His name was Theon. He looked acceptable on the surface but his clothes were a fortnight overdue at the laundry. They had never been stylish. His workaday tunic hung on a thin frame as if he never ate properly and his beard was sparse and straggly. Either he was too poorly paid to live up to his honourable position, or he was a natural slob. As a natural cynic, I presumed the latter.

At dinner, Cassius hung us all with special garlands then positioned us carefully. It was intended we should have three formal courses, though service was curious and distinctions became blurred. Still, we ploughed diligently through the correct rota of conversation. The appetisers were given over to my party’s voyage. Helena, acting as our spokesperson, gave a humorous oration on the weather, the mercenary ship’s captain and our stop-off in Rhodes - with its highlight of looking into the gigantic pieces of the fallen Colossus and seeing the stone and metal framework that would have held it upright, but for the earthquake.

‘Do you suffer many earthquakes here?’ Albia asked Uncle Fulvius in extremely careful Greek. She was learning the language and had been instructed to practise. Nobody would think that this grave and neat young girl had once roamed the streets of Londinium, an urchin who could spit ‘get lost, you pervert!’ in more languages than Cleopatra elegantly spoke. As adoptive parents we viewed her proudly.

Helena had created a Greek phrasebook for our foster-daughter, including the question on which Albia had sweetly ventured as an icebreaker. I regaled the company with further examples. ‘The next continues the volcanic theme: Please excuse my husband farting at the dinner table; he has a dispensation from the Emperor Claudius. A footnote reminds us this is true; all Roman men enjoy that privilege, courtesy of our frequently maligned ex-Emperor. There was a good reason why Claudius was deified.’