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other affectionately but without passion. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, and though each respected the other, their interests were almost in diametric opposition, Myrtale being as drawn to religion and scholarship as Petronius was drawn to entertainments and pleasures.
    "Nero is coming. I had planned an outdoor supper, nothing too fancy. There will be dancers to perform later, not Greeks, but new slaves from Hind.” He reached for his stylus, but only held it, and he made no move to pick up his tablet.
    "There is novelty there,” she said. “It would be to your credit."
    "So I've told myself,” he responded, not quite laughing. “If the festivities seem to end early, you will know that it did not go well."
    Myrtale studied her long, tapering hands. “Husband, I know you will do as you think best, and I am certain that you have not acted foolishly. However, if you are inclined, we may retire to my estate in Dalmatia, and give it out that I have been ill. I am not seen enough to have any doubt this.” She smiled, and her sober expression was transformed. “It might be best. You have wanted more time for writing."
    "I'll consider it,” he said, knowing he would refuse to leave. “I thought you ought to be prepared for unpleasantness, however."
    "It is kind of you,” she said again.
    "Since that revolt of Subrius Flavus has been stopped, Nero sees enemies in the branches of trees.” He put the stylus aside once more. “I can't blame him. They came very close. If he hadn't been warned..."
    His wife watched him. “Would that have been so terrible, to lose Nero? You have said yourself that he is not the man he was five years ago."
    "Oh, that's true enough. It saddens me. But I can't think we'd be better off with Gaius Calpurnius Piso wearing the purple. He's nothing more than a puppet.” He rose suddenly. “I must go. I can't imagine any god would favor me, but you might give an offering for me."
    Myrtale wanted to make light of his concern. “The Greek Dionysus might be appropriate. He is fond of ceremonies and performances and wine."
    "And madness,” Petronius said, looking away. “Don't be anxious, Myrtale. No doubt I'm allowing myself to magnify the situation. Forgive me for burdening you with my foolishness.” He stepped out of the room, unable to face her. What would become of her and their two children if he did indeed lose Nero's favor? He could not bring himself to think of it.
    He was almost at the garden gate when Artemidorus hastened up to him, a little flushed and out of breath. “Master. The slave has returned from Saint-Germain."
    Petronius paused. “And?"
    Artemidorus held out a little alabaster jar. “He says that half the contents mixed with wine should get you through the banquet."
    With a sense of relief far greater than such a minor consideration warranted, Petronius took the flask. At least he would not sneeze the evening away.
    "I've taken the liberty of sending for wine,” Artemidorus said, glancing toward the kitchen area at the back of the house.
    "Excellent.” For the first time in several days, Titus Petronius Niger dared to hope that the evening would not be a catastrophe.
    Most of the guests arrived late, but that was to be expected. Secundus Marcellus was the first to arrive, and he was annoyed to find only his host waiting. Within half an hour, most of the others had assembled, but no one dared suggest that the meal should begin, for the Emperor had not arrived.
    Saint-Germain came a little later than most of the guests, and he brought with him the three slaves from Hind, as he had promised.
    "A thousand thanks,” Petronius said.
    "For what? You knew I would bring the dancers.” He was magnificently dressed in a long robe of Persian design. The black silk of which it was made had been brought from the fabled lands to the east, and had taken more than a year to make its journey along the trade route that bore the name of the precious fabric, the Silk Road. Sumptuary