XXX: The Colloquies: First Arrivals

Dust gathers on the road as four black steeds trample into view. Their burden is a wooden carpentum with four iron-ringed wheels and the cross-swords of Mars painted upon both its window shutters.

A nod from the Servian Lord brings out the day’s groomsmen, a chatty pair of teenagers wearing their warmest best. The young men corral the panting beasts, promising them fresh water, plentiful lucerne, and a soothing brush—they deserve all of it and more after such a laborious journey from Bellagio.

The carpentum door swings open, liberating a bearded Planus Caesar who stinks of dandelion incense. His chestnut hair is too short for the wind to mislay, but his dark yellow tunica is fair game, whipping about harshly beneath a black bearskin toga.

“There she is,” Skipio teases. “Bellagio’s truest beauty,”

Planus bats his eyes playfully. “Have you missed me, Tribune?”

They embrace until Planus pulls away to study the taller man’s teal tunic.

“You know,” he says without humor, “that color went out with the warm weather,”

“Are you tired?” Skipio cocks his head. “You sound tired,”

“After a full day of sitting on what barely qualifies as a cushioned bench,” Planus gripes with both hands kneading his buttocks, “my best portions are desperate for a hot soak,”

Actus leaps out the opposite side door, clean-shaven and sun-kissed even in winter. The neck hole of his dull ochre tunic gathers around his throat thanks to the heavy duffle slung over his shoulder.

“My porter,” Planus announces. “Careful with my bag, or you get no tip!”

Actus flashes an angry stare before addressing Skipio as Servius Tribune.

“Stop calling me that,” Skipio scolds, gently shoving the man’s head.

Caeso and Optus relieve the newcomer of Planus’s burden. “I forgot how steep the road gets in these mountains,” says Actus, gazing at the majestic peak looming above them.

“Go inside,” Skipio orders fondly. “Get yourself something to eat,”

Actus gives a start before quickly jogging to the porch.

“Did you see that?” Skipio shakes his head. “You think he’s still chasing after Niko,”

“Our dear Actus has a rather full dance card these days.” Planus always knows more than he should.

“Did this Plinius fellow not ride with you?” Skipio asks, walking back to the carriage.

“Oh, he’s in there,” Planus explains. “And far wiser than me, having slept the entire trip on the baggage shelf,”

“A wise man? Good to hear.” Skipio notes his friend’s confusion. “My sister invited him without telling me, so I’m praying to Juno that she’s finally got marriage on her mind,”

“Marriage?” Planus laughs. “With little Pliny? I don’t think Juno’s listening, my friend,”

“Vita talks him up constantly, telling me he’s an excellent draftsman.” Skipio slaps away Planus’s effort to untie his summer tunic. “I couldn’t find his name on the guild list, though,”

“We’ve had him to the garrison with his uncle,” reveals Planus. “He’s made some excellent suggestions about the drains,”

“Solid designs?”

“Better than yours,”

“Excellent,” Skipio beams. “If he marries my sister, I’ll put him in the guild myself,”

“About that,” Planus warns. “Don’t get your hopes up,”

The carpentum door opens, and two boyish legs blindly seek the ground. Beneath a green toga and deep red tunic, yellow leggings gather above tiny sandaled feet.

“Surely you remember Plinius,” whispers Planus, watching the new arrival struggle with his arms full of scrolls. “He was born on this plantation,”

“Here?” Skipio asks.

Opiter Plinius faces his host, the mustache over his lacking upper lip too thin to be authentic. He removes his yellow hat, revealing a brownish bowl cut that rims the ears.

His airy voice comes on uncertain familiarity. “Servius Tribune, you’ve gotten taller.” He drops the scrolls and playfully taps his host’s brawny arm. “And thicker,”

Childhood memories seize Skipio. “Secunda Opita?”

The man wilts like a spring rose under the summer sun.

He clears his throat. “My name is Secundus Opiter Plinius,”

“I reacted the same way.” Planus puts an elbow on Skipio’s shoulder, then looks to Opiter. “Forgive us both our trespasses,”

“I haven’t seen you since you were,” Skipio lowers his voice. “Since you were a little girl, playing dress up with my sister,”

Opiter smiles politely. “That’s not me anymore,”

“Are you sure about that?” Skipio wonders in amusement. “I recall seeing you in my tunics, always playing legionnaire, husband, or king,”

Opiter smiles, his little teeth whiter than the clouds. “I didn’t know you were in the house when I visited, Skipio,”

“I got exiled to the village, but I saw you in my clothes and thought my sister had replaced me.” Skipio drapes his arm around the shorter man’s shoulders and walks him to the porch. “You were the only girl willing to play the boy,”

Planus points to Opiter’s scrolls and bag, sending Caeso into action.

