Then I remembered Sosia. Sosia who was dead, and now had not even her father to ask the gods to treat her tenderly. I announced to Titus Caesar: “So that’s your contract bonus! Keep it, Caesar. I never earned it; I was hired to expose the man who murdered Sosia Camillina—”

With the cheers of all Rome still ringing in his ears, Titus was in a bonny mood that day, but still capable of wincing a little at me. There were few officials present, but I had done him the favour of not specifying Domitian by name. It was not a name I ever wished to speak.

“Didius Falco, Vespasian has personally closed that account!” Titus observed carefully.

“In my ledger it will never be closed,” I answered the metaphor coldly.

“Probably not. I understand that. Believe me, we all mourn for that sad girl. Falco, try to be understanding in return. Rome, now, needs to believe in its first family. Emperors must make their own rules—”

“That, sir, is why I am a republican!”

I was aware of shocked movements, though Titus himself did not stir. He gazed at me thoughtfully, then appealed to the senator. With an effort, plainly caused by grief and exhaustion rather than any antipathy to me, Decimus attempted: “Marcus, for my daughter’s sake—”

But I told the senator bluntly that his fine-spirited daughter deserved better than a bumped up, bought off, newly bribed-to-silence audit clerk.

He took it fairly well. He probably agreed; I’ll guarantee his wife did. If that had not been his own opinion when I started to insult him, it ought to be now. To complete the process I snarled at the finish, “Senator, don’t let your judgement be warped by one heady moment.” Then I turned.

I walked straight to his daughter, in the public audience room. Thank the gods she was veiled. I could not have done it if I had had to see her face.

“Ladyship, you know how it is: every case a girl, new case, new girl. All the same, I brought you home a souvenir to turn your finger green: Ex Argentiis Britanniae. The grateful gift of a lead mine slave.”

I had given Helena Justina a silver ring. There would be no other opportunity to see her, so I had fetched it from the silversmith tonight. Engraved inside was one of those cheap jewellers’ mottoes that mean nothing or everything depending on your mood: Anima Mea…

I knew I was hopeless. I rejected her—in public—then laid this burden on her solitude. It was not my fault. The smith had had no instructions, so he put whatever he felt like; once I had seen it I could not bring myself to have it changed.

And after all, the motto was true: Anima Mea, My Soul.

I lifted her hand, closing her fingers down firmly on my gift. Then without looking at any of them, I left.

LXV