Florens did not have lictors as he might have done in Rome, but he had the next best thing – a band of burly attendants all bearing clubs and arms. They were not even dressed in household livery but variously attired in different shades of brown, which matched their bronzed faces and their muscled arms, and they smelt overpoweringly of damp wool and sweat. I was hustled between them as we went back down the steps and through the forum, where the rain had stopped. The crowd that had gathered for the reading of the will parted like butter to allow us through, though some of the urchins who always gather near the market stalls (more in the hope of finding a dropped coin than the expectation of earning anything) began to follow after me with mocking taunts and jeers. As soon as we had got out on to the street again the company dispersed. The other councillors made polite farewells to Florens and – accompanied by their own attendants – went their separate ways. I thereby lost whatever faint support I had.
