Macro cradled his head in his hands and groaned softly. ‘I can see where this is going, Mother. You want me to give you the rest from my savings.’

‘Not give, as such. Think of it as a loan or, better still, a sound investment. I can cover half the cost. You pay for the rest and I’ll make you a sleeping partner, and you can take four-tenths of the profits,’ she added quickly.

Macro looked up sharply. ‘Four-tenths? Why not half?’

‘Because I’ll be doing all the hard work. Four-tenths. That’s my final offer.’

Cato sat quite still, watching the exchange and somewhat in awe of Portia’s sound business sense and ruthless approach to getting her way. It was clear which of those qualities Macro had inherited in abundance.

‘Wait a moment!’ Macro held up his hands. ‘What if I decide I don’t want to lend you the money?’

Portia folded her slender hands together and pouted slightly. ‘Would you really do such a thing to your mother? Force me to buy some grotty little chop house, which is all I could afford without your help. Work myself to the bone for a pittance and then die old and alone?’

‘For fuck’s sake, you know it won’t come to that!’ Macro said crossly. ‘I’ll see to it that you’re taken care of. It’s the least I owe you.’

‘Quite.’ She nodded. ‘So?’

Macro breathed in deeply and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Very well. How much do you need?’

‘Five thousand denarii. That’s all.’

Macro’s jaw sagged. ‘Five thousand! That’s . . . that’s . . .’ His brow creased in concentration. ‘Several years’ pay.’

‘You can easily afford it.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I had a little look in that chest of yours that you keep at the bottom of your kitbag.’

‘But it’s locked.’

She gave him a sympathetic look. ‘I spent fifteen years working in a bar in Ariminum, my boy. There are many useful tips and skills I picked up from my customers. Lock-picking is the least of them. The more interesting point is how a centurion managed to come by such a large fortune.’

Macro exchanged a quick glance with Cato and both men felt a tremor of anxiety trace its way down their spines. When they had been in Rome they had helped to unmask a conspiracy in the ranks of the Praetorian Guard. The silver was part of a convoy of bullion that the conspirators had stolen from the Emperor, and was still unaccounted for as far as the imperial palace was concerned. Cato had argued that it should be handed back but Macro had fervently insisted that they had earned the silver and refused. So they had split the proceeds. Cato had left his share with a banker in Rome while Macro, who regarded bankers as corrupt parasites, changed the silver into gold coins to make his fortune more portable and kept it in his possession. His little secret, until now. He looked round hurriedly in case anyone had overheard his mother’s remark. Then he turned back to her.