‘Galla would not have been invited,’ I speculated. ‘Even when couples have been divorced on what they claim are “amicable terms”, that’s fake. It is a rare second marriage where the new bride plays hostess to her predecessor – well, not unless the new one wants to gloat that she is already expecting triplets and has really superb wedding presents to show off … Galla was in Campania anyway, tightening her grip on that splendid villa.’

I was watching Galla’s daughter, Simplicia. She had been indoors and found a box of old toys, with which she was amusing Graecina’s children, kneeling down on the ground with them like a friendly aunt. I heard her say they could play with all the toys now, and choose one thing each to keep. This worked magically. Each child grabbed its favourite at once, though the boy looked as if he might risk trying for two.

Gratus saw me looking. ‘Nice girl. The best of the family.’

‘Close to her father?’ After her brother had prayed at the tomb, I had seen this one touch the urn surreptitiously, as if she could not bear it but wanted to show Aviola her remembrance.

‘More than the other two. She was only a toddler at the time of the divorce; he seemed to want to make up to her, and always favoured her a little.’

‘Gratus, I have the impression Aviola’s children stayed in Campania with their mother. Were they not invited to their father’s wedding?’

‘I believe they were invited, but Galla was difficult. Aviola wanted her out of the villa, so she punished him by withholding his son. Valerius did not come. Aviola kept grumbling about it bitterly. Even the day he died he was still upset. Mucia Lucilia was trying to look understanding, but it had made her twitchy.’

I scoffed. ‘If Galla really was anxious about Aviola changing towards the children, this was surely a bad move on her part. What about the girls?’

‘The daughters, being married women, were in Rome. They did come to the wedding ceremony, bringing their husbands, and also attended the feast immediately afterwards. The farewell party on the second night was a meal for special friends.’

‘Aviola’s friends? What about Mucia’s?’

‘In fact they had most of their friends in common. They were both part of a circle of people who had known each other and socialised for a long time.’

‘I’m guessing Mucia did not invite her own executor, the freedman Hermes?’

‘Oh no.’

‘Because he was a freedman?’ I asked. Gratus gazed at me with unspoken reproach, as if it were bad-mannered of me to raise such an issue of class. ‘Well, Mucia Lucilia must have been close to him,’ I insisted. ‘To put him in charge of her will.’

‘She did not expect to die,’ replied Gratus, a succinct correction.

‘You think she would have changed it later?’