Polycarpus would have been able to arrange for someone to open the door. Maybe the timescale of his trip downstairs ‘on a whim’ was all wrong, and he came for this purpose.

Maybe he unlocked the door himself.

On the other hand, maybe Polycarpus was exactly as he made out: an honest, hardworking, loyal long-term servant of a master who might yet have resisted the beseeching of his misguided new wife. Aviola might never have replaced Polycarpus with Onesimus as Mucia wanted. Sextus Simplicius could have got this wrong. Or Onesimus might make a hash of the work in Campania and lose his chance.

Even if Aviola was ready to dump Polycarpus, maybe Polycarpus remembered too much about Galla from the old days. He might not want to work for her cousin.

Even if he did, surely Polycarpus still had more sense than to assist Galla Simplicia with a crime that carried a death sentence?

Ideas were jumping up like sand-flies. But I concealed them from Graecina, who had concerns of her own. A young child started mithering in another room, so I took my leave.

17

I went for my planned interview with Galla’s son.

Marcus Valerius Simplicianus was twenty-five, an age when ambitious young Roman men can be awarded political positions. But this waste of space would not be standing for office. The only thing he would work hard at – very hard – was avoiding work.

His mother thought he was wonderful. Everyone else saw through it, but that did not impinge on Valerius, who himself happily believed the myth.

I thought it was extremely unfair that the gods had given this ning-nong-ninnying noodle such beautiful eyelashes.

He had lashes like an unweaned prize calf. Most women I knew would drool with envy. One or two would drool all over him, because of his eye decorations, though I myself was repulsed. I like effective men.

The remaining parts of Valerius are not worth noting. I could see only slight resemblance to his mother, a pleasant-looking woman, nor did he share any facial features with the ceramic plaque of his republican-style father. So much for art.

He had an annoying voice. His nasal whine was even more trying because he could not pronounce his ‘r’s. Either he could not manage it because of a real defect, or he simply could not be bothered to speak properly. I thought it an affectation.

Of course I was not prejudiced against him, which would be unprofessional. He was a witness, possibly a suspect. I therefore remained entirely neutral about the idle, no-good, exasperating, spoiled brat.

‘You look as if you don’t like me!’ So he was not entirely an idiot.