“This made him extremely popular with the other girls,” Skipio adds as Planus joins them.

“It was the same for me, Opiter,” boasts Planus.

“Yes,” says Skipio. “During drills, our Planus always played the damsel in distress,”

“The wig made me shine,” Planus muses.

“I required no wig,” Skipio brags, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“No,” Planus sighs. “Your face was always too pretty,”

“I assure you, Legate and Tribune,” Opiter laughs. “I no longer dress up for playing,”

Skipio gives him a silent inspection. “First, call me Skipio, and him, Planus,” he orders, arms folded. “Next, tell me, when did you leave the village?”

“About a year after your departure,” Opiter says. “My father had passed, and your mother wasn’t keen on paying mine his pension, so she took me to Bellagio to live with her family,”

“My mother was of poor character when it came to such things.” Embarrassment colors Skipio’s shorn head. “Your family deserved better. You will not leave here tomorrow without what you’re owed,”

“It’s in the past, Skipio,” Opiter assures, following him to the porch.

“Not for me. Your father taught me so much during my time in the village,” Skipio climbs the stairs. “I was sad to hear of his passing when I returned,”

The beautiful village triplets greet them, buckets of warm water at their feet and drying rags tied to their waists.

“This is Apollonia, Agata, and Aricia.” Skipio extends his arm to the benches, and when Planus and Opiter sit, two of the teenage women fall to their knees and begin removing their leather-capped sandals.

“There’s always an Apollonia,” says Planus, making the girl beside them smile.

“We grow apples,” Skipio says, crossing his arms. “It’s as predictable as rain,”

Opiter laughs. “Are they sisters?”

“No,” Planus says. “They look exactly alike because they have the same mother,”

After laughing, Opiter addresses his host.

“I was sorry to hear of Lady Scipia,” he says. “My condolences,”

Skipio nods. “Is your mother still in Bellagio?”

“She passed last summer,” says Opiter. “While I was still in Rome,”

His eyes widen. “Rome?”

“First, I went to Mediolanum but couldn’t be myself there, so I went to Rome.” Opiter giggles as the girl begins washing his feet. She smiles up at him, leaning over with her large breasts on display. “I became the man I always was,” he mumbles, looking away. “And after that, got my education,”

“Tell him where you studied,” Planus says, ignoring the girl washing his feet.

“I apprenticed under Apios,” says Opiter.

“The foreman for Gaius Pormer?” Skipio comes closer. “Did you get to meet Pormer?”

“Very briefly,” Opiter giggles again as the bosomy girl begins drying his feet with a warm, lemony rag. “He’s a strange man. Drinks his own piss,”

Planus and Skipio share a laugh before Planus tugs at Skipio’s toga.

“You need to get inside and change this,”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“It’s a bit out of season,” Opiter says after a look from Planus.

Skipio says, “I searched for you on the guild rolls, Plinius,”

“You’ll never find my name there.” Opiter stands and steps into the soft sandals set out for him. “The esteemed Tiberius Jeventius tells me there’s no place for a woman in any guild unless it’s for prostitutes,”

Skipio winces. “What?”

“He said that?” Planus gasps, his washed feet wiped dry.

“Not that he deserves a defense, but his words came from a righteous point of anger.” Opiter pulls a candied date from his toga and hands it to the girl. “He spent months trying to marry me to his daughter, Mucia the Younger,”

She takes the ripe round fruit, looks him in the eyes, and shoves it into her cleavage.

“Agata,” Welle appears on the porch, clothes draped over his arm. “Stop tarting,”

“Not tarting,” she mumbles, cleaning up her towels.

“Lord Skipio.” Welle offers pale brown pants and a dark blue tunica. “Lady Vita has asked that you wear this with your golden toga,”

“At least someone in this house is fashionable,” teases Planus.

“Your toga hangs in your office.” Welle lends a cordial smile to Planus before something makes him frown. “Get that thing out from between your tits, Agata, or they’ll be stuck together by nightfall,”

“Opiter,” Skipio says, changing out of his clothes on the porch, much to the triplets’ interest. “You could’ve told Jeventius that you preferred men,”

“It’s worked for Skipio and me thus far,” Planus nods.

