De Gustibus Non Disputandum Est
289 words
As
the distant roar of the volcanic eruption drowned out screams of
animals and people trapped on the shore in front of Porta Marina and the
hissing splashes made by gobs of molten lava falling all around his
madly racing trireme propelled across the Bay of Neapolis by dozens of
terrified oarsmen, and as a cloud of ash descended to the foot of Mount
Vesuvius to shroud the dying metropolis in a roiling gray mound that
would become a mass burial ground for thousands of inhabitants of the
soon to be forgotten city of Pompeii, Marcus Pontius Gladiolus took
another sip of a mediocre vintage of Falernian that would have been
quite drinkable but for the dust that fell into the wine cup during his
escape, looked about for his wine steward before remembering he’s left
the boy at the villa to guard the family heirlooms of the Pontii clan
from looters and other plebeians, emptied the krater overboard
with a sigh, walked across the deck to refill it from the half-empty
amphora tied to the mast, raised it, poured a libation, splashing his
steersman’s feet with wine and drawing from the stalwart sailor a
muffled malediction, and drank deep as he wondered just how much he
would miss his twice weekly visits to the Lupanarium and whether the ladies of pleasure in its Neapolitan sister establishment were as good as the hetairae (well, pornae, actually, but, as they say, De mortuis nihil nisi bonum, and it’s not like they could charge an extra as
after a posthumous promotion) of Pompeii, and if so, how much of a
volume discount he would be able to negotiate in Neapolis for services
of copulatory nature.
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