‘You had a plan, part of which was to inform the vigiles,’ I said. ‘You had to tell them, of course. Aviola and Mucia were too important and well known for you to hide what had happened to them. Too many people would have missed them and asked questions.’

‘It’s wonderful how you can work everything out!’ exclaimed Olympe; it was genuine praise.

‘Long practice. So, Cosmus was sent to the vigiles, to inform them of the crimes he had committed. That puzzles me. Why him?’

‘To get him out of the way. Polycarpus didn’t trust him.’

‘I wouldn’t trust a double strangler myself! But he didn’t trust him over what?’

‘Over us making arrangements. Also, Cosmus was bound to dawdle like always, so we had time to get ready.’

‘Ready with the plan you devised? Hiding the silver wine set, so it looked as though it had been stolen? … And what else, Olympe?’

Olympe finally played dumb. Even this too-simple, ridiculously innocent young girl had reached the point where she realised she must clam up.

I asked the direct question then: ‘Olympe, what happened to the door porter, Nicostratus?’

She would not tell me.

56

Some people might think Nicostratus did not matter. He was a slave. I had never met him. But that man’s death had always niggled me.

Cosmus did not kill him. Ironically, in his case Cosmus had been given an alibi. He was sent to report his own crimes to the vigiles, while Nicostratus was still alive. Nicostratus must then have been attacked as part of the ‘arrangements’. I wondered whether going so far as to kill him was an accident.

I led Olympe to the door, letting the others see me smiling and looking pleased with her.

‘I just want to be happy and play my music!’ she burbled as we parted company.

I had her led off separately. I went back into the office, trying to decide which of this shameless crew to interview next. Obviously as part of their plan, the slaves had taken a vow of silence for mutual protection. Olympe had only talked because she thought I already knew all about Cosmus. As soon as I strayed into other subjects, even she grew mute. I had been unable to budge her, whatever promises I floated. Being ‘happy’ was never a reward I could offer anyone.

I called for Chrysodorus, the sardonic philosopher. He brought the dog in with him, a bunch of scrawny bones on a wretched string. The creature immediately looked for a rug to pee on. Fortunately the floor was mosaic.