“It’s worked better for Planus,” Skipio adds as Welle returns with the toga and drapes it over his shoulder. “No one seems to care about my tastes. I got at least ten invites from men looking to marry me off to their daughters, and I’ve only been home a week,”

“I had employed that strategy first, but Jeventius didn’t seem to care.” Opiter lowers his voice. “He told me to procure myself a Ganymede but never tell his daughter,”

Skipio’s eyes roll, and Welle sucks his tongue.

Planus’s mouth drops. “A true phallus with feet,”

Welle laughs, “I’ve missed your wit, Lord Planus,”

“And I’ve missed your smile,” he counters.

Welle turns serious. “You’re too familiar, Lord Planus,”

“I’m not your lord,” he says softly. “I’m your friend,”

A little serving girl emerges from the foyer carrying a silver tray of fruit and nuts.

“Are these mandarins from the east?” Skipio asks her.

“Mister Actus brought them for his uncle,” the girl lights up at his attention but then whispers. “But don’t ask me anything more because I’m to serve and stay quiet,”

Welle beams down at her and winks. “I must know, Lord Opiter,” he then asks. “What did this Juventius do when you told him his terms weren’t acceptable?”

“He didn’t quite believe me,” Opiter whispers. “Until I showed him.”

“Showed him what?” asks Welle.

Planus gently takes Welle’s arm. “Our dear Opiter was born with the wrong body,”

“Oh,” Welle says, glancing down to the man’s crotch. “Forgive my rudeness,”

“I am not offended,” says Opiter. “And please leave off the Lord when addressing me,”

“It’s a force of habit around Romans,” Welle says.

“There are no Romans,” Opiter grins. “Outside of Rome,”

“Don’t let that rumor get started,” Planus laughs.

“Opiter,” Skipio finishes the orange and begins sucking his fingers. “Surely you have something in your pants for when you’re out and about,”

Welle gives a start as Planus groans, “Why would you ask that?”

“I’ve met plenty of men with slits in the brothel,” Skipio defends. “And they’ve always got a phallus to call their own, somewhere nearby,”

“I showed old Tiberius mine,” Opiter lowers his voice, mindful of the child. “After he realized it couldn’t give him grandchildren, he had me physically tossed out of his house,”

“Tiberius?” Welle says. “Are we talking about Tiberius Jeventius?”

“Shit on a rope,” Skipio declares, and the little girl chuckles.

“Do not repeat that,” Welle whispers, sending her back inside with a gentle push.

“That bastard’s coming here tonight,” adds Skipio.

Opiter nods, “Vita warned me,”

“That old fart better mind himself,” Planus announces. “Or we’ll be tossing him out the door,”

“Not tonight,” Skipio advises. “I need that old fart for now, but once I’m done with him, we’ll get Opiter here some righteous justice,”

Planus joins him in some devious laughter. “We must make sure it happens in Comum,” he says, hands rubbing together. “When all the women are in the marketplace,”

“Oh yes, and I know just the thing,” Skipio says, taking his arm and walking him inside.

“Um, no,” Opiter follows them, mandarin in hand. “None of that is necessary at all…”

**

Snow white clouds grace the fresco’s blue sky, where tiny birds flock, each a delicate paint stroke that gives no detail to their name. Three walls hold up this seaside sky, with blackened sands and rocky shores that host women frolicking about in their athletic unmentionables.

The gynaeceum at Villa Servi lacks a fourth wall, but with its bushy head, the stone pine growing in the peristyle below affords some much-needed privacy.

Under her tunica, a skilled tongue performs feats she thought only possible with Illeana, her lady friend in Comum. She pulls her hem upward, exposing his black hair. From her honeyed nest, his eyes regard her boldly. Wet with longing, their narrow shape differs greatly from those of the man who broke her.

Apollo’s chariot approaches, and she brings a hand to her mouth before its heat races through her. She whines softly, waves of delight cresting. She closes her thighs on instinct, trapping his head until strong hands steady her at the waist.

Then, as her happiness settles, Actus Ursius stands over her, face twisted with fierce determination while crudely finishing himself upon her feet. An idiotic smile comes before he struts to the water bowl, his taut buttocks bouncing.

Vita rises from her mother’s birthing chair, a cushioned wooden stool with a missing center big enough for a hungry lover’s head. Water splashes as he cleans his face and whatever else he sees fit.

