It was not even late morning, but each of us could see what the other poor dears needed, so selflessly volunteered to ease their troubles. A triumph of generous sisterhood.

Galla took upon herself the rights of the mistress of the house; she marched to seek out the necessaries. Without Myla, there would be no one to serve us, but we were unswayed by that sad irony. Fauna sat with Graecina, while I helped Galla. We speedily collected portable tables, beakers, a water jug, spices, honey and the best wine we could find. Galla knew where the cellar with the good stuff was and, more importantly, where Aviola hid its key. The store still contained amphorae.

Quite unexpectedly, somehow we four women gelled: sitting together unattended, while we talked over the recent crises, unburdened ourselves of dark feelings and drank – daintily yet deliberately.

Most of the time I work alone, but the concept of a feminine gathering is familiar to me. I can hold my own when the gossip is flying amidst the heady mix of giggles and bared fangs. I do have two sisters and a beloved mother, a matron who we say needs taking out of herself. That is not hard to achieve. Helena Justina can easily be persuaded to jolly up for us: she looks restrained but this is deceptive, just as it was with Grandmama. Mother knows how to measure out a bowl of extremely strong liquor, call it a libation, hand it round with a dish of almond fingers and see it happily poured down throats. Or in a crisis, not to bother with the almond fingers but to send out for a large cauldron of belly pork and peasemould for soakup purposes.

At one point that morning I remembered Horace’s witches: Medusa-haired Canidia and Sagana, ganging up to cruise graveyards as they dripped blood into trenches, searched for children to murder for their marrow bones, and rattled their own false teeth. To escape this ludicrous fancy, I grabbed the flagon and poured us all another round.

It was such good wine we did not spoil it with the honey and spices.

‘Did she do it? I have an aedile breathing down my neck—’ (That could be nice, I thought madly). ‘I need to work out the truth now.’

‘Did she buggery!’ That was Fauna who, when under the influence of carefully aged but ready-to-drink Caecuban wine, did not mince words. ‘This is tasty – is it supposed to be white or red?’

I knew. I had family who would rave on for hours about classic wines, though often while quaffing some liver-dissolving rotgut that even the most lacklustre caupona would refuse to serve. ‘It comes as white, but you have to keep it in store for many years, during which time it turns fiery-coloured. Most attractive, as you see. I’ve never had a chance to become an expert, but I would say this is just about right!’