‘He says his subsequent childhood seemed normal to him,’ I said. ‘But was it really? He learned to survive—but trauma and fear moulded him.’

Petronius had been listening with distaste. Now he stretched his long legs and frame, looking too bulky for the couch. ‘I’m more intrigued by where he is today. In adulthood, do you think he was aware who his family were?’

‘I doubt it,’ I said.

Petro grinned. ‘We could ask him.’

‘You could. I wouldn’t. He would only lie. In fact, as long as he can, he has to. He cannot hold a high imperial post as a known relative of murderous criminals.’

‘So we’re getting to the heart of this, Falco. What happened to reunite them?’

‘Two years ago, or thereabouts,’ Helena reminded us, ‘the mother, Casta, died.’

We were all silent for a while, wondering what that had been like, for the large sprawling family that Casta had ruled with her mixture of cruelty and indifference. Aristocles had gone before her. Casta’s death destroyed their equilibrium, Virtus told me.

Aulus leaned forwards. ‘I bet there was a mighty big funeral. The full wailing, hypocritical orations. All sorts of sentimental grief. And presumably it was around then that somebody thought of contacting their long-lost brother Felix.’

‘Anacrites went to the funeral,’ stated Maia. She was looking down at her feet. Maia was sitting sideways, adjacent to Petronius. Her feet were small, pressed together tidily, wearing stylish shoes in ox-blood leather. Maia looked at them as if she was wondering where the decorative footgear came from.

‘It begs the question,’ mused Helena, ‘how did his siblings find him?’

Again Maia unexpectedly had answers. ‘He told me once. He had a letter from his mother when she realised she was dying. After all, where he was taken as a child would not have been a secret. Casta must have followed his progress, either from affection or the possessiveness we mentioned. Anacrites answered her summons but when he got there it was too late. I never knew the funeral was in Latium; he kept quiet about his people living in the Pontine Marshes. It was just after I met him he told me, as a conversation gambit.’

‘Was he upset?’ asked Albia.

‘He seemed so.’

‘He could have been acting.’

‘There was no reason for that.’

‘That’s him, though. Defying logic.’

‘His feelings need not concern us,’ I said. ‘The funeral was his downfall. Once they knew who he was, his brothers latched on like parasites. They saw Anacrites as their crock of gold. It looked innocent to start with. The twins asked for a job. How could he say no? He employed them; he may have welcomed them—agents he felt he could control, agents who would be loyal to him.’