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without her husband’s boundless good humor and sociability to give her cover.
    “We’ve heard that you and your husband are on intimate terms with our emperor and his wife,” said Cassia brightly. What’s she like?”
    “Yes, tell us about Plotina,” the others chorused.
    “She’s very nice,” said Calpurnia.
    “And…?”
    “A very kind and sensible woman.”
    The wives couldn’t conceal their disappointment.
    “Well, what about him , Trajan?” Cassia pressed on. “People say he drinks too much and is too fond of little boys.”
    “People say a great many things they know nothing about,” Calpurnia replied. She knew she was handling this wrong, could see the resentment in their faces. Give them what they want , she told herself, be one of them, unbend. But she could not.
    Then Fannia, the wife of Caelianus, Pliny’s chief clerk, gave a little cough. “And how is your husband, dear? Have you heard anything from him?” Fannia was the closest Calpurnia had to an ally among this nest of bewigged and bejeweled vipers. Unfortunately, her husband’s status was lower than the other husbands represented here, and status, among them, was everything.
    “I’ve had one letter from him, a short one. He’s terribly busy.” Gods, how she missed him! She had written him four letters in the past week.
    “Enjoy it while you can,” said Faustilla, sucking her fingers. “Nymphidius hasn’t written me a single word. See if I care. He can stay away as long as he likes.” Her husband was traveling with Pliny.
    “You mean to say you don’t miss him at night?” This was Memmia, who had managed in the meantime to spill another glass of wine on herself. Her tongue darted out over her lips wickedly.
    “Why, the old man hasn’t had it up in years. And I’ve got my ‘pacifier’, if you know what I mean.”
    “Hush, Faustilla, you’re awful!”
    Faustilla was not to be deterred. Her old, pouched eyes twinkled. “Had it made for me years ago by a shoemaker. This long, thick as your wrist, stuffed with wool, leather as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Borrow it any time you like.”
    “Calpurnia, dear, excuse us, some of us aren’t fit company,” Atilia interrupted hastily. “And now, my dear, I’m going to presume on our short acquaintance.” She gestured for silence, turned to the others, and explained, “Calpurnia and I met quite by chance in front of the temple of Asclepius the day Pancrates returned and then again a few nights ago at Fabia’s. Well, ladies, I have a surprise for all of you—remember, Calpurnia dear, I told you I could arrange it. I daresay you didn’t believe me. I’ve asked Pancrates to join us here today. Oh, my husband and I know him well. He’s truly a marvel. And he’s so anxious to meet you, Calpurnia. He’s in the foyer now.”
    Before she could be stopped, Atilia was up and out the door. She returned a moment later with her prize. Calpurnia half rose from her couch in anger. How dare the stupid woman bring this charlatan into her home! But the wives gathered around him, all talking at once in happy wonderment. He ignored them all but, striding across the room to Calpurnia’s couch, he stood before her and inclined his head. She had had barely a glimpse of him that day when he entered the temple to the wild cheers of his devotees. She only remembered the snake with its glittering scales that enveloped his shoulders like some obscene garment.
    Now, at close range—and without the snake, the gods be thanked!—she saw him entire, and felt the force of the man. He was tall and dressed in a long-sleeved, unbelted tunic of some delicate white stuff that hung straight from his shoulder to his ankle. His black hair spilled in ringlets down his back, he had a hooked nose that curved toward his chin, his matted beard was streaked with gray. His complexion was swarthy like one of the southern barbarians (he accomplished this by staining himself with the juice of almonds) and, like them,