barking”—the nickname Hadrian borrowed from Virgil, although he did not really like this epic poet. He took Gilax with him to hunt, at a time when others preferred to use the Molossian breed only for protection, as guard dogs. However, it was convenient to have a hunter and guard in one person.

The emperor decided on the first consul at once. Titus Vibius Varus from the venerable senatorial family had coped well with the management of Cilicia, where Caesar appointed him governor a few years ago. Now, his skills would come in handy in Rome. Good officials have always been invaluable, under any emperor.

The second candidate caused more difficulty. Which senators to choose? Who should be assigned an important post? Hadrian in the choice did not hold back anything. He recalled a time when his mad predecessor Caligula introduced a horse into the Senate building, wanting to humiliate the venerable and noble elders. But that was not Hadrian's way.

He preferred to cooperate with the Senate rather than quarrel. And although he suspected a hidden opposition inside the patricians, the discontent had been largely squashed when it had first arisen. At the very beginning of his reign, he had destroyed the conspirators, for a bad quarrel is still better than a good war.

After much deliberation, he settled on the ninety-year-old Lucius Julius Servianus.

He, though deep in age, was a mobile man, had a bright mind and a good memory. In addition, he had a lot of experience; he was appointed consul for the third time, was at Domitian, under Nerve, and now he has been under him, Hadrian. In addition to his age, Servianus also had a no less solid appearance. A huge bald head with a big forehead testified to the mind of the owner, and the wide, developed jaws spoke of the firmness of character.

Servianus took office in January, and in the summer the emperor thought he had done the right thing by appointing an elder to the site. With such a reliable person, a zealot of the foundations, but at the same time, with shaky health, there was nothing to fear for power. In addition, Servianus was a relative—Emperor Trajan married him to Pauline, the older sister of Hadrian. Almost twenty years of age difference between the spouses did not confuse anyone, although the young groom was then fifty.

He accepted Servianus.

“Welcome to you, my dear Lucius!”

Hadrian spread his arms wide and cordially and hugged the old consul.

“Thank the gods, Caesar! You look good. I've been told about your illnesses, but I didn't really believe it. I keep remembering that hunt where you hit a lion running right at us with a spear.”

The Emperor frowned for a moment—his court medic Hermogenes chatted too much—but still managed to keep a friendly expression on his face.

“I have ailments, Servianus. They pass quickly thanks to the gods, and of course Asclepius.²⁶ Illnesses bypass me. And yet, I'm about to be sixty, the stars advise me to choose an heir. Sabina and I have no children, it's time to choose a worthy patrician, who will continue to rule the state with honor.”

“Haven't you decided on a successor yet?” Servianus decided to clarify cautiously. “I heard about the young Marcus Annius. His great-grandfather, Annius Verus, a famous man, was, like me, a three-time consul. Of course, Marcus is a worthy candidate…”

Hadrian covered his purple toga harder, fearing that the interlocutor would see blood stains somewhere. Narcissistic, insidious, charming, intelligent, and artistic—he possessed all the qualities to become great. Life often seemed to him a game, a funny charade, which could be thrown to the opponent. Then step aside and watch him decide it.

He recently planted such a riddle on the young Marcus Verus, about which Servianus spoke. He sent young slaves to him and watched from the shelter. The young man's behavior, frankly, caused him different, contradictory thoughts.

Marcus was steadfast before the temptation, he did not give up, and if not for the betrayal of the body, perhaps, would have handled himself. But still, Augustus, the highest person of the state, must fully own his emotions. The emperor can't scream when it hurts terribly, can't cry when sad. Caesar must be like him, Hadrian, who harbored the pain of the loss of Antinous and did not show it.

He, Hadrian, knew that a lot of his opponents from the Senate and ordinary onlookers would enjoy his torment. They wanted revenge, they wanted satisfaction, because they were forced to obey orders that may seem unfair and cruel. But what did the crowd know? What did the Roman people know, mired in pleasure? And how not to enjoy the grief of Caesar, who brought grief down on the heads of others?

They did not understand that he was causing suffering not out of the whim of a capricious ruler, such as Domitian or Caligula. His steady hand expressed the will of the state, the cruel necessity that saved everyone in the end.

