Just before we reached the road we passed an aristocratic litter borne by half a dozen slaves, progressing at a stately pace towards the house. Talc windows hid the occupant but his slaves' gold-braided livery and the spanking crimson carriagework said it all. Luckily the Marcellus approach road was wide enough for both of us, since my nephew made it a point of honour never to give way to anyone of a higher rank.
All the way back to Oplontis Larius was so annoyed at my treatment of Helena that he refused to speak to me. Damned romantic!
Still in silence we bedded Nero down.
We went in to change our grimy clothes. Our landlady had been dyeing her wardrobe a deeper shade of black so the filthy stink of oak gall extract pervaded the whole inn.
'You'll never see her again!' Larius exploded, as his disgust finally broke.
'Yes I will.'
She would buy me my bucket; then he would probably be right.
The Petronius offspring were all in the inn courtyard, crouched in the dust with their heads together, playing elaborate games with myrtle twigs and mud. They turned their backs as a sign we should not interrupt the intensity of their play. Their kittens lolloped round them. No one appeared to be in charge.
We strolled outside. The nursemaid Ollia was lying on the beach while her fisherboy displayed his glossy pectorals alongside. He was talking, as they like to; Ollia stared out to sea, stuck with listening. She had a wistful look on her face.
I gave the girl a grim nod. 'Petronius?'
'Gone for a walk.'
Her fisherboy was no older than my nephew; he had the kind of moustache I really hate-a skinny black lugworm stitched on above his feeble mouth.
Larius skulked along with me. 'We ought to rescue Ollia.'
'Let her have her fun!'
My nephew scowled, then to my surprise abandoned me. Feeling my age, I watched him lope over to the pair then squat down too. The two lads glared at each other while young Ollia continued to stare at the horizon, an overweight, overemotional mollock, paralysed by her first social success.