“Is this an interrogation, Falco?” Quite suddenly she laughed. It was the first time I heard that twist of private amusement, an unexpectedly appealing note that made me inadvertently giggle in return. “Oh well! When Vespasian announced his claim and blockaded the corn supplies at Alexandria to put pressure on the senate to support him, there were difficulties trading east. My husband and my uncle tried to explore new European markets—Uncle Publius even visited Britain to investigate tribal exports from the Celts! Uncle Gaius was not altogether pleased,” Helena added.

“Why not?”

“They don’t get on.”

“Why not?”

“Different types.”

“What does Aelia Camilla think? Did she side with her husband or her brother Publius?”

“Oh, she has a very soft spot for Uncle Publius—for the same reasons he irritates Uncle Gaius.”

Her ladyship was still amused. She had the kind of laugh I wanted to hear again. I nudged at it: “What’s so funny? What reasons?”

“I won’t say. Well, don’t mock…Years ago when they lived in Bithynia, when my aunt was a child, Uncle Publius taught her to drive his racing chariot!” I could not imagine it. Aelia Camilla had appeared so dignified. “You know Uncle Gaius—the nicest kind of man, often adventurous, but he can be rather staid.” I had guessed. “Uncle Gaius complains that Aunt Aelia drives too fast! I’m afraid she taught me,” Helena confessed.

I leaned back my head and sombrely tutted at the sky. “My good friend your uncle is quite right.”

“Didius Falco, don’t be ungrateful. You were so desperately ill I had to hurry—you were perfectly safe.”

Out of character, she raised her arm and pretended to box me round the ears. I blocked the movement, casually catching her wrist. Then I stopped.

I turned Helena Justina’s hand palm upwards and wrinkled my nose, breathing in the perfume I had noticed. She had a firm wrist, bare of jewellery tonight. Her hands were cold, like mine, but the scent hummed—something like cinnamon but much more deeply resonant. Made me think of Parthian kings.

“Now there’s an exotic attar!”

“Malabathron,” she told me, wriggling, but not much. “From India. An immensely expensive relic of my husband—”

“Generous!”

“Waste of money. The fool never noticed it.”

“Perhaps,” I teased, “he had a cold he couldn’t shift.”

“For four years?”

We were both laughing. I would have to let her go. No opportunity appearing, I bent my head and enjoyed another sniff.

“Malabathron! Lovely. My favourite! Does it come from the gods?”

“No, it comes from a tree.” I could feel her growing anxious, but she was too proud to tell me to let go.

“Four years, so you were a bride at what—nineteen?”

“Eighteen. Quite old. Like my husband’s cold—difficult to shift.”

“Oh I doubt that!” I commented gallantly.