I looked back to the widow. What was left to ask her? It seemed that all the missing details had been supplied. The events of that day had been discovered, one by one, and put in order. The incident on the Appian Way had been fully documented and justice had been dispensed. Her testimony had not been needed after all. Still…

"What did you see when you looked out this window, after the battle?"

She lowered her eyes. "Bodies. Blood. The senator and his daughter, and their retinue. The senator's litter."

"Eudamus and Birria? Milo's men?"

"No. They were all gone. I don't know where."

"They were off chasing a fellow called Philemon and some friends of his who had the bad fortune to stumble upon the scene."

"Oh? I never heard about that."

"Your sister didn't tell you? Philemon testified, on the same day she did."

The widow shook her head. "She was afraid of upsetting me, I suppose. Go on. What else do you want to know?" She had a grim, determined look on her face.

'You looked out this window. You saw Tedius and his daughter, the litter, the retinue. And Clodius?"

"Yes. They were leaning over him."

"And you knew it was Clodius?"

"Yes."

"How?"

She shrugged. "By his face."

"You could see his face? He must have been lying on his back, then."

"Yes, he was. On his back, looking up at them."

The skin prickled at the base of my skull. "What did you say?"

"Clodius was on his back, looking up at the senator and his daughter."

"You mean his eyes were open and staring in death?"

"No. I mean what I say. He was looking at them, and they were looking at him." She frowned, trying to remember. "They talked a bit, back and forth. Then Tedius and his daughter helped Clodius stand up and get into the litter."

I looked down at the road, picturing the scene, then turned to the widow. It was possible, of course, that grief had made her mad. "Are you saying that Clodius was alive?"

"Yes. Only barely, I suppose."

"But your sister made it seem that Clodius was dead when Tedius found him. That was the way she told it, to me and to the court. She said that you saw the senator and his daughter put Clodius into their litter, but she said nothing to indicate that Clodius was still alive." I tried to remember exactly what she had said…

"He was alive," the widow said. "Probably she misunderstood me. I was raving when I told her what had happened, what I'd seen. I hardly knew what I was saying. Perhaps the way I told it to her, it was unclear."

"Perhaps. You and your sister seem to have been unclear with each other on a number of points. But Sextus Tedius told the story the same way. He made no mention of Clodius being alive when he found him."

"But Clodius was alive. He was stiff and limping and bloody, and • they had to help him into the litter – but he was alive, I assure you, unless dead men can walk and talk. He was still alive! And my husband was dead, lying at the foot of these stairs. Why are you doing this to me?" Suddenly she turned and ran down the stairs, weeping at last

I looked out the window, staring hard at the empty road, as if by concentration alone I could conjure up the lemures of the dead to re-enact their final moments of life. Oh, what a grand and terrible power that would be!

It was twilight when we arrived at the house of Sextus Tedius. I was very hungry and very tired of riding. I told the boys to watch the horses and sent Davus ahead of me to rap on the door.

The doorkeeper took a long time to answer, and even longer to confer with his master and return. At last I was invited inside.

Sextus Tedius received me in the same room as before. The windows were opened to show the town of Aricia below, a pool of pale blue shadows surmounted by rooftops glinting with the last of the day's sunlight. Tedius sat upright in his old-fashioned backless chair. Despite the warmth of the day, a blanket was thrown over his legs. It was the left leg that was crippled, I remembered. He ran a dark, leathery hand through his white hair and appraised me shrewdly.

"I remember you," he said. "Pompey's man. The one who came around asking all the questions."

"Not all the questions I should have asked, apparently."

"Have you come here again, 'on behalf of the Great One', as I believe you put it before?"

"In a way, yes. Pompey hired me to find out everything I could about the incident on the Appian Way. I thought I had done that, but I appear to have been mistaken."

"Speak plainly."

"I intend to. I hope you'll do the same, Sextus Tedius." He raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing. "Is your daughter here?" I asked.

"I can't imagine that my daughter's whereabouts could be of any concern to you."

"Nonetheless, I should like very much to speak to both of you together."

He lowered his white brows and studied me for a long moment. "You know something, don't you?"

"I know more now than I did an hour ago. I should like to know everything."

"Ah, to know everything! What a curse that would be for a mortal. Tedia!" He raised his voice. "Tedia, come into the room and join us."

His daughter emerged from the hallway. She was dressed as I had seen her before, without jewellery or makeup and wearing a white linen mantle over her head, tied with a blue ribbon at the back. She stood rigidly upright with a grim look on her face.

"Tedia always eavesdrops on my conversations," said Sextus Tedius. "It makes it much easier for me to remember all the details afterwards."

"My father and I have no secrets from one another." She stood behind him and laid her hands on his shoulders.

"I saw your father testify at the trial, repeating the same story he told to me. I thought you were determined to keep him away from the trial, Tedia."

"In the end it seemed better to make an appearance," she said. "Clodius was sent back to Rome in our litter, after all. To have refused to explain how that occurred could have excited… comment."

"I see. And the story you told, Tedius, was entirely credible, after all. You merely left out certain details, such as the fact that Clodius was alive when you came upon him."

"How do you know that?" said Tedia. She began to knead her father's shoulder, in the same way that I had seen her nervously wring her hands at our first meeting. "If one of our slaves has talked -"

"Your slaves are loyal. There was another witness."

"Not at the trial."

"No, the witness was away from Rome that day – down in Rhegium, I was told."

Sextus Tedius winced almost imperceptibly. His daughter had squeezed his shoulder too hard. "Clodius deserved to die," she said.

"Perhaps. Yet I saw you weep when Fulvia testified."

"A woman can feel pity for a widow without feeling sorry that her husband is dead."

"I see. And how, exactly, did Clodius die?" I held my breath. I had no means to compel her to speak, if she chose not to. Her father reached up and clutched one of her hands with a gesture of restraint, but she seemed not to notice. Her face was adamant.

"I killed him," she said.

"But how? Why?"

"Why?" Her voice rose. "Because a more impious man never blighted the earth. You must have learned of his crimes when you were pestering everyone on this mountain. He cut down the sacred grove of Jupiter, merely to add some rooms to his house. Imagine, evicting a god to make room for himself! And what he did to the Vestals was unspeakable, driving them from their ancient house, defrauding them, treating them like common business rivals to be cheated and driven into the dirt. Did he think he could commit such crimes and go unpunished?"

"Publius Clodius had been committing many crimes of many sorts for years, without being punished," I said.