Clodius had paid almost fifteen million sesterces for the house and its furnishings. If the rumour was true – that Clodius was dead – then he had had little time to enjoy the place. He would never see the marble terraces bloom with roses in the spring.

I poked my head through the Attalic draperies into the atrium beyond, where the ceiling abruptly shot up to the height of three storeys. "The Lucullean marble columns!" I whispered to Eco, stepping through the curtains and beckoning for him to follow, for here they were, soaring up in jet-black splendour to the ceiling forty feet above.

In the centre of the atrium was a shallow pool decorated with shimmering mosaic tiles of blue-black and silver, picturing the night sky and the constellations. High above the pool a corresponding square was cut into the roof, but instead of being open to the sky, there appeared to be a vast pane of glass across the skylight, through which the stars wavered as if they were underwater. It was a dizzying conceit: the skylight above appeared to be a pool reflecting the stars at our feet.

I took a slow walk around the perimeter of the atrium. Installed in niches in the walls were the wax masks of family ancestors. Publius Clodius Pulcher came from a very ancient, very noble line. One by one, the faces of his predecessors stared impassively back at me. Most had been captured in maturity or old age, but one could see they were in general a handsome lot. Pulcher – the name of the family branch – means beautiful, after all;

Eco tapped my shoulder. Our escort had returned. He gestured with a toss of his chin and we followed him more deeply into the house.

As we walked down hallways I peered into the rooms on either side.