Marry in June. May is a month of ill-omen, but once it is over the goddess Juno presides kindly over couples who unite in her festival period, slathering them with good prospects, including fertility for those who can abide babies.

Camillus Justinus and Claudia Rufina had married in May, though that was in North Africa where different gods preside. I was adopted into the family after that, but relatives who pursued the eloping couple were still shocked that during their trip they had to watch another uncle of mine being killed by an arena lion. Even in my family, this counts as an unusual day out. They were all thankful for a bridal bash to take their minds off the screams, despite Claudia’s visible qualms about marrying Quintus. Still, weddings should be traditional and nothing beats watching a young bride riven by huge doubts, does it?

Marcus Valerius Aviola and Mucia Lucilia were a mature couple, so presumably knew what they were doing. They can never have had much anxiety, except in their last frightful moments. Theirs was a perfectly conventional wedding, properly in June. They died on their second night together. I arrived at their apartment a week later. Their funerals had already taken place and unfortunately the apartment had been tidied. I like to inspect a crime scene with any blood or tangled bedsheets still in situ.

Manlius Faustus accompanied me to the Esquiline, still intent on finding accommodation for me. My idea was a room above a bar: anonymous, local, quiet by day when I wanted to review my notes, handy for eats, safely full of people at night. My headstrong employer had other ideas. He seemed to think I would drink cheap wine and pick up men. Well, those were traditional male Roman fears about women, and he hadn’t known me very long. I assured him that I like to be sober when I’m man-hunting.

He then came up with a gem: I should stay in the Aviolas’ guest room, at the heart of the inquiry. ‘Rent-free to the temple? What misers! Oh Faustus. You really think it’s wise for me to live where a violent murder was committed?’

‘Dromo will sleep on a mat outside your door each night.’

‘Oh spare me that, aedile!’

Dromo was the slave Faustus took about with him. I knew Faustus’ uncle normally purchased better specimens, so I guessed this loon had turned out badly and been dumped on the aedile, who seemed an oddly docile nephew.

The boy was about sixteen, podgy, sullen, and he smelt. In a city where baths were so plentiful, with many free even for slaves, Dromo must pong on purpose. He certainly didn’t copy his horrible hygiene from his master. Up close, Faustus was sweet and fresh, I happened to know. ‘You can use him as a messenger, Albia. Somebody has to bring me your daily action notes.’

‘Who says I am sending you notes?’

‘I do.’