The Convivium of Gaius Metellus and Sextus Valerius Flaccus

Two men lay on lectus couches in a picturesque Roman villa drinking and sharing stories and catching up after not seeing one another for quite some time. They called each other Metellus and Flaccus, with the latter the host, and at this point in the evening the main feast of the night had ended, so they had retired to drinking with one another and were already well imbibed.

Flaccus stood and slurred as he sloshed about his drinking vessel.

“Metellus, make certain the servants fulfill your every need. Let not a talent go to waste, we seek every hour of their labor put to good use.” He waved at a servant nearby. “Quickly, you there, pour us both wine from the amphorae.”

Metellus held his cup up to the attendant who was already at hand.

“Flaccus, how quickly you have built such an estate! To think it not a full year since you started construction on this villa. It is so radiantly decored that your wife must surely have special connections in the forum.”

Flaccus stood up quickly and looked to the ceiling, which was painted in the image of the sky as if he had no roof at all, a mixture of colored plaster, an intricate fourth-style fresco, the backdrop a vibrant mixture of blues, whites, and golds. It was clearly unfinished as the artist was midway through a layer injected with softer pastels.

“The gods have bestowed luck upon me ever since I moved to Pompeii. Not only is this my dream villa but it’s furnished exactly how I wanted, and my dear Lavinia sought out the city’s premier fresco artist to take up residency here all summer so that he may mix his sweat with his paint, plastering away every inch of the walls with the stories from her favorite myths.”

Metellus had been admiring the details all night. “Yes, I immediately recognized the scene of the nymphs in your vestibulum. And here, I see on the walls flock the Bassarids with Bacchus himself. In stunning taste, as the imagery is perfect to dwell upon as we venture deeper into our convivium…”

Flaccus laughed. “We are well into the commissatio.”

“Is this a contest just to test my mettle?” asked Metellus. “You seek to have me stumbling home! Before I had even seen the bottom of my first vessel, I could taste luxury. The depth of that vineyard’s flavor profile is well known, as for centuries it has produced those most earthy fruits, so sweet and dark – hence why I quickly drained it.”

“It is native to Campania. I thought it might fit your discerning tastes.”

“Always the patrician, my friend, who knows well to bring out the good wine at the smallest parties, but you invited me over to drink ourselves senseless have you not? Don’t waste the fine wine, you may plow me with your Gallic dregs.”

A strapping male servant poured them both refills, much to the delight of Metellus. Flaccus coyly teased him.

“Ah, so if a fertile crescent rears fruit locally perhaps you shall plough the fields yourself.”

Metellus’ eyes lingered as he replied. “You wouldn’t Flaccus? So withdrawn around company for what reason? Surely not scared of the public eye? You already abandoned your political aspirations. You could have excelled in public service from what I’ve heard – 10 years in the Roman legions, an educated statesman, yet why ever did you stop? You prefer to be an Equite?”

Flaccus shook his head and sipped his wine. He looked sheepishly back at Metellus who was still anticipating a real reply.

“No, no, never truly. I simply had no fervor to be Imperator. Patrician life of course requests such a drive, so you must at least give it an effort, or you risk humiliating your entire bloodline. Some men are simply removed from the histories. So, I did my campaigns and went back to Rome, where I lived a comfortable life holding minor appointments and never seeking much more than that. It is not easy to make it in a city such as Rome, even more so now than before the Great Fire, whether or not Nero himself burned it down just to clear space for the Domus Aurea, but, well, how could you blame him – that land will forever be valuable…

Anyway, I digress, after the fire the city was not the one I fell in love with anymore, nor did I feel compelled to continue the Cursus Honorum, and so I bought land out here in the Bay of Naples, and eventually moved to Pompeii….” He said, once more swinging his wine glass about, “where life is more idyllic and I can safely swill my wine surrounded by such fine art – and artists like yourself.”

Metellus raised his hand to stop him. “I am but an apprentice surrounded by works of a master, I could never claim myself capable of true art until I am able to put forth something unquestionably great.”

“See that is why I patron you, Metellus. You are so humble in your self-reflection. A layperson would see your statues blessed by gods as beauty brought incarnate, while you see only imperfections and your own potential lack of genius.”

“Yet the reality is I am kin to struggling artists,” replied Metellus. “My lot is a hovel compared to a villa such as this, which I will never see, because if my work was truly blessed by favor from the gods – then I would not need the wages of an apprentice just to survive.”

“You build statues lad,” said Flaccus. “You only need one truly good one your whole life to be remembered throughout the ages. Even Rome burnt down but still those monuments did not.”

“Flaccus, you do inspire a veracity for hope,” said Metellus. “If not for your kind words, I would have surely quit long ago.”

“I only hope you never do. You should take your work all around the Bay of Naples so that one day I can say that I was the patron who had the oldest works from your collection, and maybe then my progeny can buy two more villas with the profits from your first efforts.”

“Flaccus, you could already furnish two whole villas with all the material wealth that you have. We lay in a room with servants at every beck and call, and this is only the triclinium, lest not we choose to lounge in any other room we stumble our drunk selves into, narrowly avoiding collisions with one of your many statues or figurines, or beautifully crafted frescos, while walking on the lavish stonework of your floors. Corinthian columns adorn the servant’s quarters no less. Even they are likely more wealthy than I, the plebeian that I am.”

