‘I’ll tell my men not to be heavy-handed. Titianus need never know we have doubled up on his work. Householders won’t go running to him to complain.’

‘It’s certainly not the normal way of conducting an apartment-to-apartment search!’ I commented.

At this point, Uncle Quintus stretched and hauled himself off the couch. He begged to be excused; he wanted to go home in time to see his children put to bed. He was a good father, but even if that had not been the case, Claudia Rufina ruthlessly extracted a certain domesticity as payoff for his slightly untrustworthy past.

Faustus said he wanted to talk to me about the case, so I took Quintus to the front door. I said goodbye and watched him depart. He cut a good figure: taller than average, slim and raffishly good-looking, with his hair still dark as it flopped over his brow, and that ever-easy manner.

His two bodyguards had made themselves friendly with the leatherworkers. Quintus, naturally, strolled up to where they were all sitting on stools outside the shop and introduced himself. He shook hands with Secundus and Myrinus, a nice courtesy. I waited, and sure enough when he set off homewards, with the bodyguards limping behind him, Quintus Camillus Justinus had a tawny leather drawstring bag tucked beneath his arm, a handsome present to placate his wife. I expect he paid for it – but not the normal price.

A cluster of men were leaving a bar; otherwise the street was empty. It was still not late, a warm June night. Rome at its most benign.

23

I emerged from the long corridor and crossed the atrium. Myla had uncharacteristically deigned to appear; she was clattering bowls and scraping leftovers in the dining room. This commotion had driven out Faustus. He was standing in the courtyard, head thrown back, apparently enjoying the night air.

I fetched a light stole and was about to join him when someone began banging on the front door. I could hear it was Dromo, who was shouting at the top of his voice as if he thought he would be left outside all night. I went.

As soon as I opened up, the slave sauntered past me as if nothing had perturbed him, but then he ran into his master. Faustus had followed me; from his look of alarm he must be remembering how the porter was attacked that night when, if the story was correct, Nicostratus mistakenly let the wrong people indoors.

Unexpectedly, Faustus took his slave to task. ‘Where in Hades have you been, Dromo? A simple bathe should not take so long. In future, come back promptly. I do not want Flavia Albia having to answer the door to you when it’s late and could be dangerous!’

He rarely sounded so sharp. Dromo hung his head, like a child reluctantly playing sorry, but sulking.

‘Don’t look like that,’ Faustus ordered, keeping his voice level. ‘You were in the wrong, Dromo.’