Making conversation, I described to Faustus my boredom with sun and seaside stuff. He patiently listened, then told me about the double murder on the Esquiline and needing to remove the fugitive slaves from the temple. He never gave much away, but I could tell he felt despondent.

He was sturdy, in the way of plebeian Romans, though taller than many and not bandy-legged. He had that way of implying he thought himself affable, while in fact remaining reticent. His eyes were grey, which does happen; mine were too, though his had no blue tint but were entirely pale, like the mist that comes off the Tiber at dawn. His dark hair was not yet tinged with grey, though gave the impression it might be soon. When he bothered to shave and spruce up, he was a fine-looking man. He had bothered today.

Faustus speared his sausage slice on the point of his own pocket-knife then gingerly tasted it. Even the Stargazer could do little damage to a bought-in Lucanian, so he cheered up. I reached over and pinched a gherkin that Apollonius had plonked on as a garnish. Faustus let me do it but quickly nipped up the other gherkin himself. We were easy together, for some reason that I never troubled to analyse.

He started complaining that the Esquiline, where the Aviola couple were murdered, was not his patch. When a group of new aediles began their year in office, they divided up Rome, each hoping to get areas that produced high revenues. They couldn’t take the income home (well, not legally), but public service is all about ‘my record is shinier than yours’. Each wanted to win the fines challenge. Success would attract votes if ever they stood for election again, or at least they might be rewarded with some minor priesthood.

Faustus had managed to get jurisdiction of the Aventine, home ground for both of us and a busy hive of wrongdoers. The Esquiline was one of the other Seven Hills, lying beyond the Circus Maximus and the Forum. It was not an area I knew well and Faustus seemed to think little of it.

‘I need to find out what really happened in the apartment that night, Albia. If the slaves are exonerated, they can go home. We are stuck with them until then.’

‘You’re even stuck with them if they are guilty – they have sought asylum.’

‘Don’t I know it! I have to prove somebody else is guilty.’ As Faustus leaned back in his seat and considered me, I saw where he was heading: ‘I don’t have the time; I need an agent.’

‘What about the vigiles?’

Succinctly, Faustus described Titianus of the Second Cohort.

‘Well, I can’t help you,’ I warned, getting in first. ‘I welcome new work, but not an exhausting trek over there every day.’