Helena had already sized him up. Later, I was to hear her tell my father that Manlius Faustus looked like a man you could ask to take charge of your wood cart as a quick favour, then when you came back, he would have unloaded all the logs for you and stacked them neatly.
In the depths of the chair, I dwelt on what had just happened between us. The Aviola case had given me a portrait of life with many slaves. In such households, the owners are never alone. Their slaves carry out the most intimate tasks for them — physical, financial, sexual. Slaves make excuses for them and form a protective barrier. In one way they ensure privacy, yet their constant presence everywhere means their owners have no privacy at all.
Those few days that I spent being cared for by Tiberius were absolutely private. He could easily have brought in slaves to help him, but I know he never considered it. I would tell no one, not even my mother, the details of how he nursed me; in future, he and I might not even acknowledge it between ourselves. It had been the most intimate intervention, one I would not have tolerated from anybody else. I accepted it from him because of this: Tiberius did everything, not because he was obliged to look after me as a slave would be, but because he wanted to.
Once my mother was ready, he came closer and said goodbye to me. Being so ill made me stupidly tearful. I was unable to speak.
As the chair lurched when the bearers lifted it, I looked back through the window curtains. He was still standing in the roadway. Seeing me looking, he made a sudden gesture of redundancy, sharing my regret. He would not come to our house, though he might send Dromo with enquiries. I could write; he liked my letters. I would lure him into answering.
I realised that, oddly, Tiberius had enjoyed looking after me. I even thought that as I was taken away, he watched me go a little sadly.