do it. And come alone, Calpurnia. You won’t be afraid?”
“I’m not afraid of anything. Only that you won’t love me.”
“Now go, please.”
As the door closed on Calpurnia, Thais rushed out from her hiding place. “So that’s your Roman whore?” she screamed. “You poor man, I could hardly keep from laughing, listening to the two of you go at it.” She picked up a goblet and flung it at him. “You called her Calpurnia. I’m not stupid, I know who that is. Wouldn’t the governor just love to know—”
He hit her in the face with a blow that sent her staggering against the wall. He hit her again and she went down. “You say anything about her and I’ll kill you!” He dragged her to the door and threw her down the stairs.
Chapter Thirty-nine
The 6th day before the Kalends of December
Suetonius had promised himself that he would have no more to do with Sophronia, a woman too wily and amoral even for his jaded tastes. But her note had been urgent. And so he found himself again in her private office in the Elysium together with a weeping girl who would have been pretty but for a broken nose and swollen jaw.
“I don’t like it when people beat my girls,” Sophronia said. “This one is terrified, but I got the story out of her—all but the man’s name. You won’t like what you hear. What you do about it is up to you. I promise you she will tell no one else, nor will I.”
“At what price, madam?”
“That was uncalled for, my dear.” She looked at him reproachfully.
Minutes later, he was making his way back toward the palace, his features grim, his head in a whirl. He had devoted years of his life to chronicling, with sardonic wit, the moral lapses of the great and powerful. He had believed himself unshockable. He was wrong.
At the door to Pliny’s office, temporarily his own, he was met by a sentry who reported that Didymus’ wife and son were waiting on him. “They beg to have a visit with the prisoner, sir. They’ve brought him a change of clothing, some personal things.”
The wife, a stout woman shaped like a flour sack, the son, a younger version of his father, stood in the corner with downcast eyes. A bundle of what looked like rags sat on the floor at their feet.
If Suetonius had been less preoccupied he might have been more cautious. Instead, he waved them away. “Quarter of an hour, no more,” he told the sentry.
He sat down at Pliny’s desk and remained for a long time with his head in his hands. Finally, he fetched a long sigh, rose, and strode out. He would send a messenger after Pliny of course. But first, he would talk to Calpurnia. For the first time since joining Pliny’s staff he devoutly wished himself back in Italy.
But the lady was not in her apartment, or anywhere in the palace, and even Ione claimed to have no idea where she was.
***
A wintry sun winked through the lattice of naked branches above her head and lit the chuckling water of the river that ran beside the path. The forest floor was covered deep with pine needles and matted leaves so that her horse’s hooves made no sound. She breathed in deep lungfuls of the bracing air and shivered inside her heavy cloak—shivers of excitement, of the thrill of danger, of anticipation of the hours ahead with her lover. Not since she was a girl, roaming in her native north Italian hills, had she felt so free. In her whole adult life she had scarcely ever gone out without a train of maids and servants. Now she was that girl again and her heart sang with joy. She had been very careful, saying nothing to Ione and going before dawn to the stables, rousing the boy from his sleep, and giving him a silver denarius to buy his silence. And she wasn’t afraid of wild animals or brigands for she knew in her heart that Aphrodite, sweet goddess of passion, was watching over her. And now she saw the red cloth that he had tied to the branch to mark the trail for her. She turned her horse’s head and urged it up the steep track toward the distant ridge that people said resembled a reclining woman.
At the clearing she dismounted, spread her blanket roll on the ground and sat down to wait. It was early still. She hadn’t expected