‘Nothing wrong with bedding a slave, of course,’ she said, approaching. As always, Quintus was struck by her immense poise and beauty. Oscan nobility through and through, Atia was short and slim and took great care with her appearance. A dusting of ochre reddened her high cheekbones. Her eyebrows and the rims of her eyelids had been finely marked out with ash. A dark red stola, or long tunic, belted at the waist, was complemented by a cream shawl. Her long raven-black hair was pinned back by ivory pins, and topped by a diadem. ‘But don’t make it so frequent. It gives them ideas above their station.’

Quintus’ face coloured. He’d never discussed sex with his mother, let alone had his activities commented upon. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that it was she who had brought it up, though, rather than his father. Fabricius was a soldier, but as he often liked to say, his wife had only been prevented from being one by virtue of her sex. Much of the time, Atia was sterner than he was. ‘How did you know?’

Her grey eyes fixed him to the spot. ‘I’ve heard you at night. One would have to be deaf not to.’

‘Oh,’ Quintus whispered. He didn’t know where to look. Mortified, he studied the richly patterned mosaic beneath his feet, wishing it would open up and swallow him. He’d thought they’d been so discreet.

‘Get over it. You’re not the first noble’s son to plough the furrow with a pretty slave girl.’

‘No, Mother.’

She waved her hands dismissively. ‘Your father did the same when he was younger. Everyone does.’

Quintus was stunned by his mother’s sudden openness. It must be part of becoming a man, he thought. ‘I see.’

‘You should be safe enough with Elira. She is clean,’ Atia announced briskly. ‘But choose new bed companions carefully. When visiting a brothel, make it an expensive one. It’s very easy to pick up disease.’