“But we haven't sat down yet. Please!” Hadrian invited Servianus to get down on his elbow, as they put it when they offered to lie on the bed. “I think it's sigma²⁷ will be convenient. So, about Marcus. Yes, you're right, I difference him. But fame and nobility are not evidence that the boy will cope. The stars who patronize Rome suggest something else.”

“Who do you mean, great Caesar?”

Servianus's massive face froze. He decided that he would now hear the great mystery of the emperor Hadrian's plans, of which he had never spoken to anyone, would take shape.

The thoughts that hit Servianus made him nervous.

He, a well-known senator, was a close relative of the emperor, and the choice could fall on him. His grandson, Gnaeus Pedanius Fuscus, could also be a worthy successor, as Marcus was still young, he had a fragile soul. In addition, Pedanius was the only male offspring, in one way or another associated with the family of Hadrian.

After all, who was Marcus? Just a distant relative of Empress Sabina, in the intricacies of kinship, no one could understand. And among other things, Servianus was informed by close friends as at one of the feasts in a narrow circle, Hadrian asked about possible successors, asking to identify ten suitable candidates. But at the same time, Caesar made an important remark—he offered to name only nine out of ten, for the name of the tenth is known to him. This was Lucius Servianus.

Just like that! The emperor chose him! Of course, time had passed and he, Lucius Julius Urs Servianus, was not ready to shoulder the heavy burden of managing a huge empire. But here's Pedanius! He could.

The large, meaty face of Lucius Servianus turned red with excitement.

Hadrian took a cup of wine from the slave, drank, turned his eyes to the interlocutor. It was as if he was playing with the consul in games known to him.

“I'm thinking about your grandson,” Hadrian said. “He is young, but he has already shown himself on the good side. Not held large positions to hone the skill of management, but this case is fixable. What do you think, Lucius?”

“I fully approve of your choice, great emperor! Totally! My grandson and your nephew, the best candidate when it comes to successor. But we all hope to see you for more than one year. The gods will send you longevity!”

“Thank you!” Hadrian nodded with satisfaction. “Tell your nephew that I'm always happy to see him here in Tibur. Let Pedanius come without ceremony, as a person close to me. We will have something to talk about, walking in a graceful shadow. So,” he continued, changing the subject, “what do they say about me in Rome?”

“Everyone's talking about your recent joke, Caesar.”

“Which one? I have a lot of them. Did you know that I published my poems on behalf of Flegont freedman? The whole of Rome admired the former slave, and it was me, Emperor Hadrian. Of course, there were also scolds, I think, envious. I remember them. Then I had to tell the public about the real author.”

“I imagine the face of the critics,” Servianus gushed. “No, Caesar, I haven't read your poems. Unfortunately, I have little interest in literature.”

“It would be necessary!” discontentedly indicated Hadrian to the ninety-year-old interlocutor. “So, what's the joke?”

“They say that a supplicant, old and gray-haired, came to you, begging for tax relief because of crop failure, and you refused him. Then he dyed his hair…”

“I remember,” Hadrian smiled.

“Yes, he dyed his hair red and, thinking that it would be unrecognizable, reappeared. But you said you'd turned him down before.”

“Yes, yes, it's a nice joke!”

Servianus switched to a business tone.

“Caesar, a few senators are venerable and honored men I have known for a long time who want to take water from the aqueduct to their new homes. This requires the permission of the prefect, but Regin poses them all sorts of obstacles.”

Hadrian's eyes covered themselves, as if from exhaustion. He was bored. He did not like such economic disputes, where everyone fought for their benefit, everyone had a strong argument for winning the dispute. Only sufficient arguments or motive to choose someone’s side he did not have. Today, he was not like his other predecessors, whose main motive was wives and lovers, or the pursuit of pleasures. Or money, like emperor Vespasian.

He had nothing left! Just boredom. Anything that could have prompted him to choose one side or the other had gone irretrievably and nothing else was interesting. It was as if part of the soul had died with Antinous's death. And maybe the whole soul?

“Servianus,” he interrupted the old consul, “I always support the law, and the Senate is our only interpreter. As it decides, so it should be executed.”

The old consul, who listened carefully to the emperor, began to ponder who from the Senate could be relied upon to assist with this sensitive issue, as Regin also had strong support among senators. Alas, it would be difficult to win without Hadrian's direct!

