It was a discreet house with several shops fronting its pavement, between which staircases led to upper levels. As was common in Rome, a substantial building had been divided internally then leased out in as many lucrative units as possible. The best suite occupied most of the ground floor, including an enclosed courtyard. This had been rented for some years by Valerius Aviola, I guessed expensively. Here he had brought his new bride after their wedding. Here they had died, before passion or economic rationale had had any chance to grow jaded.

Our first contact was the household steward, a freedman called Polycarpus. He looked as if his geographical origins were somewhere eastern, with chin stubble up to his cheekbones as if he came fresh from the desert. Even so, he spoke adequate Latin and had absorbed all the Roman myths about masculine superiority. He ignored me, but was perfectly pleasant when Faustus explained his official interest; the freedman readily agreed I could lodge there temporarily.

He showed Faustus the room. It was in a good position, just to the right of the main entrance area. Over the aedile’s shoulder I could see that it had fancy frescos and a geometric mosaic floor, but was barely furnished. Only a bed with a footstool alongside and an empty cupboard. I don’t ask for flower garlands, but a chamberpot would have been handy.

‘Our guests are people of status who tend to bring their own home comforts,’ Polycarpus explained, still addressing all remarks to Faustus. ‘Shall I find a few bits for the lady …?’

‘Don’t bother,’ I snapped.

I was not ready to interview the freedman, well, not while Faustus was lingering. I said I would see Polycarpus first thing next morning, to discuss what precisely had happened and who had been in the apartment when the murder took place. I shooed Faustus away as soon as I could, then set about familiarising myself with my surroundings.

Even before Faustus took his leave, their apartment seemed extremely quiet. Once he had gone, it was sepulchral.

Very pleasant.

I settled down on my bed to read a list of the refugee slaves, which had been given me by Faustus. Ink on papyrus. Nice lettering. Only later would I realise that even though he came from a home packed with staff, and could also call on the publicly employed secretaries in the aediles’ office, he wrote this himself. Charming. I do like a man who pays attention to my personal needs.

He listed those who took sanctuary at the Temple of Ceres by name, age, sex and occupation.

Amethystus, approx. 50, general work in house

Daphnus, 18, tray carrier/table attendant

Phaedrus, 24, litter bearer/door porter

Nicostratus, 28, litter bearer/door porter

Chrysodorus, approx. 40, philosopher

Melander, 20, scribe

Olympe, 15, musician

Diomedes, 47, gardener

Amaranta, 29, attendant/adorner to Mucia Lucilia

Libycus, 36, body slave/dresser to Valerius Aviola

No cup bearer. Still, I prefer the other proverb. The flute girl did it.