One of the good things about being a freedman, Hylas reckoned, was the liberty to fully enjoy the pleasures of the baths instead of being left with his master’s clothes in the apodyterium or being expected to keep his eyes modestly to himself. Sweat dripped from the fringes of his eyelashes and glossed his sleek body as he lounged gracefully by the hot pool, regarding the day’s other bathers with a practised eye and returning bold looks from the most promising of them. He was a provocation, and he knew it.

After that morning’s very gratifying and strenuous workout with the gladiator, Felis, Hylas was in no particular hurry to accept the various invitations into private cubicles, even for good money. At the moment he was enjoying simply being lazy and looked at. There was one man however that his eyes kept returning to in sly appreciation—a tall and athletically-muscled type with flawless olive skin and a fine, aquiline face with strong cheekbones. It wasn’t just the fact he had plenty in the way of natural endowment that had attracted Hylas’s attention, but the fact that when he called over to one of the slaves owned by the baths, his accent had carried the familiar intonation of a native of Sicilia.

Hylas watched through the hot steam of the caldarium as the man strolled over to the waist-high fountain and splashed cool water on his face and neck, then accepted a light-weight towel from a bath-slave and wrapped it loosely round his waist. He wasn’t very surprised when the man then turned and looked directly at him, and began to walk purposefully toward him.

He was surprised however, when instead of delivering the usual flattering comment designed to get him on his back or knees, the Sicilian gave him a coolly amused smile and remarked, “Well, Hylas, I have to say, you make a remarkably lovely corpse.”

Hylas’s beautiful eyes widened with sudden shock and he stared speechlessly at the man, who just continued to regard him with deadpan calm. For a moment the young Greek almost leapt to his feet and fled, but he reminded himself obstinately that he wasn’t a runaway slave anymore, he had nothing to be scared off—did he? “I—but I’m—how did you know my name? Who are you?” he stammered at last.

“Quintus Valerius Felix, and as I see you’ve realised, I’m from Sicilia. Syracusa to be precise, where a gentleman named Aemilius Pertinax hired me to look into the disappearance of his slave. A slave he had sold in good faith and had to make recompense for as the boy ran away before he could be delivered up.” A small smile cracked Felix’s deadpan cool as he watched fear and defiance flicker across Hylas’s face.

“I’m not—not—a slave!” Hylas protested. Well, that much at least was true, and probably the only honest thing he could have said in the circumstances.

“So I see,” Felix nodded, “Of course, since Pertinax accepted the recompense offered by a most kind benefactor for the runaway slave’s unfortunate death, he has accepted his possession is indeed, unrecoverable. And as a freeman of course, you are beyond reclaiming anyway. Nice work, Hylas, I’d love to hear how you managed it.”

Hylas swallowed hard and stared at the handsome man helplessly. But he sensed amusement, even a little approval maybe, rather than threat. “How did you find me?” he ventured to ask.

“Oh, I’ve been watching you for a long time,” Felix said casually. “Back and forth between Sextus Manlius’s villa, Stabiae and Pompeii. I was interested to see which way you’d jump next.” He stood up and offered Hylas his hand. “Come on.”

“Where to?” Hylas stared at him warily, but took the offered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

“My place, of course. You might enjoy an audience, but I don’t. And don’t try running out on me on the way, please. I think you’ve done enough running, don’t you?”