‘Only us today, centurion,’ one of them said, grinning to show broken and yellowed teeth. ‘You’ll have to wait. Unless you want to take that old bitch herself!’ The man found his own wit hysterically funny and doubled up with laughter.

‘Sorry, sir. He don’t mean anything,’ his companion said, looking down with glazed fondness at him. ‘You were with us, weren’t you?’ Ferox nodded. ‘Then I don’t think “Old Iron” would grudge you your turn.’

Ferox had not heard the nickname before, and nodded amicably to the man as he passed. He was going to Flora’s, but not for the usual reason.

‘I would like to see the mistress,’ he told the thickset slave standing in front of the open back door. ‘I am expected.’ He had sent a note earlier in the day and been told to call at this hour.

‘Of course, centurion, you are always welcome,’ purred the oily voice of Flora’s clerk, who was sitting at a desk inside the porch. This was the entrance used by the more important clients and led to the luxurious rooms as well as Flora’s office and her apartment. Everyone else climbed the wooden steps at the front to the second floor, where matters were dealt with efficiently, if with less style. ‘You know the way, do you not, sir?’ The man was small and had eyes that only focused on the page in front of him.

As Ferox went down the corridor, the one-eyed Batavian cavalryman appeared from the main office.

‘Centurion,’ Longinus said, nodding respectfully and moving out of the way to let the officer pass. The walls were plastered and painted, less gaudily than the upper storey, and by the look of it the same artist who had worked on the main rooms of the praetorium had done these.

‘The terms are the same as usual,’ Flora said as the centurion went into her office, a simple room equipped with several cabinets, a marble-topped table and three well-upholstered chairs. The wall panels showed pastoral scenes with plenty of nymphs, each with the face of a girl who worked or had worked here.

Flora was a short woman, so slightly built as to be almost boyish, and still slim and strong even though she must be well past her fiftieth year. There were deep lines on her face – at least on those rare occasions like this when she appeared without heavy make-up. He was also surprised that she was dressed simply, and that there was a little tear at the neck of her plain brown robe. Beside her stood a slave boy in a brightly bleached tunic. She wrote something more on a wooden tablet, and then looked up, noticing his gaze.