Master and God

12

Life went on.

For nearly two years the Emperor was absorbed in running Rome. To demonstrate stability, he reorganised the Mint and upgraded the currency’s metal content to the high quality it had contained in the reign of Augustus. This standard was hard to maintain. But Domitian boosted the Treasury by confiscating property; it was said he relied on trumped-up charges laid by informers. At the start of his reign he had expressed abhorrence for informers; now he was less fastidious. On the other hand, his management of the courts was scrupulous; he purged juries of undesirables and, when he was involved personally, gave high-quality judgements.

The most visible result of his rule was the city revamp. Almost all the buildings destroyed in the fire were reconstructed within a few years. The Campus Martius was completely redeveloped, with even the gnomon on the Horologium straightened up to tell the time correctly; the Pantheon and Saepta were restored, with an enhanced Temple of Isis to celebrate Domitian’s dramatic escape in the Year of the Four Emperors. How much his youthful experience affected him was displayed in his new treatment of the caretaker’s hut where he had been hidden overnight; the original shrine he constructed during his father’s reign, with its altar picturing his exploits, was replaced by a large Temple of Jupiter the Guardian.

The main temple to Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitol was lavishly restored. Using its original footprint, the massive Etruscan base, Domitian created a dramatic new building with a hexastyle Corinthian portico in white Pentelic marble, which had never been used in Rome before. The doors were plated with gold and the bronze roof-tiles gilded. The new chief cult statue of gold and ivory rivalled the masterpiece of Phidias, the statue of Zeus at Olympia.

Carpers might accuse Domitian of ignoring his father and brother, yet he willingly completed the Temple of the Deified Vespasian in the Forum, plus a Flavian Tribunal on the Capitol where discharged soldiers were listed under the aegis of all three Flavian emperors; he commissioned the Arch of Titus, a superb and enduring monument that celebrated his brother’s Judaean victory. Close by, Domitian created new underground systems in the Flavian Amphitheatre, where gladiators and animals were assembled before fights, and crowned the building with a fourth storey, decorated with bronze shields just below its cornice and supporting famous canvas coverings that were operated by sailors from the Misenum Fleet, to shade the audience. He installed the curious Sweating Fountain and built four training schools for gladiators, one directly linked to the amphitheatre. In Vespasian’s forum, he completed the Temple of Peace, adding his own Forum Transitorium, which ingeniously utilised a narrow space to provide a linking walkway, at the heart of which was a Temple of Minerva, Domitian’s favourite deity.

His works included every kind of amenity and monument: warehouses, gates, arches, baths. He renovated the public libraries, and spared no efforts to stock them, sending scribes to Alexandria to copy all existing literature. To persuade the gods to ward off future conflagrations, in every region of Rome he paid for the substantial altars that had been promised since Nero’s Great Fire, yet never before provided.

There were many more projects in planning, not least a dramatic new palace on the Palatine Hill. Although credit for much of this massive building programme would be claimed by his successors, Nerva and Trajan, it was Domitian who instigated many buildings that would become the famous face of imperial Rome.

This great statement Flavian city did have an unsettling effect on people who felt unsafe with the unfamiliar. Altering the time-honoured centre of an ancient urban scene is not immediately popular. But generations would soon grow up who had only known the new. For them, Rome was now more magnificent and impressive than it had been before, both a source of pride for its own citizens and a magnet to awe-struck visitors.

In Plum Street, by contrast, the Insula of the Muses looked much the same. Agents for the Crettici kept the building secure and watertight, though they tended to leave shutters and doors with a sun-bleached, shabby look. The porticos were swept most days by a group of slaves who worked slowly and liked leaning on their besoms, but who did deter vagrants. Many tenants supplied balcony troughs or flowerpots on steps; some even put out lamps in the evening, though these were regularly stolen by burglars or mischief-making revellers.

