Perhaps on the feast night they hired tubs of topiary and draped the place with garland swags. There would have been lights. By the time of the attack, if witness statements were correct, the lamps had been put out, most probably removed; I had seen them, now routinely stacked in a store room. No doubt as soon as the guests left, someone went around and saved lamp oil. That was the kind of household Polycarpus ran. It could have been done while the debris was being cleared and the table goods washed in the kitchen.

The feast ended at a reasonable hour, then my guess was that the tidying up happened at some speed. The master and mistress had an early start next morning and they were eager for bed. They would have wanted all domestic bustle to be out of the way and the house quiet.

At our own little feast, Manlius Faustus, Camillus Justinus and I had been silent. We all gave proper respect to meals and were rather introspective anyway, each perhaps pondering the day’s events.

When the moment arrived to talk, my two companions praised my hospitality. It is always good to have your efforts noted. I let them vie with each other over showing good manners. Neither was a slimy flatterer. They both knew I was not taking it seriously.

Work occasionally had such sociable moments, often over a meal. It made me realise that although I managed well alone, I would like things to be different. Mind you, only in the right circumstances. According to my little sisters, I have impossibly high standards.

Justinus and Faustus took turns at narrating what they had learned from the tribune. Although he had not added much that was new, he coloured in some details about the gang and their influence. The tribal chief was ‘old Rabirius’, a vindictive degenerate going on eighty, whose habits were as filthy as his attitude was hard-bitten. He was born into crime; he had links with all the traditional organised crime families.

I glanced at Uncle Quintus. ‘Yes,’ he confirmed quietly. ‘His family tree runs inexorably into that of the late unlamented bugbear, Balbinus Pius − their mothers were sisters.’

Balbinus Pius had been a leading gangster who, after years of violent trafficking, thievery, the sex trade, illegal gambling and intimidation had been tracked down by my father and Uncle Petro. After his death, when his criminal empire was carved up and handed on to willing associates, most was inherited by his son-in-law, a cursed man called Florius. Many years ago and far from Rome, I fell into the clutches of this Florius. I hated him, with good reason. Even the thought of him, or anyone connected to him, agitated me.

Justinus did not explain to the aedile. I never talked about the past but Faustus was shrewd. He had caught the nuance.