Bodies had been excavated and placed on flattened underbrush. There were eight or nine, of different ages; their poor condition prevented an exact tally. Most were now collected in proper array, but the bones of one or two could only be hopelessly jumbled on a sack. The troops had lifted most remains from their resting places and laid them in a row - except one. One body lay apart and they had not touched it. One was new. them in a row - except one. One body lay apart and they had not touched it. One was new.

The men stood back. Silvius, Justinus and I went to look. While the workers waited, watching us, we surveyed the remains, pretending to be experts.

Most of the recovered bodies had been found in the ritual position, face down and with outstretched arms - the mark of the Modestus killers. There were no more severed hands. Petronius must have been right that this was the letter-writer's particular punishment for making appeals to the Emperor.

We had all seen dead men. Dead women too. We had seen flesh battered and bones treated disrespectfully. Even Justinus, the youngest here, must already know the swift sag of the stomach that comes in the presence of unnatural death. That smell. The mocking way skulls grin. The shock at the way human skeletons can hang together even when entirely stripped of meat and organs. The worse shock, when long-dead bones suddenly fall apart.

What lay here was in one sense no longer human; yet these bodies were still part of the wider tribe we belonged to. Most had died years ago. Many would never be identified. But they called on us as family. They imposed responsibilities. I cannot have been the only one who silently promised them justice.

The newest corpse was a woman.

'How long?'

'Two days, at most.'

Her killer must have been fleeing from the forest almost as the first troops approached. Perhaps the noise of them stomping down thickets had disturbed him. Perhaps he even glimpsed them through the trees.

She lay on her own, not with the others. Those who found her had felt she was different - - still close enough to living to count as a person, not simply anonymous 'remains'. Indeed, it would have been possible to recognise her face - - had her killer not battered her badly. She had suffered; large areas of her skin were discoloured by bruising. Someone suggested much of the beating was inflicted after death; we preferred to think so. Either her trunk was swollen because of what had happened internally during the violence, or she had been pregnant. Unlike the other bodies, which were deposited face down in scraped graves, this one had been left unburied and looking at the sky. She had not been ripped open. He had not finished with her corpse.

Around her neck still lay a gold chain that must have been the means by which Nobilis managed to get close to her again. The expensive granulation looked like the hanging loop on the Dioscurides cameo. I could see the fastening. I forced myself to bend down over the body, unhook it, and remove the chain. It had dug into the flesh, but I pulled on it as gently as I could.

'I know who this is.'

I recognised her dress. I remembered that sad rag from when she was brought to see Helena and me in the inn at Satricum. It was Demetria, daft daughter of the morose baker Vexus, obedient lover of the foolish grain seller Costus - and one-time wife of Claudius Nobilis, the pernicious freedman who so relentlessly refused to release her from his possession, that he finally came after her and slaughtered her.

LVI.

Word of the grisly discoveries in the forest had inevitably spread. The bodies were carried out on hurdles; we left a small group of men still searching. When we came back to the road, a crowd had gathered. A few, who must have lost friends or relatives in the past, rushed forwards as the cortege emerged from the woods, and had to be held back by troops. Also there, though keeping to themselves in a tight knot, was a group of women I was told were from the Claudius family: three sisters, plus the sisters-in-law, Plotia and Byrta.

They neither spoke to us, nor we to them. They stared, blank-faced, as we removed the dead. It seemed to me they would never speak, never assist with any knowledge they had of the crimes, never even defend themselves. Others kept away from them; who could believe these women were truly innocent of the crimes their men perpetrated? How could they really have known nothing? They would be ostracised. They and their children were further casualties. A grim cycle would repeat itself. The children would grow up angry and isolated. Already none of them knew anything except neglect and violence. Which descendants of Aristocles and Casta could ever escape the stigma of this bleak family? To start a new life would be too hard; to learn new behaviour impossible.

I knew Plotia and Byrta had been friendly with Demetria, but her corpse was well covered; we kept her identity secret until we informed her family. Silvius and I did that. First, we sought out her father, Vexus. From what he told us, we were partly prepared when we visited the cottage where Demetria had lived with Costus. Costus had been taken in by his mother two days ago. Our news would not surprise him; he must count his lover already dead. Two days ago he had come home from his work to find Demetria gone. Their home had been trashed. Every pitiful stick of furniture they owned was wrecked. Vegetables and grain were scattered in the road outside. Pottery, skillets, brooms, rush lights, and a few personal possessions, were all stamped on, thwacked to pieces, shattered and smashed, the quiet means of domestic life pointlessly desecrated. And on the street door, we found a crude symbol: fixed with a long nail through its head was a doll.

A shiver ran through me. I recognised this savage witchcraft.

I knew now who came and destroyed my darling sister's treasured home on the Aventine two years ago. Anacrites must have sent some of the Claudius brothers to frighten Maia and her children; his messengers included the depraved Nobilis.

LVII.

Despite the long summer days, it was nearly dark when we turned in at our inn that night. Silvius had still not finished; he had gone to report to the magistrate.

The finds in the wood were only the start. Painstaking work would now begin on the few scraps of material from the graves which might provide clues, with attempts to work out physical details of the human remains - height, body-weight, sex - if it were possible. Only that way might at least some of the bones be identified, to close missing-person cases and give release to distraught survivors.