“Is your sister coming with Titus?” she asks.

“Yes.” Actus grabs a clean towel from the linen shelf. “She didn’t want to, but Titus convinced her,”

“Why wouldn’t she wish to come?” Vita takes it from him. “Does she bear me ill will?”

“No, not at all.” He watches as she cleans her feet. “Maxima said you were always the best charge in her care,”

Vita tosses it aside before grabbing another. Dipping it in the water bowl, she wipes her underarms as Actus embraces her from behind and kisses her neck.

“I’m done with you, don’t,” she scolds, swatting him away.

His broad shoulders jump in acquiescence before seeking out his clothes.

“It’s not you,” he says, fastening his loin cloth. “Maxima’s a married woman now, and that’s bred some resentment,”

Vita slips the damp towel under her tunica. “Resentment?”

“The marriage is strictly business as far as our fathers are concerned,” he explains, watching her wipe dry, “but Titus cannot keep his hands off of her, and her being elderly, well, that makes the younger women jealous,”

“Juno’s tits,” says Vita. “She’s not that old,”

“My sister is a year shy of forty.” Actus adjusts his tunic before finding his sandals. “You know, before her last husband died, she bore him no children,”

“There are people who don’t want children.” Soulful eyes find her when she explains, “I’m one of those people,”

Actus sighs. “But you’re beautiful,”

“What does that have to do with it?” She adjusts her breasts with a push and some tugs.

“The loveliest of the female species should always make more of her sort,” he tells her.

Vita stares at him. “I liked you better when you had a mouthful of my cunt,”

Snorting horses and whining wheels bring her to the front window.

“Bye Jove,” she gasps, investigating. “Who builds a carpentum that big?”

“That’s one of those Roman models.” Actus comes up behind her. “Top of the line and very pricey,”

“I’m shocked no one robbed them on the Regina,” says Vita.

A couple emerges before the porter can open their door.

“That’s the new public works man, Marcus Nautius,” she adds.

The beardless man is a balding sort whose potbelly tents the front of his bronze-colored tunic. His toga matches the purple tint in his tall wife’s hair, which is the same shade as her dress and leggings.

Actus asks, “Is that Decima Braccus?”

“Decima Nautia these days,” she speaks of the long-legged woman. “She got her hooks in him the minute he showed his face in Comum,”

“Where’s he from?” he asks.

“Marcus hails from Mediolanum,” she says. “He had to relocate here after Lucius Piso failed to arrive,”

“Piso’s dead,” he huffs.

Vita confronts him. “Does my brother know?”

“Your brother was there when it happened,” he tells her. “Castor Junius got the retched Owl worked up into a jealous fit, and when the Owl tried running back to Britannia, your brother caught up with him,”

“How did Lucius get involved?”

“Skipio and his Owl fought in the brothel, and the Owl used Piso as a hostage.” Actus winces. “Cut his throat clean through when Skipio wouldn’t back down,”

“And my brother didn’t kill the druid?”

“He wanted to,” Actus grins. “Luna wouldn’t have it,”

Vita ruminates fondly on the beast interfering with her brother’s will. His insistence that the druid is nothing more than a mere prisoner no longer rings true—not that it ever did since his return.

“I recall reading about how Luna ended up stolen by Aedan,” she whispers.

“Whose Aedan?” asks Actus.

Below, another patrician couple emerges from the carriage, aging types with their noses high and their jewel-tone frocks heavy.

“Who invited that cockhead?” groans Actus.

“That cockhead leads the draftsman’s guild.” Vita then smiles. “My brother needs his planners, but little does he know I’ve invited one of the best draftsmen north of the Po,”

“He even brought his bitch wife,” his breath warms her ear. “Whenever your family stayed in Comum, we would play around the pier fountain. Once, her son joined us and invited us to their domus. She wouldn’t let me in, my eyes made her uncomfortable,”

“She said that? How horrid.” Vita studies his handsome face. “What did Skipio do?”

“He wouldn’t go inside,” Actus grins. “He told her she was the ugliest woman he ever met and couldn’t risk the sight of her giving him nightmares,”

Vita laughs heartily as they watch a third man emerge wearing the finest amber wool tunica and a mossy green toga.

“Oh no,” she exclaims. “Who invited that two-footed phallus?”

“Pontius Persius owns all the quarrymen in the Triangle,” says Actus.

