There was only one other pedestrian making his way up the Via Fornicata when Murena turned into the Vicus Caeseris. The wine shop was small and dark, with one side of the single public room occupied by great barrels taller than a man. The air smelt agreeably of the merchandise and the sawdust on the floor.

‘Health and great joy, Gaius,’ the vintner said. ‘Not seen you in some time. I have some of the Raetian you like, a good one, well matured in the vats. Would you care to have a taste?’

‘That is most kind.’

The wine was a deep red. It smelt and tasted of the pitch with which the barrels were treated. Tullia came in from the family’s quarters at the back to help her father. She too greeted Murena as a valued customer.

‘How is your husband?’ Murena asked.

A look of concern crossed her face. ‘He has been seconded to his old legion in the east.’

‘Not for long, I hope?’ Murena said politely. Tullia was in her mid-twenties, tall, full bodied, not unattractive.

‘We do not expect him to be back until next summer.’

‘Then we must pray that his duties do not detain him, and that he makes a safe return.’

She thanked him, and took some empty amphorae through the curtains into the back.

‘What do you think of the Raetian?’ The wine merchant rubbed his palms on the high-belted leather apron of his calling.

‘Very good, but I am in the mood for something stronger, something to unknit the cares of life.’

‘I have just the thing, a Thurine from Lucania. The grapes are not harvested until after the first frost, makes it very sweet and strong.’

‘That would be ideal. I will take a flask with me.’

There was rain in the wind as Murena walked back to the Caelian.

The visit had achieved its purpose. There was something godlike about knowing the destiny of the wine seller and his family was in his hands. But, even so, he was not totally reassured. It would have been better if he had chosen an easterner for the mission. The necessary subterfuge came more naturally. But there had been no alternative. At the time he had not been long in command, and there had been no other frumentarius in the camp on whom he had incriminating evidence. Threats of violence alone, even to loved ones, were seldom enough.

The rain had picked up, and Murena was soaked by the time he got back to his office in the Camp of the Strangers. He dismissed his secretary, sat at his desk, and poured some of the Lucanian wine.