“I don't care much about these issues, dear Lucius,” Hadrian continued. “I need a huge scale. I am attracted to something new, grandiose, unprecedented, like the singing colossus of Memnon in Egypt, or the temple of Athena Pallas in Greece. That's why I planned to build my tomb in such a size and in such a way that no emperor has ever built before. I have always said, better movement than contemplation, better life than sleep. Do you realize Servianus, who is the greatest emperor in the history of Rome?”

“Of course, you, Caesar. There's no doubt about that!”

Playing trigon

After Diognetus and Andron, Marcus's training did not stall, but on the contrary, was continued by Regin with all the diligence and consistency inherent in the Romans. However, after thinking about it, Marcus's great-grandfather decided to make some changes.

Until now, the grandson studied alone, which was useful—the teacher could pay attention only to one student and only teach him and educate him. But on the other hand, such artificial isolation led to the isolation of the young man from his peers, and this, in turn, could influence the character of the future senator and consul—above Regin did not look. In addition, Marcus should have instilled an adversarial spirit from a young age.

Therefore, in order to keep company, Marcus invited a few more young men from well-known families, two from senators and from riders.

Today, they played trigon.

Although this game seemed simple and straightforward, many famous people fought in it, for example, the philosopher Seneca, art lover Maecenas, and even the emperors Caesar and Octavian Augustus. Marcus led his friends to the peristyle,²⁸ surrounded by porticos, where slaves in a vacant space had already drawn a triangle. The rules required three men to stand in the corners and quickly throw the ball at each other. At the same time, it was necessary to grab it with one hand equally well, both right and left, and then, slung in the other hand, to send to the opponent. Those who could not manage it, who dropped the ball to the ground, were called pejoratives such as savage or yokel.

Marcus played with Gaius Victorinus and Seius Fusсianus. Baebius Longus counted the dropped balls, and the fourth—Kalen, with them was not.

Cheerful and carefree, they laughed loudly, shouted, and argued. Sweat appeared on their faces, hands, bodies, and dark spots appeared on white tunics. Despite the approaching autumn, hot weather had just recently been established, which was not surprising for Rome, where warm days could last until November.

The slaves standing nearby gave the young men towels to wipe, and they had to stop the game for a while. Marcus knew his opponents well—Victorinus and Fuscianus. Both were from the Nobilis, whose ancestors repeatedly sat in the curule chair, became consuls and praetors and censors. Both lived on the Caelian Hill, not far from him.

The game was tenacious, protracted.

Fusсianus did not pose any threat to Marcus. Dense physique, clumsy, slow, he threw the ball in the direction of Marcus not as quickly as Victorinus, and catching it was not difficult. But despite his slowness, Fuscianus himself still successfully handled catching the balls launched in his direction by Marcus or Gaius Victorinus.

Of course, the great danger in the game was Victorinus. He had a quick reaction, mobility, as a bird sharply turned his head from side to side. He was an experienced opponent. But as happens even with such strong players, Gaius had a weakness, which Marcus noticed during the game—he was inattentive, carried away, and this inattention failed him.

“He's going to quit now!” thought Marcus, as Gaius led his eyes in his direction. The Victorinus did not know how to watch the face in such tense moments, which was very important. It's like a game of nuts that Marcus once watched by slaves, one hiding a few nuts in his fist, trying to keep his face unflappable, while others tried to guess their number. Showy indifference was one of the keys to success in that game. But not only that. As Marcus noted, composure often helped to prevail in other games. And if in games, why not in life?

Victorinus threw the ball in the direction of Marcus and he caught it, but at the same time Fuscianus threw to him and Gaius could not react quickly. The ball fell to the ground, rolled to the feet of Baebius Longus.

“Dropped it, dropped it!” Longus shouted. “How embarrassing you are, Gaius! A yokel! Missed so many goals!”

Indeed, Gaius was much inferior to Marcus and Seius in the number of goals conceded. He reminded Marcus of a crow, the same black hair, the same choppy bird movements. Tall and wiry, Gaius had small eyes close to his nose and a large nose that looked like a curved beak. Perhaps he should have been born among the family of Valerius, one of which was nicknamed Raven.

“I swear by Hercules, you don't think wrong!” Victorinus retorted, biting his lower lip with annoyance. “I missed less than Marcus.”

