“Oh we lose the odd man, Falco. The hunts need to look dangerous.”

That did not square with events I had watched where reluctant animals had to be lured to their fate by banging shields loudly or waving fiery brands.

“So you like your four-footed stock to be ferocious. And you collect them in Tripolitania?”

“Mainly. My agents scour the whole of North Africa-Numidia, Cyrenaica, even Egypt.”

“The animals cost a lot to find, house and feed?”

Calliopus gave me a narrow look. “Where's this leading, Falco?”

We had announced that Anacrites would ask the first questions, but I was happy to start in like this myself; it unsettled Calliopus who felt unsure whether the interview had yet begun formally. It unsettled Anacrites too, come to that.

Time to be frank: “The Censors have asked my partner and me to conduct what we call a lifestyle check.”

“A what?”

“Oh you know. They wonder how you can manage to own that pretty villa at Surrentum when you say your business is running at a loss.”

“I declared my Surrentum villa!” Calliopus protested

That, of course, had been his mistake. Property on the Bay of Neapolis runs at a premium. Villas on the cliffs with sparkling views across the shimmering blue to Capreae are the mark of millionaires from consular families, ex-imperial slaves from the petitions bureau, and the more successful blackmailers.

“Very proper,” I soothed him. “Of course Vespasian and Titus are sure you're not one of those evil bastards who plead piteously that they work in a field which has heavy overheads, while at the same time they are maintaining troops of thoroughbreds in the Circus of Nero and driving chariots with go-faster spokes and gilt finials. What wheels do you run, by the way?” I asked innocently.

“I have a family-style mule-drawn conveyance and a litter for the personal use of my wife,” said Calliopus in a hurt tone, obviously making rapid plans to sell his boy racer quadriga and it quartet of zippy Spanish greys.