Claudia, my aunt, popped her impressive nose around a door, rattled an armoury of bangles, evaluated Faustus, and disappeared. She was well-groomed and jewelled up (Spanish olive oil money) but she flapped about the house with the long-suffering air of a mother of six whose husband was more loyal to her bank-boxes than to her.

My uncles turned up together. They looked furtive, as if they had been gossiping about how I came to know an aedile. A slew of young children tumbled into the room with them; Justinus rounded up his offspring and shooed them out again, arms wide, like a farmer penning heifers, yet he somehow projected gravitas. Aelianus looked as if he had indigestion, which was understandable in a man who had just sworn that his third marriage was absolutely the last, and who was brooding on how he would have to hand back yet another dowry. Despite having already spent it.

I performed light-hearted introductions: ‘Aulus Camillus Aelianus: trained in Athens and Alexandria, past son-in-law to the eminent law professor and legendary social drinker, Minas of Karystos.’ Aelianus scowled, not because he was ashamed of being taught by that great Greek symposium boozer, but at my allusion to his first wife. The rest of us once viewed Hosidia Meline as an interloper, but her father had shamelessly divorced her from Aelianus in order to marry her to someone richer; insultingly, it was a mere six months after Aelianus wed her. But that was long enough for Hosidia to form a warm friendship with her fellow foreigner, Quintus’ wife, and now she was never out of their house. This deeply irritated Aelianus.

‘Quintus Camillus Justinus: trained in Rome and at what he calls the University of Struggle. At least it has cheap fees.’ Lovely Uncle Quintus, the better-looking younger one. Affable, talented, everyone adored him, even his put-upon wife. That was how the rascal got away with being rascally.

‘Tiberius Manlius Faustus: plebeian aedile.’ Faustus nodded and said nothing, though I knew he was not shy.

Just outside the doors, rioting children ended their game in ear-splitting wails as one fell over and pretended he had hurt himself. We hastily migrated to Aelianus’ house through a communicating door.

Our new location was peaceful and neat, with swept floors and up-to-date wall frescos, but it always had a cold, unscented emptiness. If I had lived there, I would have filled it with puppies, fed birds in the garden, and hired a lyre player. Then I would have evicted Aelianus and had an affair with a furnace-stoker.

Let us not discuss my tragic history with Aulus Camillus Aelianus.