I sat in the cubbyhole, thinking, until boredom took over. Then I sauntered along the Saepta’s upper gallery, enjoying the vibrant life going on at this level and below, just as Pa used to do. I could see why he loved this place. There was never a dull moment, as fat jewellers and paranoid goldsmiths swaggered around trying to bamboozle would-be customers, while pickpockets tailed the customers and guards wondered absently whether to tackle the pickpockets. There were constant cries from food-sellers who wandered the building with gigantic trays or weighed down by garlands of drink flagons. Wafts of grilled meat and suet patties vied with the reek of garlic and the stench of pomade. Every now and then some man of note—or a nobody who thought he was one—pressed through the throng with a train of arrogant slaves in livery, trailing sweaty secretaries and put-upon fan-danglers. Disdainful locals refused to be pushed around, resulting in loud altercations.

I enjoyed watching the gallery rage, then stepped over a vagrant and entered the office. My nephew Gaius, Galla’s second eldest, was loafing there. He looked me over. ‘You don’t want to waste your time here, Uncle Marcus. Why not give me a couple of thousand a week and I’ll run the place for you?’

He was at an indefinable point in his late teens, old enough to be useful, not old enough to trust. He looked like a tattooed barbarian, though with infected sores where the woad should be. He was a sweetie underneath; we sometimes used him for babysitting.

‘Thanks for the kind offer, Gaius. I don’t need help. We just put chipped old pots on show by the door and idiots rush in to pay huge sums for them.’

Gaius dropped into a stone throne, his favourite lounger, where he spread himself like a potentate. He was drinking Pa’s flagon of Campagnan red, supposedly kept for celebrating big auction gains or for numbing the pain of losses. He waved me to a cheery cup that advised me to drink now for I would die tomorrow; as I poured a tot, Gaius warned me in serious tone, ‘You want to take a lot of water with that, Uncle Marcus. It’s probably too strong for you.’

‘Yours is neat?’

‘But I am used to it,’ smiled Gaius. His brass-necked cheek came straight from my louche brother Festus, from Pa, and a long line of previous Didii. I made no attempt to remonstrate. Like Lucius Petronius, I was thirty-six and had learned when there was no point arguing.

We talked, with surprising sense from Gaius, about an auction held in my absence. ‘Things are looking up again, no question. People stayed away to begin with, thinking nothing would be the same without Grandpa, but customers are trickling back.’

‘They are learning you’re up to it. One or two may even have heard good things about me.’