‘I presume that would be a relief to the Rabirii,’ I offered to Roscius. ‘They won’t want this commission to take a piercing look at what happened to Aviola. It is very high profile, the victims were well-to-do and the circumstances − such violence, and so soon after a wedding − have attracted the wrong kind of public attention. That’s even without the slaves fleeing to the Temple of Ceres. For Romans, a religious connection makes it so much more sensitive.’

‘And it’s messy!’ quipped Faustus with some glee, as if he revelled in slurry.

Showing signs of alarm, Roscius piped up suddenly, ‘We never done Valerius Aviola. Nor his precious bride neither.’

I refrained from correcting his grammar. He would have been too busy learning how to operate a jemmy to attend a decent school of rhetoric.

Faustus leaned towards him, sounding more reasonable. ‘That so? Do you want to tell me what really happened?’

‘No, I bloody don’t!’ Roscius fell back on the criminal’s professional motto: ‘If you had any evidence, you wouldn’t be asking.’

‘Evidence?’ laughed Faustus.

‘Oh, Roscius,’ I suggested gently, ‘you are forgetting this is Manlius Faustus, the infamous plebeian magistrate − and vindictive bastard.’

Roscius was standing with his arms folded, a defensive stance, though his bravado was dwindling. I could see in his eyes he was making wrong decisions almost every time the conversation took a turn. We had been right to approach the junior. Old Rabirius must still be dealing with the gang’s business himself, supported by Gallo. He had not yet exposed Roscius much – not enough for the young man to be able to handle this competently. One day he would know better. He would stand firm and keep denying everything. He would be laughing at us then.

Now he was under too much pressure. We had a few more exchanges on the same lines, until he gave way. He agreed to discuss the night when Aviola and Mucia were killed – though he made one last feeble attempt at a stand: ‘Why are you asking me about it anyway? This is victimisation, totally unfair. You have nothing to link me or my boys to it.’

‘You are the robbery expert,’ Faustus flattered him. ‘The word is, if a big break-in occurs, you are the only one capable. So did you know Valerius Aviola owned a cache of special silver?’

‘Do dogs shit in the gutter? You bet I knew. Wine set, plenty of items, all very pretty. Kept it in his dining room.’

‘Summer or winter?’ I asked, making a show of testing him.

‘What?’

‘Summer or winter dining room!’ Faustus spelled out, sounding irritable.

‘On shelves or display table?’ I asked.

‘If table, three-legged or monopod?’ rapped Faustus.

‘If monopod, marble or fancy wood? Then citron or cedar wood?’

Faustus and I were enjoying the word games, while Roscius clearly felt nervous. Trying to follow our banter made him breathless. ‘Lay off! You’re confusing me …’