An attendant had already told me that the slaves were now at the aediles’ office. To move them out of the religious areas, some dispensation had been arranged, no doubt by the sensible Manlius Faustus. I was heading off to his office when, too late, I ran into the bossiest of Ceres’ cult women. She was a skinny blonde madame who always looked at me as if I was something smelly she had picked up on her expensive sandal. This woman and her brother had inherited a fortune, and if she could have walked around with a placard saying how superior that made her, she would have done it.

‘Laia Gratiana!’ In a previous case of mine, this Laia had made herself thoroughly obnoxious. Neither of us had forgotten. One day I would be compelled to knock her down and jump on her. I could tell you it would be for her own good, but the truth is it would be for my personal pleasure.

‘What are you doing here?’

I explained my business quietly.

‘You had better get on with it then.’

‘Well, thanks for your permission, Laia. I shall do that!’

I left the temple, seething inwardly but trying not to look riled.

‘Cor,’ muttered Dromo, admiringly. ‘You really got up that one’s nose! What have you done to her?’

‘I have no idea.’ I knew perfectly.

‘I bet she’s jealous of you, being so sweet with my master.’ Dromo became excited, thinking he knew a secret. ‘I bet you don’t know who she is, Albia?’

‘I know who she was.’

She was Faustus’ ex-wife. Laia Gratiana left him because he had an affair (I had not been surreptitiously delving; Faustus told me himself). It happened ten years ago, but the embittered divorcee still harboured a grudge. I supposed it was subconscious, but she looked highly annoyed to find me assisting Faustus. It would suit her best to see him fail in his task.

Well, that made up my mind. If I had anything to do with this, Manlius Faustus would not fail.

8

The aediles’ office was close to the temple. I had been there before. It held unhappy memories, about a man I should never have tangled with. (Let’s face it, all my bad memories concern men in that category.) Luckily, the offender no longer worked there. I could revisit the scene with indifference.

I learned Manlius Faustus was out but expected back, once he finished working the streets to monitor the public. Pity the public; he was a stickler.

The slaves were loafing in the courtyard, looking relaxed; that was typical of slaves. There was nothing they could do about their predicament; other people owned their lives and would decide their fate. The threat of death had stopped worrying them, at least for the time being.