“Well, I have had some of them for many years… A few came with me from Rome, and that was what 10 years ago? It was my time to get out.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you know of Nero and the fire, and afterward there was such unrest brewing within the city, I always knew I was going to move, and with Nero’s suicide came Galba and then the civil war followed that. It made the prospect of Vespasian’s rule quite a palatable one, but I knew that Rome was not where I wanted to be. Now with his reign passed it will be interesting to see what his son Titus might do with his newfound power, but even still I doubt I ever return back to Rome…”

Metellus nodded. “Well if he fails badly, at least you do not have to be in Rome when the next hopeful marches toward the Palatine Hill. One of the benefits of living out here.”

“Exactly!” Flaccus raised his glass to the sky before downing the wine again. “So we live out here in opulence for as long as the gods may have it, or as long as the land produces wine like this… But enough about me and my villa and its furnishings, what does Metellus seek from life?”

“Apart from what all men seek? A partner with whom to share a long life of little turmoil? I seek very little, Flaccus, I do not have the time to hope for a life such as yours. Relaxing on lectus all day requires a type of wealth that I doubt I can sculpt my way into.”

He looked at his rough palms, holding them out in front of him. “But still hands of mine will work until they can’t work anymore, and once that day comes I doubt I am long for this world anyway, for my body will wither long before my drive does.”

Flaccus lay a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Well to me, that sounds as if your real obstacle is having the time you need to make your work great – and the resources and stability to practice your craft… You said yourself that I am wealthy enough to furnish another whole villa out here in Pompeii. So what if I were to offer you just that? I still own the other villa I recently moved out of.”

Metellus looked up from his cup and to his patron’s eyes. “What sort of offer might be that? It sounds as if a blessing from the gods and you cast it so casually.”

Flaccus raised his cup. “Nothing is ever given. You would have to win it from me. Gambling is a prize of circumstance and luxury. Indulge me with a drinking game?”

Metellus downed the last scraps of his cup and motioned for more. “I would certainly agree to that.”

Flaccus chortled at first before sighing deeply. “Oh, how the differences of our lives make us yearn for the other’s. To be able to live a solitary life away from the public eye as you wish to do would be a mistake my family would chide me for. If I do not keep up appearances at social events, even intimate ones like this, my fortune will either wane or be taken from me forcefully. The rich old man on the hill who bothers no one is the one they will march on first if they are ever in need or starving. ‘Tis the easiest mark. That is why I must embody the social position of being a patron of the arts and give freely, because the person who makes the statue is the one who really writes histories, no one will care whose house the marble was in.”

Metellus shook his head. “I hear what you say my friend, but you are no hostage to your own life, Flaccus. Live it how you wish. No one will chastise you for that.”

“Well Metellus, you have not met my mother. Nor do you know my praenomen. I am Sextus Valerius Flaccus, Sextus for the month of my birth, or for being that number child, it was never made clear to me and didn’t matter much anyway. How could a sixth child ever be his mother’s favorite? Nothing I accomplished was ever good enough. She will not even visit me out here in Campania, mad still that I ran away from the family, and from Rome… You talk of losing hope for a life such as this, and I would gladly give that life away to see it through your eyes, for you have this spice of life, this yearning for beauty, and all I have is a life that comes off grey, even though I am not bereft of luxury, surrounded by walls painted so uniquely that I take for granted seeing them so often every day.”

Flaccus huffed out a deep sigh and then continued. “It’s as if I am cursed with my patrician heritage, though many would spit at my feet for besmirching such a privilege, and yet I often recall that old saying of Diogenes of Sinope when he first met the Great King Alexander of Macedon, and the King asked if he wanted of anything, and Diogenes replied back, “Yes, please stand out of my Sun.” Now why would I seek the burden of Alexander when I could live the life of Diogenes? Alexander even wanted to be Diogenes and the whole world bowed before Alexander. Well, at least until he drank himself to death.”

Flaccus threw back another glassful of wine. Metellus had already emptied his during Flaccus’ ramblings. Their competition was fierce. With each drink, their cheeks flushed more, and their words dragged on, and they were in much need of food. As if on cue, two beautiful young women attended to them, refilling the bowl of mixed wine in front of them, bringing out new plates of meat and fruit, and an extra special peculiar delicacy that Flaccus had instructed them to save until the drinking was fully underway. He jumped on the couch in excitement.

“Oh, praise the gods! I question my blessings just to be made to look stupid, for my riches do help me enjoy some aspects of life more than others. For example, I love to host a good feast, especially while drinking. Here, Metellus, try this unique specimen, a real treat, my home-grown milk-fed snails.

Now these are not your average garden snails, oh no, our cooking staff specially farms them, fattening them in a shallow vessel with milk and sea salt. Just enough milk so that the stupid things won’t drown themselves and only enough salt to make them more thirsty. The cooks have to clean the damn things every few hours, take real good care of them, and then when they are so fat they can’t withdraw into their own shells, you fry them in oil, and serve them with a wine sauce. I thought it might make a fun little pop of flavor as we continued our banter. Take a handful at least.”

Metellus tried the snails, and his eyes rolled back into his head as the fatty delicacy etched itself into his soul. It was opulence at its finest.

“Flaccus, if you furnish me a villa, I hope it comes with cooks like yours because my mother’s cooking has never tasted as bountiful as that…”

Flaccus burst out laughing. The attendants in the room also could not contain themselves. Metellus sank himself into the couch and stared at the ceiling.

“In all seriousness, Flaccus, I always find it interesting to talk to you because even though we do not see the world in kind, nor should we ever have ended up as friends, still here you and I sit exchanging words, and the Fates have brought that to be for some reason – and perhaps it is so that you can help bring my art into the world, but even without your patronage you have my friendship, as every moment I’m by your side I have a renewed inspiration for life.”

“In vino veritas…” replied Flaccus. “I’ll surely drink to that.”

Featured Photo by _M_V_ on Unsplash