Hunting for the right back alley I found some sewermen, ferreting round a manhole as sewermen like to do. They were working with more energy than usual. Concrete was being shovelled underground frantically, with not a wine gourd of refreshment in sight.

I addressed them with a formality of tone I reserve for specialists: “Sorry to interrupt. Have you possibly had a moment to spot Petronius Longus, the captain of the Aventine watch?”

The foreman gave me the benefit of his philosophy of life: “Listen centurion, when the Great Drain starts gulping the Sacred Way into the shit after five hundred years, the navvies shoring up the culvert have better things to do than take a census of passers-by!”

“Thanks for your trouble,” I replied politely. For once it worked.

“Back of the pepper warehouses,” he admitted gruffly. “Whole crowd of silly devils stirring up the dust.” I was already half way there, calling my thanks.

There was no rush.

Nap Lane lay on the south side of the Forum near the spice markets. It was typical of the steep, twisty side routes that dive off our major streets, only just wide enough for a waggon to force through, clogged with dry mud, littered with broken spars of wood and waste. Shutters leaned off their hinges overhead where the buildings jutted over the street, hiding the sky. There was a musty smell of night-time occupation by degenerates. A cat yowled viciously as I went past. It was the sort of hole where you worry if you see someone coming—and worry if you don’t. It seemed a sorry end for the stately caravans that swung the treasures of Arabia, India and China halfway across the world for sale in Rome.

The warehouse I wanted looked abandoned; there was lush vegetation clogging the ruts in its gateway and a wrecked waggon lurching on one axle outside. I found them in an open yard, Petronius Longus and nearly a dozen men. Even before I turned in at the gate, the voices of saddened professionals warned me what to expect. I had heard that subdued note so many times before.

Petro strode towards me. “Marcus!”

I lost any hope or doubt.

He reached me, he grasped both my hands. His eyes flickered over my bruises, too preoccupied to take them in. He would never be hardened. While other men sit in oyster bars being cynical over nothing, Petronius Longus merely gives his slow, tolerant smile. Turning back at some movement, he put an arm round my shoulders, completely unable to tell me what had happened. It didn’t matter. I already knew.

They had found her inside the warehouse. I arrived at the moment when they were carrying her out, so that was when I saw her for the last time. Her white dress hung like a hank of wool over a grim trooper’s arm while her head lolled backwards in a way that was unmistakable: Sosia Camillina was dead.

XVIII