He was called Fundanus. His premises were down in the valley, on the nearest side of the Circus Maximus, below the Temple of Mercury. His primary business was that of a funeral director. The area was notoriously frequented by whores. Fornicating with their backs against the wall below his signboard, the night moths may have found that gave their tired trade a special frisson. I expect he buried the ashes of plenty of those sad women.

As I reached his yard, where carts, biers and headstones were arrayed, a mixed group of men, wearing matching red tunics, hurried out past me. I had seen this uniform on running men in Rome before, though never knew what it meant. Sometimes one of them was banging a bell.

Fundanus explained cheerily. ‘My men, fetching in a body – see the hauling hooks? The bell is to let people know we are coming. They want to jump out of the way quick, to avoid a corpse that’s contaminated by slavery. A bed-maker in Cyclops Street hanged herself this morning.’

‘When a slave dies, the corpse has to be removed in two hours?’ Faustus had told me this.

‘Only one hour if the silly bastard pulls the rope trick,’ Fundanus corrected. ‘Well, twisted sheet in this case, to be strictly accurate. My fellows should make the deadline, but we’re pushing it. People are so thoughtless. They arse about after they discover a body, discussing what has happened – when it’s obvious – and all the while, precious time is flying. I could lose my licence if I miss the deadline.’

‘Why did she do away with herself?’

‘Couldn’t endure any more from the master.’

‘You mean sex?’

‘Fucking morning, noon and night.’

‘He was not married?’

‘Where have you been? Of course he was. The wife said the bint had to put up with it, since it kept him happy.’ Presumably, that saved the wife from having to endure the pervert herself. Confirming my dire view of this family, Fundanus said, ‘He likes to beat the wife as hard as the slaves if she crosses him. So she lets him do whatever he wants – provided he’s doing it to someone else.’

He led me into the cabin where he normally seated the bereaved when they came to make arrangements. We took stools, not quite touching knees. He apologised for being unable to offer me mint tea, but said the serving boy had gone off as one of the red tunics. Feeling fastidious in this environment, I assured him that was fine.