Graveyard of the Hesperides by Lindsey Davis

I was having a wedding to which he was invited, but he would have to inform his father, the doleful Gaius Baebius, that I had appointed someone else to conduct the sacrifice and augury.
    Junillus, a bright, good-looking seventeen-year-old, let me struggle for a long while before he suddenly and silently reacted. “Jupiter Tonans! The poor old sod will be mortified! You can bloody well tell him yourself, Albia.”
    The cheeky lad understood more than he usually let on and was a brilliant actor.
    *   *   *
    We went on to the Fourth Cohort’s secondary billet. Tiberius shouldered open a crack in the heavy gates, despite the vigiles’ attempts to deter the public from bothering them.
    Various ex-slave troops were lolling in the courtyard among pieces of firefighting equipment. They whistled at me on principle, regardless of my being under a magistrate’s protection. This was no surprise. The first time I came here I was with my father, yet only narrowly avoided being gang-raped on a heap of esparto mats. We were collecting a lost dog. Even she looked slightly ruffled, as if she had fought off unwanted attention.
    A dark closet halfway down a dusty veranda housed Morellus. After a night’s long shift he could have gone home to his family, but as usual he was asleep, carefully wedged on a stool with his back against a wall and his feet up on a table. His booted heels were dropping road dust on the scroll that listed last night’s arrests. For once the miscreants were not shouting protests in the cells. Drunk or sober, they seemed to be landlords who wouldn’t comply with fire regulations and were now resignedly waiting for slaves to come from their bankers with the necessary bribes. Morellus must have stayed late in order to extract his cut.
    I banged a metal spoon on his dented food bowl. Like all ex-soldiers he had the knack of waking instantly, on the alert. Seeing us, he did not bother to lower his boots.
    â€œFlavia Albia! Word is, you’re now screwing that aedile who was sniffing around you.”
    â€œI am here,” the aedile pointed out.
    â€œI see you!” Morellus did not call him “sir.”
    â€œGood to have you back,” returned Faustus, mildly.
    â€œI thank you, Aedile. It’s bloody good to be here and not dying in my bed with four upset nippers all bawling their sad little heads off and throwing porridge about.”
    Once overweight, a vicious poisoning attack had left Morellus a shadow of himself. He had the shaved head all the vigiles favored, and wore the standard red tunic, stylishly crumpled, with muted accents of gravy stain. His belt was wide, his boots tough, his feet showing through the battered straps were dramatically blistered, his manner was truculent, his career had stalled for the past ten years. In all of this he was typical. Of Rome’s various military or paramilitary forces, the vigiles were the lowest grade.
    â€œCome over here and have a big squeeze,” the horrible lout enticed me, still ignoring Faustus.
    â€œNo chance, Morellus. Haven’t you heard? I’m getting married.” I would never have gone anywhere near him anyway. “Show some respect to my fiancé, will you?”
    Jumping his feet down floorward, Morellus sat up suddenly, letting out the customary cry of amazement. “Fiancé! You don’t say! When is the wedding?” He laughed raucously. Tiberius did not. “I’ll have to get a new smart tunic for that!”
    â€œWho said you were invited?”
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll invite us myself. Pullia will be delighted.” His wife, Pullia, was a surprisingly nice woman, though she must have been sozzled the day she agreed to share her life with Morellus. I wondered whether they would bring the four little porridge-flingers. Probably have to. They were children no aunts would willingly look after. Anyway, Pullia liked them to all go out as a family. It