This villa, protected from sun and storms by pine trees, was where Pa had kept his favourite collection, items he really liked and enjoyed. I liked them too. I would have to come back soon for a long visit; there was so much stuff to catalogue. I needed to bring Helena, to show her the glorious location, the rampant antiques and furnishings. Maybe this would become our permanent summer retreat. If she hated the place, which I thought unlikely, there was so much to sell I would have to time our auctions carefully, so as not to flood the market.

‘Are you planning to liberate any faithful slaves in your dear father’s name, Marcus Didius?’ The usual question.

As ever, I responded with a noncommittal sigh. I could free a percentage in Pa’s name. I would do it if I could. I wanted to evaluate them first. What happened to them would have nothing to do with how well each had served my father during his life; it depended on how much manumission tax I would have to pay if I freed them or what price they would fetch in the slave market. Any with specialist training or pretty faces were in greater danger of being either kept as slaves or sold. Already I was thinking like a tycoon. If they had a high market value, I was less inclined to give them their release.

The monumental statues for the amphitheatre contract were lined up in rows in the woods. Close to, they were a ragbag: anonymous men of note in triumphal poses, batoned and breastplated; some were weathered about the face and drapery as if they had already adorned public places. I wondered if they had been stolen from their plinths; however, some had their plinths with them.

One batch appeared new. They had been carved to the same model, but with different arms or helmets. I was not surprised. Jobbing sculptors regularly provide a basic figure in an old-fashioned toga, then let you commission a true-life head of your grandaddy at a cut-price rate. So why not cloned dignitaries for an amphitheatre?

I counted them. One hundred and eleven. Jupiter! Pa had cornered the market. Trust him. The Flavian amphitheatre would be virtually: statues courtesy of Geminus. No wonder that creep Cluvius wanted me to step aside and let him muscle in.

I gave instructions that the statues were to be brought up to Rome using whatever haulage system Geminus had put in place. ‘And I want to see a hundred and eleven arrive. A hundred and twelve will prove to me that you are really conscientious.’ My humour was lost on the steward. Foolish; if he failed to notice my jokes, he could end up at the slave market.

‘I could stay here to supervise,’ volunteered Albia.