“Not less, but more!” Baebius Longus stomped his foot.

“Of course, more!” Fuscianus supported him.

“I think so well.” Victorinus did not retreat. “I can swear by all the gods that I am right, and you are wrong.”

“Do you want to swear? Really, Gaius?” Marcus came up to him and looked into his eyes.

“Yes, I'm ready!”

“If you swear, it's like Mucius Scaevola,²⁹ as otherwise, we won't believe your oath. Hey, Cleont,” he ordered the slave, “bring the brazier!”

Hearing this sentence, Victorinus turned pale, but the young stubbornness made him stand his ground.

“Bring it to me!” he supported Marcus.

Alarmed by these preparations, Fuscianus and Longus came closer, they wanted to calm the debaters.

“Okay, Marcus,” Longus said conciliatorily, “let him swear by Hercules. That's enough!”

Marcus turned away, stepped aside. His big eyes darkened, and his face became sullen.

“I don't like liars!” he said passionately. “Everyone should be responsible for their words, as the teacher Diognetus said.”

“But, Marcus, listen,” Ceius Fuscianus tried to stand up for his friend, “Gaius just wants to swear, to turn to the gods. He didn't commit a crime.”

Ever since childhood, his father took Fuscianus to the courts, so that his son would listen, watch how justice was carried out. The eloquence of judicial lawyers, of which there were many in Rome, made a proper impression on the boy. And now, as a lawyer, he was putting his foot to the side, taking a steady position; he raised his right hand and began gesticulating with it.

Marcus went even further, to where oaks, pines, and myrtles grew, in the shadow of the thick foliage. He leaned his back against the oak tree, feeling the power of the tree, the humming of the trunk, as if he was chasing excited blood through the veins. The foliage above his head rustled restlessly, as if wanting to hide the feelings raging in Marcus's soul.

He did not want to harm Victorinus, though he understood that the flaming roaster would cripple his hand. But deep-down Marcus, as inside the roaster, blazed destructive passions, which still had to be curbed. It is hard to take yourself in hand; it is difficult to control every step when the intention to force, humiliate, and crush drives one crazy.

How to learn to own yourself, if the innocent lying of Victorinus, his friend, a good Gaius, in general, caused in him such cruel and brutal desires? Isn't that what Emperor Hadrian warned him about, saying that Caesar should not be a slave to pernicious passions. He whispered in his ear, tickling his beard, “Let yourself go! Let yourself go!”

But Hadrian, a paradoxical man, meant the opposite by this: you need to let go of yourself so as not to plunge into passions, but to rise above them, subject them to reason. Hadrian as if to say that this is how Caesar should rule, supporting the stoics, who saw in uncontrollable passions only a source of evil.

Meanwhile, two slaves dragged a low iron roaster and, kneeling, began to fan the fire.

“The boys play for a long time,” said Domitia Lucilla.

She stood with Regin under the canopy of a small portico and looked into the garden, where the tunics of the young men were white. Behind the backs of Domitia and Regin along the marble columns froze silent and significant busts of seven Greek sages, so revered Roman nobility. Bearded philosophers Thales of Miletus, Solon, Pittacus and others listened carefully, as if they wanted to understand the essence of their conversation and give the right advice.

Regin, the man of stinging warehouse, with stiff, imperious wrinkles on his face, looked at the garden with faded watery eyes. Autumn had already come into its own, covering the trees in gold leaves, bending branches to the ground with the gravity of the fruit. Slaves brought meat, fruits, and vegetables to the city every day, which had been matured in the estates of patricians and rich freedmen.

Summer was over, and the holidays followed one after another. It seemed that until recently everyone was singing hymns to the goddess of fertility Ceres, and the Plebeian Games were ahead. To win over the people, Regin added to the money of other organizers and their funds.

“It's good to be outdoors,” he remarked, in a squeaky voice. “This is how the ancients were advised, for mobile activities develop the body and mind. Are they fighting in a trigon?”

“Yes,” Domitia replied with a subtle grin. Regin, as an old warrior, saw the flashes of war in everything, and even here he could not resist comparing the harmless trigon with the battle.

“I used to be good at it, now I can't. Speed is not enough.”