She hugs herself. “I avoided him after getting my womanly gown,”

“He still likes to grab at the ladies,” he tells her. “Even his own,”

The turkey-neck Pontius takes hold of a ring-laden hand that reaches out of the carriage. It belongs to an attractive young woman with inky hair and a painted face.

“Someone finally married Claudia Fabia,” Vita says, admiring her pearly blue dress.

Actus peers down. “She’s got tits smaller than my mother.”

Vita turns on him with troubled eyes.

“What?” he defends. “All men know their mother’s tits,”

“Yes,” she scolds. “But they don’t mention them in casual situations,”

“Is that what we are?” Actus inches closer. “A casual situation?”

“Extremely casual,” Vita gazes into his rugged face. “So casual it’s a situation that’s never being repeated,”

Actus pouts. “Was I that bad?”

“No,” she says. “Apollo’s chariot moved through me,”

“My tongue could tell,” he brags.

“I wouldn’t fake it if it hadn’t,” she assures. “If you weren’t moving me, Actus, I would just ask you to stop. Time wasting is intolerable,”

“You sound like that blond Gaul of yours,”

Vita turns cheerful. “Do I?”

“Was I at least better than Illeana Antonia?”

Vita stares into him, her blood cold and her skin growing hot.

“Oh, come now, everyone knows about you and Illeana,” laughs Actus. “She wrote her husband, Leo, very detailed accounts,”

“You read these letters?”

“Not me,” Actus says, moving to the door. “Planus read them. No one reads out loud better than Planus,”

“Out loud?”

“Most infantrymen cannot read,” he explains. “They rely on men like Planus to read their letters,”

“Did my brother hear these letters?”

Actus thinks about it for what feels like an eternity. “No,” he says, head swinging. “Skipio doesn’t like stories about girls,”

“I’m going down to greet my guests,” she announces, pushing past him.

“Wait, has he,” Actus gently takes her arm. “Has he, asked after me?”

“Niko?” she says. “Not a word,”

“Well, of course, he doesn’t speak, does he?” he falters. “I mean, has he seemed excited about my being here?”

Vita cannot believe the temerity.

“I know it’s been several years,” he adds.

“Yes, it has,” Vita nods. “Several years since you convinced him you loved him. Several years since you asked him to move in with you. Several years since you told him on the day of that move that he would be cooking in your mother’s house and not actually living with you,”

Actus balks, “He told you that?”

“No, Actus, he wrote it down,” Vita explains. “I read it because no one reads out loud to the house staff better than I do,”

Confident of his dour mood, she taps him on the nose with her finger.

“Don’t get caught up here,” she warns, bounding down the narrow stairs.

Vita whisks past her father’s former map room, now her brother’s drafting studio. She closes the door before stepping into the foyer. The greenest plants will soon be hidden behind hanging leather, and the impluvium will be drained of its mossy water.

At the little shrine to Minerva, she examines her appearance in its ashy glass mirror. A dark blue ribbon laces through her wheat-colored hair, and as she fluffs up the back of it with her fingertips, she hears Welle escort the trio of patrician women onto the porch.

Beyond his cordial banter comes the cracking of carriage wheels over granite. This carpentum is a modest cart—two wheels, one horse, no roof, but suited for an unpretentious man like Tullus Volinus.

A bearded alpine Roman, his type is common in the northern hamlets on the Lario. He slows his spotty horse with a tug of his beefy arm while his young, chubby wife clings giddily to him, her bright brown eyes marveling at the villa and its guardian mountain.

Tullus dismounts the driver’s seat as Skipio jogs toward him.

“Have the Servii invited plebes?” asks Mucia the Elder.

Skipio takes Tullus into a friendly embrace.

“Volinus now leads the masonry guild,” Decima tells her.

Mucia tuts. “They went through with that voting nonsense?”

“These days, their ranks are full of Gauls and Greeks.” Claudia takes her place on the bench between them and raises her foot for the washing girl. “With those sorts, voting is how things get done from here on out,”

“I heard that Volinus and Servius Tribune met in Comum as young men,” Decima says, and when Claudia and Mucia look at her, she adds, “Not like that,”

“Are we sure?” Claudia whispers. “Everyone knows of young Servius’s taste for Ganymede’s,”

“Do you think that Gaul from Britannia is here?” asks Mucia. “The murderous Owl?”

“Lord Skipio’s tastes aren’t a secret,” says Decima. “But Tullus apparently prefers women,”

Milky lace adorns her deep blue tunica, and as she’s helped down by her husband, the wind blows it aside, revealing leggings made of the same lace. Such an outdated ensemble would’ve been nostalgic with a snowy fox fur toga, but the orange fox hanging off her shoulders reveals little money in her purse.

