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Salt water to make him vomit and purge the poison out, and mallow and crowsfoot as an antidote. I make a few decoctions, I could go and fetch them now . . . there wouldn’t be a charge.’ She caught her husband’s eye. ‘Or Honorius can add it to the wine bill later on . . .’
    But the warning head shake had not been about the price. Her husband had seen the danger in her babbling and Helena Domna voiced the thought – which had occurred to me as well. ‘So you make decoctions, do you? And the wine was at your store until they brought it here. How remarkable. My son might have some questions to ask you later on, when he has recovered from this unfortunate event. Why, what is it, steward?’
    The last words were uttered to an imposing slave who had come the other way, through the side door from the rear – a tall, strong rather handsome man, in a gold-edged tunic and an over-robe which marked him as a servant of some seniority. I recognized the steward that I’d dealt with earlier. I’d thought him impressive, when I’d met him then, but now he was wringing his big hands together in a helpless way, and there was an expression which looked like abject panic on his face. He stood there looking between Minimus and me, as if somehow between us we had let him down, then turned to Helena Domna with a look of pure despair.
    ‘Mistress, I don’t know how to tell you. It’s a dreadful thing. My master, Honorius – he won’t be asking questions of anyone again. And the wedding must be cancelled. He can’t sign anything. The fact is, mistress . . . I’m afraid he’s dead.’

Four
    Honorius’s mother had no need of face-chalk now. The skin under the white coating had turned as pale as ice, and the colour with which she’d tinged her lips and cheeks looked even more bizarrely artificial than before.
    She was clearly shaken, and for a moment I expected an embarrassing display – a rending of garments and beating of the breast, perhaps, accompanied by a theatrically ululating wail. There is a tradition in Roman families, that the death of a member of the household – particularly an honoured eldest son – calls for some such public outpouring of grief.
    But Helena Domna was made of sterner stuff. She was a Roman patrician to the core and – in front of mere tradesman like Vinerius and myself – obviously knew how to impose strict self-control. The only outward sign that she had heard at all was a tiny tightening of the corners of her mouth and an involuntary loosening of her fingers on the fan, which fell with a little clatter on the floor. In the sudden silence it sounded very loud.
    It was a long moment before she made a move, but then she motioned in silence to the page to get the fan. Immediately, the wine merchant’s wife began to keen – not a funerary lament, but a high-pitched howl of frightened misery. ‘It wasn’t us . . . it wasn’t . . . oh, by all the gods—’
    ‘Maesta, be silent!’ Vinerius began, but the words died on his lips. The screen door from the atrium was pushed impatiently aside and a young woman in pink robes came bustling out. It was the pretty girl I’d noticed on the dais earlier, and she was accompanied by a portly female slave.
    ‘Helena Domna,’ the young woman said, looking prettier than ever as she came across to us, her rose-coloured stola rustling as she moved. She must, I realized, be Honorius’s much talked-of second wife – and a much-prized individual by the look of it. The gown was clearly made of oriental silk, which was worth its weight in gold – literally worth it, ounce for precious ounce. Her voice was pretty too, low and musical, though tinged now with sharp anxiety.
    ‘Helena Domna, what are you doing out here in the hall? Our guests are missing you. Have you dealt with the hitch that you were speaking of? Or is there still a problem of some kind? Oh, but I see that there are visitors out here.’ She looked in bewilderment at Vinerius