The journey out to Capreae always seems further than it looks. The sour old Emperor Tiberius chose himself a good sanctuary; plenty of time to prepare visitors a grim welcome before incoming ships berthed.
I was not seasick, though I thought about it uneasily.
'You all right?' Larius asked solicitously. I explained that making kind enquiries of people who had queasy stomachs never helps.
Larius, who loved ships and never felt ill at sea, leaned on the rail beside me, enjoying his trip. As the endless cliffs of the Lactarii peninsula eased slowly past he squinted against the breeze, happily absorbing the spray and the sunlit ocean scenery.
'Uncle Marcus, Helena suggests I ought to talk to you.'
'If it's about your bloody wall painting, I'm not in the mood.'
'It's about Ollia.'
'Oh, it's a joke!' He gave me a disapproving look. 'Sorry! Go on then.' Larius, the shocking romantic, adjusted his pose like a figure-head braving the storms of life, with his limp hair blowing back from his forehead and a stalwart expression. A sea trip brought out the worst in him.
'Ollia is not having a baby; that was Silvia's mistake. As a matter of fact, there was never anything between Ollia and the fisherboy-'
'Goodness!' I scoffed. 'Then why didn't she deny it? Or him?'
'They both did.'
True. 'So what's the real story?'
'He kept hanging around and she didn't know how to get rid of him. Everyone else had the wrong idea about it-'
'Except you?' I hazarded.
Larius blushed. I hid a smile. He went on earnestly. 'Ollia was too frightened of Silvia to explain.' I grinned. 'The fisherboy never wanted her-'
'So what was his angle?'
'He wants to go to Rome. To better himself.' I let out an expression of contempt. 'Oh, he's all right,' Larius muttered. 'Petro says he has tried so hard we ought to take him anyway. My father would have him as an oarsman; it gives a let-out for me…'
'In order to do what, sunshine?'
'To be a wall painter in Pompeii.' I told Larius if he wanted to be so stupid I was still not in the mood.
I had a good look at him; he seemed to have filled out to a more easy-going figure while we were away. He dropped the fresco painting plea, but I had the impression that was only because it was all fixed anyway.
'Well, give Ollia my congratulations on her escape from motherhood-'
'About Ollia-' Larius began.
I groaned, trying not to laugh. 'I can guess. Ollia has decided her great dream is a poetry-reading lank with ochre paint in his fingernails?' Larius hid his hands but I was pleased to see he stood up to me.
They had one of those sweet, neat plans young people so rashly inflict on themselves. Larius insisted on describing it to me: home to Rome; explain to his mother; back to Pompeii; learn his trade; earn enough to hire a room with a balcony-
'Vital equipment for a bachelor on his own!'
'Uncle Marcus, why are you always so cynical?'
'I'm a bachelor blessed with a balcony!'
Then they would get married; wait two years while Larius saved more money; have three children at two-year intervals; and sedately spend the rest of their days deploring the raggedness of other people's lives. There were two possibilities; either they would grow out of each other and Ollia would run off with a sandalmaker-or, knowing Larius, he would manage the whole daft scheme.
'Helena Justina found out all this? What does she think?'
'She thought it was a good idea. Helena gave me my first commission,' Larius told me with a sly look. 'I drew her a still life: you, fast asleep with your mouth open.'
'She never kept it?'
'Oh yes! She wanted a souvenir of her holiday…' I said nothing, because a sailor gave a cry: Capreae.