The ailing tassel business finally went under, which made Lucilla assess her own plans. She would have liked to rent the vacant shop, starting a local beauty parlour, but so far her ambitions were grander than her cashbox allowed. After a sad discussion with Melissus, she saw the new lease given to a couple of pumice-and-sponge sellers. Like the soft-furniture people before them, they had silly taste and little business sense, so Lucilla was biding her time.

Gaius Vinius somehow acquired a disassembled couch from the tassel shop. Typically, the desultory designer had always intended to use this to show off his stock, yet he never created the display. Lucilla one day heard a strange croaking sound and found Vinius in his second room, assembling the couch, whilst apparently singing. He claimed to be musical. Unmoved, Lucilla watched for a while, as he sorted a big bag of bronze fitments and systematically laid out parts in rows on the floor. ‘I snapped this up from Droopy-Tunic. He reckoned it could be bolted together by a semi-nude fan-dancer in half an afternoon.. Total tit, no wonder he’s bust. Here, hold up the frame for me. Keep it level.’

Lucilla could follow instructions. She could also spot when Vinius had missed out a necessary joint, though he ignored her warning, which delayed the finished product by an hour or so. Brought up and working among women, she had learned enough about men and their foibles to bite her tongue.

Vinius decided to run down and buy a multi-bladed tool to help as he fixed webbing; he got talking to the knife-seller, leaving Lucilla standing with the couch. When he reappeared, Lucilla had gone back to what she herself had been doing. She noticed that Vinius made no complaint. He resumed work alone. She waited long enough to make her point, then took him a pistachio biscuit and continued helping again.

Their relationship was neither warm nor cold. In eighteen months, they met at Plum Street on maybe a score of occasions. Since Vinius sometimes had had a quarrel with his wife, on those occasions he was uncommunicative. He shut himself in his bedroom, lay on his mattress and waited to calm down. Lucilla deduced what had probably upset him; he never said anything.

Other times, he brought knick-knacks or collected clothes. A stringed instrument appeared, which Lucilla heard him tuning and strumming. Once, with unusual diffidence, he asked Lucilla about the pot of ointment the doctor Themison had given him. She sniffed it, identified herbal ingredients and urged him to use it. Vinius told her, grinning cheekily, that Themison had said a woman’s touch was best, but she made him rub it in himself.

He and Lucilla would nod to one another if she had a client, or otherwise exchange the time of day blandly. They had, however, adopted their catchphrase:

‘It’s me — ’

‘- Vinius!’

If Flavia Lucilla had shown any encouragement, an entanglement might have ensued. But the last thing she wanted was to complicate her life with a married man. She liked the look of the Praetorian, she could not help it; she welcomed his steady tread and did not object to him singing when he was happy (though she never joined in). But she was self-protective. Even if she had wanted to flirt, there were other men on the periphery of her life. Some were handsomer and even seemed more pleasant, although any belief in their good nature was probably rash. Many had two eyes not one, but most clearly lacked brains.

Gaius Vinius was bright, she thought. From their first meeting she had seen him as almost dangerously clever, though she had heard enough about him to know he was hopeless with women. Who wanted that?

Generally, Lucilla understood that any affair, or even marriage, would mean she lost control of her career. Men took up your time. They resented you having other interests. They made demands, even if you could avoid bearing their children. So although her women clients regularly asked when she was going to get a love-life, Lucilla murmured obliquely that she was still looking.

The avoidance of pregnancy was a subject on which she and Lara were seen as professional consultants, an offshoot of their trade. They gave discreet advice — not that Lara ever seemed to follow it. Along with handing out pots of face cream and other cosmetics, they would dispense discreet recommendations: how honey, gum or olive oil might make men’s seeds sluggish; the usefulness of ground acacia, cedar or white lead in creams or vaginal tampons; and even the possibilities of goatskin sheaths, though these were generally seen as mythical and nobody knew how to obtain them. In disasters, they would whisper an address for the Sixth Region’s abortionist, although she operated discreetly because while it was permissible to prevent conception, killing a foetus was illegal. It denied a father his rights.

