“Most frugal. But you know the sort of thing that causes excitement in the bureaucracy. Big carriages, as I said. Large gambling stakes. Flash tunics. Noisy confederates. Nights out entertaining girls who provide unusual services. Nothing you could ever be accused of: I realize.” The lanista blushed. I carried on blithely: “Pentellic marble nudes. Mistresses of the type who can speak five languages and judge a cabochon-cut sapphire, who are kept in discreet penthouses up Saffron Street.”

He cleared his throat nervously. I made a note to discover the mistress. A job for Anacrites, perhaps; he seemed to have nothing to say for himself. The woman might only have mastered two or three lingos, one of them merely shopping-list Greek, but she was bound to have wheedled out of her lover a little apartment “to keep mother in”, and Calliopus would probably have his foolish name on the transfer deed.

What a great deal of mire there was to uncover in the course of our noble work. Dear gods, how deceitful my fellow citizens were (thought I, contentedly).

There was no sign yet that Calliopus intended to offer us inducements to leave him alone. It suited Falco Partner at present. We were not yet that type of audit team. We intended to nail him; it was his hard luck. We wanted to start with a genuine high strike rate and a matching income for the Treasury, in order to prove to Vespasian and Titus that we were worth employing.

It would also alert the general population that being investigated by us was dangerous, so people on our list might like to reach an early settlement.

“So you own eleven gladiators,” Anacrites weighed in finally. “How do you acquire them, may I ask? Do you purchase them?”

A rare look of anxiety crossed Calliopus' face as he worked out that this question would precede one that asked where the purchase money came from. “Some.”