13 “It’s my father who decided the ceremony should take place,” Titus explained, puffing up his chest. “He clearly has decided I’m ready.” There was such a note of pride in Titus’ voice that Maximus felt stung. His own father hadn’t yet even suggested it. “Congratulations, Titus!” cried Aghiles, while watching Maximus out of the corner of his eye. He knew what Maximus must be thinking. “Thank you, Aghiles! I hope that you’ll come to the celebration,” replied Titus. Aghiles couldn’t speak in Maximus’ place. It wasn’t up to him to decide; he had no rights in the matter. He stared intensely at Maximus, his eyes begging him to respond. Under Aghiles’ disapproving look, Maximus forgot his wounded pride. “Of course, we’ll come!” cried Maximus, feigning delight. “We’ll be the first ones there!” He was forcing himself to show happiness for his friend, but seeing Titus’ smiling face brought him back to reason. He had no right to be jealous. It wasn’t Titus’ fault if Maximus’ own father still hadn’t suggested that he take the toga virilis. “When is it?” asked Maximus, giving his full attention to his friend. “In two weeks. In the meantime, there’s much to prepare. You know my father: he isn’t one to skimp on a celebration.” Titus’ father, Flavius Octavius, was a rich dealer in wild animals. His business was thriving, and his reputation extended well beyond Rome. His animals were reputed to be more beautiful and impressive than those of any of his few rivals. When the emperor wished to put on a spectacle with rhinoceroses or buffalos, he would turn to Flavius Octavius. When a rich senator wanted to offer his wife a rare bird or a giraffe, he would visit Flavius Octavius. There was no order too extravagant for
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