‘No, I suppose not. Someone new will move in. I hope we get a quiet family … What’s going to happen to them slaves?’

I shook my head resignedly.

‘Aviola didn’t seem to get a grip,’ complained Fauna. ‘Once, a couple of the men was having a pottery fight, it sounded. But he just asked them to stop, really mildly. I blame him. He ought to have sorted them out properly.’ It was indeed a householder’s duty to control and prevent quarrels. ‘Still,’ Fauna giggled. ‘When you get married, if you are given any presents, people seem to choose horrible things − then you get stuck with them for years because you can’t upset your hubby’s awful auntie if you chuck ’em out. Perhaps Aviola was glad to see one or two of his wedding presents broken.’

‘I bet he was,’ I smiled in return. ‘ – Remembering some of mine!’

But playing the sympathetic wife and widow failed to squeeze anything more useful out of her.

12

It often happens on a case: the first story you hear seems straightforward, yet it soon starts to show cracks. First the tale of what happened to the door porter did not add up. Now, despite Polycarpus assuring me all was harmonious among the workforce, here was contradictory news of disturbances and pottery fights. Back at the apartment, I poked around in the rubbish store but found no smashed dinnerware. It might already have been carted off to a tip.

I was due to see Aviola’s executor, but had time to prepare lunch; a snack stopped Dromo muttering. He was worse to look after than my young brother.

In the kitchen I found Myla feeding her baby, so I took my time and had a closer look at her. As slaves go, she was fairly clean and tidy, with features that suggested she came from an eastern province like Syria or Judaea. I had seen very beautiful Syrian women, with wide-set eyes and straight noses down which they looked with imperious awareness of their own stunning looks. Myla had a heavier face; in another ten years she would be jowly. Even so, she had the imperious expression; for no obvious reason she appeared full of self-belief.

Polycarpus had bought in some basics for me, a loaf, plus boring hard-boiled eggs and salad leaves, though among the stuff Manlius Faustus had sent over were treasures: a crock of good honey, squids in brine and another stone jar of best quality olives. I created a warm drink with the honey and some wine vinegar I found on a shelf. While I stirred it over the fire, I was able to tackle Myla.

When she finished nursing and laid the child in its basket, I dutifully viewed the wrinkled, milky creature. The poor little thing was a girl. I said how sweet she was. This failed to impress the mother.

‘So, Myla, are you going to tell me who her father is?’