The Passion of Mary Magdalen. Elizabeth Cunningham

subtly encouraged people to be indiscreet.

      “Well, ladies, it’s about Libo.”

      “Which Libo?” someone asked. “Scipius Libo Bassanius?”

      Roman nomenclature was complex and burdensome, I found, worse than declaiming nine generations of lineage, and getting worse all the time as the Romans became more self-important.

      “No, cara, Marcus Scribonius Libo Drusus.”

      “Well, what about him? He’s always struck me as a bit of a nonentity.”

      “You can’t call the great grandson of Pompey a nonentity,” objected Agrippina.

      “And isn’t he related somehow to Scribonia, you know, the first wife of Augustus, when he was still called Octavian?”

      “Grand nephew, I believe. But, my dear, that’s not a connection to be mentioned in polite circles.”

      “That poor woman was maligned. Accused of moral perversity just because she objected to her husband’s mistress. I ask you,” said Maxima Fabia, a handsome woman who had managed to keep control of her own considerable wealth as well as her docile husband’s.

      “Well, it is perverse,” pronounced Faustina. “A wife’s duty is plain.”

      “Oh, yes,” ventured Paulina. “She has to put up with her husband’s adultery, but risk exile or death if she gets up to anything on her own.”

      There was an awkward silence. One or two women coughed discreetly. Everyone knew Paulina’s appalling family history, and everyone speculated, behind her back of course, about the condition of her marriage and morals. But it didn’t do to be too outspoken about your discontent.

      “Yes, well, as I was saying,” Agrippina resumed once everyone had registered Paulina’s gaffe and stored it up to use against her, “I have it on good authority—and of course I am not at liberty of reveal my sources—that Libo is about to be appointed Princeps Senatus.”

      There were various gasps and exclamations. I was indifferent. What did I care who headed the Roman Senate. It would make no difference to the condition of the slaves who carried the senatorial class on their backs.

      “Oh, now I know the one you mean,” Paulina caught on. “I sat next to him at a Lupercalia banquet. He’s cute.”

      There is no exact Latin equivalent for the word cute, but that was the sense. I was embarrassed for Paulina. I was pedisequa to a ditz. Then I was further horrified that I identified with her enough to wish she wouldn’t be such an idiot. I didn’t want to care.

      “Are you quite sure, Agrippina?” said Faustina. “Apart from his ancestry, I don’t see what he has to recommend him. The position requires age, experience, and of course, superior morals.”

      “There’s something more here than meets the eye,” quavered Drusilla Livilla, an old woman who seemed to be everyone’s mother-in-law but no one’s mother. She liked everyone to admire her perspicuity, though she didn’t usually follow up her clichés with any actual observations.

      “Well, I’ll tell you one person who won’t like it,” said Fulvia, whose other names I couldn’t remember. She was one of the younger wives, like Paulina.

      “Whatever can you mean, Fulvia? Don’t just hint about it,” demanded Agrippina.

      “Well, it’s no secret. The Emperor.”

      “Why, what could he possibly have against Libo?”

      “Don’t you know?” said Maxima. “Libo is always running off to astrologers and dream interpreters. Too un-Roman, darling,” she laughed. “Dear Tiberius,” she paused so that everyone could catch the note of intimacy. “He does rather have a bee in his bonnet about foreign cults.”

      “But everyone consults astrologers,” pointed out Agrippina. “Tiberius has his own astrologers on staff.”

      “But I have heard that Libo goes to extremes.”

      “We don’t want extremists heading the Senate,” croaked Drusilla. “Moderation in all things, as what’s his name said.”

      “Libo doesn’t just go to astrologers,” said Maxima. “He has a scribe by his bed in case he wakes up and remembers a dream. I have heard he goes to a dream interpreter in Jew Town.”

      I remembered my beloved’s story of Joseph sold by his brothers into Egypt who worked his way into the Egyptian elite with his astonishing ability to wrest messages from dreams. I began to pay more attention.

      “I will admit that I have heard rumors—and I am sure they are just rumors.” Faustina pretended reluctance. “I heard that he’s involved with that other Egyptian cult.”

      “Honey,” drawled Maxima. Only she would have the nerve to contradict Faustina. “Jews aren’t Egyptians.”

      “I didn’t say they were,” snapped Faustina. “All I said was, I believe Libo has been seen in attendance at one of those primitive Egyptian rites in one of those illegal temples. I’m sure it can’t be true. And you didn’t hear it from me.”

      “Jews, Egyptians. They’re all foreigners,” Drusilla condemned them roundly. “They should all be shipped to Sardinia.”

      “You can’t lump all foreigners together. It is really too ignorant of you,” said Fulvia with some heat. “And speaking of primitive rites, what about our own Roman practices? What about the cult of Bona Dea?”

      Here several dominae turned pinker than they already were from the heat of the caldarium. I had heard about Bona Dea from Succula. Twice a year the vestal virgins and society ladies honored their goddess in a drunken, ecstatic rite that culminated in the slaughtering of a sow. Men were strictly forbidden to attend, and when one snuck in, disguised as a female harpist, with the intention of debauching Caesar’s wife, there was a great scandal. Caesar—at the time Pontifex Maximus—divorced the woman pronto and made his famous mealy-mouthed statement, “The wife of the high priest must be above reproach.” Gag me.

      “Jews, on the other hand,” Fulvia went on earnestly, “are a very upright people. They don’t get divorced at the drop of a hat. They buy each other out of slavery. They are loyal to their religion. They send money to their Temple in Jerusalem no matter where they are. They have a very sophisticated system of moral law—”

      “Why, Fulvia!” Agrippina was shocked. “I declare you sound like a proselyte.”

      “If I am, I wouldn’t be the only one.” Fulvia was defiant. “You don’t have to be a proselyte to admire the Jews. Lots of the better class of Romans keep the Jewish Sabbath and some of the dietary laws. I haven’t eaten pork in a year. Pigs are dirty animals, if you think about it, scavengers. They eat anything. Ugh. That’s one reason I can’t abide the Bona Dea rites. The Jews have such a clean religion.”

      “Well, I never.” Drusilla filled the awkward silence with another meaningless expression.

      “You know,” mused Maxima, “if I was going to convert to an oriental religion I would go with the Egyptians. Worship of Isis offers a woman a great many advantages. If you don’t want to sleep with your husband, you can always say you’re doing one of the purification rites. On the other hand, if you want to step out on your husband, you can say you’re attending an all night ceremony.”