‘He was your friend too.’ I was nervous that Aulus might have the crazy idea they could carry on as friends. He was that kind of innocent. ‘I’d say, value your past—but move on and forget him. Do it for yourself.’

Poor Albia was far from being ready to move on. She turned away but I heard her weeping all the rest of our journey to the villa.

9

Silence.

Pa’s shoreline villa can never have rung with a summer social life, because he was rarely in residence; the one time I was here before, I had gathered activity was infrequent. Having an absentee owner was typical for a seaside villa. For security, he left more than a skeleton staff, though they lived in a separate wing from the main house. They stayed on the alert because he would turn up at any time—it depended what incoming ships from Spain or the East had agreed to quietly offload artworks at sea to save him paying duty. He and Gornia then took a boat out into the shipping lanes. It was not a process I intended to repeat. Mind you, I would keep the boat.

I reminded the slaves who I was and explained the situation. They made themselves look downcast over my father’s death, though did not feel called upon to shed real tears. This was much as I felt myself, so I did not complain.

Naturally they assumed Albia was some fluffball I wanted to seduce behind my wife’s back. That is what slaves always think. It’s the male behaviour most see from their masters. Wearied by driving, my reaction was short-tempered.

I felt old. Once, finding myself with custody of a delightful young girl, I would have been tempted. I could still remember those happy days, but ambivalence was a vice I had lost. I was married. Albia was family. I viewed her as a grumpy teenager I had to keep safe despite her yen for rebellion, while she saw me as hideous, elderly and past it, just like any father.

Disappointed of scandal, the slaves—who seemed good-natured enough once they got used to a situation—made us a barbecue on the beach. Grilled fish, freshly caught from the sea and smoke-cooked in a drizzle of olive oil, can mend most griefs. Albia tried to continue the feud. But she smiled slightly when I pointed out that she was enjoying not enjoying anything. At least she ate. Being forlorn had not affected her appetite.

Next day I surveyed the property. It was even bigger and more luxurious than I remembered, and packed with treasures. Albia followed me around with her mouth agape, muttering, ‘This is yours?’

‘It’s mine. Or only half of it, if Thalia’s sprog pops out with male genitalia.’

‘You could castrate him.’ Albia’s harsh new mood produced intriguing legal questions.