That clinched it. From that moment I became a joint auctioneer-informer. I would manumit one or two of the better slaves from Pa’s ménage then train them up as freedmen assistants, a few in the auction house, a couple on my client casework. There could be a handy crossover. The auction helpers could scout for people in the kind of difficulty I solved as an informer. And it was traditional for both trades to operate out of the Saepta Julia.

Strange how you can worry for years over your career, and do nothing about it—then alter it instantly without a qualm. This was like falling in love all over again. Certainty thumped down on me. There was no going back.

‘Yes, Cluvius; I’m moving back into my old office. That will help me keep an eye on the competition!’ I may have looked naïve but if Cluvius knew that the ‘office’ I referred to was where I had once worked with the Chief Spy picking off Census defaulters, he might see me as a more serious rival. Anacrites and I had done well. Even Vespasian, a byword for stinginess, had felt moved to reward us with social elevation. I had skills; I had contacts too. I rubbed my gold ring thoughtfully, but Cluvius still didn’t get it.

He was leaving. Thank you, gods!

He dropped one more innocent-sounding question from the doorway to catch me off-guard. I hadn’t seen that feeble trick since Nero appointed his racehorse a consul: ‘I suppose nothing came of that amphitheatre contract? Tricky, pinning down the Treasury; I dare say it fell through . . .’

I knew nothing about this. I tapped my nose, implying some delicate and secret deal. As soon as Cluvius wandered off, I bounded into the back of the warehouse and briskly tackled Gornia.

The porter groaned. ‘Oh, he must be on about the statues.’

Not news I wanted. The last time Pa and I were involved in statuary—our one and only operation together—we caught a bad cold. I could hardly bear to remember. Pa claimed he’d learned his lesson. Maybe I had too. Or maybe he at least could never resist a challenge . . . ‘If that leech Cluvius is curious, do I sniff nice profits?’

‘Oh just let Cluvius wet himself.’ Gornia, a spindly old cove with about sixty years of working for Pa behind him, was as exciting as that porridge our forebears called a national dish. I mean, before they discovered the better joys of oysters and expensive turbot. ‘You don’t want to worry about him, Marcus Didius.’

I wondered if I could trust Gornia. His attitude was an aspect of the business I had not yet resolved. Even though he had stuck by Pa, he might not be so loyal to me.