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on one of his rambling reminiscences, but Gaius collected himself and announced briskly, ‘But you’ve heard all that before. Now, some wine. There’s still an amphora or two of Falernian in store.’ He paused and seemed to notice Clothilde for the first time, then shot Titus a quizzical glance which held a hint of disapproval. ‘Your companion . . . ?’ He left the question hanging in the air, his breeding preventing him from putting into words what he obviously wondered: was she his son’s personal slave, or perhaps a concubine? (To Gaius she had to be one or the other; no alternative relationship was conceivable between a Roman and a German. And Clothilde, from her dress and colouring, was clearly of Teutonic origin.)
    Titus took Clothilde’s hand. ‘Father, this is Clothilde, from a noble Burgundian family. We hope that you will give us your consent and blessing for our marriage.’
    Gaius’ face paled and he stared at his son in shocked disbelief.‘But . . . you can’t,’ he faltered. ‘She’s German. It’s against the law.’
    â€˜Strictly speaking, that’s true,’ Titus conceded. ‘But you know as well as I do there are ways round it if you can pull the right strings. After all, Honorius himself was married to the daughter of Stilicho, who was a Vandal. If you were to put in a good word for us with the bishop, I’m sure the provincial governor would—’
    â€˜Never!’ interrupted Gaius, a red spot burning on each cheek. ‘A son of mine marry a German? Unthinkable. It would bring eternal shame on the house of the Rufini.’
    This was all going horribly wrong – beyond Titus’ worst imaginings. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled wretchedly to Clothilde, signing urgently to the hovering slave to show her out, until the storm should have passed.
    â€˜That was uncalled for, Father,’ Titus said accusingly, once they were alone. ‘Clothilde’s a fine girl. You couldn’t ask for a better daughter-in-law. Just because she’s German . . .’ He stumbled to a halt, anger making him incoherent.
    â€˜Germans are the enemy of Rome,’ declared Gaius, a steely edge creeping into his voice. ‘They are the cancer that is eating at the empire. We must drive them out or they will destroy us.’ He paused, and when he spoke again his voice had softened, held a note of appeal. ‘You can see that, Titus, surely? Look, we can’t talk here; the slaves will start eavesdropping. Let’s continue this discussion in the
tablinum
.’
    Limping, the young man followed his father down a short corridor to his study-cum-library. (A childhood riding accident had left Titus lame in one leg, debarring him from military service which, as the son of a soldier, he would otherwise have been compelled to take up. However, his post as a clerk attached to the army conferred quasi-military status and entitled him to wear uniform.) The room overlooked the peristyle with its fountains, statues, and pillared arcades. A pleasant blend of sounds drifted through the open shutters; plash of falling water, distant lowing of cattle, the soft cluck of chickens. The walls were lined with all the old classics, Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Caesar, Suetonius and others. There were even a few moderns, such as Claudian and Ammianus Marcellinus. The two men sat on folding chairs facing each other.
    â€˜We can never mix with those people, my son,’ said Gaius withearnest urgency. ‘They’re illiterate barbarians. They have disgusting manners, they stink, let their hair grow long, dress in furs and trousers instead of decent clothing, despise culture . . . Need I go on?’
    â€˜They may be everything you say, Father,’ Titus replied. ‘But I’ve found them also to be brave and honourable – unlike many of today’s Romans. And once you’ve made friends with him a German’s