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the local senate, did not sully his hands with actual commerce, but worked through agents and freedmen, as did everyone. He and the senators held the city for Rome, and therefore deserved such rewards as they had reaped (although I was determined that there would be a clear accounting during my stay here), etc. etc. But they had incurred the wrath of the men of Juliopolis, their rivals for exactly the same avenues of commerce. The god of Juliopolis had an enormous member, Aper told us, snickering like a schoolboy, and was therefore identified with Priapus and the subject of “disgusting” rites.
    What precisely did L. Licinius Aper want from me which he was (even yet) not quite willing to state plainly?
    It became clear enough: He wanted me to contrive some sort of criminal charge and remove, or even have put to death, one Clodius Carus, his opposite number in Juliopolis.
    “A mere Greek,” Aper spat out in genuine repugnance—the first sincere utterance I had heard from him, the rest being like the recital of a bad actor. Arpocras drew breath sharply. Our host had obviously forgotten him entirely.
    “Not a Roman at all, despite his Latin name, which he surely stole,” Licinius Aper went on, “a wretched provincial scoundrel who desires to destroy my wealth, discredit me in the eyes of the emperor … I am certain, Sirs, that he means to commit some outrage very soon. I thank the gods for your fortunate arrival so that you might thwart his evil schemes.…”
    * * * *
    Eventually we escaped Aper’s hospitality and retired.
    “But of course, of course, you have had a long journey,” he babbled on and might have spoken volumes more if our own slaves hadn’t closed protectively around us to attend to our needs.
    I was able to confer briefly with Pudens and Arpocras.
    “What do you think?” I said.
    Pudens rolled his eyes heavenward as if he were about to faint, then laughed softly.
    Arpocras said, “Did you mark how he said ‘ my enemies ’ and ‘ my wealth ?”
    “I did. This is some selfish, petty matter, then, not of larger political import—”
    “It could be both, Sir.”
    Verily possibly he, too, spoke prophetically.
    I had barely gotten to sleep when the cries of the “outrage” were upon us. There was a great commotion outside in the street. Someone was pounding on the front door. Our host’s slaves were up and about, and then so were Arpocras, Pudens, and myself. We had barely emerged from our rooms when an obviously aroused and possibly frightened Licinius Aper lumbered upon us, blubbering, wringing his hands.
    “It is as I predicted, Sirs. I fear that it is. An outrage. A blasphemy! It is the work of my enemy, I am sure, to discredit and destroy our city—”
    For the first time he said our rather than my , as if the catastrophe, for the first time, applied to more than himself.
    “What has happened?” Servilius Pudens demanded, speaking for all of us.
    “It’s so—so—incredible—!”
    Licinius Aper could have gone on for enough to fill twenty pages without saying anything, if I were to report his speech exactly, so I must condense his matter: it seemed that the goddess Venus of the thousand breasts, the very one we had let pass in the street upon our entry to the city, had vanished.
    “But that’s absurd,” said Arpocras. “Half-ton marble goddesses don’t just disappear! ”
    Aper leaned forward, as if to deliver his lines in a bad stage-whisper, “They say that she walked. The temple suddenly filled with an unnatural light. She struck down her priestesses, and walked out of the temple, into the night! The people are terrified, Noble Sirs, as you can well imagine. For myself, I don’t know what to think—”
    “But you think it might have something to do with the schemes of your enemy, Clodius Carus,” I said, attempting to organize his thoughts.
    He stopped, startled, as if the idea had not occurred to him. If so, he was stupider than he looked. If not, his acting was