‘Myla,’ said Polycarpus. ‘Heavily pregnant at the time. Too unwieldy to run. She popped a child out three days ago. Anyway, she seems to think her condition will rule her out as a suspect.’

‘I think I’ll run that idea past our legal advisers!’

Polycarpus caught my sceptical tone. ‘Not a defence?’

‘In Roman law? Probably no,’ I told him cynically. ‘Roman law probably says that the foetus should have broken out of the womb to defend Aviola and his wife, whose property it was … What is her role here?’

‘Oh, she’s just Myla. Been with us for years. She does whatever is needed. You’re bound to see her pottering around. Feel free to ask her for anything.’

‘What – even though she just gave birth?’

‘I had her back on duty straightaway. She knows what is expected. She was verna – born in the house.’

‘As her child will be,’ I commented. ‘Boy or girl?’ The freedman looked blank. ‘What is this baby Myla has produced?’ He shrugged; he had no idea. ‘Don’t you have to list it as a new possession?’

‘A scribe’s job,’ Polycarpus reproached me huffily. ‘I run the home. I never touch anything secretarial.’

Melander, 20, scribe, was in the Temple of Ceres.

The steward must have seen my face so he decided to elaborate. ‘I have to know manpower numbers, yes, and their capabilities. We use them young, carrying the odd towel or basket, but I don’t want any disturbance, no little wobbler going arse-over-tip. So I’m not interested in a babe-in-arms that will probably die in the next few years anyway. It’s no use to me until it’s decently walking.’

I said that was fully understandable.

Polycarpus was not to know that I had once been a small child in a house where I was expected to fetch and carry for people who viewed me as a commodity. I tried not to dislike him for this conversation – though I did not try hard.

5

As afternoon subtly became twilight, the youth Dromo reappeared. He had been taken away by Faustus, but came whistling back with a high-piled handcart. The aedile must feel guilty about my bare room, so his slave produced various items to improve my comfort: writing materials; a set of bowls, beakers, spoons and scoops, all on a tray; two cushions and a bolster, with embroidered covers; a couple of floor-mats; a small side-table with curved legs; three lamps, oil to put in them and a lighting flint (a thoughtful man); even a comfortable lightweight wicker chair. And a cudgel.

‘What?’

‘That’s for me to use,’ protested Dromo, grabbing it as I tried its weight.

‘For protecting me?’

He sniggered. ‘No! For protecting all this stuff of my master’s. I bet I know what they are like here. He’s asking to have everything pinched. Don’t you go looking at that handcart; I’ve got to take it back.’