XII

On the second day of my surveillance Severina Zotica must have stayed in to read her library scrolls. There were household deliveries—amphorae of olive oil and fish pickle—followed by a woman trundling a rackety handcart full of hanks of wool. It had badly set wheels, so I strolled over and lifted the base with the toe of my boot as she struggled to lever the thing up a kerb.

“Someone’s going to be busy!” I commented nosily.

“She always buys a quantity.” The wool distributor backed her ample rear down the entry to Severina’s house, huffing as she towed the load. “She weaves it herself,” she told me, boasting on her customer’s behalf. A likely tale.

It was a poor day if I was hoping to publish my diary to literary acclaim: breakfast; Lucanian sausage for lunch (with indigestion afterwards); hot weather; a dogfight in the afternoon (no interesting bites) …

The chair finally veered out of the passage in the early evening, followed by a thin maid with a cosmetics box in one hand and a strigil and oil flask dangling from her other wrist. Severina vanished into the same bathhouse as before, dragging the maid. An hour later she flounced back out down the steps. Her sandals were gilded, a lacing of gold threads embroidered every hem on her get-up, and what looked like a diadem came to a point beneath the inevitable stole. The maid who had tricked her out in this finery set off home on foot with her cast-offs and the cosmetics, while the chairmen hauled Severina north to the Pincian: a social call at the Hortensius house.

She stopped at Minnius’ cake stall, where she acquired one of his leaf-lined baskets. I pursued her as far as the Hortensius gatehouse and winked at the porter, who confirmed for me that madam was dining with her fancy man. There seemed nothing to gain by waiting outside all evening while they gorged themselves and exchanged pretty nothings. I went back to see Minnius.

“Does Severina call here often?”

“Every time she goes to see Novus. He’s a glutton for sweet stuff; they have a regular order up at the house, but she usually takes him a titbit.”

I bought another piece of must cake for my sister, but I ate it on my way to visit Helena.

*   *   *

“Marcus! How are you getting on with your enquiry?”

“All the evidence suggests the gold-digger is just a home-loving girl, improving her mind, who wants a classic tombstone. Apart from She lived with one husband, which we can assume she has abandoned, it’s to be Chaste, virtuous, and well-deserving … She spun and worked in wool—”

“Perhaps she really is well-deserving!”

“And perhaps there will be a snowstorm in Tripolitania! It’s time I took a closer look at her—”

“In her women-only bathhouse?” Helena pretended to be shocked.

“My darling, I’ll consider most disguises—but I can’t pass for a female once I’m in the nude…” Wondering whether I could somehow manage to infiltrate myself as a sweeper, I gave Helena a salacious grin.

“Don’t flash your teeth at me, Didius Falco! And don’t forget you’re already on bail from the Lautumiae…” After a moment she added apropos of nothing, “I missed seeing you yesterday.” Her voice was low; there was a true note of yearning in it for a man who wanted to be persuaded.

“Not my fault. You were out when I came.”

She stared at the toes of her shoes (which were leather in a discreet shade, but with dashing purple laces). I mentioned, also apropos of nothing, that I had taken a new lease. I was wondering how she would take it. She looked up. “Can I come and see?”

“Once I’ve acquired some furniture.” No self-respecting bachelor invites a good-looking girl to his apartment until he can provide a mirror and anything else they might need. Such as a bed. “Don’t worry—as soon as word of my move gets round among my family, I expect to be showered with everything they’ve been longing to get rid of—especially my brothers-in-law’s bodged efforts at carpentry…”

“My father has a battered reading couch he intended to offer you, but perhaps you won’t want it now you’re going up in the world?”

“I’ll take it!” I assured her. Her gaze faltered. Helena Justina could always interpret my motives too easily.

Reading is not the only thing you can do on a couch.

*   *   *

I left early. We had run out of things to talk about.

One way and another I had hardly given my darling so much as a kiss. By the time we said goodbye she seemed rather standoffish, so I kept aloof too and strode away with just a nod.

Before I fetched up at the end of her father’s street I felt a serious pang of misery, and wished I had been more affectionate. I nearly went back. But I had no intention of letting a senator’s daughter see me behave like a dithering idiot.