And then finally the vividly painted and gilded atrium was empty save for Pompey. And Antistia. He came across to her. "Silly little kitten, you'll catch a chill," he scolded, and kissed her fondly. "Back to bed, my honey cake." "Can't I help you pack?" she asked, sounding desolate. "My men will do that for me, but you can watch." This time the way was lit by a servant bearing a massive chandelier; fitting herself into Pompey's side, Antistia (still clutching her own little lamp) walked with him to the room where all his war gear was stored. An imposing collection. Fully ten different cuirasses hung from T shaped poles gold, silver, steel, leather strapped with phalerae and swords and helmets hung from pegs on the walls, as did kilts of leather straps and various kinds of padded underpinnings. "Now stay there and be an absolutely darling little mouse," Pompey said as he lifted his wife like a feather and put her atop a couple of big chests, her feet dangling clear of the floor. Where she was forgotten. Pompey and his menservants went through every item one by one would it be useful, was it going to be necessary? Then when Pompey had ransacked the other trunks scattered around the room, he carelessly transferred his wife to a different perch in order to ransack her original seat, tossing this and that to the waiting slaves, talking away to himself so happily that Antistia could cherish no illusions he was going to miss his wife, his home, or civilian life. Of course she had always known that he regarded himself first and foremost as a soldier, that he despised the more customary pursuits of his peers rhetoric, law, government, assemblies, the plots and ploys of politics. How many times had she heard him say he would vault himself into the consul's ivory chair on his spear, not on fine words and empty phrases? Now here he was putting his boast into practice, the soldier son of a soldier father going off to war.