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and in any case I could hardly refuse. I contented myself with saying wryly, ‘You realise, Excellence, that we have no proof that Felix brings any letter of the kind? You may find that you have married your “Delicta” for nothing.’ If the lady was to be married to my patron, I thought, I might risk the familiar name.
    I expected a rebuke for my insolence, but Marcus merely grinned. ‘All things considered, Libertus, I think that is a risk I am prepared to take. And if my family do not care for my marrying a provincial, they have only themselves to blame. Now, I will go and prepare myself for the
curia
. You can speak to Delicta, if you will.’
    I had no preparations to make, so I took the two slave-boys with me and went out into the back courtyard where the private quarters lay, each bedroom opening separately off the covered walkway which bordered the inner gardens on three sides. I knew the layout of the house from my previous visit and I was able to lead the way to the widow’s apartments, a pair of interconnecting chambers: a small outer dressing room and sleeping quarters within.
    At my signal one of the slaves tapped on the door. A handmaiden opened it. I could see Julia Delicta herself, seated in a gilded chair in the inner room, attended by a group of female slaves. One knelt before her with a mirror, another held a collection of oils and combs, while a third adjusted the exquisite blond tresses to her mistress’s satisfaction. It was a striking picture, made more striking because Delicta’s hair was of precisely the same remarkable golden-blond as that of the maidservant who answered the door. Of course – as I realised a moment afterwards – this was hardly surprising, since it was the same hair: the slave’s tresses had clearly been shorn off at some time and fashioned into an elaborate wig. Presumably Delicta liked it and was having a second one grown, or the girl would have been sold on again. Many fashionable women bought slaves for exactly the same purpose.
    It was not a pleasing thought. My own wife, Gwellia, had been snatched from me and sold into slavery when I was. She too had beautiful hair: a waterfall of raven locks which had haunted my dreams ever since. I had no idea where she was – beyond a rumour that a Celtic slave of the same name had been sold to Eboracum – though I had searched for her tirelessly ever since I gained my freedom. The thought that she might be used in this way, as a kind of human sheep to be shorn for her mistress, was not an agreeable one.
    Then Delicta saw me, and smiled a greeting. All disapproval evaporated. I recognised, not for the first time, what an exceedingly attractive woman she was. ‘Libertus!’ She motioned away her slaves, rose gracefully to her feet, and came towards me, extending a perfumed hand. ‘Excuse me that I was not present to greet you. I heard that there were visitors in the house and I was preparing myself to meet them. I did not guess that it was you. What a pleasure to see you again!’
    She had a way, a gift almost, of making every man she spoke to feel like an emperor. I was not immune to it myself. Fortunately I have been a slave, and slaves learn early how to suppress desire, even of the most involuntary kind. I pulled myself together. ‘Lady, there are matters I must discuss with you.’ I nodded towards the maidservants. ‘In private, if I may. It concerns your guardian.’
    She understood at once, and came out unattended into one of the arbours. I stationed the slave-boys out of earshot, and, sitting down beside her, told her of the plan.
    At first she was doubtful. ‘But, Libertus, there are arrangements to make. There should be a feast, sacrifices, gifts to the servants. I do not even have anything suitable to wear.’
    As this would be her third wedding she would hardly need the ochre veils and floral trimmings of a new bride, but I suppose all women are the same. Gwellia would have had the same impulse. I said gently,