Scipio’s eyes snapped open. He was a deep and contented sleeper but had never mastered the art of waking up gradually. As usual it was all or nothing. And again as usual, at the moment, in his life in general, it was nothing.

Just under a month had passed. An eventful month in the Forum; a month of dull inaction for Lucius Cornelius Scipio. He had met with his clients, met with his accountants, met with his wheelers and dealers. He had read, he had written, and slept with either/or of his mistresses. The previous night had been Clodia, something attributed to by the fact that he was still in her bed: Servilia was not a woman who enjoyed the tender intimacy that followed the act of lovemaking. Neither, arguably, was Scipio; but he was more than prepared to admit that it was far more comfortable than having to depart post haste.

He had been keeping abreast of events among the power-players of Roman politics, not that anyone would have noticed; he was very much the forgotten man of the patriciate, either unknown or dismissed as a rogue and seducer of other men’s wives (at best). Which, as it turned out, was fortunate: he had no one looking in his direction; and he had the beginnings of a plan forming. When precisely it had come to him he wasn’t sure. It hadn’t been there the night before, but it was there now, and that was what mattered.

He slipped quietly from Clodia’s bed and got dressed. He had work to do.