They were strolling along the street, well more like dodging their way between the shops' overspill of wares on the pavement. Vincent was accompanied by Wolf his giant of a slave, about 7ft in height, with blonde shoulder-length hair, he was the biggest man that he’d ever seen., like a snow-capped Mount Olympus. He’d inherited the slave from aunt Grussilla, she’d see him kill a bear with his own hands in the arena in Rome, and decided he would be a useful addition to the household and her bed. Vincent couldn’t get his imagination to picture the couple in heat and one day had asked Wolf what a passionate night with his aunt was like. Wolf had thought for a few moments and then replied ‘Not a lot different from wrestling the bears master, but at least I could strangle them!’.In short very useful companion to have at your side if you were expecting trouble, not that trouble was expected this afternoon, but then again they were on the streets of Pompeii.

The first sign of anything unusual was the man’s voice rising above the hub-bub of the passers-by and traffic, not just shouting but reciting poetry, ‘Not the usual street performer,’ Vincent thought. A couple of paces ahead of them walked the loud but eloquent poet, they were all three just alongside a fruiterers opposite the dress shop, when the mayhem broke loose. Vincent fascinated by the poetry - ‘Catallus I do believe?’ - , had his eyes focussed on the young man, so he didn’t immediately notice the bulky figure pushing across the street towards them. In his apparent haste he did not seem to care about splashing through the ankle-deep detritus, but as soon he came onto to the pavement, Wolf met him with a fore-arm smash to his jaw, sending him instantly flat on his back into the deep muck.

The big slave was surprised that the would-be assailant had been dealt with so easily almost as if the stranger hadn’t been expecting this intervention. At the same time Vincent had seen the street-poet produce a blade and for a moment thought that Wolf would receive a blow to his back, instead the youth seemed to freeze, then smile, before quickly turning and fleeing up a side street.

Vincent and Wolf looked at each other in confusion and shruggged their shoulders. Vincent was beginning to think that this had been a bungled hit job by Grusilla’s disinherited relatives, but he would never have thought they’d attempt it in daylight on a busy street this far from Rome. However on returning his attention to the crumpled figure lying unconcious in the middle of the street - now being assisted by two others one of whom was glowering back at them - he noticed in the same line of sight two elegant women standing outside the dress shop, one of whom he instantly recognised the Lady Messalina.

‘How is he?’ she suddenly asked.
‘Always making waves!’Vincent thought to himself.
‘Out cold mistress and stinking to high heaven, but no lasting damage I think.’

Messalina turned her eyes onto Vincent and from across the street: ‘Sir is your slave - I assume that is what he is - in the habit of intervening uninvited into other people’s affairs?’

It was the first time he’d clearly heard her voice and looked directly at her face, yes she was something out of the ordinary, even more so outside of Rome or Baiae. How would he describe her? Everything about the woman was like a beautifully crafted bejewelled sword. Her dark eyes glinted like the wetted blade, she was long and slim in body, but like a well formed hilt shaped for a man’s hands, everything about her was perfectly balanced. She could either save a man’s life life or take it.’

'My apologies good lady. Wolf here is trained to protect my person. Engaging in conversation to determine a man’s intentions can often prove fatal, whereas I think your man will be sore in the head tomorrow, but he will survive not to tell the tale! If not I'll pay for a replacement.’ Vincent hardly
surpressed the laugh and thought: 'She could be the cure for love.'