Once I prised him from his desk, Gaius decided to make the most of it. He suggested we take picnics, sunhats and our families. I said that would look unprofessional. Respecting the work concept, he agreed even though he had always thought my sphere of activity had all the glamour of the mighty mound of horse manure outside the Circus Maximus. I managed to persuade him we still had enough daylight to hire donkeys, visit the villa, and be back before dinner. We could make up a bathing party some other day… Time was with us when we started. We left through the Laurentine Gate, riding fast through the enormous necropolis that lay outside town. Farms and orchards covered the plain, then when we hit the Via Severina, the main road to Laurentum, there were fancy villas every half a mile. After Gaius had lost himself down several wrong turnings, we were pushing it for time. Off-duty fishermen had stared at us in a tiny seashore village when he took us off the main road. Returning to it, we had ridden through miles of light woodland. Gaius rejected numerous villas built for people with too little leisure time and far too much money. The Laurentine coastline south of Ostia is a continuous ribbon of guarded homes set in elegant playgrounds and we had ridden past many of them. The sun had mellowed and shadows were long when we took one final lumpy track off the high road, headed gloomily towards the sea, and turned up at the place we wanted. a large fenced property which by chance had no one at the gate. The gate was closed. We tethered our donkeys out of sight and climbed it. I wanted to go exploring by myself, but nobody went on a solo foray when they were out with Gaius Baebius. He had no idea of diplomacy, and no intention of covering the rear. We walked up the entrance drive, keeping our ears peeled. If the owner of this place was the usual rich enthusiast with a menagerie that roamed loose, we were sitting targets. Our boots sank into warm sandy soil on a soft track, where the coastal air was richly scented with pine needles. Cicadas whirred in the great trees all around us. Other wise there was silence, except for the distant whisper of the waves, breaking in long low combers on the so-far hidden shore. The villa we reached was built so close to the sea that it must often be uncomfortable to unfold the panoramic doors on its various dining rooms, lest the sea view came in a little too close and spray reached the serving tables, tainting the rich contents of the silver dishes and tarnishing their heavy decoration. Sea breezes would waken sleepers in the lavish guest bedrooms. The salty air was already drying my skin. It must cause horticultural problems in the kitchen gardens beside the bath house, the trellised arbours covered with tough vines and ornamentals, and the wide, formally planted parterre where we ended up. There the paths had been gravelled, but sand constantly blew over them, and some of the box edgings had suffered from too harsh a climate. Nonetheless, a dogged gardener had produced a green area where he let his imagination run riot on topiary. The estate did boast wild beasts, a half-size elephant raising his trunk [which had to be on wires] and a matched pair of lions, all clipped out of bushes. So proud was the topiarist of his careful handiwork that he had signed his name in box trees. He was called Labo. Or Libo. Or Lubo.