Quintus’ mouth opened and closed. He didn’t ask how his mother knew that Elira was clean. As Atia’s ornatrix, the Illyrian had to help dress her each morning. No doubt she’d been grilled as soon as Atia had become aware of her involvement with him. ‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Ready for the hunt?’

He twisted beneath her penetrating scrutiny, wondering if she could see his fear. ‘I think so.’

To his relief, his mother made no comment. ‘Have you prayed to the gods?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Let us do it again.’

They made their way into the atrium, which was lit by a rectangular hole in the ceiling. A downward-sloping roof allowed rainwater to fall into the centre of the room, where it landed in a specially built pool. The walls were painted in rich colours, depicting rows of columns that led on to other, imaginary chambers. The effect made the space seem even bigger. This was the central living area of the large villa, and off it were their bedrooms, Fabricius’ office, and a quartet of storerooms. A shrine was situated in one of the corners nearest to the garden.

There a small stone altar was decorated with statues of Jupiter, Mars, or Mamers as the Oscans called him, and Diana. Guttering flames issued from the flat, circular oil lamps sitting before each. Effigies of the family’s ancestors hung on the wall above. Most were Fabricius’ ancestors: Romans, the warlike people who had conquered Campania just over a century before, but, in a real testament to his father’s respect for his wife, some were Atia’s forebears: Oscan nobility who had lived in the area for many generations. Naturally, Quintus was fiercely proud of both heritages.

They knelt side by side in the dim light, each making their silent requests of the deities.

Quintus repeated the prayers he’d made in his room. They eased his fear somewhat, but could not dispel it. By the time he had finished, his embarrassment about Elira had subsided. He was still discomfited, however, to find his mother’s eyes upon him as he rose.