Nona laughs when Tullus wraps his arms around her ample figure.

“It appears he prefers cows as well,” says Claudia.

Vita balls her hand into a fist and bites her tongue.

“That’s Nona Axsia,” Mucia declares, clutching the golden chain around her neck.

Claudia adds, “What in Juno’s name is she wearing?”

“Her mother is a seamstress in Mediolanum,” Decima whispers. “Her biggest client is that brothel at the northern gate,”

“In my day,” Mucia declares. “Such a pedigree would’ve invited no marriage offers,”

Decima waves at the portly girl. “My dear, come over and join us,”

“Must you?” Mucia hisses.

“We have to be polite to the plebes,” Decima says, shocked.

“Yes,” Claudia needles. “Times have changed since your day, Mucia,”

Nona climbs the stairs, her broad face offering the young foot-wash girls a smile. She greets Welle with a slight bow before addressing the three ladies on Vita’s porch.

“Hello,” she says. “My name is Nona Volina,”

“Volina?” huffs Murcia. “I thought it was Axsia,”

Nona’s hefty shoulders drop. “I’m married now,”

“My dear girl,” Claudia says. “Where did you get that dreadful frock?”

“It’s fine, sit down here.” Decima reaches for her. “We wouldn’t want such a frugal ensemble to be the first thing our hostess sees upon greeting us,”

“My mother made this,” Nona sits, crestfallen. “For my trip here,”

“Does she hate you, dear girl?” asks Claudia.

“Oh hush,” Decima chides the woman beside her and elbows the buxom Nona. “Let’s hope that Servius Tribune’s new project will afford your husband enough coin to purchase you something more fashionable,”

Welle excuses himself before his urge to speak gets the better. After that, Actus breezes past Vita in the foyer and steps onto the porch.

“Lord Ursius,” Nona smiles upon seeing him. “Is Lady Maxima inside?”

“She and Titus should be coming up the road any moment now.” He gives Nona’s hand a brotherly kiss. “You’re coming to the wedding, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes. I cannot wait.” Nona then thanks the girl for drying her feet before returning her attention to Actus. “I love a winter wedding,”

He nods to her and the other two, making it a point to ignore Mucia the Elder, before bounding down the steps to join Skipio, Planus, and Tullus.

“I prefer summer weddings,” says Claudia. “When Juno is at her finest,”

Decima wonders, “Does Juno preside over the weddings of widows?”

“That poor man.” Mucia sighs. “Can you imagine?”

“Titus Flavius is far too virile for a matron whose sun fell before I got my womanly gown.” Claudia thrusts her foot out at the washer girl. “Dry it quickly, I’m feeling a chill,”

“She couldn’t give her first husband a child,” Decima reveals.

Nona speaks up. “His first wife bore no children either,”

“Are you friends with her, dear?” Claudia asks, but her smile is not kind. She then rolls her eyes at the others when Nona pulls out a sachet of sugared almonds for the foot washer girl. “What did Titus Flavius do to deserve Juno’s wrath?”

“Juno’s got nothing to do with it,” Decima says, lowering her voice. “I heard it’s a marriage of interests,”

“Yes,” says Claudia. “But the Ursii have younger daughters,”

“Three, all born after Actus,” Decima reveals.

“Yes, but who wants a child with those eyes?” Mucia murmurs.

Anger sours Vita’s belly.

“I’d bear Titus Flavius a child,” Decima giggles.

“I wouldn’t bear a black man’s child,” Claudia asserts. “but I’d bed him,”

“Such talk,” Mucia cautions, leading the pair to laugh.

“I made those myself,” Nona says to the washer girl. “I remember my time washing feet and loved getting sweets from our master’s guests,”

“You must’ve been extremely proficient,” Claudia teases.

The washer girl, Apollonia, rises and presents her back to Claudia.

“How did you meet your husband?” she asks Nona.

“He came to Mediolanum last year,” she beams. “He’s from the Triangle,”

“Your match makes sense to me now,” Mucia quips. “He clearly knew nothing of your family when he proposed,”

Claudia poorly stifles a laugh while Decima turns her head to smile.

Vita brings her hands together and addresses the shrine’s little armored statuette.

“Minerva,” she begs. “Give me the strength not to slap anyone today,”