The Bull Slayer

CHAPTER Seventeen

The 6th day before the Kalends of November

The eighth hour of the night

She slipped out of bed silently, careful not to wake him. She had lain awake for hours, writing and rewriting the thing in her head. She still didn’t know what she should say, only that she must say something. Taking a lamp, she crept out into the antechamber of their bedroom, sat down at the small table and opened the tabellae that lay on it, the waxed leaves smooth and ready for use. She bent her head low, twisting a lock of her hair in her fist, and made deep, almost savage strokes with the stylus. Finally, when she had filled up both leaves, she threw the stylus down. She tied the leaves tightly together and, moving noiselessly, barefoot on the cold marble floor, felt her way down the corridor to the room where Zosimus and Ione slept. She scratched at the door. Nothing. She knocked as loudly as she dared and finally heard a stirring within. The door opened and Zosimus’ bandaged head looked out.

“Matrona, what is wrong?”

“Fetch Ione, please.”

“But she’s sleeping.”

“Fetch her!”

A moment later, Ione appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. Calpurnia pulled her out into the dark corridor.

“Take this.” She thrust the tabellae into her hand. “As soon as it’s light you’ll carry it to Agathon’s house. “

“’Purnia, no! With your husband right here in the house? Have you lost your mind!”

“Do as I tell you.”

“Oh gods! I wish this had never started. It’s me who’ll suffer for it, Baucis was right.” She tried to push the tabellae back on her mistress.

“Obey me!” Calpurnia slapped her hard across her face.

The tabellae fell to the floor with a sharp clack that echoed in the silence. The two women stood face to face, panting, not speaking, Ione’s eyes wide with shock.

“I’m sorry, oh, I’m sorry.” Calpurnia threw her arms around her and buried her face in her neck. “But you’ll do it, Ione, you must. Here, hide it in your bosom, Zosimus mustn’t see.”

Ione closed the door and sank onto the edge of the bed.

“What did mistress want?” Zosimus asked. “Why, what’s the matter with you, you’re white as a ghost. What did she say to you? Tell me. I’m your husband, Ione, I insist.” He tried to put his arm around her but she shrank away.

“My husband. You poor man. It’s a poisoned gift you got when you were given me.”

It was as well that he couldn’t see the look in her eyes.

***

…what are you doing to me? Seven nights since I let you have everything you wanted from me and not a word from you. And then you dare to play that charade with my husband! What sort of man are you? No, forgive me. I love you too much. Have you poisoned me with a love philter? I won’t let myself believe that. I must see you. But if my husband invites you to the palace, I beg you not to come. I haven’t got your nerve, I couldn’t bear it. I’ll arrange something. Write back and say you love me. If you don’t, I’m afraid what I might do. Have pity on me.

Agathon finished reading and tossed the tablets aside. What had he gotten himself into? This was no longer amusing. He enjoyed taking risks, life was dull otherwise. Yes, talking to her husband was foolish but he couldn’t resist. If only she could be like him—enjoy a little something on the side now and then and let it go at that. But, of course, she was a woman, and women always take these things too seriously. Love potions, what nonsense! If he had a potion that would make her fall out of love with him, he’d pour a flagon of it down her throat. And what did she mean at the end? Was she threatening him? It was time to put a stop to this before he got himself into serious trouble.