“That was the last of them, Lucius Cornelius,” said Aristander, referring to the final client of the morning, whom he had just escorted to the door.

Scipio looked up from a scroll he was reading. “Good. I’ve got some catching up to do with the accounts and I don’t want to be disturbed. See to it.”

The steward nodded and turned to leave. Then he paused.

“What?” asked Scipio, without looking up.

The aged Greek looked uneasy and wrung his hands. He knew he was in for it.

“There was a letter, domine. It came shortly after dawn.”

Scipio still hadn’t looked up.

“And you didn’t mention this why?”

Aristander took the safe option. He had been in the service of the Cornelii Scipiones for forty years; and he knew this particular Cornelius Scipio very well. The safe option was usually the best option.

“I am sorry, domine. It slipped my mind, what with all the clients coming to pay you their respects on your return from Spain.”

Still Scipio did not look up.

“Aristander, you’ve been in the service of my family for forty years; and I know you very well: nothing slips your mind.”

Damn, thought the Greek. Although that wasn’t what he said aloud.

“I am sorry, domine. I apologise. I should not have said that. The letter…” He paused as he gathered up his courage “The letter is from the Lady Servilia.”

Now Scipio looked up; and as usual his dark eyes were unreadable. Fortunately his tone of voice betrayed that he was more amused than anything else.

“Ah. A difficult predicament.”

Scipio was well aware that his mistress was not well-liked by the household staff. No, that was to commit a gross understatement: they were terrified of her; something he could understand perfectly well. Servilia was not an easy woman. Which probably explained why Scipio liked her.

“Well Aristander, just give me the letter and – momentarily putting aside the fact that you can’t forget anything – let’s forget it.”

“Yes, Lucius Cornelius.” Aristander bobbed his head, paused for a second as he contemplated whether or not this was the right moment to mention that Scipio’s other mistress, Clodia, had been turning up at the house virtually every other day while Scipio had been in Spain, thought the better of it, and scuttled off to fetch the letter.

Rather than return to the pile of accounts that had built up during his absence the young patrician found himself absently playing with ‘his’ signet ring. It was the only object of sentimental value that Scipio possessed, for he was not a sentimental man. It was the signet ring of Scipio Africanus. It had been passed down from Scipio Africanus to his son Publius, then to Scipio Aeminilanus. When Aemilianus died childless it had found its way to Scipio’s grandfather, the grandson of Africanus’ disgraced brother Lucius Cornelius Scipio Asiagenes; with whom Scipio’s own father had shared a name. And disgrace. It should have gone to Scipio’s older brother, Publius; but as far as Scipio was concerned Publius had abrogated his right to it when he had abandoned his birthright and settled for being a merchant banker. That he himself was still only a merchant banker was something he chose to ignore; Publius Scipio was content to remain one, Lucius Scipio was not.

It was a simple ring – for despite his brilliance Africanus had been an unostentatious man – but elegantly made. The image was of an eagle, clutching a laurel wreath in its talons, and the reverse lettering read P.COR.SCIP.AFRIC (which meant that the ring had to be carved in exquisite detail just to fit the initials). To Scipio it represented where he came from, what he had lost (or to be more precise: what his father had lost for him), and what he wanted to regain.

Today the newly inaugurated consuls were taking their seats at the head of the Senate; today the newly elected quaestors were readying themselves for their appointments; today the College of Pontifices were beginning their search for a new Chief Priest; and today, Lucius Cornelius Scipio, whose blood went back to the time of the Kings, and whose family had contributed so many of the great men of Rome, today, Lucius Cornelius Scipio was still the son of a proscribed man and as such was debarred from public life. Today Lucius Cornelius Scipio was still a very small and unimportant fish in a vast ocean. He vowed it would not remain so.

Aristander re-entered with the letter, which he put down quickly and quietly, not wanting to disturb his master’s reverie. Scipio noticed anyhow.

“Did Lucius Furius get in yesterday?”

“I believe so, Lucius Cornelius.”

“Send round an amphorae of the best Falernian, will you, and a note to explain and apologise for my absence.”

“Of course, Lucius Cornelius. Right away.”

“And I’m not to be disturbed, Aristander.”

“I remember, domine.”

Aristander closed the study door softly behind him as Scipio broke the seal on Servilia’s letter.