When a maid summoned me into her _tablinum_, I found her alone, seated in
her favorite lounging chair, charmingly attired and, I thought, more
lovely than I had ever seen her.
"Oh, Caia!" I cried.
She bridled and stared at me haughtily.
"'Vedia,'" if you please, she said coldly. "You have no manner of right to
'Caia' me, Andivius."
The distant formality of her address, her disdainful tone, the affront of
her words, chilled me like a dash of cold water.
"Caia!" I stammered, "Vedia, I mean. What has happened? What is wrong?"
For I could not credit that she would be incensed with me because of my
involvement in the affray in Vediamnum nor that she would condemn me
unheard, especially as Tanno had told me, in the Stadium of the Palace,
that he had taken care to call on Vedia, and give her his version of my
mishap.
She glowered at me.
"Your effrontery," she burst out, "amazes me. I am incredulous that I
really see you in my home, that you really have the shamelessness to force
yourself into my presence! It is an unforgivable affront that you should
pretend love for me and aspire to be my husband and all the while be
philandering after a freedwoman; but that you should parade yourself on
the high road with her all the way from your villa to Rome, with the hussy
enthroned in your own travelling carriage, is far worse.
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