Had her mother even given her a name? Someone else would do that. Even if Myla had chosen one, none of us knew it.

We did not have to wait there long. Authority swept into action. Tragedies happened regularly at the Aemilian Bridge. Arrangements to remove the corpse were swift. Without us being aware anyone had sent for them, men in red tunics, ringing a bell, scampered up like a troop of dwarves in a theatre. Synchronised and determined, they dragged off the body, using their traditional ropes and hooks. It was the same as the removal of dead gladiators in an arena. It is not meant to be respectful. Such carcases are taken away like dead animals. I could not look. Pedestrians merely stepped aside to let them through, then carried on walking along the Marble Embankment.

Well, that man Fundanus had told me: the funeral director. A slave suicide must be removed from the city within one hour. You have to prevent pollution by contact with those who are less than human.

At least Myla would be spared the use of cruel implements to make her tell the so-called truth. For what it was worth, she had ‘confessed’ already. I felt doubtful. Confessing to a crime whilst under the burden of unbearable despair had about as much validity as confessing under torture, surely? It was some sort of cry of pain – but not one I trusted. Still, in theory, my case was solved. Myla killed those people. She had said so.

She had left me with few ways to test her claim. Was this what she intended? I was certain of one thing; if Myla did not kill them herself, then she damn well knew who did.

46

Dromo squatted on the kerb, still clutching the baby. I crouched down by him.

‘Aargh – she’s done something!’

‘They do … hand her to me, Dromo.’

He could not give her over fast enough now. I sat the baby on my knees, holding her fragile torso, surveying her. She seemed so surprised, she stopped crying. She wore a tiny tunic that seemed to be made from a floorcloth, and a fibre bracelet that looked like a pulled thread from a different garment.

‘Oh, little one! You may grow up to be a beauty, and let us hope you do, but at this moment you are all milky pooh and snot – and far from pretty. I am your sister in misfortune and I tell you, sweetheart, this is where you start out on your own. The good thing is that every day you live through, every gain you ever make, will be better than the absolute nothing you possess today.’

I saw Dromo looking at me in wonder.