If it was not the robbers, then who had stolen the silver, where had they hidden it, where was it now?

If not the robbers, who did kill Valerius Aviola and Mucia Lucilia?

Why was Nicostratus not at his post in the corridor? When was Nicostratus attacked, if not before the theft and killings? Who attacked him? Why − and why later?

I tested some possible answers, but weakly.

‘The other door porter, Phaedrus, told me he was having supper in the kitchen. Maybe they were all there? Would they have had a chance to eat earlier, while the feast was going on? Maybe not. Maybe the slaves could not eat until after the party was over … Would there be enough room in the kitchen for all of them? I don’t think so. It’s too full of cupboards and cooking benches. There were ten, plus the hugely pregnant Myla. I think Myla told me she was dossing down in the slaves’ quarters at the time of the attack, but like all their claims, that now comes into question.’

‘We need to reflect,’ Faustus decided.

‘Speak for yourself, aedile! I need to jump on this straightaway or it will drive me crazy.’ He smiled a little. I rushed on: ‘I shall have to re-interview those deceitful beggars urgently. This afternoon I’ll look over my notes from their first examinations, then I shall come up to the office for a showdown.’

‘Want my help when you speak to them?’ asked Faustus, seeming keen to be involved.

‘No, thanks. I took the initial statements; I prefer to do the follow up myself.’ He was the client. It was my commission.

He agreed to leave it to me. Perhaps he looked put out. I could not tell if he knew I was blaming myself for previously believing lies. He must concede I did have a sense of trouble earlier. I had told him then that I felt the slaves were holding something back; something was not right.

The aedile and I stayed briefly in the Auditorium, each considering the implications, though independently and without further discussion, while finely judged torrents of cool water splashed elegantly over beautiful white marble in the background.

37

Eventually we emerged, into a Rome full of glaring warmth and light. We picked up Dromo, who had stayed kicking his heels outside. All today he had been following us around at a distance, barely noticed by his master or me; that was the normal life of a slave. Faustus had whistled to him a couple of times when we were about to change venues. I hoped Dromo had not seen that moment of theatre between Faustus and me at the bar, but he gave no sign of it.