I would have liked to know this before my next move but decisions were urgent for Faustus. I was now ready to go over to the Aventine and visit the group in sanctuary.

Polycarpus seemed to think it one of his duties to attend these interviews. You guessed: I refused. I marched him back to the apartment, where instead I picked up Dromo.

‘Why’ve I got to haul myself all that way with you? You can report to Faustus yourself.’

‘Any more backchat. Dromo, and I’ll say he dumped a useless dropout on me, who needs to be reassigned as a dung-shoveller.’

‘Can’t I ask a simple question?’

‘Questions are my job. And if you don’t get a move on, I won’t have time to ask any at the Temple.’

I told him to bring his cudgel in case it was late when we came back. That went down badly. Dromo was afraid of being out in the dark.

I took it to mean my client Faustus rarely went to late-night parties. Intriguing!

My parents owned a few slaves, most of them pitiful purchases with two left feet and ten grades of insolence, so I knew what to expect. Walking with Dromo was tedious. He dragged along, he moaned about how far it was, and I had to keep stopping to make sure he was still there behind me.

Eventually we made it. Back in my home district I cheered up, and when I had a bowl of chickpea broth at a bar counter by the Circus Maximus, I fed Dromo too, which at least made him temporarily stop whingeing.

The Temple of Ceres is on a corner of the Aventine, not far above the corn-dole station. (Pay attention. Ceres is the grain goddess.) Hers is a mighty great shrine with ancient Greek styling, its interior containing three magnificent cult statues funded by fines raised by the aediles. As a centre of plebeian power, this big temple sends a message of defiance over to the aristocratic gods who live on the Capitol. It is presided over by an important Roman priest, the Flamen Cerialis, but it also has a group of female devotees.

Head of the cult was a very old priestess who had been brought to Rome specially from Neapolis because of Campania’s Greek connections. (The rites of Ceres are said to be Greek, though unlike most Romans I have been to Greece and I say that’s pigswill.) Cosying up to the priestess was a dreary bunch of stuck-up local matrons who carried out good works. One of these shrine-nuisances was a bugbear of mine. Just my luck: I ran into her.