Daphnus thought a lot of his own worth – though I could believe he was useful to Valerius Aviola, so his confidence might be justified.

‘Are you to be freed by your master’s will, Daphnus?’

His eyes widened. ‘Never thought of that!’

‘Don’t get excited. If you are executed for murdering the man, it will never happen.’

When Melander shambled in, I could see the fraternal likeness, along with differences. He had a similar long face, mostly nose, but much less intelligence in his dark eyes. He told me they were twins, clearly not identical. They were born in the household; their mother was now dead. My notes gave them different ages, but that was wrong; Melander said they were both twenty.

He was a contrast to his lively brother. I wondered if he had been starved in the womb, as I believe can happen with twins, or if he suffered in a long birth process. Though not literally an idiot as Daphnus had called him, he lacked personality. He said he could write, but only if he was told what to put.

Other people amaze me. I would have made this one the tray carrier and trained up his sharper brother to do secretarial work, not the other way around.

Maybe Aviola did not care about correspondence and record-keeping. Not my family’s style. Some of mine are literary by nature, while even the rest keep tight control of their accounts because they are constantly being creative with their taxes. You have to get everything right when you’re fixing your declaration. Not that I ever would. Fortunately, as a woman I don’t have to.

Melander gave the impression his brother had rehearsed him. Both twins would go on swearing they had been oblivi-ous to the intruders. I kicked the scribe out.

Hoping to refresh my spirits, I had the philosopher fetched.

Big mistake. His principle was that life is a turd we have stepped in, then we die. I could not tell which school of thought he belonged to, though it must be a gloomy one.

He had been bought by Mucia Lucilia on a whim at the slave market two years ago, merely as a fashionable accessory. He described her as a nice enough woman, but she made no intellectual demands of him, nor indeed of herself. Once she had boasted to all her friends that she owned a philosopher, Chrysodorus was simply forced to look after her very old, sick, smelly lapdoggie, a pampered thing called Puff.

He had been sleeping in a store room.

‘Alone?’

‘I can never be alone, dear. My duties are ceaseless. I shared the space with Puff.’

‘Because you love her really?’

‘No. Because no one else will have her near them.’

‘No hope of her sleeping on the end of her doting domina’s bed?’

‘Not after the mistress married. Aviola put his foot down.’

‘Pity. She might have nipped the intruders.’