Nemesis

'I hope Aulus did not make you any promises.' I broached the subject tentatively, still not brave enough to say I hoped he had not slept with her.

'Of course he wouldn't; I'm a barbarian!' Albia snapped furiously. Her voice then dropped. 'I was just stupid.'

'Well, it must seem impossible at the moment, but one day you will get over him.'

'I never will!' Albia retorted. Her loves and hates were equally intense. I had a dark feeling she was right; she never would recover. After knocking about with street life in Londinium, Albia knew how to stay safe at that level, but she had trusted Aelianus. He was one of the family, her family now. She had dropped her guard.

'Maybe it's a good thing we are going to Antium, or I might rip his head off myself.'

'You never would,' sneered Albia bitterly.

'Since he is actually married, there is not much I can do about the situation, and you know that.'

'If he wasn't married would you do anything?'

I gave her no answer. Aulus was overdue for marriage. I thought his choice was a disaster, but I would have seriously opposed any offer for Albia – - for both their sakes.

'You talk about righting injustice, but you never do it,' she grumbled.

'Conciliation – there's a fine Latin word… I hope you never have to see me stick a sword in someone's ribs.' It had been known. But I believed retribution should fit the degree of the crime. 'Aelianus has been thoughtless and disloyal. Young men are like that. Young women can be just as bad – or worse.'

'Oh I don't expect anyone to stand up for me!' Albia was back on the verge of tears now. My heart ached for her. 'You are both men. He is your friend, your relative, your assistant. You will stick by him -'

'He was your friend too.' I was nervous that Aulus might have the crazy idea they could carry on as friends. He was that kind of innocent. 'I'd say, value your past – - but move on and forget him. Do it for yourself.'

Poor Albia was far from being ready to move on. She turned away but I heard her weeping all the rest of our journey to the villa.

IX

Silence. Pa's shoreline villa can never have rung with a summer social life, because he was rarely in residence; the one time I was here before, I had gathered activity was infrequent. Having an absentee owner was typical for a seaside villa. For security, he left more than a skeleton staff, though they lived in a separate wing from the main house. They stayed on the alert because he would turn up at any time – - it depended what incoming ships from Spain or the East had agreed to quietly offload artworks at sea to save him paying duty. He and Gornia then took a boat out into the shipping lanes. It was not a process I intended to repeat. Mind you, I would keep the boat.

I reminded the slaves who I was and explained the situation. They made themselves look downcast over my father's death, though did not feel called upon to shed real tears. This was much as I felt myself, so I did not complain.

Naturally they assumed Albia was some flufiball I wanted to seduce behind my wife's back. That is what slaves always think. It's the male behaviour most see from their masters. Wearied by driving, my reaction was short-tempered.

I felt old. Once, finding myself with custody of a delightful young girl, I would have been tempted. I could still remember those happy days, but ambivalence was a vice I had lost. I was married. Albia was family. I viewed her as a grumpy teenager I had to keep safe despite her yen for rebellion, while she saw me as hideous, elderly and past it, just like any father.

Disappointed of scandal, the slaves – - who seemed good-natured enough once they got used to a situation – - made us a barbecue on the beach. Grilled fish, freshly caught from the sea and smoke-cooked in a drizzle of olive oil, can mend most griefs. Albia tried to continue the feud. But she smiled slightly when I pointed out that she was enjoying not enjoying anything. At least she ate. Being forlorn had not affected her appetite.

Next day I surveyed the property. It was even bigger and more luxurious than I remembered, and packed with treasures. Albia followed me around with her mouth agape, muttering, 'This is yours?'

'It's mine. Or only half of it, if Thalia's sprog pops out with male genitalia.'

'You could castrate him.' Albia's harsh new mood produced intriguing legal questions.

This villa, protected from sun and storms by pine trees, was where Pa had kept his favourite collection, items he really liked and enjoyed. I liked them too. I would have to come back soon for a long visit; there was so much stuff to catalogue. I needed to bring Helena, to show her the glorious location, the rampant antiques and furnishings. Maybe this would become our permanent summer retreat. If she hated the place, which I thought unlikely, there was so much to sell I would have to time our auctions carefully, so as not to flood the market.

'Are you planning to liberate any faithful slaves in your dear father's name, Marcus Didius?' The usual question.

As ever, I responded with a noncommittal sigh. I could free a percentage in Pa's name. I would do it if I could. I wanted to evaluate them first. What happened to them would have nothing to do with how well each had served my father during his life; it depended on how much manumission tax I would have to pay if I freed them or what price they would fetch in the slave market. Any with specialist training or pretty faces were in greater danger of being either kept as slaves or sold. Already I was thinking like a tycoon. If they had a high market value, I was less inclined to give them their release.

The monumental statues for the amphitheatre contract were lined up in rows in the woods. Close to, they were a ragbag: anonymous men of note in triumphal poses, batoned and breastplated; some were weathered about the face and drapery as if they had already adorned public places. I wondered if they had been stolen from their plinths; however, some had their plinths with them.

One batch appeared new. They had been carved to the same model, but with different arms or helmets. I was not surprised. Jobbing sculptors regularly provide a basic figure in an old-fashioned toga, then let you commission a true-life head of your grandaddy at a cut-price rate. So why not cloned dignitaries for an amphitheatre?

I counted them. One hundred and eleven. Jupiter! Pa had cornered the market. Trust him. The Flavian amphitheatre would be virtually: statues courtesy of Geminus. No wonder that creep Cluvius wanted me to step aside and let him muscle in.

I gave instructions that the statues were to be brought up to Rome using -whatever haulage system Geminus had put in place. 'And I want to see a hundred and eleven arrive. A hundred and twelve will prove to me that you are really conscientious.' My humour was lost on the steward. Foolish; if he failed to notice my jokes, he could end up at the slave market.

'I could stay here to supervise,' volunteered Albia.

'No thanks.' I was not giving her a chance to bolt. 'Lass, if you want to run away, check logistics with me first. For a workable escape you need a plan, a budget, detailed road maps, a stout stick, proper footwear and a good hat.'