So on the sun-drenched slopes of the Janiculan Hill, one long, strange July evening, we paid our respects to Marcus Didius Favonius. Neither he nor tiny Marcus Didius Justinianus would have to face the dark alone. Wherever they were going, they set off there together, with my tiny son clasped for eternity in the strong arms of his grandfather.

III

I shed some tears. People expect it. Sometimes at the funeral of a reprobate it seems easier than when you are honouring a man who really deserved grief.

Before they left, the jostling started. Relatives, business associates, friends, so-called friends and even strangers all made subtle or blatant attempts to find out whether they would receive a legacy. My mother stayed aloof from this. She and Pa had never declared themselves divorced, so she was convinced she had rights. She was waiting for my sisters to take her back to Rome, but they were queuing to come up and speak to me, showing affection that unsettled me. I could not remember the last time Allia, Galla or Junia had felt the need to kiss my cheek. One by one their feckless husbands each clasped my hand in strong, silent communion. Only Gaius Baebius came right out with a concern: ‘What’s going to happen about Flora’s, Marcus?’ He meant the Aventine bar that my sister Junia managed for our father.

‘Just give me a few days, Gaius —’

‘Well, I suppose Junia can go on running the place as usual.’

‘That would be helpful.’ I ground my teeth. ‘I hope it’s not a chore. Apollonius is a perfectly good waiter. Or if Junia really can’t face it, why doesn’t she just close up the shutters, until we know what’s what?’

‘Oh, Junia won’t give way to her grief!’

Junia stood in uncharacteristic silence, forced by the situation to have her husband speak for her: he like a true Roman patriarch and she like an inconsolable bereaved daughter. Yes, the lies and deceit had started.