Getting pregnant could be problematical, even for women who wanted it. Others were relentlessly fertile — their main client, Flavia Domitilla, was one of those, either carrying or breastfeeding most of the time they knew her. Equally fertile was Lara herself. As the two suffered in the summer heat or risked pain and death at every birth, Lucilla saw enough to be wary of motherhood.

Lara, her closest friend and confidante, had married young but somehow avoided pregnancy for several years. Perhaps then Junius found out what she was doing and forbade such measures. He took little interest in their children but their existence proved his manhood; Lucilla thought privately, it also kept control of Lara. Her sister’s eldest son was fourteen, about seven years younger than Lucilla. Lara had borne several more children who died at birth or very young; in all there were six survivors — three boys around their teens, two little girls, a sickly baby — and that year Lara was pregnant again.

While Flavia Domitilla could take her ease at such times, looked after in every way by batteries of slaves, Lara had no such luxury. If she had not had a mother-in-law who took in her children by day, Lara would have been stuck. She worked right up until she felt her birth pangs, from necessity. She and Junius paid their rent and had food on the table; their children possessed an outfit and sandals each; Junius could drink in bars often enough. Mostly, they managed to avoid moneylenders. But Lara’s income was as important to their budget as her husband’s. She needed Domitilla, she needed all the sisters’ private clients and weddings. Any loss would have a serious financial effect. This never perturbed her, as far as Lucilla could see. Lara was an easygoing character who kept afloat by never worrying. She remained true to her personality, but her life was hard.

By contrast, Lucilla was wary and anxiety-prone. She could not risk being drained in the way Lara was. Scrimping and saving, or being dragged down by a man who could never quite be trusted, were not what Lucilla yearned for. She saw her sister’s life and feared ending up that way.

Lucilla had no real friends other than Lara. Lara taught her, shared their work, laughed with her, and gave her a home to visit for a share in family life. Lucilla generally spent birthdays and the great winter holiday of Saturnalia at Lara’s house. Lara had a deep affection for her, loving Lucilla equally with her own children. It was a devastating blow when, a couple of days after giving birth for the final time, Lara died. By the time Lucilla reached the house, the newborn baby had gone too.

Juno, what was the point of any of it?

Lucilla felt completely cast adrift again. Worse, she found tremendous pressure building for her to look after Lara’s children. For her sister’s sake she wanted to do right but the consequences, if she agreed, would be grim. Yet Lara’s children were her only blood relations.

Junius openly hoped she would move in. Just as when her mother died and Orgilius expected to inherit his lover’s daughter, Lucilla sensed that the tanner aimed to have her replace Lara in his home and bed. That would never happen, but his calculating, sordid gaze depressed her. Arrangements for her sister’s burial were mainly left to her.

It was at this point, immediately after the funeral, that the Praetorian found her sobbing.

‘It’s me — Vinius!’

Gaius had assumed Lucilla would be there, and was surprised to hear no answer to his cheery call. It was evening, when she rarely had clients. He had brought a goat-legged bronze side-table for the room where he had his couch. Dumping the furniture, he stood in the still corridor, listening.

He had never been at the apartment when Lucilla was absent, and he found it much less appealing.

A surprisingly dark thought came: that she might be entertaining a lover. Nothing to do with him, and it would be unpardonable to barge in. The lover would certainly get the wrong idea. Cringing, he imagined Lucilla’s reaction…

It was a courtesy between them that they never went into each other’s bedrooms. (That was what Vinius believed; Lucilla had no compunction about his when he was not there.) Her workroom was free ground; he tapped the door, strode in and came upon her sobbing broken-heartedly. Gaius Vinius jack-knifed through horror and fear of involvement, followed by a quick review of his own recent actions in case this was his fault. Then he flung open his arms, offering to comfort her.

