wife. Of course, he had his own life. What did she think?
He stood back and smiled his crooked smile. “You’ve saved me from an evening of dissipation with dull companions, for which I thank you. Don’t be angry. It’s you who have avoided me, you know. What has changed your mind?”
What could she say? That she was a desperate, foolish woman? That her own maid had persuaded her to do what she knew she mustn’t? That she loved him to distraction and was past caring what happened? All she could do was look at him with pleading eyes.
Agathon saw her confusion. He took her hand and drew her down onto a chair and sat beside her. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here. Baucis,” he turned to his housekeeper, “bring us wine and something to eat. Give the excellent Ione something too. I see her lurking there in the doorway.”
Calpurnia drank off her cup in one draught and poured another. She needed it for courage. She had made up her mind.
“Steady now,” Agathon laughed. “I don’t want to have to carry you home tonight.”
“I needn’t go home tonight.” It was the merest whisper.
He raised an eyebrow. “Your husband’s away again?”
She nodded.
“For how long this time?”
“I don’t know.”
“And so you…?” He drew closer to her. “Are you sure, my love? Are you quite sure?”
She filled her hands with his hair and kissed him with a passion that was close to anger.
And now he had picked her up, and now he was carrying her up the stairs to his bed chamber, and now his breath was on her cheek, his weight pressing on her, his hands under her gown…
“May as well finish off this wine, then.” Baucis eased her old bones down onto Agathon’s chair and motioned Ione to the other one. “Not a wise woman, your mistress. She’s laying up a store of misery with that one. I’ve known him since he was a baby.”
“We women are never wise,” Ione smiled over her wine cup.
“And you’re playing a risky game too, my girl. This could all come crashing down on your head.”
“I’m only a servant, I do what I’m told.”
The old woman leaned close and gave her a searching look. “I’ve been a house slave all my life and I’ve seen more than one pretty young thing like you come to grief. They meddle in their masters’ affairs for many reasons—idleness, wantonness, ambition, jealousy, vengeance. I wonder which is yours.”
Ione met her gaze with a face like a mask, revealing nothing. “You think too much, old woman.”
***
They descended on the village at nightfall like an attacking army. Pliny was no soldier, he left such things to Aquila, who only knew one way to deal with barbarians. The village was a haphazard sprawl of thatched huts, huddled around a muddy clearing and surrounded by a flimsy palisade of wattles. The troopers burst through, yelling and brandishing torches, kicking in doors and dragging people out. Amid the screams of women and children, the bleating of goats, and the honking of geese, they shouted commands in Latin to frightened, uncomprehending faces.
Eventually, they identified the village headman, a skeletal old man who looked ready to fall down with fright. The leather merchant, who was looking unhappier by the minute, pointed out the two men, a father and son, who had brought him the saddle. They were hanging back in the crowd, trying not to be noticed: it was obvious why the Romans were there. Pliny and his officers crowded into the headman’s hut to be out of the rain while the troopers stationed themselves around the palisade. The headman understood a few words of Greek and the leather merchant spoke a little of the country people’s dialect. In this way Pliny interrogated the two.
While out hunting, they said, they had found two tethered horses in a wooded clearing. They saw no sign of the riders, they hadn’t killed them, they swore it by all their gods. When they saw the horses, they couldn’t believe their good fortune—these were fine animals, especially the grey with the beautiful saddle. Yes, the horses were here, with the one saddle which wasn’t so fancy. They were sorry. They begged for their lives.
Chapter Thirteen
The 11th day before the Kalends of November
The fifth hour of the day
Pliny rubbed his chin, which now bore a two-day stubble, and tried to think philosophical thoughts of patience and self-control. But the waiting was hard. He and Postumius Marinus, sat on camp stools in an army tent