And, inside, my bookshelves were filled with years of art history research. Everything I owned seemed related to my current obsession, as if, unknowingly, I’d been planning to clear Caleb all my life. Everything seemed connected to fires, or sons or justice. Tacitus, for instance, accused Nero of hiding his own arson by blaming Christians. They were nailed to crosses, sniffed at by dogs, and finally set ablaze, tired bodies devolved into torches. Humans have always needed scapegoats. And Marco’s article described Nero’s palace like it was still under construction instead of rediscovery. The palace built atop Rome’s ruins had been short-lived and other Romes had come and gone since, lost to history and dust. Fire had changed the meaning of things. It dissolved sculptures and wheels back into formless metal. Marco could have been describing the Brunton rebuilding I witnessed every day. Everything I knew on earth would eventually be washed away by fire or water, wind or time.

I next Skyped Marco nearly four weeks after the fire. Speaking to him, I was once again a part of a world that could be researched into making sense, a world of trenches, trowels and brushes. An alternative life I might have lived. Surely I belonged there, where history was divined through physical objects that withstood time, not in corruptible words? And Marco was always happy to hear from me, to learn what he could about my post-Stephen life. Digging, uncovering my secrets from a distance.

‘I’ve found the remains of a large wooden crate,’ he said, excited. Timber rarely survived long. ‘Not what you’d expect in a city. Maybe Rome didn’t spread far in that era. It was used to store fruit. Miraculous so much survived. You can still smell figs in it.’

Temporarily, I lost myself in Marco’s specific, consoling news, tasting and smelling figs, juicy, likely to bruise in my hands, the obscene sweetness of a date, fresh off a branch, sticky between my teeth, the scent of orange peel under my fingernails. So much ripe freshness, another world, as far from me as the ancient one. In Marco’s world, I cared how fruit tasted. I remembered a small and nearly-whole pot that together we once found. From its villa context, we surmised it had contained moisturiser or another cosmetic used by ancient Roman women. I reminded him of that moment now. ‘It was like being in contact with her,’ I said. ‘Whoever once used it. Maybe part of her nightly routine.’

‘You’re coming around. Everyday objects do mean so much more than highbrow art,’ Marco said.