He sat down beside the body, a couple of feet from Graecina and me, sharing our vigil. Occasionally he had to scratch at a flea, but he did so unobtrusively. He seemed to understand our sadness, and wanted to be part of the scenario.

The dog’s behaviour contrasted with that of the slave Cosmus, who had mooched to a new spot outside a cutler’s shop. He was staring at the goods on show, as if he had not seen us bring his master’s body out. I worry about young boys who gawp at knives – though many of them do it, some never actually reaching the stage of owning one.

When Dromo brought the doctor, he said Polycarpus had died of heart failure. The man needed to see an oculist.

It must be true that the steward’s heart had failed at some point. He had told me he had been freed for five years, making him in his mid to late thirties, young for this to happen unexpectedly. There had been no sign that his heart was diseased, no warning that his body was liable to fail him. He had never lived foolishly. Yet plenty of people leave the world at his age or younger.

Stress could have caused a heart attack. If he had been in an argument prior to his death, it was not with Graecina; I myself saw her arrive on the scene. Watching her discover the body, I had witnessed true shock.

Her grief was real too. ‘Why?’ she asked, fixatedly. People do ask that, and generally there is nothing you can say in reply.

I knew that heart failure alone did not kill the steward. The doctor saw nothing amiss, but I had noticed immediately: Polycarpus had been attacked.

It was probably quick and simple. There were no self-defence bruises, no rope around the steward’s neck and no rope burns. But I could see tell-tale fingermarks.

I answered the wife’s question. She had the right to know. ‘Look at his throat here, Graecina. Somebody strangled him.’

32

I decided to involve the vigiles. I had no doubt Polycarpus’ death was related to the murders of his master and mistress. If I failed to notify the Second Cohort, it might cause problems. This was a high profile case.

Again, I sent Dromo. He had not evolved by magic into someone helpful; we had had no lunch and it would not happen in the near future. He would soon start to nag me. To pre-empt the misery, I gave him a few coppers, with orders to go to the station house with my message first, then buy himself a cake on the way back. He skipped off eagerly.