“Poor wretch!” Brinnaria commented. “I’m sorry for her, whoever she is. Just think, she’ll have to pair with that unspeakable little muff of a Meffia. I hate that girl.” “Whoever she is,” Flexinna continued, “she is sure to be chosen and taken mighty quick. For with this p-p-pestilence in the city, and all the trouble the P-P-Parthians are making in the East, of the Marcomanni on the Rhine colonies, and the thunder-storms that have raged about lately, there’ll be need felt for all the p-p-prayers all the offer. They’ll not leave the vacancy open long. I’ll bet they have it filled by d-d-day after to-morrow. Old B-B-Bambilio is a stickler for pious precision an observance of all ritual matters and the Emperors are with him.” “Marcus is,” Brinnaria agreed, pertly, “but Lucius doesn’t care what happens so long as he has his fun.” “You mustn’t t-t-t-talk that way about the Emperors,” Flexinna cautioned her. “If you were overheard you’d get into no end of trouble. Anyhow, Verus defers to Aurelius in everything, so that whatever Aurelius wishes is as if both wished it. And there never was a more p-p-pious Emperor than Aurelius. So the place is certain to be filled p-p-promptly.” “At once, for sure,” Brinnaria agreed. “I wonder who the victim will be? Do you suppose it will be Occurnea?” “It would have been Occurnea, I think,” Flexinna said. “You know it was a chance for a while whether she’d get it instead of Meffia. But she’s not eligible now. Her mother d-d-died yesterday.” “Tallentia, perhaps,” Brinnaria hazarded. “Impossible,” Flexinna declared. “You remember how recklessly she rode and how her horse f-f-fell on her. She has limped ever since and always will.” “Cuppiena?” suggested Brinnaria. “Not she,” said Flexinna; “she has some k-k-kind of skin rash and has lost almost all her hair.” “Sabbia,” Brinnaria proposed. “Her mother’s d-d-dead too,” Flexinna reminded her; “has been for months.” “Fremnia,” came the next suggestion. “She’s off to Aquileia with her family,” said Flexinna; “they all left the d-d-day your folks went.” “Eppia,” ventured Brinnaria. “She’s ten years old now,” Flexinna demurred. “She celebrated her b-b-birthday three days before the Kalends. I was at the party.” “Pennasia, perhaps,” Brinnaria suggested. “D-d-deaf in one ear like her mother and grandmother,” said Flexinna, “and you know it.” “Licinia,” Brinnaria ventured. “She’d be the last they’d choose on account of the b-b-bad luck Vestals of her family have had;” Flexinna reminded her. “The very name suggests disgrace. Anyhow, she’s in Baiae with her p-p-people.” “Rentulana,” came the next conjecture. “Has a b-b-big wen on the side of her head,” Flexinna proclaimed. “Numledia?” came next. “You’ve lost your memory, Brinnaria,” said Flexinna, severely. “She’s got a b-b-big purple birthmark on her neck.” “Magnonia,” Brinnaria proposed. “She’s far away, in Britain, with her father and mother; might as well be out of the world.”