They were old stones, the stones that buried Leporino, the boundary markers of a rustic edifice or a low wall. They might have tumbled down the ravine under the weight of last winter’s snow, or at an unlucky push. Not too heavy for a scholar or for a woman, but substantial in our hands – Francisco had gone red-cheeked from exertion, Camilla had accepted help from Carlo anyway, his white hands covered hers before they struck the hammer-blow as if it were only fit for twins to share their guilt – and not too heavy to have tumbled down the hillside in a sudden fatal event, shattering his skull. Antique stones, slippery under my palm. (My father’s father was a stonemason. But that was in another country.)

I will not say what we did or didn’t do, conspicuous as we were, cloaked and gowned like ancient Latins against the night air. He had been drinking, our Leporino, and an uncharitable citizen might mistake his distress for carousal; he was known in the town to be a student of the university and less than prudent in his manner. He was known to carry money on his person. It was newly winter; the road was already beginning to show the marks of first frost. It was near dark. Old roads are treacherous.

He complained to the end. Leporino complained past the point where it seemed possible, spitting invective through broken teeth. Henry went to him to feel for a pulse in his thick neck – ruefully thorough – and he revived long enough to spew blood at us, his friends, and expire again. It was the only precaution to be taken, what we did. Like Caesar’s assassins, no one of us struck the death-blow. It was an act done in common, by shared consent. The old man would have approved of that.

Old roads are treacherous. An accident, outside the walls of the university and exposed to all the elements of nature. Perhaps a shepherd with his flocks would find him. Perhaps a wolf.