It jarred. Well, the star of the morning had dimmed for us both and here was I, battering him. He knew no one else to blame; the man blamed me.

Yet that was not the reason. It jarred because Publius Camillus Meto looked like someone whom grief steers into rigid self-control; like a man who would break, but not yet; break, but not in public; not today, not here. He had previously been so persuasive—this loss had shaken him.

I mourned his vibrant child as honestly as he. For her sake I ached for him. For her sake I addressed him with an open heart.

“Sir, we share—”

“We share nothing, Falco!” He strode away.

I watched the senator’s pale wife, who had taken it on herself to guide her husband’s brother through this appalling day, lead him towards the pyre. Servants were scooping up the smaller children. Family slaves huddled together. Important men, about to leave, clasped the senator’s hand and followed his brother with sombre eyes.

I knew I could make contact with the senator. With his younger brother Publius I was grasping air, but Decimus and I could always talk. I waited.

The two brothers had shared Sosia’s life; they were sharing her departure. Decimus was presiding now. Publius would only stare at those threads of bone on the pyre. While Sosia’s father stood apart, alone, it was her uncle who prepared to pour the wine to douse the embers. On this cue, mourners were moving off. Decimus paused in his task, waiting for privacy.

In the manner of a man at a funeral going through the polite motions of permitting strangers to present condolences, Decimus walked over to Petronius Longus—decent officialdom. Three paces from us, the senator spoke in a heavy voice. His weariness clove to mine.

“Watch Captain, thank you for coming. Didius Falco! Tell me if you are willing to go on with the case?” No fuss. No reference to me severing our contract. No escape.

I answered with real bitterness.

“I’ll go on! The magistrate’s team have run into the ground. There was nothing in the warehouses. Nobody saw the man, nothing to identify his pen. But the silver pigs will lead us to him in the end.”

“What will you do?” the senator asked, frowning.

I sensed Petronius shift his weight. We had not discussed it. Until that moment I had been unsure. She was gone now. My mind cleared. There was an obvious course. And there was nothing for me in Rome. No place, no pleasure, no peace.

“Sir, Rome’s too big. But our thread starts in one small community in a province under strict army control. Hiding knots out there must be much more difficult. We have been fools. I should have gone before.”

Petro, who had hated the place so dismally, could no longer keep quiet. “Oh Marcus! Dear gods—”

“Britain,” I confirmed.