It wasn't what she did," snarled Helena, my mild, tolerant, diplomatic partner. It never is what Junia does. It's what she damn well is. It's how she sits there in her neat outfit, with her careful jewels, and her struggling son in his very clean tunic, and her slobbering dog who gets himself everywhere, and I can't actually say what leads it to happen, but maybe her trite conversation and self-satisfied behaviour just, make, me, want to scream!" Now she felt better. I sat down, nodding sympathetically. Helena went back to chopping. For a girl who had been brought up to consider kitchens as places into which she was only expected to wander to give orders about recipes for patrician banquets, she could now wield sharp knives adeptly. I identified a handy cloth that would stanch blood, then I watched with caution. I had taught her to try and avoid chopping off her fingers, but it seemed best not to distract her until she finished. Helena had long, beautiful hands. After a time she threw the leeks in a bowl of water, rattled them about to clean them, wiped the knife, banged down a pan on the cooking bench I had improvised, looked for the olive oil distractedly, and allowed me to find it for her. I took hold of the pan handle. She snatched it away from me. I stood aside politely. She elbowed me back into position and allowed me to take over cooking. Aulus, with unheard-of domestic sense, unwound himself and poured a beaker of red wine, which he placed formally in his sister's hand. Helena leaned against the table, sipping. Her frown relaxed. Soon she told me glumly that Petronius had called that morning; he had looked up the lists of undesirables kept by the vigiles, and found no mention of any Damagoras. Then we got to the nub. Helena added that the reason Junia had called was to gloat that Gaius Baebius did have some information on the name. Being Junia, she would not tell Helena what. Well, that was why Helena was annoyed. I would have to see Gaius Baebius. Now I was annoyed too. Still, the leeks were good. I crumbled in some goat's cheese and de stoned black olives, frisked it all around with a little salty fish-pickle,
served it into bowls, and topped off-with a dribble of extra oil. We ate this with yesterday's bread. Helena had been too angry to go out to the baker for fresh.