Lucilla shook her head, impatiently lifting her lightweight chair to turn away from him.

Vinius folded his arms, looking resigned as he waited for her to finish crying. He ignored any instinct to pick her up like a bedraggled leveret. In the vigiles he had dealt with distraught women; he knew she would tire herself out, then speak coherently. He had learned this through dealing with the widow who had given away her savings to a fraudster who ‘seemed such a nice man, with such beautiful manners’, and that barmaid at the Fighting Cock who murdered her two-timing lover with a fish-kettle, beating his head as flat as a bread-paddle before begging the vigiles to bring the louse back to life…

Lucilla was an efficient nose-blower. With dried tears, she seemed quite winsome. Still, Vinius was a stalwart; he ignored any urge to set his co-tenant on his knee and kiss her better. Or indeed, kiss her until he felt better himself, now that he had started to think that his knee was a good place to put her.

Jupiter. With Verania still hung around his neck like a leadweight amulet, he had to treat Lucilla like a sister. He had always wanted a sister. As a good-looking young soldier, when he met other people’s sisters, he had gained the impression they were always very sweet.

‘Finished?’ A nod. ‘So what was all that about? A man caused the problem, I suppose?’

‘Only a man would say that!’ Lucilla jumped up from her chair, looking as if she wanted to stick a hairpin in his good eye. She swiftly informed him about Lara, whose funeral had been that afternoon.

Vinius was crushed. ‘Oh gods, I am sorry.’

Lucilla could not afford to quarrel because she had decided to ask a favour that she feared would not go down well. Seeing no alternative but to take Lara’s children and bring them up herself, she had a confused proposal: she would rent Gaius Vinius’ two rooms. ‘You wanted an investment-’

‘Stop it! This is a bloody ridiculous idea.’ Vinius clamped his hands on her shoulders and shook her. He seemed genuinely angry. ‘They have a father, don’t they?’

‘He’s useless; he’s revolting-’

‘Oh I get it — he groped you over the pyre today? Still, use your brain. How can you earn your living with a bunch of infants under your feet, especially if you try to take on double rent for this place?’ Everything Vinius said was obvious, but as Lucilla crumpled under his stern onslaught, he softened. ‘Ah Lucilla! Don’t throw away your precious life. Now you’re breaking my heart — please: let’s see your old spark again.’

At that moment Lucilla would, for once, have fallen on the Praetorian’s neck. Unfortunately, his arms remained rigid as he still gripped her shoulders, so she was unable to collapse into that inevitable disaster.

‘What am I to do then?’ Tears were about to gush again. Vinius let go of her quickly.

‘Buck up, girl. There has to be a solution. I’ll sort you out.’

‘I can sort myself,’ Lucilla whimpered ungraciously.

Vinius scoffed. ‘Doesn’t look like it to me! I’ll help. I don’t want snotty brats ruining my elegant investment, not to mention you blarting and reneging on your rent.’ Knowing when things were swinging his way, he changed his tone. ‘The best way to plot is over a food bowl. I’m ravenous and I don’t suppose you bothered to eat today? Does that bar down on Plum Street run to a Chicken Frontinian? Get your stole; I’ll treat you.’

‘I can pay my way.’

‘I’m offering street food, not a banquet.’

Lucilla unbent a little. ‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘The Scallopshell does chicken dumplings or pork morsels,’ Lucilla told him. ‘You have to wink first.’ The old emperor Vespasian had banned everything except pulses in food shops. Tiresome gruels discouraged people from lingering at the counter so long they started muttering against the political regime. In his previous existence, Vinius had policed the edict in a desultory fashion; when barkeepers were found selling meats instead of lentil pottage, the vigiles could lean on them, extracting information by threats to suspend their licences.

He could live with dumplings if Frontinian was unavailable. Eating out in public was safe. It held fewer temptations than being alone together in the apartment — provided his wife never heard about it. He had no evil intentions. He was too committed to thinking up a way to solve Lucilla’s problem.

