He dipped the pen then touched it to the lip of the well to release unnecessary ink. His gestures were precise, and formal. Helena and I cooed over our daughter while he steadily wrote the date for the entry that would confer her civic status and rights. `Name?'

`Julia Junilla -'

He looked' up sharply. `Your name!'

`Marcus Didius Falco, son of Marcus. Citizen of Rome.' It did not impress him. He must have heard the Didii were a swarm of quarrelsome roughnecks. Our ancestors may have caused trouble for Romulus, but being offensive for centuries doesn't count as a pedigree.

`Rank?'

`Plebeian.'' He was already writing it.

`Address?'

`Fountain Court, off the Via Ostiana on the Aventine.'

`The mother's name?' He was still addressing me.

`Helena Justina,' the mother crisply answered for herself

`Mother's father's name?' The clerk continued to aim his questions at me, so Helena gave in with an audible crunch of teeth. Why waste breath? She let a man do the work.

`Decimus Camillus Verus' I realised I was going to be stuck if the clerk wanted her father's father's personal name.

Helena realised it too. `Son of Publius,' she muttered, making it plain she, was telling me in private and the clerk could go begging. He wrote it down without a thank you:

`Rank?'

`Patrician.'

The clerk looked up again. This time he let himself scrutinise both of us. The Censor's office was responsible for public morals. `And where do you live?' he demanded, directly of Helena.

`Fountain Court.'

`Just checking,' he murmured, and resumed his task. `She lives with me,' I pointed out unnecessarily. `Apparently so.'

Want to make something of it?'

Once again the clerk' raised his eyes from the document. `I am sure you are both fully aware of the implications.'