‘I regard my slaves as family,’ I protested with a righteous air.

‘All the more reason to bump a few off!’ replied Glaucus. Nobody would know he had a good-looking wife he doted on and an athlete son who was his pride and joy.

According to Helena it was more trying for a woman to get dressed when she wanted to look as if she had gone to no trouble than when she was trying to show vast respect to some possible patron in order to advance her husband (never applicable in my case) or to impress a man she was sizing up for passionate adultery (not applicable in Helena’s, I hoped—though if that was her intention there was not much I could do about it; she was far too devious). I lay on the bed watching proceedings, naked and hoping the scent of the masseur’s crocus oils would evaporate. His goo was useless for attracting women. Helena Justina had just wrinkled her nose in mild curiosity, as if I had come home with an arm missing and she was subconsciously wondering what was different about me. The hour which we could have filled with lovemaking went to trying on gowns, searching for girdles and picking through her jewel casket. When she was halfway through applying face paint, she rushed off to supervise Albia, who had decided that since her parents never took her anywhere, she would wear all the sparkle she possessed while there was an opportunity.

‘We need to look as though we know it’s not just borage tea and a pickled egg,’ I heard Helena telling her. Two room doors had been left open, to facilitate the shrieks as the only good gown in the chest was found to have had honey spilled down it and the clasp on each chosen necklace broke under frantic fingers. ‘But that we don’t think enough of Anacrites to bring out our best.’

‘And why is it we hate him?’ Albia asked with her fastidious curiosity. She tended to act as if all things done in Rome were crazy beyond belief to anyone born in the provinces.

‘No hatred. We treat him cautiously,’ Helena reproved her. ‘We find his jealousy of Falco a touch unhealthy.’

‘Oh—as in, he tried to have Falco splayed on a rock for carrion birds in Nabataea?’

‘Quite. Trying to arrange a long-distance execution was not acceptable etiquette.’

‘So will the spy try short-distance Falco-killing this evening?’ Albia sounded far too interested.

‘No, darling. Anacrites is too shrewd to try anything with you and me there. I’d poke his eyes out, while you rushed for a lawyer.’

That was reassuring. I hauled myself upright and sorted out a tunic I was willing to wear.

‘Oh Marcus! You’re not going in that disaster. Wear your russet.’

‘Too smart.’