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Prostitutes catcalled. Slaves cursed. Busy freedmen on urgent errands weaved in and out among them adroitly, dodging the more obvious pickpockets and the snack-sellers who carried enormous trays, often above their heads and at a dangerous angle. It was midday, with the sun relentless. Everywhere that didn’t smell of frying oil stank of bloody meat or fish. There was so much uproar coming from stallholders in the colonnades, even the harsh bray of a distressed donkey was lost.
    This was Rome, a huge, casual madhouse that made Londinium look staid. I had never quite grown used to it.
    Everyone paused, trying not to show annoyance, as a short procession of Vestal Virgins moved sedately from the sacred spring outside the Capena Gate to their own Forum temple, snooty dames bearing half-full water jugs on their shoulders and expecting the pungent populace to move aside for them. They made no eye contact with anyone, but I had two teenaged sisters so I knew for sure when women were secretly scanning the streets, hoping to view muscular workmen with extremely short tunics and visible buttocks.
    I was thinking this and smiling to myself when someone put a hand on my shoulder. Before I had time to sink angry teeth into the hand, Manlius Faustus pulled me round so I could see that it was him. That hand, which he hastily removed, was scarred on both sides where I had once speared him to a table with a metal kebab skewer. His fault: he insulted me unpardonably. I come from Britain where the wild tribes are proud of their hot tempers.
    Faustus looked at me as if he knew what I was thinking about those buttock-loving Virgins.
    ‘Tiberius! I have been about your business.’
    ‘Any luck?’
    ‘Lots.’
    ‘Brilliant. Lunch?’
    ‘Lovely.’
    We started to walk. Then my good spirits died on me. Faustus had been with Vibius and other people when he had seen me and come over. Now he was heading back to them. Vibius was talking to his colleague, Salvius Gratus, whose horrible sister accompanied him as stubbornly as a bailiff. I was starting to feel sorry for her brother.
    Laia Gratiana glared. She did not want me besmirching his campaign. I restrained my aggravation. While I would have liked to apply strong kitchen implements to delicate parts of her, the gadget had not yet been invented that would grate up that woman finely enough for me.
    For a grim moment I thought Manlius Faustus intended we would all go to lunch as one large party. I was bound to get stuck next to Laia, who would blank me, and I knew the men would drink all the wine they ordered, ignoring us women.
    Vibius appeared to think a big sociable lunch was on: he invited everyone home to his parents’ house; those parents were quiet elderly people who had come to support him and were now waiting nearby in a litter. Happily Faustus excused us. ‘You go ahead. Albia and I need a strategy meeting. I’ll come along to the house later.’
    The Grati were promised elsewhere. As they left, I heard Laia ask, ‘When shall we be seeing your wife, Sextus Vibius?’
    ‘Ah, please excuse her. The poor girl really cannot abide crowds.’
    I wondered if, like me, she could not abide Laia Gratiana.
    ‘
Darling Julia!
’
Laia cooed, so I wanted to vomit – and I did not even know Vibius’ wife.
    Faustus wheeled me away in his brisk manner. The others were all walking one way around the Flavian Amphitheatre, past the Sweating Fountain, but he headed around the ellipse in the other direction. Once we shed them, he let out an oddly triumphant whistle between his teeth. (He had teeth a dentist would curse, none in need of extraction.) ‘Smart getaway!’
    He grinned. I hid my surprise. Still, if Manlius Faustus thought I had news, he would want to assess it with me in private. Vibius was impetuous; Faustus liked to prepare a plan thoroughly before talking to him about it.
    We were at the south end of the Forum. On the far side of the amphitheatre, Faustus muttered with mild annoyance. He