She was cheerful despite being left in the lurch and I found her an excellent businesswoman. My dowry had trebled in the past ten years, thanks to her investment skills. I left it with her, accumulating. On the rare occasions when I had a love-life, I always forgot to mention that I possessed this money.

My love-life since Lentullus had died on me had been pitiful. I could not boast about it. Men who were attracted to the idea of a rich auctioneer’s daughter soon fled once they met Falco. Even I could see this saved a lot of heartache. Father always kindly explained the situation to me. He was a thoughtful man and good with words. Words like ‘A complete wastrel arse. Just dump the bugger, Albia.’ In most cases dumping was either pre-empted by the wastrel having fled of his own accord after a chat with Falco, or I had seen through him anyway and already told him to get lost.

I intended to visit Claudia Arsinoë to pick her brains, which I knew were of fine quality. But first I went through the normal process. I tried the men with whom the candidates banked. It had to be done, though the results felt like waking in the middle of the night with unbearable heartburn.

Trebonius Fulvo and Arulenus Crescens both used the same firm. It was one of those money tables in the Clivus Argentarius where the proprietor never puts in an appearance; the slippery owner is always off somewhere, having mint tea and sticky Greek sweetmeats with equally sticky cronies, leaving peculiar underlings to run his bank. For him, that is the point of prosperity: he no longer has to engage in the dirty trade that established him.

The business was traditionally Athenian. The workers were completely unhelpful to a Roman woman. The banker had them trained to deflect questions. I dare say plenty of gossip was exchanged elsewhere over the pastries, because bankers need to do that, but not here. And even if I tracked him down, the best I could hope for was a ferocious Athenian grope, getting honey and crumbs on my dress. I skipped that.

What the flash banking table did tell me of its own accord was that the hard men, Trebonius and Arulenus, must be rich. Only people with serious assets can interest that kind of bank, or afford its rates.

They imported wine and oil. Nothokleptes had told me. Say no more.

Dillius Surus, the candidate with the drinking habit, banked with a fellow from Antioch, who also wasn’t there. Maybe they drank together. Maybe the Syrian was sleeping it off.

The rich wife of this Dillius, his real financial backer, invested her large fortune with a scruffy-looking Gaul called Balonius, who favoured tunics with huge sleeveless armholes. These gaping spaces demonstrated that Notho had not lied. The broker had extremely hairy armpits, where his hirsute arms met hideous knobbly shoulders. He smelt as foul as he looked. He had extremely ugly feet too, clothed in the shabbiest sandals I had ever seen on a professional man. One had a broken strap so it hung off his instep.

He lolled in the shade of a statue of Scipio Africanus, that heavily togate hero with his firm mouth and a big nose. Men with expensive belts and women in tightly sealed carrying chairs visited Balonius to massage their healthy portfolios. A child would be sent to fetch them refreshments. I received a dish of olives and a fruit cordial, even though I admitted I was there on spec.

It slipped by me at the time, as it was meant to, but I realised afterwards that Balonius never said a word about his client, the wealthy wife of Dillius. He might look disgraceful, but he was efficient. On Dillius Surus himself, Balonius was more forthcoming. First he told me Forum gossip was wrong: it wasn’t Dillius who was suing a dying grandfather. Balonius first thought that was Arulenus Crescens, the one who had recently abandoned a mistress and who had previously left his first wife when she was pregnant, but on reflection he decided the family litigant was Salvius Gratus, Laia’s brother.

Balonius then happily gossiped that Dillius was impotent, had tapeworms, had been sued by a man to whom he owed thirty thousand sesterces (for an apple orchard where the trees had been felled by a jealous neighbour) and apparently it was also Dillius who owned the uncontrollable dog that had bitten the Temple of Isis priestess.

‘Oh, this fine specimen will get elected!’ I murmured.

‘He will. Done deal. His wife gave Domitian a troupe of performing dwarfs whose act is deemed the most indecent ever seen outside an Alexandrian brothel.’

‘That will be very useful information for my clients.’

Or not. There was no way the pious Manlius Faustus would encourage his friend Vibius to compete in gift-giving lewd performers. Faustus had the tenacity to find out where you could buy rude little men, and the guile to get them for a good price, but he would disapprove too much to do it.

‘Now, what can you tell me about Trebonius or Arulenus?’

‘Nix. More than my life’s worth.’

‘Do they frighten you?’

‘Don’t they frighten you?’

‘I hope I am beneath their notice.’

‘Don’t be too sure. If you are asking questions, they will soon know.’

I gulped. To some extent it was for show. Not entirely. ‘Well, never mind them. What about Vibius Marinus and Salvius Gratus?’

‘I thought you were working for them?’

‘Indeed I am – which is why I need to know exactly what libellous gossip is attaching to their glorious names.’

‘You are a sly one!’ Balonius scrutinised me with new respect. ‘Marinus seems to keep his head down. Seems to be relying on the “good family man” posture. Fathering babies is a talent, so who needs moral stamina? Gratus is so invisible I’ve never even heard of him.’

‘He won’t like that! He bounces around like someone who wants to be famous.’ And his sister thought herself wonderful too.

‘So what does your man Vibius want to be known for?’ asked the smelly broker, looking at me sideways.

I gave him a mysterious smile and said that remained to be seen.

Which was the truth. He was the friend of my most admirable friend, yet I had no idea.

I was tired, though not as tired as I had feared I might be. I spent a little longer in the Forum watching the candidates as they went about, giving fine performances of men who could be trusted with public funds, religious duties or other people’s desperate hopes for the future: smiling, shaking hands, asking after the families of complete strangers, endlessly promising favours they would make no attempt to remember.

As they criss-crossed between the temples, arches and statues, the men nodded to one another if their paths met, while their womenfolk looked daggers. Prostitutes catcalled. Slaves cursed. Busy freedmen on urgent errands weaved in and out among them adroitly, dodging the more obvious pickpockets and the snack-sellers who carried enormous trays, often above their heads and at a dangerous angle. It was midday, with the sun relentless. Everywhere that didn’t smell of frying oil stank of bloody meat or fish. There was so much uproar coming from stallholders in the colonnades, even the harsh bray of a distressed donkey was lost.

This was Rome, a huge, casual madhouse that made Londinium look staid. I had never quite grown used to it.

Everyone paused, trying not to show annoyance, as a short procession of Vestal Virgins moved sedately from the sacred spring outside the Capena Gate to their own Forum temple, snooty dames bearing half-full water jugs on their shoulders and expecting the pungent populace to move aside for them. They made no eye contact with anyone, but I had two teenaged sisters so I knew for sure when women were secretly scanning the streets, hoping to view muscular workmen with extremely short tunics and visible buttocks.

I was thinking this and smiling to myself when someone put a hand on my shoulder. Before I had time to sink angry teeth into the hand, Manlius Faustus pulled me round so I could see that it was him. That hand, which he hastily removed, was scarred on both sides where I had once speared him to a table with a metal kebab skewer. His fault: he insulted me unpardonably. I come from Britain where the wild tribes are proud of their hot tempers.