Vinius found a solution quite easily.

He consulted Lucilla, then next morning took her to visit his brother. Felix and his wife, Paulina, had had a young son and daughter who both died of a childhood ailment the previous year, a common tragedy. Paulina had been a good mother and was desperate for more children. She had even suggested searching rubbish-dumps for abandoned babies. She felt apprehensive about risking pregnancy at her age, but longed for children so badly she was contemplating it — ‘Though my husband drives, which means he works at night. Not much chance of anything happening!’

During that remark, Lucilla saw Gaius Vinius was amused at the suggestion a couple might only make love in bed and at night; she looked away quickly.

‘The only other thing,’ said Felix, ‘is to buy a healthy slave girl. I can father a couple of nippers on her, no sweat.’

Paulina was a woman of few words, but said what she thought about that. Although Felix was a big man with bigoted opinions it was clear that in their house Paulina held sway. He pulled a face at his brother, but backed down, appearing oddly proud of his strong wife.

Vinius lost no time in taking his brother aside to broach his idea. Paulina was ahead of him. As soon as Lara’s orphans were mentioned, she showed Lucilla the room where her own children had once slept, an untouched shrine still containing their two tiny beds and pathetic row of clay animal figurines; she produced a copy of their memorial stone with its sad picture of the children, their pet duck and puppy.

Lucilla described the two little girls, whom Lara had named Marcia and Julia after the months of their birth; they were about five and six. If they could be taken care of, Junius’ mother would bring up the three older boys, who needed less attention; as lads, Junius took more interest in them anyway. Everyone thought the baby, Titus, who was about fifteen months old, was too sickly to live.

Without delay, Paulina asked for a meeting; Vinius shepherded her and Lucilla to Lara’s house. Since their mother died, the younger children had become very subdued. The boys had the same shifty manner as their father; they would be fine with him. The two girls were pretty, like their mother; Paulina instantly took to them.

Junius fairly readily agreed to give up his daughters. His only tricky reaction involved him taxing Vinius: ‘Your connection with my wife’s sister is what, exactly?’

‘I am Flavia Lucilla’s guardian,’ replied the Praetorian, unfazed. His sister-in-law glanced at him quickly.

‘How did that happen?’

‘I appointed him,’ Lucilla interrupted. ‘I met Gaius Vinius through official channels when he was very helpful to Mother and me. I would not dream of taking any important decision without his advice first.’

Even Gaius looked startled by this declaration, though he rallied enough to wink at Lucilla, a curious gesture from a one-eyed man.

‘Vinius Felix insists on proper arrangements,’ Paulina butted in, anxious to pin down Junius, of whom she clearly shared Lucilla’s low opinion. ‘If everyone settles down nicely, we will adopt formally.’ Her eyes narrowed at the whimpering Titus, whom Lucilla was tending. ‘What about that little mite?’

‘Don’t worry about him,’ shrugged Junius. ‘He won’t last the week.’

‘Give him to me as well then. I’ll comfort him on his way out.’

He might not die. Lucilla reckoned that if the toddler could be saved, this stern woman would achieve it.

They went in a quiet crocodile to Felix and Paulina’s house. The two little girls, in their matching pigtails that Lara herself had plaited a fortnight before, walked one each side of their new mother, with Paulina grasping each by the hand. Paulina seemed abrupt at first meeting, but the children had immediately accepted her gruff kindness. Lucilla carried the frail Titus in a basket. Vinius shouldered a small pack with the children’s meagre belongings, together with professional equipment of Lara’s that Junius had passed on to Lucilla.

Paulina gave them a meal, during which Lucilla had an odd feeling that her introduction to Felix and his wife might have wider repercussions. Paulina had encouraged her to see the girls whenever she wanted. She would be invited to their home again.

When she and Vinius were leaving, Felix came and thanked her for making his wife so happy with this ready-made family. Lucilla began to feel tearful again.

