Still, he had loved children. Once Marina had a baby we all agreed to accept as fathered by Festus, she needed somebody to sponge off. The Didius family pitied her plight. We understood want. We admired efficient begging too. Little Marcia was a dear child (possibly a factor that should make us think she was not ours), so we subsidised Marina for her daughter’s sake. I say ‘we’. The others always left the fine details to me. By details, I mean actually handing out cash.

Inevitably my father’s death had brought Marina, dragging Marcia, to pay respects (her words). She had her large beautiful eyes on the legacy.

‘Marcia will be no trouble. I brought her a lunch pack. I’ll pick her up when I’ve run a few errands . . .’

Marina was a fabulous specimen, though common. She turned heads so frequently she had no idea it was possible for a woman to walk past a scaffold, a wine bar, a fish stall or a cohort of soldiers without whistles and loud invitations to share grimy fellows’ flagons. It looked as if the food she had so unnecessarily brought for her daughter was part of a workman’s sardine ration, in fact. Women loathed her. Helena, and even young Albia, greeted her arrival with embittered sighs. While they hoped she would leave quickly, I prayed she had not worked out how much money to ask me for. She had, of course.

‘You never even invited Marcia to your party at Saturnalia. Everyone ignores us nowadays. Whoever thought Festus would be so quickly forgotten? Marcia hadn’t seen her gramps for ages and now she’ll never have the chance again—’ (Wails from Marina’s well-primed daughter.) ‘Geminus was so fond of her; it’s such a tragedy! And I blame you, Marcus.’

Since the child was listening, I refrained from spelling out that Geminus lost count of his grandchildren, and that my niece could have been brought to see Pa at the Saepta any day. Suitably prompted, he would have reminisced about Festus and handed out hot pancakes. Given his eye for a promising woman, Marina would probably have walked away with some piece of jewellery. The fact was, she had been too busy leading her life of play and pleasure—until she heard that Pa was gone and how much he had left behind.

Marina dumped Marcia on us ‘to play with her little cousins’. Marcia was a fast-growing skinny-rib of ten, so she and my much younger girls had nothing in common, but Marcia spent hours diligently tying hair ribbons and my daughters were willing little dolls.

Primed by her mother, Marcia set about charming me in her own style. ‘Uncle Marcus, just give us the money.’

‘What money?’

‘A big bag of cash to make us feel less sad that Grandpa died.’

‘How does that work?’