If someone was in despair and suicidal, who knows? With their mind in turmoil, this distance might fly by. Or it might be the longest walk of their life – which for Myla it surely was in every sense. In life, she hardly went outside. Seeking death, she crossed most of Rome. It seemed she knew where people went for the purpose. It was the Pons Aemilius, from which so many have fatally cast themselves into the brown Tiber waters.

We were too late.

As we approached, we could make out the body. Boatmen or wharfingers must have dragged her out, so she was now lying under the celebratory arch erected by Augustus. Up above, the inscription proclaiming how that emperor had devotedly rebuilt this ancient bridge; below, the dripping corpse of a non-citizen. Nobody bothers to read the plaque. Nobody bothered with the corpse. People were walking past on their way to the meat market or Tiber Island, barely noticing the scene. Secundus and Dromo were there. Hardly anybody else stopped to look. It was just a dead slave.

I knew better than to blame myself, though I cursed my failure last night to see her desperation. I knew she was angry and bitter and probably afraid. I could not see her despair. Perhaps I failed to look for it. I should have done.

Myla must have been so used to showing impassivity, she could hide her feelings even when she was asked to explain them. Thank goodness, I did give her an opportunity. This may be your last chance … now is the time to tell me …

No use.

Secundus, who had wept with frustration at his failure to stop the tragedy, rushed up to Myrinus, gripping his friend’s shoulders, talking rapidly in a harsh foreign language: Punic. I recognised it from the Mythembals, neighbours of mine at Fountain Court. Myrinus let him talk, but translated scraps for me. ‘They only caught up here … She was on the parapet … They could not prevent her …’

I thought of the baby. Had the child been bowled away in the current, unseen by rescuers? Then I saw: Dromo was holding her. He stood white-faced, speechless, with the little bundle grasped between the spread fingers of both hands. He looked terrified of dropping her.

‘He got it,’ Secundus said, changing into Latin as he saw me look. ‘He got it off the mother. He saved its life.’ I made a small gesture, offering to take her, in case Dromo wanted to be relieved. He was as yet unable to relinquish his responsibility.

Then the child upset him by beginning to cry, that forceful, endless, new baby wailing. She was less than two weeks old. She had so little hope of survival without a mother, most people would say it would have been better if the baby had died as well. Not me. I shall never have the luxury of condemning an abandoned child. I was one once myself.