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the window that the duty tribune wasn’t on the prowl, he dipped a reed pen and began to write:
    Spolicinum Fort, Province of 2nd Raetia, Diocese of Italia. The year of the consuls Asclepiodotus and Marinianus, IV Ides Oct. 2
    Following a terrible quarrel with my father, Gaius ValeriusRufinus, retired general and veteran of Hadrianopolis and the Gothic Wars, I’ve decided to take up the task that he began, namely the keeping of the
Book of the Rufini
. Aware that these are critical times for Rome, my father wanted to record for posterity the key events he had lived through and in some of which he had taken part; he also expressed a wish that his successors carry on the task after his death. Having broken the old man’s heart, I feel I must pick up the baton – if only as an act of reparation. For I doubt if Gaius Valerius now has the will to continue the compilation of the
Liber
.
    The cause of our quarrel was twofold: my decision a) to become a Christian, and b) to marry a German. Now, to Gaius, a diehard pagan and a Roman of the old school, two things, Germans and Christianity, are anathema: Germans because to him they are unruly savages who threaten the very fabric of the empire; Christianity because, by turning men’s minds away from earthly affairs to the afterlife, it is sapping Rome’s will to survive. (To me, faith in a single loving God, incarnated for a short time on earth in the form of Jesus, seems infinitely more valid than belief in a pantheon of beings who, if they exist at all, behave like so many petty criminals or malicious children. Also – let me be honest – being a Christian has practical advantages: pagans are debarred from promotion in the army and civilian administration.)
    Foolishly (as I now realize), I convinced myself that I could talk Gaius round to accepting my position. When I paid a visit to the Villa Fortunata, our family home near Mediolanum, 3 to introduce him to Clothilde, my beautiful betrothed, a dreadful scene erupted.
    â€˜They don’t
look
very dangerous,’ laughed Clothilde as they waited beside the atrium’s central pool, pointing at an array of little bronze figurines on a low table. They represented the household gods, the
lares et penates
, which until lately would have been found in practically every Roman home. By openly displaying them, as Titus had explained to Clothilde, Gaius Valerius risked incurring savage penalties.
    â€˜Don’t be fooled. These little fellows could land us in a lot of trouble. The government’s determined to stamp out all pagan practices, even something as trivial as this.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t it be sensible just to keep them somewhere private?’
    â€˜You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But that’s Father for you. Principle. He should have been a Christian back in Diocletian’s time; he’d have made a splendid martyr. Ah, here he is.’
    Accompanied by the slave sent to summon him, Gaius Valerius shuffled into the atrium, supporting himself on a stick. At sixty-five, he was hardly ancient, but with his bald head, wrinkled skin, and stooped posture, he could have passed for eighty. A lifetime of hard campaigning and the cares of running an estate in straitened times had taken their toll.
    The old man’s face lit up. ‘Titus! It’s good to see you, my son,’ he cried in a reedy quaver. ‘You should have let us know you were coming.’ He propped his stick against a wall and they embraced warmly. Releasing the young man, Gaius regarded him fondly. ‘That uniform suits you. Pity that as a civilian you can’t wear armour. In a muscled cuirass and crested helmet you’d look splendid.’ He paused and added wistfully, ‘As I did myself once. You should have seen me at the victory parade after the Battle of the Frigidus . . .’ He trailed off as a faraway look came into his eyes.
    Titus was afraid that his father was about to embark