‘Not as far as I know. He’s married, I believe.’ That did not rule out Petro’s girlfriend theory. ‘Working in Rome to earn some cash, but he goes home.’

‘Where would “home” be?’

‘No idea, sorry.’ We knew: the Pontine Marshes. The wife’s name was Plotia. I had even met her. Petronius had searched the rustic shack where Virtus left her. Not much cash seemed to find its way back there.

‘Where else might he go?’

‘He mentioned a brother.’

‘Pius?’

The barman shook his head. ‘Means nothing, sorry.’ He was very apologetic. According to Petro, as we went upstairs, the man in the apron should have been apologising for his lousy drink.

Petronius shouldered in the door. He didn’t care if the occupant learned we were after him. The landlord could claim compensation; from the state of his building, he wouldn’t come around to notice the damage.

It was a one-room apartment, its interior kept with the squalid housekeeping we recognised as the Claudius trademark. Flies lived here as subtenants; they soared about with the lethargic flight of insects that had gorged on unpleasant decay, close nearby. The smell in the room was familiar: an unclean, earthy odour I recalled from the spy’s house, in those mean corridor rooms where the Claudii were lodged.

There was no space for four healthy adults. I volunteered to search, with Justinus. Petronius reluctantly agreed to wait downstairs in the bar with Aelianus.

‘It’s a simple room-search, Lucius. Let me handle it. Back off; you’re worse than Anacrites!’

‘I don’t want you to cock it up.’

‘Thanks, friend. Any time Quintus and I can shaft you in return, assume we’ll be available.’

The ‘stuff’ Virtus came back to check was minimal. Apart from the landlord’s basic furniture—sagging bed, lopsided stool, a skinny old sack on the floor for a rug—we found only a filthy foodbowl, empty wineskins, and a used loincloth which Aulus lifted up on the handle of a bald broom from the corridor then dropped in distaste.

We found no trophies from killings. However, hidden behind the inevitable loose wall panel, there were more knives. These were bigger and nastier than the ones we took off the agent.

After Quintus and I went downstairs again, Petronius insisted on going up to double-check.

‘Jove, he’s finicky!’

‘Doesn’t want to make a mistake with the Urban Cohorts watching.’

‘Doesn’t trust you, Falco!’