As she worked, onlookers came and went but she became gradually aware of a young man who stood beside her, resting his weight on one muscular leg, his hip thrust out, his arms folded, his eyes moving up and down from the original to her copy.
He saw that she had noticed him. “The eyes,” he said. “Niobe’s eyes. The despair in them. The film of tears. How do you think he did that? Thin washes of wax layered on ever so carefully, don’t you think? Armenium, malachite for his pigments, but just a hint. Too much would spoil it. That’s how I’d do it, anyway. But, of course, I’d make a hash of it.” He smiled, showing a crooked front tooth.
She didn’t quite catch all of this, he spoke so rapidly. But it sounded impressive. Politeness required her to say something. “Are you a painter by profession, then?”
He made a wry face. “Me? I have no profession. My family owns land, quite a lot of it.”
She looked at him more closely now. How stupid to think he was a common artisan. His purple-bordered cloak and his rings were expensive. He was young, twenty perhaps, if that; clean shaven; oiled hair, black as ink and smelling of crocus, curling over his ears; nose and chin so finely sculpted that he might have modeled for Praxiteles himself; dark eyes under heavy black brows-they watched her with amusement.
He made her a small bow. “I’m Agathon, son of Protarchus, grandson of Neocles, great grandson of-I could go on but I won’t. You’ve probably heard of us.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well,” he laughed, “that’s to my advantage.” There was a pause. “And what shall I call you?”
“She glanced up at the painting. “Call me Niobe.”
“An ill-omened name for such a pretty woman.”
“You’re very bold.”
“It saves time.” His smile, mischievous, slightly mocking.
What presumption! It was time to put an end to this. “I expect your mother will be looking for you.”
“You see!” He snapped his fingers. “We’ve only just met and we’re already fighting like old friends.”
She wanted to escape but couldn’t see how to. She searched for something to say. “Diocles has made the city a wonderful gift-all this.”
“He can afford it.” This was said with knowing familiarity, one aristocrat of another. “You’re Roman, aren’t you? The accent. Your husband’s stationed here?” He had noticed her wedding ring.
And this was the moment at which she should have said, I am the wife of Gaius Plinius Secundus, governor of the province.
But she didn’t.
“We’ve only just arrived. You must excuse my Greek.”
“No one could excuse your Greek, but I can help you improve it, if you like.”
“Do you talk like this to every strange woman you meet?”
“No. Where did you learn to draw so well?”
And, to her surprise, she found herself explaining how she had loved to draw as a little girl. And then had seen some paintings in a little temple of Ceres near their estate and pestered her grandfather to buy her materials and an instruction book until he finally gave in. “And then, when I moved to Rome with my husband, oh! I went everywhere, saw everything. Myron’s Zeus on the Capitoline, Phidias’ Athena in the temple of Fortuna, paintings by Apelles in the temple of Diana…”
His mouth set in a thin line. The eyes were no longer laughing. She stopped, mortified. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-“
“Those pieces belong in Greek temples, lady, not Roman ones. To the victors belong the spoils. You looted them and took them back to Italy by the boatload, not because you care anything for art but only because they are worth money. Money is what you Romans understand. At least, you have the grace to blush.” The insolent boy was gone; instead an angry young man stood before her.
“You don’t-like us,” was all she could think of to say. A governor’s wife at a loss for words.
“You call us Graeculi-Greeklings.”
“I don’t.”
“But your husband and his friends do, don’t they?”
“They don’t mean anything by it.”
“No?”
“I’m sorry, I have to go.” She stood up, looking desperately around the hall for Ione and saw her some distance away. Her maid was out of earshot but she was staring at them with a quizzical arched eyebrow.
“No wait.” He reached out and touched her arm and a shock ran through her and suddenly she was overpoweringly aware of his scent and the heat of his body. “I’m behaving like a boor,” he said. “I find the one Roman in the world who cares for art and I attack her. I should be whipped.”
“Yes, well, no need for that. Look, I really must go, it’s gotten late, I have things-”
“Come again tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Well, look here, in your drawing. The hands aren’t quite right. Hands are tricky. Maybe we can fix them.”
“I really don’t think so. Goodbye, Agamemnon.”
“Agathon. Let my slave carry your things for you.”
“No, thank you, mine can manage.” He mustn’t find out where she lived.
“I mean it. Tomorrow.”
She fled.
In her room, Ione helped her unpin the top-heavy mass of curls from her forehead and unwind the chignon at the back. Calpurnia shook out her long, auburn hair. She breathed deeply, smiled.
“A glass of wine?” Ione held out the flagon.
“Please. And pour yourself one.” The misery that had seemed to crush her heart that morning was gone like the fading memory of a bad dream.
“He’s very good-looking.”
“He’s a boy. He made me feel like an old woman.”
“You look like anything but an old woman,” Ione laughed.
“And can you imagine, he invited me to go there again tomorrow.”
“And will you?”
“Of course not.”
But she did.
Two weeks later
The 5th day before the Ides of October
The tenth hour of the day
“If you keep fidgeting I’ll never get it right.”
“My neck is stiff.”
“Bah! I give up, I haven’t the talent. It would take a master to capture your beauty and I, alas, am only an amateur.”
“Let me see it.”
The slanting rays of the afternoon sun sifted through the branches of the plane tree in the garden of Agathon’s town house. Water plashed softly in the fountain, somewhere a bird sang. He turned the drawing board toward her and she saw herself staring back, as though she were looking at her reflection in a pool-the large eyes, the strong nose (too big! she always thought), the wide mouth and rounded chin. The long neck.
“You have more skill than you give yourself credit for. If someone were to recognize me in this…You won’t show it to anyone will you?”
“I promise. Only I will gaze at it when you’re away from me. I love you.”
“Liar.” But she was smiling. This handsome boy did love her and the knowledge of it excited her more than she wanted to admit.
“And I will call it ‘A Portrait of Callirhoe’.” This was his love name for her. “You deserve a name of your own,” he had said on the second day they spent together. “A name that means something. What does Calpurnia mean except that you belong to your father’s clan.” Callirhoe-beautifully flowing. It was the name of the heroine in a romantic novel that everyone was talking about that summer. He had given her a copy, which she was working at in spare moments, though the Greek was hard.
“Say my name again,” she said.
“Callirhoe.” It did flow beautifully.
“Drink some more wine.” He filled her cup.
“You’ll make me drunk. I never get pissed at home.” She used the low, slang word.