First I dropped in to check on Uncle Quintus. He seemed to be drowsing, though the poppy juice had worn off so there were fitful movements and groans. Claudia must have gone to bed; she would want to be rested to cope with today. One of their sons had crept downstairs and lay curled up beside his father.

‘Looking after him?’ The child – I think it was the one called Constans – nodded. He was afraid I was going to send him back to his own room, but I ruffled his hair and left him. He looked about seven, worried and tear-stained. Uncle Quintus would not want this young soul sent off on his own in a state of such anxiety. ‘Good boy. Try not to worry; he’s getting better. I have to go out. Will you tell your mother I went to see Uncle Aulus?’

After another nod, Constans said suddenly, ‘That boy left.’

‘Who?’ Surely not Dromo?

‘The lamp boy who came with you. He went home to see his dog.’

‘Right. I hope he can find the way all by himself …’

‘I don’t like him.’

I paused, on my way out. ‘The lantern holder? Why not, Constans?’ He shrugged. ‘He’s just a slave. Did he do something to you?’ A headshake.

My nephew lost interest. He put his thin arm around his father and buried his face against Quintus’ side. I went over and gently placed a light rug over both of them before I slipped away.

I can be a sickroom attendant. I just had no time to hang about right then.

The streets were quiet, apart from stallholders unrolling their awnings and setting out their stock. At one bar someone was doling out hot broth to market workers, but most places still had their shutters closed. Occasionally I passed a sleepy public slave sweeping up the sad remains of last night’s parties, which were best not examined closely. The air felt thin and chilly as if the city had not yet properly opened its lungs. Overhead was cloudless, though washed out, in the waiting period before the sun burned the mist off the river and turned the sky to its hot summer blue.

The Fourth Cohort’s station house stood at low level on the lesser of the Aventine’s two heights, beside the Clivus Triarius. The troops at the end of a long shift should have been too tired to call indecent suggestions after me but, well done those boys, they bravely managed it. I looked straight ahead and kept going. The catcalls had nothing to do with me being unchaperoned. Dromo would have been no help.

The Fourth Cohort had held the prisoner in special custody all night. By the time I arrived, inevitably he had talked. I did not ask what persuaded him to speak. I had lived long enough around investigators to be sure I preferred not to know. I never saw him, nor even knew his name.