The possibility remained that Clemens had told his family before he left. That avenue of danger had to be closed today.

Drying his hands on his trousers, Murena looked at the relief sculpture behind the ornamental basin. An armoured warrior was riding his mount into a marsh. One of the tales was that long ago a chasm had appeared at this place. The soothsayers had said a sacrifice was necessary. A young Roman – Marcus Curtius – had offered himself. The fissure had closed over his head. Not a good omen. Murena had done what was right for Rome. Now would he also pay the ultimate penalty?

There was another story. Once there had been a marsh here in the Forum. A Sabine cavalryman – Mettius Curtius – hard pressed by the Romans of Romulus, had braved its dangers, and escaped. That was more encouraging.

Murena looked again at the sun. It was time to go.

* * *

The Vicus Caeseris was quiet – just a couple of pedestrians and a vagrant with a blanket pulled over his head sleeping rough in a doorway. The latter was big and looked well fed for a beggar; perhaps not a tramp, but a day labourer sleeping off a drinking season.

Murena took station across and down the street, and watched the closed door and shuttered windows of the wine shop. A few more people wandered past; none went to the shop. The slumberer did not stir.

When the sun was almost directly overhead, Murena moved to the door. He listened intently. Once, he thought he caught the murmur of a voice from behind the boards. That was no cause for concern. They were both expecting him.

A final glance up and down the street, and Murena knocked on the door. The sounds of bolts being drawn, and the vintner opened the door.

‘Gaius.’ The wine seller spoke as if something was wrong with the name.

‘Health and great joy.’ Murena went inside.

The tradesman shut the door.

‘Bolt it,’ Murena said.

The man seemed uncertain.

‘As my message said, we need to talk undisturbed.’

The vintner shot the bolts.

The room was dark. The single small lamp on the counter barely illuminated the nearby racks of amphorae. The big barrels standing along the left-hand wall were in deep gloom. As ever, the shop smelt agreeably of wine and sawdust. Today there was a hint of spikenard. There was no end to the ingenuity men invested in flavouring wines.

‘Is Tullia here?’ Murena asked.

‘She is in the back.’

‘What I have to say concerns her husband.’

‘Tullia!’ The vintner moved back behind his counter. He was rubbing his palms down the front of his leather apron.

She emerged from behind the curtain with her arms tight across her body, as if holding herself together.

‘Health and great joy,’ Murena said.

Tullia did not reply, but moved quickly to stand by her father.

‘It is about Clemens.’ Murena moved between them and the entrance to their living quarters.