“But in the affairs of the state, you have time,” flattered Domitia, who tried once again to please the domineering and ambitious relative.

Regin often visited the Domitia Lucilla, the benefit of their villa was located close, and they could always go to each other without resorting to palanquin,³⁰ and even more so to the wagon.

“That's right!” Marcus's great-grandfather agreed sympathetically, stretching his wrinkled lips into a smile. “Have you complied with my request?”

“Yes, I invited Faustina, but I don't understand why? She is Marcus's aunt and sister of my late husband, and she and I see each other so often on family holidays.”

Catillius Regin slyly squinted.

“I want to talk to Senator Servianus here at the villa. As I was informed by the faithful people, Servianus was at the emperor's reception. He asked for individual senators, people from his party who make up my opposition.”

Domitia was surprised.

“Are they dissatisfied with something?”

“Rome is a big city, and I am its prefect. In my power is concentrated huge sums of money that give me the opportunity to influence the right people, make serious decisions, convince unreliable senators. This, as it turns out, they do not have enough. So, they pester me with petty Senate inspections, slow down my orders or completely ignore them. Now Servianus asks for them! You see, they need running water in Roman homes. This will not happen!”

“Why do you need Faustina? I always felt she wasn't very good at politics. Titus's wife is a little frivolous, windy, and she does not have a state mind.”

Regin looked closely at Domitia.

“I know that. Gossip came to me that her hobbies are not entirely appropriate for the venerable matron. These baths… At the time of my youth, most love relationships were tied up in them, but now Hadrian had forbidden joint washing.”

“It's like it's stopping someone!” Domitia smirked.

“So, why do I need Faustina? In the Senate, there are some hesitating people, like a swamp. Such people have always been there. They do not know who to join and do not want to rush with a choice. Faustina's husband Antoninus has a certain influence among this group and I need him to take my side—everyone knows that Antoninus loves his wife and listens to her.”

Domitia Lucilla, with her hair tied up in a high hairstyle, looked young enough. In the morning, the slaves performed cosmetic procedures with her, placing whitening ointments on her face, painting her eyelashes, making her lips bright. Her tunic and the top handkerchief, which she covered her head with, generously sprinkled incense, and now Marcus's mother stood before Regin blossoming, fragrant, alluring.

He repeatedly had the idea to find her a husband from a noble family, to connect the two patrician branches, to further strengthen their influence. But Domitia resisted. She was a wealthy, well-off woman and didn't need anything. Her factory brought a good income and Regin, being the prefect of the city, knew the exact sums coming from the sale of bricks with the label “Domitia Lucilla” printed on top.

“Wouldn't it be easier to agree on everything with Faustina in private?” Domitia broke her silence. “She is a relative; she'll understand!”

Regin chewed his lips, thought, answered.

“We must demonstrate our strength to Servianus, this pompous peacock who made his way to the consuls thanks to Domitian. I have always had a low opinion of him, although some have kept saying about his mind, about some outstanding abilities. Let him know in advance that Antoninus will be on our side, then, perhaps, we do not have to resort to pressure in the Senate, to organize a war there. Our Hadrian doesn't like strife. He wants to enjoy the peace in Tibur, tired of travel and public affairs.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a slave who had come from the depths of the atrium.

“Domina,³¹ guests have arrived for you, Senator Lucius Julius Servianus and matron Annia Galeria Faustina.”

“Take them to the triclinium and tell the chefs it's time to have lunch.” Domitia in hesitation turned to Regin, “I think we will invite the boys later. Let them play some more!”

“Good!” Marcus's great-grandfather agreed.

The brazier has already warmed up. The flames, dancing inside, burned the sooty walls, raised stinging tongues to the sky. Marcus approached the iron that was burning, feeling the enveloping heat, the smell of a burning tree. The sides of the roaster have acquired a crimson tint; charcoal coals high, almost to the knees, threw out the tongues of flame. Gaius stood beside it pale, silent, but full of determination.

Oh, that's pride!

Surprise mixed with reproach stirred in Marcus's soul. Previously, he did not pay attention to whether it was good or bad to be proud. Probably, for the state is good, because the Romans are not used to losing in the dispute, which means that pride pushed them to be better than others, to become stronger. The best should be villages, cities, their country. The plank had been rising all the time, forcing them to improve in this effort. But the greater perfection achieved, the more sacrifices were made.