Vinius walked her back to Plum Street. ‘You did the right thing. Paulina is strict and Felix will spoil them silly; it’s perfect. Then of course, I make a wonderful uncle.’

Lucilla felt their relationship shift disconcertingly.

Vinius had to go to the Camp, or so he said. Lucilla wondered if he was really intending to visit his wife at the marital apartment. Whatever his destination, he seemed in no hurry to be there. Before he left that evening, he carried two chairs to the balcony. Felix had given him a flask of wine which Vinius poured into beakers. Feeling calmer about the future, but suddenly exhausted, Lucilla slumped in her chair beside his.

They sat for some time enjoying their drinks in silence. It was good wine. As a carter, Felix sometimes drove for a wine importer.

‘You will be all right,’ Vinius encouraged. ‘If you need any kind of help come to the Camp and ask me.’ Silence. ‘You can ask.’

‘Yes.’ Lucilla held up a hand, palm towards him. ‘You are a good friend, Gaius; I understand that.’

This was the first time she ever called him Gaius. It was a slip. Too personal. Even though he had become her nieces’ uncle, she would not repeat it.

It was then that Vinius turned his chair so he sat directly facing Lucilla. He could have reached out and taken her hand, though he did not do so. ‘I want to ask you some questions.’

Lucilla placed her beaker on the ground, immediately on the defensive. ‘What questions?’

‘Tell me about Lara.’

‘You met Lara once. She was here one day when you came, about six months ago.’

Vinius did remember. The women were very alike to look at. He had heard Lara in the workroom, sounding cheery; then she came out to be introduced. A pretty woman, though with dispirited eyes. They had barely met, yet to his mind the sister had stared at him as if she did not trust him near her Lucilla.

‘She loved her children?’

‘Yes. She kept them immaculate. She would have been horrified to see them today, all grubby and tearful.’ Children were like that all over the Empire though many others, even in gruelling poverty, were given the best of everything possible. Lara had been devoted. Please gods, Paulina and Felix would be too.

‘And she loved you too,’ commented Vinius. She thought I was after you. She reckoned I was trouble… ‘How old was Lara, would you say?’

‘She was thirty-six this year.’

She looked forty, Vinius thought; forty at least. ‘Thirty-six; and a mother how many times?’

‘Oh about ten,’ groaned Lucilla unhappily. ‘Some died. She still looked so young, to me, because of her happy nature, but she was worn out. And don’t say, “Never let that happen to you, Lucilla”, because she told me herself often enough.’

‘I bet she did!’ Vinius was still pursuing some mysterious line of thought. ‘When you were born, Lara would have been how old?’

‘Fifteen. She was fifteen years older than me.’

‘When did she marry Junius? He’s a horror, by the way.’

‘When I was a baby, I think. Very young — too young. She married and she moved away. So I never really knew Lara during my childhood.’

‘While you were being brought up by her mother, Lachne.’

‘ My mother! How do you remember her name?’

‘You told me, at the station house. The day the big fire started. Most vigiles remember that day all too well… When did Flavia Lachne become a freedwoman?’

‘Soon after I was born. She must have been thirty; those are the rules. Flavia Domitilla granted her freedom — or perhaps Mother had to pay for her manumission; she never said. One thing she was very proud of, Lara told me, was that she managed to save enough of a nest-egg to buy freedom for Lara and me.’

‘But at the time when you must have been conceived, both Lachne and Lara were still slaves?’

‘I suppose so.’ Lucilla was too intrigued to object to these questions, though she felt uneasy.

‘Let me guess — Lara was sunny in temperament, pretty, a very appealing young girl?’

‘Yes. You met her. You just saw her daughters. Our mother was good-looking too. Lara must always have been beautiful. Vinius, what is your point?’

‘Think, Lucilla.’

Consciously or subconsciously, Lucilla resisted what he wanted her to see.

