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had no time to answer.
    ‘Vettius!’
    Fabiola felt an instant wave of nausea. For nearly four years, that shrewish voice had called her out to be inspected by prospective customers.
    ‘Vettius!’ This time Jovina sounded irritated. ‘Get in here.’
    With an apologetic grimace at Fabiola, the doorman obeyed.
    She and Sextus were one step behind him.
    The mosaic-floored reception area within was just as garish as Fabiola remembered it. Its walls were covered from top to bottom in richly coloured paintings of forests, rivers and mountains. Fat little cupids, satyrs and various deities were dotted throughout, peeking coyly at the viewer. The most prominent of the gods was Priapus, with his massive erect penis. One wall was covered with images of sexual positions; each was numbered so that clients could easily ask for their favourite. In the centre of the floor was a large painted statue of a naked girl entwined with a swan. The whole room had a faintly dishevelled air, as if it needed a good clean, and Vettius’ words began to make some sense.
    To one side stood a little sparrow of a woman in a low-cut stola . Fabiola’s heart skipped a beat at her first sight of Jovina in five years. At first glance it seemed as if not much had changed. Plenty of the madam’s sagging flesh was still on view; beady eyes flashed from a lined face covered in lead, ochre and antimony. Her lips were painted a gaudy red. Jewellery glittered around her neck, wrists and fingers – gold, silver and precious stones. Jovina was famed for her discretion, and these gifts from her rich clients proved it. ‘Go and wake that fool Benignus,’ she snapped at Vettius. ‘I need him to go out for me.’
    ‘Mistress,’ Vettius muttered. He moved towards the passage which led to the back of the building.
    Fabiola, who had been hidden behind him, was revealed. ‘Jovina.’
    For once, the crone was unable to conceal her amazement. A wrinkled hand rose to her gash of a mouth, and fell away. ‘Fabiola . . . ?’
    Sextus’ eyebrows rose in shock. Here was startling evidence of his mistress’s previous life.
    ‘I’ve come back,’ Fabiola said simply.
    ‘Welcome, welcome,’ Jovina gushed, her public persona taking over again. ‘Can I offer you a drink? Some food? A girl?’ She cackled at her own joke, setting off a paroxysm of coughing.
    ‘How kind. Some wine, thank you.’ Fabiola smiled. Inwardly, she was shocked at Jovina’s haggard appearance. The madam had already been old when Fabiola arrived in the Lupanar. Today she looked positively ancient, and ill. There had never been much to her, but now Jovina’s bones jutted everywhere from under her wrinkled skin, turning her into a walking skeleton. Fabiola almost expected to see Orcus, the god of the underworld, waiting in the corner.
    The madam scuttled to her desk, which was positioned by the corridor. A red and black clay jug sat there with four fine blue glasses, along with small dishes containing olives and bread. This was refreshment for those clients Jovina deemed suitable.
    Returning with two filled goblets, Jovina stumbled and nearly fell. A brittle smile spread across her face. ‘Excuse my clumsiness,’ she muttered.
    The crone is really sick, thought Fabiola.
    ‘Here we are,’ purred Jovina. ‘Just like old times.’
    ‘Not quite,’ she replied archly. ‘I’m a citizen now.’
    ‘And the lover of no less a man than Decimus Brutus,’ said Jovina, probing. ‘He paid a lot of money for you.’
    ‘Thank the gods,’ Fabiola answered. ‘I show him my appreciation of it every day.’
    ‘That’s wonderful,’ said the madam, beaming falsely. ‘A happy ending!’
    Making polite small talk, they both sipped their wine. Each studied the other, Jovina wondering what her former slave’s purpose was, and Fabiola trying to assess the situation in the brothel. Neither gained a single crumb of information. Inevitably perhaps, their conversation turned to the civil war and Caesar’s