We are dining tonight at my home in Bostra. I rarely come to this city because I find its flat landscape dreary, and its buildings and monuments, all constructed of black basalt, depressing. I greatly prefer my villa in Petra, holy Petra, sleeping in the warm embrace of her rainbow tinted mountains. I come to Bostra only when it is absolutely necessary and there is no other choice.

Bostra has been our provincial capital for over one hundred years now. Before we became part of the Empire, during the reign of our last king, Rabbel II, the trade routes shifted away from Petra to Palmyra, in the northeast. Trade is our life so, in response, Rabbel moved our capital north to Bostra to take advantage of this change.

My guests tonight include our recently installed Governor, M. Bassaeus Astur, and our Senatorial Legate, M. Domitius Valerianus, and their wives. Also present was Julius Marinus, a wealthy and cultured Equestrian from Shabha, an insignificant nearby town. His son, Pretorian Prefect C. Julius Priscus and daughter-in-law Otacilia Severa came with him. It is rumored that some members of this family might be adherents of a mysterious cult known as "Christians." I am intrigued by the idea of a new exotic religion in our midst.

A bitterly cold wind outside is bringing snow, softening the severe contours of this dark city. Inside we were warm and cozy. The flickering flames from the braziers and lamps cast sparkling reflections on the triclinium's polished mosaic floor and enliven the frescoes on the walls as we recline on our crimson couches. Servants circulate among us serving the mezze, the first course of our meal. We pick among a selection of stuffed grape leaves; chicken wings seasoned with sumac; three kinds of kibbe; olives; cheeses; bread; salads garnished with pomegranate seeds; salads sprinkled with sumac; salads with cracked wheat, mint leaves and parsley; little sausages; pickled and fresh vegetables; and little pies filled with meat, cheese, or vegetables. Musicians play quiet music on the harp and double flute as we dine.

"Try the kibbe arous." I suggest. "The filling inside is my cook's specialty."

"Mmmmm, ideed this hashwe filling is extraordinary," comments Otacilia taking a second one. "What is the spice?"

"A special blend of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg," I reply. "If you like it, you shall have the recipe."

Otacilia smiles, licking her fingers.

However, I was not in the mood to spend the night discussing recipes. I had invited my guests in order to learn more about what was happening in the Empire. I have been traveling in distant places beyond its borders for several years and I suspect that much has happened in my absence.

"I understand that we have a new Emperor," I venture pleasantly.

"Things have been in some disarray in Rome of late," murmurs the Governor glumly. I notice that his wife puts her hand on his arm, as if warning him not to say too much.

Pretending not to notice the gesture, I turn to to Malichus, my Chamberlain, standing nearby, "More wine!" I say jovially. "My guests are thirsty."

Malichus nods to the slave serving the wine and everyone's cup is refilled with the rich wine I have selected for the occasion..

"In disarray?" I persist after he has drunk deeply from the potent liquid in his cup.

"Um, well, yes. His name is Gordianus."

"Ha!" exclaims the Senatorial Legate. "Which one? Well, don't blame the Senate. It is out of their hands. Else it soon will be!" He then stares into his cup moodily as his wife strives to comfort him.

A little confused by these responses, but hoping to change the mood, I order the entree, a roast lamb, to be served.

Soothing harp music and and sweet singing soon fills the hall as we eat briefly in silence. Our moods lighten somewhat and we chat about less controversal matters for the moment -- the weather, the price of wheat and olives, the difficulty of finding good servants. Julius Marinus speaks with pride of this sons and their successes -- Iulius, now Pretorian Prefect, and his other son, Phillippus, a brave, talented warrior is rising so rapidly through the Legion's ranks. This brought a welcome new topic.

"I wish that we could have some more legionaries on our southern border." I say. "I have learned that the Bedouin in the South are turning to banditry. It has become a real problem around Dumat. The caravans through the Sirhan are experiencing great difficulties wh . . . "

"They can't be spared!" Julius Priscus cuts in sharply, bitterly. "Our enemies, the Persian Sassanids are on the rise and they are formidable. Our outposts at Hatra and Dura in Mesopotamia are threatened and some of our towns near the border have revolted against the Empire, either to become independent or to go over to the Persians. We need every man on the border that we can get if we are to stem the tide. The situation is becoming tense. Sassanian power is equal to ours and their Emperor is hungry for conquest."

I am shocked! The dessert course arrives -- honey soaked pastries filled with pistachios. I scarcely notice.

The conversation again turns to lighter topics as we sip our wine, enjoying the troupe acrobats and dancers I have hired to entertain us. The party continues on into the night and ends on a happy note while the wind-driven snow accumulates outside and I ponder what I have learned so far.