When the statues went forward to the amphitheatre project, their modest price was the best Geminus could negotiate. Vespasian never wasted cash. ‘Pa always decried sudden swish rewards,’ I said. ‘He reckoned it’s the regular accumulation of small sums that matters, not a hiccup that may thrill you for a moment yet never come again.’

Helena smiled. She had been oddly fond of my father, as he always was of her. ‘He was right—though I believe he had his thrills too. What pleased your father could be a beautiful artefact—’ Often in the form of a willing woman, though I refrained from interrupting with that comment. ‘But to him, any business finesse was delectable. You inherited it, Marcus. You get the same boost from your work. So you want the satisfaction of explaining what happened to this man and his wife, especially when nobody else can solve it. Then, since no one else will take them on, you and Lucius see these Claudii as your challenge.’

Helena understood—but explaining was not the point. ‘You don’t want me to go.’

‘That’s not it, Marcus. I want you to come back!’

Helena took in a breath, not despair, more exasperation. It was no more than if I had gone out in my newest tunic when the streets were muddy. She would let me go to the marshes once I promised to take care. Promises were not worth making in this situation, though for her I stretched the point.

Next morning, Helena and Maia visited apothecaries. A large basket of herbal ointments to keep away flies would be going on the mission with us. If we were sensible men we would use them.

If Petro and I were not sensible, our women would find out. So we thanked them politely for caring and agreed to take precautions against dying. ‘You are taking swords, aren’t you? What’s the difference?’

I loved Helena Justina. I wanted to survive with her for many years. But did she think Hercules slathered himself with brimstone and pennyroyal when he departed for his twelve labours?

Actually it was worse. Petronius and I had been supplied with bunches of nettles to hang all around the ox cart, then numerous soapstone boxes of a concoction in which not only pennyroyal but wormwood, rue, sage, tansy, myrtle and spearmint were mingled in an olive oil base. Some individual ingredients were attractively aromatic, but the combination smelt foul.

‘I’ll use this stuff, if you will,’ I told Petro.

He said, anything would be worth it to save us being bitten. For bites, he showed me, our determined women had sent another box. Their sandalwood and lavender bite-salve would scent us like a pair of Pamphyllian dancing masters. We were hard men, but that really terrified us.

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