Vinius left the suggestion, temporarily. He picked up her beaker and shared out between them what remained in the wine flask. He tilted his cup, saluting her, and waited. Vigiles interrogations had made him a patient man. ‘Sweetheart, it happens.’

‘What happens?’

‘Slavegirls are seduced when very young.’

‘You are beginning to offend me.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ His motives were good, in his opinion, so Vinius pressed on. ‘Lara meant so much to you and she obviously cared very dearly for you — even a stranger could see that. I just wondered if you ever thought of the possibility that Lara, and not Lachne, might have been your real mother?’

Lucilla had never imagined this.

Once before, at the vigiles station house, Gaius Vinius had said something that disturbed her family ties. Now he was doing it again. He knew life. He knew people. He picked up clues from nowhere and analysed them forensically; he shook out the truth like moths from an old cloak. As soon as he made the suggestion, Lucilla felt it was probable. Many things became clear. Lachne’s occasional air of resentment; Lara being kept out of sight during Lucilla’s childhood; Lara’s tender reception of Lucilla after Lachne died…

It must have been agreed that Lachne would bring up Lucilla so Lara could marry and have a life — if marriage to seedy Junius, with its endless pregnancies, could be called life. It was respectable, and less precarious than Lachne’s own existence relying on a series of lovers, but had Lachne later regretted what happened to her elder daughter? Lucilla remembered Lachne speaking sourly of Lara’s family arrangements.

‘Don’t be upset,’ Vinius soothed her. ‘I only wish I had thought of saying something when Lara was alive, so you could have asked her.. This would not be unique, you know. Mothers do step in to help very young daughters in that predicament.’

‘Oh history had repeated itself,’ agreed Lucilla in a dull voice. ‘Lachne bore Lara at an even younger age. The same, presumably: a slavegirl seduced, whether she wanted it or not.’

Lara’s and Lucilla’s father could even be the same man, Vinius thought; he was too considerate to say so. ‘Forgive me for speaking?’

‘I suppose so.’

Vinius let a little lightness into his voice and did, finally, tease her: ‘After all, I am your guardian.’

Lucilla gave him the dirty look he wanted, burying her nose in her wine beaker. Vinius smiled slightly.

After a moment, Lucilla let herself smile too.

This was dangerous. Assuming responsibility for a woman in trouble was something Gaius Vinius had never done. His own wives, except his first and youngest, barely needed him for emotional support. What they wanted was his money and the social status of marriage, especially marriage to a Praetorian. He was pretty sure that Verania required him to be faithful yet herself strayed. She had never sought his advice, offered advice to him, nor wanted consolation of any sort. Keeping their distance suited both of them.

A quiet voice in his head warned him to watch out.

Then again, he rather enjoyed the warm feeling he experienced when this vulnerable soul looked to him for help. A vulnerable soul with melting brown eyes and — he let himself notice as she reclined in dappled sunshine — an inviting body.

I don’t suppose if I stayed here tonight, you would sleep with me?

Get lost, Vinius!

When she seemed composed, Vinius left Lucilla to herself. Though she bore no grudge for his raising the subject, he saw she wanted to think about her mother and sister in solitude. Her family connections were so very few, and now they all needed to be reconsidered.

He had intended to visit his wife that evening. But Verania was like a jealous dog or cat; she would smell other people on him and their aura would make her sulk. Their relationship was sketchy, yet any hint that he had other interests inflamed her. Even the touch of melancholia that crept over him when he left Plum Street was liable to drizzle into Verania’s mind and affect her as if he had committed some act of blistering disloyalty. When in fact (Vinius convinced himself) all he had done was a kindness to someone.

As he neared the Market of Livia, within reach of their apartment, he changed his mind abruptly. An insistent voice urged him to return to Plum Street. But Vinius turned his steps up along the ancient Servian Walls and returned via the Viminal Gate to the Praetorian Camp.