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brass lorica and helmet with a broad, dyed horsehair fan atop it, was stopping every person departing the city, asking names and destinations, and occasionally ordering his scribe to make notes.
    “I am Pax Ignatia Laelius, I live in the Via Decius Claudii on the Esquilinus Hill,” she said when it came her turn to speak. “This is my slave Philius. We are bound for Villa Ragoczy, beyond your camp.”
    “The foreigner’s estate; the one with the fine gate and fences. I know it,” said the centurion. “Why do you seek him?”
    “To summon him to treat my mother, who is an invalid,” said Ignatia. “There is some urgency.”
    “Be sure you return through this gate, and if you delay very long, I must have the scribe make note of it,” said the centurion.
    “Of course,” said Ignatia, and nodded to Philius. “Drive on.”
    The road beyond the walls was also busy, but not as much as the city streets had been; bigae and chairs carried merchants to and from the broad field where their large carpenti were left for the day, and sellers of fruits, meats, and flesh held the sides of the road, crying their wares. Philius avoided the greatest crush, and turned on the Via Cingula, then whistled his pair up to a trot and held the gait for the next thousand paces. They soon reached the Via Prenestina, and headed northeast past the Praetorian Camp. The wind picked up and the rain fell harder.
    “The road to Villa Ragoczy is not far ahead. There is a stout wooden gate at the entrance,” said Ignatia.
    “I remember,” said Philius. “I will find the place.”
    “Excellent,” Ignatia approved shakily. She was so cold that her teeth had started to chatter and she was shivering, both of which mortified her: to show such weakness in front of a slave! She would not know what to say to her mother if Philius should speak of it among the rest of the household. Gathering her paenula more tightly around her, she pulled the hood even farther forward and did her best to keep her teeth clamped.
    “This is the turn, I am certain,” said Philius, slowing the pair to a walk and preparing to leave the well-paved road for a graveled one. “Best hang on with both hands, Doma.”
    “That I will,” she said, doing her best to keep from being thrown off-balance as the biga jounced onto the loose river stones that paved the road leading to the entrance to Villa Ragoczy. She noticed that the stones had been tended recently, and this calmed her a bit, for it made the chance of an accident less than it would have been on an ill-kept road.
    “The stables here once housed over a hundred horses, or so I was told when we came here in November,” said Philius. “Now there are only forty or so.”
    “Many breeders have reduced the size of their stables,” said Ignatia as if she had to convince herself of this accepted fact.
    “Do you suppose the taxes are the reason?” Philius asked. “Your uncle reduced his herd because of taxes.”
    “I have no idea. I am not in Sanct-Franciscus’ confidence,” said Ignatia stiffly; her paenula was flapping open, so she took hold of it with one hand and resigned herself to having to struggle to stand.
    At the gate Philius drew up, securing the reins around the brake-handle before he stepped down to approach the gate. “I will summon the warder,” he said.
    “Very good,” Ignatia said automatically.
    “You there!” came the shout from beyond the gate. “State your name and purpose here.”
    “I am Philius, the slave of the Laelius household. I bring my mistress, Doma Ignatia, daughter of Domina Laelius, to speak with the foreigner Sanct-Franciscus.” His voice carried well against the wind.
    “You are welcome,” the warder announced, and drew back the heavy wooden bolt that secured the gate. “Enter, and take your biga around to the west side of the main house. One of the household will meet you there to guide you in the villa.”
    “Thank you,” said Ignatia; a moment later Philius climbed