“Good afternoon. My name is Helena Justina,” declared Helena, who knew how to behave with tranquillity even when facing my parent wielding a bowl of almond stuffing and a twelve-inch boning knife. “My father is the senator Camillus Verus. My maid is, of course, waiting for me outside. I was hoping for an interview with Didius Falco; I am a client.”

“I am his mother!” stated my mother, like Venus of the Foamy Feet wading in on behalf of Aeneas. (Mind you, I don’t suppose pious Aeneas, that insufferable prig, flourished on fish his lovely goddess mother boned and stuffed for him herself.)

“I thought you must be,” replied Helena in her quiet, pleasant way, eyeing my uncooked dinner as if she longed to be asked to stay. “You once took care of my cousin Sosia; I’m so glad of this opportunity to thank you.” After which, adjusting her veil, she fell modestly silent as a younger woman addressing an older lady does if she has good sense. (It was the first time any woman who knew me had deferred to mama with any show of sense.)

“Marcus!” screeched ma, rather put out at being so politely outfaced. “Business for you!”

Trying to look nonchalant, I strolled into the room.

My mother whipped away the fish plate, then bustled out onto the balcony, diligently respecting a client’s privacy. This was no real sacrifice; she could still listen from outdoors. I offered Helena the client’s chair while I sat the other side of the table acting businesslike.

Our eyes met. My acting collapsed. She was trying to decide whether I was glad to see her; I was just as cautiously scanning her. At exactly the same moment our eyes lit with self-ridicule—then we just sat, in the silence that says everything, and smiled at each other happily.

“Didius Falco, I want to discuss your bill.”

With one eye on the balcony door, I stretched across the table and just touched her fingertips. A shiver of electricity raised goosebumps on my arms.

“Anything wrong with it, ladyship?”

She pulled away her hands, genuinely indignant. “What on earth are Debatable Items?” she demanded. “Five hundred sesterces for something you don’t even explain?”

“It’s just a loose heading some accountants use. My advice is, debate madly and don’t pay!” I grinned; she realized it was an excuse to make her call.

“Hmm! I’ll think it over. Should I speak to your accountant?”

“I never use an accountant. Half of them can only calculate a percentage when it’s their fee, and I have enough hangers-on sharing my stockpot without some bald Phoenician tallyman and his scrofulous clerk expecting to join in too. When you’re ready, you’d better talk directly to me.”