The interview seemed to be at an end. I nodded to Eco. Together we rose from the couch.

The slave girl came to show us out. Clodia walked away from us, then turned back.

"Wait. You should see him. I want you to see what they did to him."

She led us across the room, to the altarlike table where Metella stood along with two other women and a child. At our approach the oldest of the women turned and scowled at us. Her face was gaunt and haggard. Her hair was almost entirely grey. Unpinned, it hung to her waist. There were no tears in her eyes, only anger and resentment.

"Who are these men?"

"Friends of mine," said Clodia, her voice taking on an edge.

"What man isn't?" The woman gave Clodia a withering look. "What are they doing here? They should wait in the outer room with the rest."

"I asked them here, Sempronia."

"This is not your household," said the woman bluntly.

Metella went to her mother's side and took her hand. The older woman glared at them. The fourth woman, whose face I had not yet seen, kept her back turned. She reached down to touch the head of the little girl pressed against her. The child craned her neck and looked up at us with wide, innocent eyes.

"Sempronia, please" said Clodia in a strained whisper.

"Yes, Mother, let's try to be peaceable. Even with dear Clodia."

The fourth woman finally turned. In her eyes I saw neither tears nor anger. There was weariness in her voice, but it was the weariness of exhaustion, not resignation. There was no emotion to be read in her voice or on her face, only a kind of steady determination. One might have expected to see a stronger reaction from the widow of the dead man. Perhaps she was simply numb with shock, but her gaze was keen and unwavering as she appraised us.