Vegetus’ wife Fortunata was different, her dress expensive red silk that shimmered in the lamplight, barely concealing her full figure. Ferox thought that she might be a Gaul, from somewhere in the far north-west by the shape of her face and her green eyes. She was quite tall and a little plump, but much of her weight was carried on breast and hips and she walked with grace. Her hair was so fair that it was almost white, arranged in an ornate confection of curls and combs rising into a dome. If it was not a wig, then a small army of servants had spent hours creating such a monument. With each movement heavy bangles clinked together on her arms. Her sandals were similar in style to the ones worn by Lepidina, save that the soles were built up much higher. Fortunata welcomed all of the men with a kiss – her lips soft and moist, lingering a little too long for courtesy on Ferox’s cheek. Her manner as much as her name proclaimed that she had been a slave, like her husband, although probably not one working as an administrator’s assistant.

Crispinus joined the host and hostess on the main couch. To their right were Brocchus and Claudia with Claudius Super beside them. In each case the lady reclined between the two men. The couches were large and well cushioned so that there was plenty of room, save perhaps on the third one, which Ferox shared with Vegetus and Fortunata. Both were smothered in enough scent to make even Philo’s eyes water. The freedman also spread across the cushions, taking up almost half the space. Ferox had the uncomfortable sense that he was about to fall off, the back of the freedwoman so close that he felt the thin silk of her dress brush against him whenever she moved. The guests lay on their sides so that they could see the main couch.

It had been years since Ferox had attended a formal dinner and he realised that he no longer had the stamina of the past. Food kept arriving, dish after dish of well-presented and finely cooked food. Cerialis was fond of poultry. They had small chickens, one for each diner, and two large geese carved for them by the slaves. A supervisor was always in the room, and another grey-haired slave who cut portions and served as necessary. Other slaves wafted in and out, moving silently, taking old dishes and replacing them with new, or serving wine.

‘Falernian,’ Cerialis announced when the first cups were poured. ‘I can never resist it even though there are other vintages. And after all “cups were meant for joy”.’ He beamed happily. ‘“Cease this impious row, my friends, and rest as you are, propped on your elbow, or would you not wish me to drink my share of dry Falernian?”’