“Don't, Gaius!” he said conciliatorily. “I don't need your oath on fire. If you think you're right, then you're right.”

“No!” Victorinus turned impulsively to him. “You don't believe me, and I'll prove it.”

He reached out to the fire, but he was hesitant to take the last step. He was slow, looked like one bewitched at the high flame. “Here's a fool!” thought Marcus. He moved decisively to his friend, and with force grasping his shoulders, dragged away from the dangerous place.

“Stop it! You're acting like a boy. We're adults! Our great emperor said that next year I will get a toga virilis.”

Fuscianus and Baebius Longus joined Marcus with apparent relief. They put their arms around the two boys’ shoulders, and led them to the drawn triangle, near which lay small balls.

The game wasn't over yet.

In the triclinium, Senator Titus's wife Antonina Faustina, whom everyone called Faustina the Elder, so as not to confuse her with her daughter Faustina the Younger, sank on a bed near Regin and Lucius Servianus. Lucilla's Domitia was near, slightly to the right. Actually, etiquette didn't allow women to lie next to men—it wasn't very decent. They used to sit on chairs. But the republican times have sunk into oblivion, and in the coming era of the princeps old social traditions were pushed back in favor of women's freedoms.

Faustina passed thirty-five. Her pleasant face was distinguished by a smooth matte skin color. Black hair was styled into a tall tower. She decorated her head, fingers, wrists, and neck with a variety of rings, bracelets, and chains of gold and silver. Her hair was crowned by a diamond tiara—Faustina loved expensive trinkets.

She seemed a kind, compliant matron, with a calm disposition. However, the pleasant expression of her face was at times spoiled by the barely visible arrogance shown in the overly raised thin eyebrow as she listened to someone, or in a sharp lip bend that looked like a scornful grin.

In front of each of the guests was put a small table with a bronze countertop on wooden carved legs, on which the servants brought all sorts of food made by the skillful chef Domitia. In large cups wine was poured, as usual, diluted. At the exit in the triclinium arranged citharode, playing an unfamiliar melody and quietly singing songs in Greek. To these melancholic sounds, they began their conversation.

They started with Tetrapharmakon, Hadrian's favorite dish. It consisted of pheasant, ham, pork udder and crispy pie—Domitia gave special instruction to the chef, knowing that Faustina liked this dish.

“You, dear Domitia, have a wonderful cook!” Faustina praised. She took more pieces of food and ate with appetite, rinsing her fingers after each dish in the scented water served by the slave in a small cup. She loved to eat well, which was evident in the second chin that appeared and the figure that began to grow fat.

“I'm always happy to please guests, especially in such a simple matter as food,” Domitia glanced at Regin and Servianus. They also ate, paying tribute to the hospitality of the hostess, but without much appetite. In old age, food does not give such pleasure as before, when women and feasts are carried away. And now what is left for them, old people? Only thermals, hot and cool baths, life-giving springs in Baiae,³² and of course politics.

They had not yet begun the important conversation for which they have gathered.

In fact, the issue of water supply to the homes of individual senators supporting Servianus was a secondary matter. The main thing was another thing—to establish who was more influential, who was more powerful, to whom would Hadrian listen.

“So, Regin, you think that the esteemed patricians are not worthy of the same grace, the same amenities as other families,” Servianus began suddenly, looking at Faustina. “Aren't they the same as Valerius, Julius or Marcius?”

Regin chuckled. “The ball is thrown!” a comparison with the trigon came to him, a game he had just watched. “We'll have to get it back.”

“Oh gods, no Lucius!” He uttered the words emphatically calmly, smiling kindly. “I've always stood for justice. But let me tell you, not all the honorable husbands of the Senate have water going to their city houses, and I don't understand why it is? After all, almost everyone lives in villas where there is water, as here at Domitia and in my neighborhood.”

“This water is needed in the insulae,³³ which are owned by senators. For example, Valerius Homullus,” here Servianus pauses with value, “especially needs such improvement, because he has three insulae, in which many residents of the city are rented apartments.”

Again, the ball is in my direction! thought Regin and grinned sarcastically.

“Hm, a private improvement at the expense of Rome's budget? I don't know if our great emperor would like it.”