I liked Helena’s father and no longer disliked her mother. They seemed to have accepted that they were stuck with me. Perhaps they had also noticed that I had not yet lived up to expectations and made their daughter unhappy, nor had I been thrown in jail (well, not lately), barred from any public buildings, lampooned in any scurrilous satires, or featured in the rogues’ gallery in the Daily Gazette. Even so, at these gatherings there was always a risk somebody would say something offensive. Sometimes I thought Decimus secretly hoped for the thrill of it. He had a wicked streak. I knew it well; he had passed it on intact to Helena.

“Papa and Mama, you can help us with something,” said Helena over the dessert course. “Do either of you know anything about Laelius Numentinus, the Flamen Dialis, and his family?”

“What’s your problem with a flamen?” her father demanded.

“Well, I have had an early run-in with the silly old bastard,” I hedged, “though it was not face-to-face.”

“Naturally. You’d be at arm’s length, held off with his precious wand.”

“No, he has been retired; his wife died and he had to stand down. Not that it stops him complaining, apparently. The first thing that greeted me in my new post was a crisis caused by his displeasure at unwanted goslings scampering about the Capitol. I managed to avoid meeting him, or I would have been very brusque.”

“After a lifetime of being protected from close contact with the real world, he can’t be good with people-or birds.” Decimus had a definite scorn for the flaminical caste. I had always liked him. He had no time for hypocrisy. And although he was a senator, I reckoned he was politically straight. No one could buy him. That was why he had no money, of course.

He knew few of the right people either; he admitted that Laelius Numentinus was simply a figure glimpsed at public ceremonies.