In the house of Marcus Anicius Rufus, the lamps were already lighted. At the direction of a slave, I went to sit on a bench in one of the rooms bordering the atrium. In the distance was a garden. I could smell damp plants and earth; I heard the murmur of water streaming into the basin of an invisible fountain. Unlike so many others at present, Marcus Anicius Rufus had had the courage and good taste to refrain from having the murals — solely mythological scenes—covered with whitewash. I was absorbed in contemplation of the rape of Persephone (the center panel, which depicted the abduction of the girl by the dark god, was in the room where I sat) when he entered. I rose and thanked him for his help. “The honor and the pleasure are entirely mine. I could see what was happening from my palanquin. It wasn’t you who smashed that statue.” “I could have done it. I’ve often been inclined to do it. That statue is a failure in every way.” A slave brought wine. My host filled the goblets and offered one to me.
