rain drove in their faces. Shrunk inside their traveling cloaks, they urged their horses on. The ground rose steadily. Soon the paved, poplar-lined road dwindled to a dirt track and then to a barely visible forest path, dark with the shade of overhanging trees. In these dense woods of fir and oak and beech, branches shuddered in the wind and whipped at their faces, dripping ferns and bracken soaked their knees. The horses’ hooves sank fetlock deep in a wet carpet of fallen leaves. Their nostrils steamed in the watery air.
The temperature dropped steadily as the day waned. Pliny shivered and felt the breath congeal in his lungs. His uncle had died from a weakness of the lungs. It was a deadly family infirmity that he had inherited. Maybe he should listen to the others and turn back, the weather might clear tomorrow. But then the leather merchant’s wife might have time to warn her kinsmen. No. Press on.
***
Calpurnia stood in the middle of the dining room, supervising the fresco painters who were reproducing her sketches on the wall panels. The shutters shook as gusts of wind hurled the rain against them. Ione, at her side as always, studied her with an appraising eye.
“’Purnia, this is your chance.”
Calpurnia pushed back a tendril of hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Add more cinnabar, Lysias, I want a deeper red there.”
“It’s been nearly two weeks since you’ve seen Agathon. Four days since his slave brought you the letter begging to see you. Have pity on the boy. You could go to him today.”
Calpurnia turned on her savagely. “Stop this! I should have you whipped for talking like this.”
Ione regarded her steadily. “If it makes you feel better.”
“I threw the letter away and that’s the end of it.”
“If you say so.”
“Ione, please. I can’t. I can’t. Lysias, go away, take the others with you, we’ll start again tomorrow. Ione, you’re like Nemesis luring me to my doom.”
“I don’t know about that, I’m not an educated woman, but I know something about love.”
“Love! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I see you pining away before my eyes. My husband notices. So does yours.”
“By the gods, what would you have me do?”
“Only what you did before. Drink wine, laugh together, draw your pictures, maybe a small philema or two.” The Greek word for ‘kiss’ sounded somehow more innocent. “Nothing wrong in that.”
Calpurnia groped for a chair and sank into it with her face in her hands. She drew in a long breath through her nostrils and let it out slowly. “Could I? Could I, really?”
Ione pulled her mistress’ hands away and looked in her eyes, luminous with tears. “Poor ’Purnia. How long will you punish yourself like this? Come with me, now. I’ll bathe you and fix your hair and dress you—your saffron gown and the silver sandals, your amethyst earrings. I’ll make you so beautiful for him.”
The palace in which they lived was an ancient pile that sprawled over half an acre and much of it was empty and unguarded. At dusk they slipped out a door in an unused wing. Wrapped in their cloaks, the two women ran through the dark, rain-lashed streets. Calpurnia felt herself moving as in a dream, helpless as though some other will than her own were animating her.
“Hey, you there, stop!” A figure lurched out from the shadow of a doorway and blocked their path. “Come on, ladies, I pay you good. I like two at a time.” Dressed in dripping rags, the figure staggered toward them. They rushed past him, spilling him into the gutter. “Filthy whores!” he shouted after them. “Filthy whores!” They hurried on, missing a turn in the dark, groping their way back, coming at last to the steps that led up the hillside to the town house, treacherous in the dark and wet. Calpurnia slipped, bruising her knee. But the pain was nothing, she was at his door now. His door! Moments passed while she pounded on it. At last the housekeeper answered her knock and recognized her.
Leaving Ione in the entrance hall, Calpurnia followed the old woman into the megaron.
“Callirhoe!” Agathon turned in surprise and opened his arms wide. “I never hoped to see you again! You nearly missed me, I was just—”
“Going out?” She recognized his best cloak and tunic, smelled the scent in his oiled hair. “To spend the night drinking with your friends? I’m sorry, this was a mistake, I’ll go.” She heard the shrill accusation in her voice—like some shrewish