Albia dragged back decorum into the conversation: ‘My favourite phrase is Please help; my slave has expired from sunstroke in the basilica!’

Helena smiled. ‘Weil, I was particularly proud of: Can you direct me to an apothecary who sells inexpensive corn-plasters? which then has a follow-up: If I need anything of a more delicate nature, can I trust him to be discreet?’

Uncle Fulvius displayed unexpected good nature, informing Albia in slow phrases, ‘Yes, there are earthquakes in this country, although fortunately most are mild.’

‘Do they cause much damage, pray?’

‘It is always a possibility. However, this city has existed safely for four hundred years . . .’ Albia was having trouble with Greek numbers; she started panicking. The Librarian had listened inscrutably.

When the main dishes came, of course we switched topics. I applied myself politely to local questions. Hardly had I broached how hot was the weather likely to be during our stay, when Aulus interrupted, launching into how he had fared that morning at the Museion. Aulus could be crass. Now the Librarian would assume he had been invited tonight so we could beg a place for Aulus.

Theon glared at the would-be scholar. What he saw would not impress: a truculent twenty-eight-year-old, overdue for a haircut, with so few social graces anyone could see why he had not followed his father into the Senate. No one would guess Aulus had nonetheless done a routine stint as an army tribune and even spent a year in the governor’s office in Baetican Spain. In Athens he had grown a beard like Greek philosophers. Helena was terrified their mother would hear about it. No honest Roman wears a beard. Access to good razors is what singles us out from the barbarians.