'Come here, my Galatea. What is there to amuse you in the sea?
… Here by the stream all kinds of flowers are blooming on the turf. Here a bright poplar sways above my cave, and the dangling vines weave shadows on the ground.
Come here, and let the wild waves hammer on the beach…'
– Virgil, Eclogue IX
But for one flaw the Villa Marcella could be recommended as a holiday spot. It was well appointed, had the best views in the Empire, and if you had the right connections it was free. All a visitor had to do was forget he was sharing these elegant acres with a calculated killer; although in that respect the villa was no worse than any two-as dosshouse on this flea-ridden shore, where the clientele were liable to knife you as you slept.
I had no intention of letting Barnabas stay on the loose. On the first day I went to the stables while Helena and the Consul were lunching safely among their platoon of slaves. But Bryon made no secret of it: 'He's gone off somewhere.'
A glance into the palatial hayloft confirmed this: the freedman's den looked untouched, down to the olive stones drying up on last night's dinner plate. But his cloak had been lifted from its peg.
'Where was he heading?'
'No idea. But he'll be back. What else can he do?'
'Something dangerous!' I exclaimed, with more force than I meant.