'Bit of luck!' I grinned, when my sister's pride and joy climbed over to join me on the front.

'It had struck me she might have a husband,' Larius answered demurely, getting his breath.

'No chance to ask… Sorry!'

'That's all right. I was thinking of you.'

'Nice lad, my nephew!' I commented to the countryside at large. (Though barley-fed pullets with red cheeks and straws in their hair had never been my type.) I lapsed into sadness, recalling women who were.

Larius sighed. 'Uncle Marcus, the omens seem hostile; shall we give up for today?'

I considered this option, glancing round to get my bearings. 'Damn Crispus! Let's drive up the mountain, find a cheery Vesuvian vintner, and get ourselves roaring drunk!'

I turned Nero off the coast road and up towards the mountain above Pompeii. According to what Petronius had told us, unless we found a winery first we would be driving past the farmland owned by Caprenius Marcellus, that rich old consul who once made the mistake of adopting Atius Pertinax.

It was about midday, but I think I had already realized the Villa Marcella was not a place where Larius and I would be offered a free lunch.

A shrine to my old friend Mercury, patron of travellers, marked the entrance to the Caprenius Marcellus estate. The god's statue surmounted a flat-sided pillar, carved from soft Pompeian lava-stone. This roadside herm wore a wreath of fresh wild flowers. Every morning a slave rode out on a donkey to renew the wreath; we were in rich man's territory.

I consulted my nephew, who looked glad to avoid a hangover; in any case, Nero took the initiative and boldly entered the track. The ex-Consul Marcellus was fabulously wealthy; the approach to his Vesuvian villa gave visitors ample time to find an envious expression before they turned up offering their respects. Passers-by who were calling to beg for a drink of water would die of dehydration on the way up.

We trundled through vineyards for about a mile, occasionally noticing weathered memorials to family freedmen and slaves. The track broadened into a more imposing formal carriage-drive; Nero expressed approval by lifting his tail and squirting out explosions of liquid manure. We passed geese in a mature olive grove, then a gallery of cypress trees brought us alongside a riding range dappled with shade; two desolate mountain nymphs with rather worn stone drapery acted as major-domos to a row of topiary peacocks who were looking out longingly over landscaped garden terraces.

Here, on the lower slopes of the mountain where the climate was most pleasant, stood a farm complex which must have gone back twenty generations; attached to it was a grand, much more recent villa in the handsome Campanian style.

'Quite nice!' sniffed my nephew.

'Yes, a tasteful plot! You stay here; I'll poke about. Whistle if you spy anyone.'

We had arrived at the noontide siesta. I winked at Larius, glad of a chance to explore. I trod quietly; as a consul Caprenius Marcellus had once held the highest magistracy in Rome, and after the distress of his son's political disgrace he was likely to be feeling sensitive.

I assumed the great house would be locked up, so I tackled this older villa rustica first. I strolled into the courtyard. The surrounding buildings were constructed of ancient rough-cut stone; white doves slept in the sunlight on red pantiled roofs which were holding up to the centuries well, yet sagged on their battens with comfortable ease. To the left were living quarters, lying quiet. Everything about the place looked well clipped and thriving, so there must be at least one bailiff who had read his Columella's Country Matters.

I entered the block directly opposite, through a handy open door. A short corridor contained various small rooms, once part of the old farmhouse but now given up to storage. I found an inner court containing olive-crushers and oil-presses; they looked scrupulously clean and had a faint, rich smell. Glancing over a half-door at the end of the passage, I saw a great barn with a threshing floor in front; a slim brindled cat was twining itself over a sack of grain. Somewhere a donkey brayed; I could vaguely hear a grindstone. I turned back.

The swimming scent as I passed the doorway had already told me that the unexplored rooms accommodated wine vats-in substantial quantities. Twenty transit amphorae lolled in the outside passage, partly blocking my path; the threshold was stained with a rich damson colouring. Within, the first compartment held presses, awaiting the new season's crop; in a larger room beyond would be the vats. I heard movements, so as I broached the inner sanctum I knocked, in order to appear respectable.

It was the usual happy scene of kegs and alcoholic smells. There were no windows in the solid walls, so this darkened area kept itself at a cool, even temperature. A blackened candle-end burned in a red dish on a rough wooden table among pipkins and tasting tots. Equipment that looked as if it belonged in a military hospital hung round on wall hooks. A very tall elderly man was funnelling last season's wine into a household flask.

'One of life's delights!' I murmured. 'A vintner racking off the home farm special reserve, and looking pleased with it!' Without speaking, he let the slow trail from the demijohn run on. I leaned in the doorway peacefully, hoping for a taste.

The large flask suddenly gushed to the brim. He tapped his funnel, rocked back the demijohn and stuck a bung in it, then straightened up and smiled at me.

In his prime he must have been one of Campania's tallest men. Time had stooped him and left him desperately gaunt. His wrinkled skin had a floury, transparent look, and he wore a long-sleeved tunic as if he felt continually cold, though at present its sleeves were pushed back for his work. Whether his face was handsome could never have been an issue, for its features were completely dominated by a massively jutting nose. It was pitiful; he could have launched a pirate's trireme down the slipway of his great snout.

'Sorry to disturb you,' I apologized.

'Who did you want?' he enquired pleasantly. I stood back to let the nose go first, then we both started out to the yard.

'That depends. Who's here?'

His glance sharpened. 'Farm business?'

'Family.' We had reached the yard and crossed most of it. 'Is the Consul at Setia? Does he have an agent here?'

The man stopped dead as if some spasm of anguish had crippled him. 'You want to see the Consul?'

'Well, I'd like to-'

'Do you or don't you?' the tall man snapped.

O Jupiter; the Consul was in residence! (The last thing I expected, yet just my luck.)

My companion swayed slightly, gathering his resources with visible pain. 'Give me your arm!' he commanded imperiously. 'Come with me!'

It was difficult to back out. I could see Larius waiting in the cart, but the vintner was clinging hard to my arm. I relieved him of the wine flask as he tottered along.

So much for sampling a tot of his fiery Vesuvian jollop while I discreetly picked his brains, then scarpering before anybody found out I had been here…