The circle of grass around the fountain, interspersed with coloured stone, was lit by a myriad of oil lamps in translucent jars. Nevertheless, despite the light and the open space, Antonia had assured Theodore they'd be alone, for this was her special place. Now naked except for a coronet of myrtle, orange blossom and verbena, Antonia sprawled on a cold marble bench as Theodore stripped naked to show her the love letters on his body, his present to her on her birthday. Antonia, drunk on the red and white wines of Campania, giggled as Theodore took a pot of ash and rubbed the grey powder into his skin, explaining how with the juice of tithymals he could draw any letters he wished and they would remain invisible until the ash revealed them.

'See,' Theodore walked over to the bench, 'this is the opening line from Seneca's Oedipus. Read it.'

Antonia, giggling, pushed her face near the muscle-hard stomach of this gorgeous actor and, in the light of the lamps, slowly read the words.

'Now night has fled. The fitful sun is back to rise.'

She glanced up coyly.

'To rise what?'

Theodore pointed down to the letters just above the hair in his crotch.

Antonia, wetting her lips, moved her face even closer and was about to read when she caught a movement behind Theodore.

'Go away!' she screamed.

Theodore whirled round. Dark shapes, like wraiths from Hades, slipped out of the darkness, a half-circle of cloaked figures, faces hidden behind grotesque masks, in their hands short stabbing swords and clubs.

'What!' Theodore sprang forward.

Antonia heard the hard smack of a fist and Theodore collapsed, lips bubbling on spurting blood. She opened her mouth to scream, but the night-wraiths were swifter. She was seized, a gag pushed into her mouth, a piece of sacking thrown over her head, her wrists and ankles bound. Then she was thrown over a muscular shoulder and a gloved hand smacked her plump bottom. Antonia wriggled; another, harder blow jarred her back and a hoarse voice ordered her to be silent or she'd be killed.