Manlius Faustus had responsibilities for neighbourhood law and order – fair trading, clean streets, quiet baths and decorous brothels. I knew he was currently advising magistrates in other districts too, as they tackled a rash of random street killings that were happening throughout Rome. We lived in troubled times. The Vesuvius calamity, a decade ago but still vivid in the memory, had shaken people. We now had a paranoid emperor, who at just short of forty was still young enough to inflict many years of dread upon us. Our empire’s borders regularly came under attack from barbarians, so there was constant unsettling military talk. The city was also full of bitter satirists, outlawed philosophers and pouting poets who had failed to win prizes. In this climate all kinds of madness flourished.

As for me, I was a private investigator. Don’t point out it’s an unusual job for a woman; after twelve years, I had heard that enough times. I was hired by clients who wanted help when life went wrong – or sometimes before it happened: parents checking out gold-diggers their silly daughters had fallen for; small traders whose rivals were stealing business; litigants searching for witnesses to back them up in court; executors of wills who feared they were inheriting large debts. Many of my enquiries led to divorce. Most clients were sad people: either hopeless idiots who had caused their own predicament or well-meaning innocents who had been targeted by fraudsters.

Faustus glumly tapped his bread roll, which was definitely yesterday’s. He looked around. The Stargazer stood on a corner, with the usual arrangement of crazy-patterned marble counters at right angles where, come lunchtime, big pots of unappetising broths would attract more flies than customers. Inside, a wonky shelf had been nailed to a wall, using too-short nails. Beakers in various sizes were perched on it, ready to crash off when the fixings gave way. A faded sign on one wall offered varieties of wine, with illegible notes of their prices. Falernian was permanently listed, though always ‘sold out’ if you asked for it. Mostly the bar was visited by local labourers in search of cheap scoff. They would stand in the street, snatching a bite and a drink. Sit-down diners were rare.

Old Apollonius, who called himself the head waiter, leaned on one counter and stared into space. My aunt or my cousin would come in later; Aunt Junia was an abrasive character who should never have been running a bar, but her son, Junillus, made the best of this sad place.

A stray dog snuck in for a sniff around; she didn’t like it and left quickly. The second table indoors was empty, which was all too normal.