Bona Dea - The Hidden Feast
I. A Door Without a Name
Winter thinned the markets, leaving stalls half-bare. The clatter of pottery and the bleating of goats gave way to muffled coughs and hurried footsteps as cloaks were drawn tighter. Yet on the Aventine, behind a wall of ivy, there stood a vine-wreathed doorway. No inscription marked it, no statue proclaimed its power. Only rosemary and fig root ...