Lucius Aemilius Paullus Lepidus Claudianus Marcellus came from an august lineage.

On the paternal side his ancestors included Marcus Claudius Marcellus, victor in Sicily during the Second Punic War, and Titus Quinctius Flamininus, the ‘Liberator of the Greeks’. His great-grandfather was that Marcus Claudius Marcellus who had been consul (*51BC*) and had played so crucial a role in starting the Civil War between Caesar and Pompeius Magnus. His grandfather had been a praetor, as had his father, and as was his oldest brother. On the maternal side – into which he had been adopted – his ancestors included that Marcus Aemilius Lepidus who had led an embassy to Philip V of Macedonia and who had begun construction of the via Aemilia. His great-great-grandfather was that Marcus Aemilius Lepidus (*consul 78BC*) who had marched on Rome in an attempt to overturn Sulla’s settlement; his great-grandfather was Lucius Aemilius Paullus Lepidus (*consul 50BC*), the older brother of Lepidus the Triumvir who had proscribed him; and his grandfather was Paullus Aemilius Lepidus (*consul 34BC*), one of Augustus’ closest friends and lieutenants. His oldest uncle was Marcus Aemilius Lepidus (*consul AD6*) the present governor of Asia Province; his second uncle Lucius Aemilius Paullus Lepidus (*consul AD1*) had been married to Augustus’ granddaughter, Julia, before his execution; and his third uncle – who had adopted him – Quintus Aemilius Paullus Lepidus was a distinguished senator and scholar. One of his cousins, Uncle Marcus’ daughter Aemilia Lepida, was married to Tiberius’ heir and Germanicus’ son, Drusus Julius Caesar; another, Aemilia Paulla, the late Uncle Lucius’ daughter, was herself Augustus’ great-granddaughter and married to Marcus Junius Silanus Torquatus, the consul of some seven years earlier.

His current companions weren’t of so good family.

Marcellus was sat in a taberna in the heart of the Subura and was to all appearances mightily enjoying himself.

He was sat at the head of a table of merchants, slave dealers, shopkeepers, and freedmen and was taking them on very successfully at dice. On his left knee sat one comely giggling barmaid, whose waist he had his left arm wrapped around, and on a chair to his right sat another, and when he moved his hand to either take his throw or raise his brimming cup he would make sure that he returned it to the tender warmth of her inner thigh.

That Marcellus was still alive said something about him. Roman nobles didn’t venture into the Subura lightly, and they certainly didn’t do it without a few dozen ex-gladiators for company. Yet, here, completely unattended, sat one of the noblest of the lot. His purse, which was by this time overflowing with coin, was openly on display on the table yet remained untouched by the roughnecks who frequented the bar. Perhaps the fact that the aristocratic patron had already called for three rounds of drinks for everyone inside had something to do with it – and something to do with the taberna being three times as full as it had been when he came in: in the Subura a freebie was rarely turned down. Or perhaps his confidence had something to do with it. It intimidated, annoyed, and amused everyone.

A flautist played a reel in a corner and Marcellus repeatedly called on him for more music and for dancing. His gaming companions couldn’t believe that they were being beaten by a drunk for undoubtedly that was what Marcellus was as his behaviour became more and more ebullient. He was whispering dirty jokes into the ears of the barmaids, flashing his brilliant smile, roaring with laughter and seemingly completely ignoring their game. But he was winning. By a mile.

Truly Fortune smiled on him.

Things could, and perhaps should, have turned ugly. Marcellus’ luck (and his good temper for that matter) seemed to be beyond belief and in the Subura brawls broke out over much less than a phenomenally fortuitous winning streak. But if anything the atmosphere grew more raucous.

Until that is, a stunningly beautiful woman in a flame coloured toga entered the taberna. With a figure to die for, clear skin, luxurious black hair, and a bewitching pair of green eyes every man’s head turned to her as soon as she passed through the doorway. She though looked directly at none of them. She had an aura of aloofness that sat perfectly with her station: she was one of the high-class prostitutes who sold their services to noble Romans.

Finding such a woman in the Subura was almost as unusual as finding an aristocrat like Marcellus: the Subura had prostitutes of its own and no one living in the district could afford the prices women like her charged. But the customers took it that news of Marcellus’ presence must have reached her and she’d come touting for business. And the two bully-boys she had brought with her and who were trying to stand as unobtrusively as they could made sure that she wasn’t disturbed as she took her seat at a table directly facing the young nobleman.

She caught his attention all right for whenever he wasn’t throwing the dice or calling for more music Marcellus’ eyes could be seen to go to her, whilst her own remained seemingly disinterested.

Eventually it became too much for the apparently inebriated Aemilian. Rising, but keeping his voice low he spoke to his immediate companions.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. I apologise but I fear I must take my leave of you. Something urgent has just arisen and it must be dealt with.”

That got a few sly smiles.

Raising his cup to the room he quaffed it in one go and addressed the throng:

“Many thanks to this fine establishment, an oasis in the desert that is our city. I have every intention of making this delightful little spot a regular fixture of my daily rounds.” At this point he was only saved from falling over by the quick hands of one of the barmaids. Before he could continue he burst into a fit of giggles.

“I thank you all. As you can see your intoxicating company has left me quite overcome. Drinks for the house!”

Picking up his winnings he tossed some coins to the barmaids – both of whom were disappointed with the presence of the courtesan thinking they had lost out on a greater sum – and threw his cloak over his shoulder as he made his way to the bar where the woman now stood.

As he passed a slave dealer he’d been playing with and said “Excuse me” the man could have sworn that there wasn’t the faintest trace of alcohol on his breath – but he couldn’t be sure when the room stank so foully anyway.

Reaching his destination, without a word Marcellus slapped the lady’s firm buttocks. Before her guards could move she had replied, slapping him on a very different cheek and apparently sobering him up somewhat.

His face a crimson colour Marcellus moved closer and made his regrets known to her. Clearly this act hadn’t been too off-putting – or the lady’s sensibilities were not so easily offended when there was money to be made – because shortly after some hushed words the taberna saw the pair, closely followed by the woman’s giant escorts, leave with smiles on both their faces.