Lindsey Davis - Enemies at Home

The inquiry I carried out for him already seemed long past. We would work together again, but socially and professionally there were limits.

As we left the apartment my mother thanked Faustus, apologising as if he had been imposed on. Brushing that aside, he asked to be kept informed of my progress, though it sounded a formality. Attendants carried the chair down to Fountain Court, where they waited for Helena while she talked to Rodan. It was always good to witness a hoary ex-gladiator being reduced to slush by a sweet but stern woman. Manlius Faustus also watched with amusement, as he stood with his thumbs hooked into his belt on what passed for a pavement.

Helena had already sized him up. Later, I was to hear her tell my father that Manlius Faustus looked like a man you could ask to take charge of your wood cart as a quick favour, then when you came back, he would have unloaded all the logs for you and stacked them neatly.

In the depths of the chair, I dwelt on what had just happened between us. The Aviola case had given me a portrait of life with many slaves. In such households, the owners are never alone. Their slaves carry out the most intimate tasks for them — physical, financial, sexual. Slaves make excuses for them and form a protective barrier. In one way they ensure privacy, yet their constant presence everywhere means their owners have no privacy at all.

Those few days that I spent being cared for by Tiberius were absolutely private. He could easily have brought in slaves to help him, but I know he never considered it. I would tell no one, not even my mother, the details of how he nursed me; in future, he and I might not even acknowledge it between ourselves. It had been the most intimate intervention, one I would not have tolerated from anybody else. I accepted it from him because of this: Tiberius did everything, not because he was obliged to look after me as a slave would be, but because he wanted to.

Once my mother was ready, he came closer and said goodbye to me. Being so ill made me stupidly tearful. I was unable to speak.

As the chair lurched when the bearers lifted it, I looked back through the window curtains. He was still standing in the roadway. Seeing me looking, he made a sudden gesture of redundancy, sharing my regret. He would not come to our house, though he might send Dromo with enquiries. I could write; he liked my letters. I would lure him into answering.

I realised that, oddly, Tiberius had enjoyed looking after me. I even thought that as I was taken away, he watched me go a little sadly.