“What are you reading?” he asked. Best to get her in a good mood before asking for her help.
“Catullus left some poems for me when he was here earlier.”
Aelius frowned. “I know the sort of filth he writes. He should not be giving that sort of thing to another man’s wife.” Catullus’s penchant for flirtation knew no bounds.
Crispina flipped one piece of papyrus to the back of the sheaf. “It’s not like that. He asked for my help. He knows I have an ear for poetic meter.” Her eyes skimmed over the poem in front of her. “He keeps using dactyls where there should be spondees, and there are extra feet all over the place.” She pursed her lips. “Really, he should be ashamed to call himself a poet.”
None of this made any sense to Aelius, but that didn’t lessen his admiration. Crispina could discuss history, debate politics, and critique poetry. He would have to get Catullus to teach him some basic concepts of poetry so he could hold his own with her in discussion.
He placed the letter on a table. “I have a favor to ask.”
She glanced up from her reading. “Yes?”
He hesitated. This was the first time he would explicitly ask anything of her, and he had a feeling she wasn’t going to like it. And when Crispina didn’t like something, she made her displeasure clear.
“You must know this incident”—he gestured to his bruised face— “has severely damaged my hopes of winning the election.”
She looked away and nodded, her expression inscrutable.
“There is a way to fix things. I have written to Rufus.”
She straightened up. “Why?”
“He knows as well as I do that we have both doomed ourselves. I—”
“This is his fault, not yours,” Crispina snapped. “He was the one spewing insults.”
“I shouldn’t have laid hands on him,” Aelius said. “No matter how much he deserved it.”
Crispina’s lips tightened, but she offered no retort.
“As I was saying, I have written to Rufus. Suggesting we do something to restore both our reputations. Specifically, a mutual public apology. If the whole city is talking about our fight, they’ll be paying attention if we are seen to be civil to each other.”
Crispina returned her gaze to the poetry, her brow furrowing as she considered. He wondered if she would poke apart this proposal as she had his political ideas. But soon, she nodded. “It could work. But what does this have to do with me?”
“Rufus’s insult was against you,” Aelius said. “The people do not take kindly to slandering a respected wife. Thus, I would like you to come with me and allow Rufus to apologize to you.”
She frowned. “Why should I forgive a man who insulted me before the whole city?”
“You don’t have to forgive him,” Aelius said. “Just be seen to accept his apology.”
She glared at him, jaw tense. “I don’t like being made into a spectacle.”
“Neither do I.” He crossed around the bed to stand before her. She gazed up at him, and suddenly he was back in the bathtub, her perfumed scent surrounding him, his hands twined with the silk of her hair.
He cleared his throat. Now was not the time to lose himself in fantasies. “Will you do this for me?”
She glowered down at the poetry for a moment. “Will it help you beat him?”
“I think so.” As things stood now, neither he nor Rufus had any shot at winning one of the ten tribune seats.
“Then yes, I suppose.” She set her jaw, distaste written all over her face. “When is it to happen?”
Relief and surprise mingled at her acquiescence. He had worried she wouldn’t cooperate. After all, accepting an apology from someone who insulted her had not been stipulated in their agreement. “Next week. Once our faces heal and we become more presentable.”
“Good. I’ll need time to practice looking forgiving.” She turned back to her reading, and Aelius undressed for bed.
On the day of the apology, Crispina wore her brightest clothing, a stola of scarlet topped with an orange palla. She loaded her fingers, wrists, and ears with gold jewelry. If she was going to make a spectacle of herself, she might as well give the people something to look at.
