Silanus gave us directions to his uncle and aunt’s farm. It was near Satricum, adjacent to land farmed by the Claudius freedmen: ‘If you can call what the Claudii do farming.’

They did own cattle: Silanus said his uncle had a long history of bad relations with them but the most recent ugly incidents began when the Claudii let a rampaging bunch of young bullocks break down a fence. Modestus had an overseer who went to demand compensation for the damage, but was badly beaten up.

Silanus confirmed that Modestus had a hobby of writing angry letters. He had complained directly to the obnoxious Claudii. He also badgered the town council in Antium; those wits’-end worthies may have lost patience with his demands. After he and Primilla disappeared and Silanus appealed for help, the magistrate had to investigate, but his men may not have put much effort into it.

‘Some of the Claudii are just loafers; they go into town and act up—minor thefts from homes and businesses, insults, writing their names on walls, guzzling wine then causing a disturbance after dark . . . You know.’

‘Everyday life, where we come from,’ Petronius said, though he made it clear he was sympathetic.

We were indoors at the time; Silanus went to look outside to check what his children were doing. Lentullus, a big child himself, was talking to them; he had them feeding grass to the ox. ‘One or two Claudii have more violent reputations. People don’t like anything to do with them.’

‘Particular names?’ asked Petro.

Silanus shook his head. ‘When Modestus was railing, I had my own troubles. It always sounded like exaggeration. Anyway, there never seemed much I could do . . .’

‘A man called Nobilis has been mentioned.’

‘Means nothing to me.’ Silanus fell silent. Now he blamed himself for not taking more interest previously.

I said quietly, ‘You were right the other day. Why make yourself another victim? Your conscience is clear. Leave it to the professionals.’

I had watched Petronius silently weighing up the nephew as a harassed family man of basic honesty. Turning a piece of terracotta in his big hands, Petro asked, ‘A slave brought you the news of your aunt’s disappearance—can I speak to him?’

‘Syrus. I don’t have him,’ said Silanus. ‘There was a man I owed money to. I handed over the slave to pay off the debt.’

He had paid the butcher. That’s how it is. Syrus may have loyally carried out instructions from Primilla that had brought him on a day’s journey, and the result of his information would make Silanus and his children financially secure. But unlucky Syrus was a slave. His reward for diligence was to be exchanged for half a year’s supply of skillet offal.

Our conversation seemed to have finished. But as Silanus saw us off outside, he brought out awkwardly, ‘I have to ask—are you expecting to find Aunt Primilla?’