'Tell me,' I said, 'do you know the cure for a hangover?'

Young Tiro looked at me sidelong, puzzled by the change of subject, suspicious of my sudden familiarity. 'No, sir.'

I nodded. 'Perhaps you've never experienced a hangover?'

He blushed slightly. 'No, sir.'

'Your master allows you no wine?'

'Of course he does. But as my master says, moderation in all things—'

I nodded. I winced. The slightest movement set off an excruciating pain. 'Moderation in all things, I suppose, except the hour at which he sends a slave to call at my door.'

'Oh. Forgive me, sir. Perhaps I should return at a later hour?'

'That would be a waste of your time and mine. Not to mention your master's. No, you'll stay, but you'll speak no business until I tell you to, and you'll join me for breakfast in the garden, where the air is sweeter.'

Itookhis arm again,led him through the atrium, down a darkened hallway, and into the peristyle at the centre of the house. I watched his eyebrows rise in surprise, whether at the extent of the place or its condition I couldn't be sure. I was used to the garden, of course, but to a stranger it must have appeared quite a shambles - the willow trees madly overgrown, their hanging tendrils touching tall weeds that sprouted from dusty ground; the fountain at the centre long ago run dry, its little marble statue of Pan pocked with age; the narrow pond that meandered through the garden opaque and stagnant, clogged with Egyptian rushes growing out of control. The garden had gone wild long before I inherited the house from my father, and I had done nothing to repair it. I preferred it as it was - an uncontrolled place of wild greenness hidden away in the midst of orderly Rome, a silent vote for chaos against mortared bricks and obedient shrubbery. Besides, I could never have afforded the labour and materials to have the garden put back into formal condition.