A dying light in Corduba

XXX

Helena Justina had very few clothes on. Any ideas this might have given me were soon banished by the fact that she smelt like a salad.

'I see you're marinading the child!'

Calmly she continued to massage neat olive oil into her stomach. 'Apparently this will ease my stretched skin – and if there's any over I can pour it on our lunch.'

'Wonderful stuff. Want any help rubbing it in?' Helena waved a Baetican redware jug at me.

'No.'

'Well, it should do you good.'

'I'm sure! Like using oil in dough; perhaps I'll be more flexible, and with a moist crust…' Helena loved to collect interesting lore, but often had a hard time taking it seriously.

I threw myself on a couch and settled down to watch. Stricken with an odd quirk of modesty, Helena turned her back. Was there ever a more useful substance?' I mused. 'Olive oil prevents burns from blistering and it's good for your liver, it stops rust in iron pots, and preserves food; the wood makes bowls and it flames well in a fire -'

'In this country the children are weaned on a porridge made from olive oil and wheat,' Helena joined in, turning back to me. 'I've been talking to the cook. Baetican midwives smother a new mother with oil to help slide the baby out.'

I chortled. 'And then they present the happy father with a little dressed onion to name!'

'I'm giving Nux a spoonful a day to try to improve her coat.'

Hearing her name, Nux looked up from a rug where she had been sleeping and thumped her tail enthusiastically. She had fur like rough turf; around her unpleasant extremities it stuck together in impenetrable dumps. 'Nothing will improve Nux's coat,' I said regretfully. 'She really needs a complete shave. It's time you broke the news to her that she'll never be a pampered lapdog. She's a smelly street scruff, and that's it.'

'Give Marcus a nice lick for loving you so much!' Helena cooed at the dog, who immediately roused herself and jumped straight on the middle of my chest. If this was a clue to what kind of subversive mother Helena Justina intended to be, I was heading for more trouble than I'd thought. As I fended off a long, frenzied tongue, Helena disarmed me by suddenly saying, 'I like it here. It's peaceful in the countryside and nobody harangues us about our situation. I like being on my own with you, Marcus.'

'I like it here too,' I grunted. It was true. Were it not for the baby and my fixed intention to return Helena to our mothers' care in time for them both to supervise the birth, I could have stayed here for months. 'Maybe we should emigrate to some far province away from everyone.'

'You belong in the city, Marcus.'

'Perhaps. Or perhaps one day I'll set up home with you in some villa in a river valley – choose your spot.'

'Britain!' she quipped wickedly. I returned to my original dream of a town house above the Tiber with a garden on a terrace with a view across to Rome.

Helena watched me as my thoughts idled romantically. She must know my situation was so disappointing all hope seemed pointless and all plans looked doomed. Her eyes sparkled in a way that made me push the dog aside. 'Marcus, another thing the cook told me is that a diet rich in oil makes women passionate and men softer.'

I held out my arms to her. 'We can easily test that!'