Patricians: short story

This is a short story I wrote in a not-quite-so-sober state, so don't be afraid and/or appalled~D

Comments are, as always, welcome.

Patricians

On a clear evening the patricians gathered in a house by the Capitoline Hill for company and conversation. Boredom united even those who were enemies in the Senate, and Mark’s – owner of the house’s – wife was not present. Apparently she was in the theatre with her sister.

Mark’s slaves distributed the nectar – Sicilian wine – among all the presents gathered in groups in the gardens of the house to fight the humid stillness of the hot roman summer.

Mark put another cup down. It was the tenth one. His eyes were not as focused as they were two cups earlier and his voice rose over the murmur of individual conversations and gathered the patricians to the Greek column underneath which Mark was sitting.

His words filled the air with insults and rage around the ancient column.

- Oh, my dear brothers – he shouted – I have decided finally to separate myself from my wife. She has mixed herself up with poets – he shouted abuse at poets while staring at another senator just a foot away from him. – She is crazy about theatres – he stared at another one – she spends my money on foreign gladiators, can you believe it? – he finished another cup and almost lost his balance as he tilted his head backwards to empty the glass.

- “I’ll get mad in your barbaric company. I need culture. Enlightened words and sights” – he imitated his wife’s voice. – She is on a spree with her sister. – He grabbed another cup, then sunk lower, his back on the column.

- I know what I’ll do. I’ll leave her my house in the city. And she can take her – more swearing on Mark’s part, spitting wine and saliva on those unfortunate enough to be close enough – sister. And with my father’s money I’ll buy myself one of those beautiful slaves.

Another cup went down.

- With the slaves, you see, it’s easier. Their families are mostly dead, even if in a less honourable fashion. So I’ll heal my soul and body and maybe stop drinking – he threw the glass down the alley and struggled to his feet.

The patricians watched him walk away into the garden. And they were jealous.