“Alternatively, I could rot in the Pontine Marshes, eaten by leeches and infected with fever. That would be a whole lot more fun.”

“And what about Petronius?” demanded Ma, changing tack to catch me out.

“Petronius belongs in the vigiles.”

“He belongs with his wife!”

“The wife who has decided that she now belongs with a potted-salad seller.”

“I blame you,” said Ma.

“Not guilty. I wouldn’t shove even Silvia into a life of pressed tripe and lettuce leaves. Petronius looks respectable, but he’s a wandering dog who never saw where his best interests lay until it was too late. Of course the mere fact that I told him all along that he was stupid need not prevent people placing the blame on me!”

“I don’t dare ask what you did to poor Famia,” Ma muttered darkly.

“He did it to himself. I brought home the remains, I’ll be a good uncle to the children, and I’ll try to look after Maia.”

“She won’t thank you.”

“No, Ma.”

My mother’s eyes narrowed, and we shared one of our rare moments of sense: “So how is she, son?”

“Too quiet. When I told her the news, she showed almost no emotion.”

“That won’t last.”

“I’m keeping an eye out for when she breaks down.”

“Just don’t you go upsetting her!”

Helena Justina, who had observed this conversation in silence from her wicker chair, holding the dog on her lap while allowing Julia Junilla to sit on her feet, smiled at me tenderly.

She was no help. What was more, I faced dinner with her parents that evening, where I would have to stand up to further inquisition about their family problems.

“You ought to be around at your sister’s instead of loafing here,” ordered my mother. I intended it; I wanted to ask Maia about the reception for Queen Berenice and how would-be little Vestal Virgins fitted into it. “Oh, don’t bother-I’ll go!”