That was typical; he managed to screw decent service out of his staff, but preferred to keep them reliant on him. I quickly learned that many of these anxious souls had families, even though slaves are not allowed to marry. They pressed me to grant their freedom, plus the same for various wives and children. Pa did own some of these, so their fates could be untangled and regularised, if I was willing. But others belonged to neighbours, so that was a mess. Other owners would not appreciate me trying to fix up fairytale solutions for their handmaids and bootboys.

Another worry for the slaves was where they would all end up. They realised that the villa might have to be sold shortly. They might be heading for the slave-market and a very uncertain future.

While we hung around in embarrassment, surprisingly one of the women asked, ‘Would you like to see him now?’

I nearly said must I? but that would have been an impiety.

Don’t be like that, my boy I Is it too much to show respect to your poor old father?. .

A freedman was guarding the room. A curtain of scent wafted at me from the doorway, cassia and myrrh, traditional funeral incenses, the costly ones. Who authorised that? I hesitated on the threshold then went in.

I had viewed plenty of corpses. That was work. This was duty. I preferred the other kind.

No need to wonder about identity. On a rather fine couch in this dim room off a peaceful corridor, lay my deceased parent: Marcus Didius Favonius, also known as Geminus, descendant of a long line of dubious Aventine plebeians and honoured among the dealers, tricksters and shysters of the Saepta Julia. He had been washed and anointed, dressed in an embroidered tunic and a toga; given a wreath; his eyes had been closed by respectful hands and a ridiculous flower garland positioned round his neck.