There were a couple of couches, one occupied. I had found him, and he must be cursing me. Well, he would have been, if he had not had his teeth gritted in serious agony.

Four or five practitioners were frowning with concentration as they applied themselves to the spy’s selected parts. He was splayed on his front at that moment, legs apart and feet towards me. I always realised he must depilate his arms and legs. Now I knew he boasted hideous fancy stuff under his tunic. When I burst in he was not wearing one. He was naked, apart from a light coating all over with very high quality almond oil.

The hair-removers had scythed off his torso rug and defoliated his buttock fur. Now they were subjecting him to the most painful part of their expensive duties. Anacrites had bought the whole deal. The specialists were giving him what is known in louche circles as a back, sac and crack. Or so I am told. You would never catch me having it.

He was probably dying for the agony to stop, but when I entered the room those attending to him did not pause. Their instructions were probably to keep going, just as long as the customer could stand it.

‘It’s Falco. No—don’t move an inch!’ I carolled cheerily. ‘This is too good to miss! I have spent many hours imagining resourceful ways to torture you—but, Tiberius Claudius Anacrites, I never thought of hot pitch poured on your exposed genitals!’

Whoever did think of it, and persuaded him to have it done, deserved to be awarded a radiate diadem.

Anacrites let out a faint mortified cry. I assured him he could take his time, make a thorough job of it with the hot pitch peel, ensure every naughty stray hair was yanked out with the tweezers. I said I could not bear to watch, but I would wait for him outside, enjoying a glazed honeycake from one of the bath house’s itinerant food tray men. ‘I need to see you urgently. If you are still on the Modestus case, this is about Nobilis.’

He bounced out not long afterwards, pretending nothing had happened. Perhaps embarrassment clouded his judgement from that point.

I was holding a packet of honeycakes, which I had decided would be reassuring. I announced that Nobilis had escaped capture in Latium (this was why I had asked Silvius to delay his report). According to me, Nobilis had trekked back to Rome, where he was spotted by the bright-eyed vigiles. Petronius Longus knew where he was and was guarding the location; since it was the spy’s case, I had come to fetch him. ‘He’s hiding up. The place looks grim, but Petronius and I are with you. There’s no time to wait for back-up; he has a hundred escape routes available.’

Anacrites did ask, ‘How do I know you’re not lying, Falco?’