Lucius waited till he was sure they had all gone before making his way to the room of the wet nurse, she asleep by the brazier, her own child cradled in her arms. He ignored her, passing on to look into the cot, which contained the new-born child he had publicly acknowledged as his son. The infant lay at peace, the long black lashes on his eyes seeming to cover a goodly portion of his face. The jet-black hair of his birth would go, but it would come back thick and as strong as the physical presence masked by the soft rounded features of a baby.

Lucius stroked the tiny hand. ‘I pray to the gods that you will grow to manhood, and stand as potent as I do as a representative of a noble house. You will be the son I have always longed for. Tomorrow we will commence the ceremonies. Within a week the whole Roman world will know of your arrival.’

With that he turned on his heel and left. On his way back to his study he passed the room in which his wife lay, silent and pale upon a bier, her white bloodless hands folded across her breasts. Lucius Falerius did not spare her cadaver a second’s glance.

The streets of Rome were never deserted, but for such a teeming, crowded city they were, on this night, ominously quiet. It was cold and perhaps the taverns were full, and what trouble the wine would bring was brewing within them. Those out, seeing Gafon and his band approach, thought it prudent to choose another route to whichever destination they were heading. There was a certain amount of shuffling of the pack as Gafon tried to ensure that Ragas, like the others in a heavy cloak, led them, while the slave was equally determined to bring up the rear, for the gang leader was gnawing on a tricky problem, whether to kill Ragas before his main task was completed, or after? The mistake Gafon made was to look so hard at Ragas while he tried to decide.