I was still working in the office that Faustus used. I stayed where I was, on a reading couch. They stood. Of course they did. Making use of furniture is the sign of superiority in Rome. Men of power all sit their podgy posteriors on thrones and ceremonial stools. The mistress of any house has her armchair. Even an informer gets to recline when addressing a hangdog trio of slaves. The only unusual thing here was that I bothered to think about it.

I waited for them to speak. Amaranta had been chosen as their spokeswoman. ‘Flavia Albia, we have not been entirely straight with you.’

I raised my eyebrows. Informers should always take the trouble to keep their brows plucked. So much easier to express genteel scepticism, if you have neat arches for the uplift.

Since Amaranta had fallen awkwardly silent, I said, ‘Why am I not surprised to hear that, Amaranta? So, what secrets are you about to give up to me?’

‘We think we ought to explain about what the robber has told you.’

‘Indeed, I think the same. You should.’

‘We need to say why he never saw any of us.’

‘That’s right. You do.’

‘We were all there really. In the apartment.’

‘Yes, you must have been.’

‘We were having our supper.’

‘All together?’

‘Yes, Albia.’

‘And where was this meal taking place?’

‘In the oecus. There wasn’t room to squash in anywhere else.’

I swung my legs around, turning to sit up, with my feet on the floor. It gave me a view of them straight on. Bangles chinked as I leaned on the end of the couch, one-elbowed. I tugged at an earring thoughtfully, easing its hook.

As excuses go, this was not bad. They had no way of knowing (for I had mentioned it to none of them) that Roscius told Faustus he remembered lamplight in the Corinthian oecus. Amaranta had just unwittingly confirmed that.

I discussed what they were now saying, drawing out a portrait of a house that went to sleep with the master and mistress, only to reawaken once they were settled; a house that lived a second life – a life where the slaves held sway. In many homes this happens, so it was a credible tale. Sometimes it is perfectly harmless, because staff are permitted some form of private existence and their nocturnal sociability causes no disturbance. Sometimes riot occurs. That was not what Amaranta wanted me to believe.

According to her, the loaned kitchen staff departed. Polycarpus went home too.

‘He did not eat with you?’

‘No, never.’ It would have been his private relaxation time, in his own apartment, with Graecina and their children. His escape. A luxury only a freedman could have. ‘We quite liked him living somewhere else,’ Amaranta admitted. I did not blame them. Every evening the steward’s departure must have given them an hour or so of something close to freedom.

‘Who made your food?’ I slipped in.