Together Helena and I went through the motions of hosting the banquet. Stuffing merrily, people were no trouble. As the long meal drew to a close, I watched the tall and stately Helena Justina pass among the guests with my secretary, Katutis, at her shoulder. He was new. I had acquired a trained Egyptian scribe at just the right moment. He was thrilled to have deaths in the family; it provided more work than I found for him normally. While Helena prised out people’s names, Katutis busily wrote them all down in level Greek script in case I needed to know later. I was nervous that some of Pa’s dubious business arrangements might jump up and bite. Helena had also pointed out several women who looked like off-duty barmaids, flaunting their best outfits and seemingly unaware that mourning women should leave off their jewellery. These blowsy, bulging dames might just be good-hearted old friends of my social papa; perhaps they adored him as a lovable rogue who left good tips by his empty winecup. Or they could have deeper motives. Helena was collecting their data along with details of all those old men who felt no need to explain who they were, as they called me Young Marcus and tapped their bulbous red noses as if we shared enormous secrets.

As we went about our duties, Helena murmured, ‘I have said we are hoping for a mention in the Daily Gazette society column: Seen at a banquet in his elegant Janiculan villa to celebrate the life of much-admired man-about-the-Forum, Marcus Didius Favonius, were the following persons of note . . . Now watch the would-be persons of note rush up to help Katutis spell their names right.’

‘I don’t want Pa in the news.’

‘No, darling. Why alert the tax authorities?’ Helena’s voice was thin, but she was regaining her sense of humour. Inheritance tax is five percent, paid into the Treasury’s military fund. The army was going to like me a lot.

I had used my mourning period for the traditional purpose of starting to inventory the legacy. For most people nine days is enough to cover this formality; I had barely tickled the edge.

Supposedly incommunicado, I had worked like a bath-house stoker among Pa’s many possessions. I set aside the least desirable items to sell to pay the tax. I also established with Gornia that we would auction some stuff that would either fail to sell, or sell for a disappointing amount; this would show picky officials that my inventory valuations were blamelessly modest. A citizen is obliged to pay his taxes, but may adopt any legal measures to minimise the damage. I knew all about that. I had been Vespasian’s Census fixer. I investigated every variation of fiscal fraud and tax-dodging—and I now planned to use my experience. Pa would expect it.