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commented upon. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that it was she who had brought it up, though, rather than his father. Fabricius was a soldier, but as he often liked to say, his wife had only been prevented from being one by virtue of her sex. Much of the time, Atia was sterner than he was. ‘How did you know?’
    Her grey eyes fixed him to the spot. ‘I’ve heard you at night. One would have to be deaf not to.’
    ‘Oh,’ Quintus whispered. He didn’t know where to look. Mortified, he studied the richly patterned mosaic beneath his feet, wishing it would open up and swallow him. He’d thought they’d been so discreet.
    ‘Get over it. You’re not the first noble’s son to plough the furrow with a pretty slave girl.’
    ‘No, Mother.’
    She waved her hands dismissively. ‘Your father did the same when he was younger. Everyone does.’
    Quintus was stunned by his mother’s sudden openness. It must be part of becoming a man, he thought. ‘I see.’
    ‘You should be safe enough with Elira. She is clean,’ Atia announced briskly. ‘But choose new bed companions carefully. When visiting a brothel, make it an expensive one. It’s very easy to pick up disease.’
    Quintus’ mouth opened and closed. He didn’t ask how his mother knew that Elira was clean. As Atia’s
ornatrix
, the Illyrian had to help dress her each morning. No doubt she’d been grilled as soon as Atia had become aware of her involvement with him. ‘Yes, Mother.’
    ‘Ready for the hunt?’
    He twisted beneath her penetrating scrutiny, wondering if she could see his fear. ‘I think so.’
    To his relief, his mother made no comment. ‘Have you prayed to the gods?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Let us do it again.’
    They made their way into the atrium, which was lit by a rectangular hole in the ceiling. A downward-sloping roof allowed rainwater to fall into the centre of the room, where it landed in a specially built pool. The walls were painted in rich colours, depicting rows of columns that led on to other, imaginary chambers. The effect made the space seem even bigger. This was the central living area of the large villa, and off it were their bedrooms, Fabricius’ office, and a quartet of storerooms. A shrine was situated in one of the corners nearest to the garden.
    There a small stone altar was decorated with statues of Jupiter, Mars, or Mamers as the Oscans called him, and Diana. Guttering flames issued from the flat, circular oil lamps sitting before each. Effigies of the family’s ancestors hung on the wall above. Most were Fabricius’ ancestors: Romans,the warlike people who had conquered Campania just over a century before, but, in a real testament to his father’s respect for his wife, some were Atia’s forebears: Oscan nobility who had lived in the area for many generations. Naturally, Quintus was fiercely proud of both heritages.
    They knelt side by side in the dim light, each making their silent requests of the deities.
    Quintus repeated the prayers he’d made in his room. They eased his fear somewhat, but could not dispel it. By the time he had finished, his embarrassment about Elira had subsided. He was still discomfited, however, to find his mother’s eyes upon him as he rose.
    ‘Your ancestors will be watching over you,’ she murmured. ‘To help with the hunt. To guide your spear. Do not forget that.’
    She
had
seen his fear. Ashamed, Quintus nodded jerkily.
    ‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you.’ Fabricius came into the room from the hall. Short and compact, his close-cut hair was more grey now than brown. Clean-shaven, he had a ruddier complexion than Quintus, but possessed the same straight nose and strong jawline. He was already wearing his hunting clothes - an old tunic, a belt with an ivory-handled dagger, and heavy-duty leather sandals. Even in civilian dress, he managed to look soldier-like. ‘Made your devotions?’
    Quintus nodded.
    ‘We had best get ready.’
    ‘Yes, Father.’ Quintus