Our talk was brief. I told Chrysodorus what I already knew, then asked directly for help. ‘Chrysodorus, Fortune favours the commercial. How about you sell me the facts I need, in exchange for your freedom? Manlius Faustus might even throw in a small cash incentive to set you up in a new life. Isn’t it a kind of syllogism? – I need your information; you need your life saved; therefore your information is going to save your life.’

‘Invalid,’ retorted Chrysodorus. ‘I cannot rely on you giving the reward. All humans are dishonest. Some informers are human. Therefore some informers are dishonest.’

‘Not all. Not me.’

‘That’s simply an advertising ploy. Paint it on a bar-room wall: “Flavia Albia, the honest informer”. Then wait for the public to scrawl scathing graffiti.’

‘So no dice?’

‘All bets are off.’

‘What do you have to gain, Chrysodorus, by remaining silent? Is it not a contradiction of your life spent in philosophy, which is supposed to be the search for happiness through living well?’

‘Whoever taught you that?’ laughed Chrysodorus in his bitter way.

‘Many people. Manlius Faustus mentioned it once, when talking to me about his attitude to duty. The duty that will force him to arrest all of you very shortly.’

‘Oh, fabulous aedile!’ scoffed Chrysodorus. ‘A holder no doubt of the Socratic view: “virtues such as self-control, courage, justice, piety, wisdom and related qualities of mind and soul are crucial if a person is to lead a good and happy life” …’ Actually, I thought he was exactly right about Faustus. ‘This makes no mention of being cursed with slavery, badly fed, beaten and denied freedom to engage in an intellectual life. It certainly does not envisage ending up in charge of a stinking, snuffling spoiled bundle of mange that passes itself off as a dog.’

I agreed that Socrates had not faced looking after Puff.

‘I understand your hardship, Chrysodorus. You told me Puff was even sent to you here at the Temple of Ceres, after you all fled for refuge. I suppose Polycarpus despatched the dog to you?’ Chrysodorus nodded. As an intelligent man, I could see him wondering what had made me ask. He worked it out. For emphasis, I indicated the piece of unfortunate-looking cord by which Chrysodorus led around the skinny rat-like creature. ‘Did Mucia Lucilia’s lapdog always go on a lead, philosopher? Or are you hiding in plain sight the rope that the boy Cosmus used to strangle his victims?’

Then Chrysodorus made that classic gesture, beloved of both Greek orators and Roman gangsters: the open palmed shrug that wordlessly says, ‘You got me!’

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