From one comparatively recent body, which had boots a local cobbler recognised, we knew the troops had uncovered Macer; he was the overseer who worked for Modestus and Primilla - the man who was beaten up when he remonstrated with the Claudii about the broken boundary fence and who accompanied Primilla when she went to challenge them about her missing husband. We knew we had not found Livia Primilla. I can say now that nothing of her ever was discovered. Her nephew would only ever be able to guess what must have happened.

I was ready for bed, though my head was thrumming with today's experiences. I would not sleep. I sat up with Justinus, neither drinking nor talking. We were staying near the beach; most places at Antium fringed the coast so not only rich men's villas but even ordinary homes and business premises had good views. Stars and a slim moon rose over the motionless Tyrrhenian Sea. The beauty of the scene was both calming and subtly disturbing. My young brother-in-law and I, experienced in dark adventures together, remained silent. Our terrible experiences today removed any need to communicate.

Suddenly we heard familiar voices. One was Lentullus. The piping tones of that nincompoop split the night with cries of mundane bewilderment as he tried to find us. Justinus smiled at me ruefully in the feeble outdoor lamplight; he half rose and called out. My secretary Katutis burst on the scene with Lentullus. They joined us, excitedly. Food and drink had to be supplied. There was a minor commotion, soon reduced as the hungry travellers ate.

While Justinus organised, I demanded, 'Has Albia been found?'

'Oh she's all right!' Lentullus assured me, ripping into bread ravenously.

Katutis had burrowed under his long tunic to produce a letter from Helena. 'She wrote it herself!' He was annoyed at this breach of etiquette. I felt off-kilter because letters between Helena and me were rare. We were infrequently apart for long.

I took the sealed document aside, taking a lamp so I could read in privacy.

Helena wrote to tell me a lively story.

For a couple of days back in Rome, much activity had revolved around my foster-daughter. Helena now knew Albia had betaken herself to the spy's house, convinced she could discover for us whether he was harbouring Claudius Nobilis. It began well. At first Anacrites kept up the pretence that he and Albia had some kind of special relationship. Once she wheedled her way in, she used the age-old excuse of needing a lavatory; then she hastily explored the corridor of utility rooms where I had seen Pius and Virtus playing draughts. She found the room with a third bed. Baggage was still there. Unfortunately, so was the occupant. Albia came face to face with Nobilis. She knew it must be him from the sinister way he turned on her; Albia was terrified.

Luckily for her, Anacrites appeared. She wondered if he had actually been watching her progress. He sent Albia back to the main part of the house. Being her, she disobeyed and dawdled. She heard Anacrites quarrel with the man. He shouted that now Nobilis had been seen by Albia, he had to leave; the only safe course was to go home to Antium. Anacrites said he would deal with the girl.

Albia did not wait to see what that meant. She ordered a little slave boy to tell his master she would seek sanctuary in the House of the Vestal Virgins - - the one place in Rome, she said, that not even the Chief Spy could invade. Then, although the spy's house was always heavily secured, our streetwise Albia found a way out.

Now she had to decide where to hide for safety. Coming home that night was out of the question; Anacrites would follow her. Helena did not tell me in the letter where Albia was, although she said she knew. Her mother, friend of a retired Vestal, had obtained curious inside information. The spy had turned up at the Vestals' House in the Forum, mob-handed with Praetorian Guards. The idiot tried to enter this sacred place that was barred to men. He outraged the Vestals, those revered women whose sanctum had been inviolable since the foundation of Rome six centuries ago (and just when, chortled Helena, they had settled down for the night with hot mulsum and dunking biscuits). When they caustically denied any knowledge of Albia, Anacrites refused to believe them. It was horrible to contemplate how severely the Vestals slapped him down in return. Only he would have taken on a group of vicious professional virgins who had six hundred years of training in how to reduce men to shreds. He retreated ignominiously.

All this had taken place before Helena and I realised Albia was missing. Next day - very soon after I left for Latium - Anacrites turned up at our house, alone, pretending to be concerned about her. Of course she was not there either. Helena showed him the door.

He tried my mother's house. This was another bad mistake and as a result he had now lost her previously unshakable goodwill. Ma was dozing in her chair - - anyone of sense would have tiptoed out again. He woke her. He was so het up, Ma could see he intended Albia no good. Despite her devotion to this worm whose life she had saved, Ma rallied; she might have been lukewarm about having Albia in the family, but in a crisis Ma always defended her grandchildren. Furious, she ordered Anacrites to leave, threatening to upend an onion casserole over his sleek head. Even he had to see their cosy relationship had ended.

Anacrites next convinced himself Albia must have run to Helena's father, to ask the senator to intercede with the Emperor. This was the spy's worst mistake. She was not there - never had been - but my winsome father-in-law became incensed when Anacrites forced a house search on him. Camillus Verus called for his litter and immediately had himself carried off to complain to Vespasian.

Not content with jumping into this vat of steaming dung, Anacrites stormed next door to the house where Aelianus now lived with his wife and the professor. Minas of Karystos was ecstatic at the outrage. Wielding a wineflask in one hand and a bread roll in the other, he rushed from a late breakfast to pronounce loudly on the rights of a citizen to live without interference. Unbeknown to us previously, he was a populist democrat, fiery on the subject. Even with omelette in his curly beard, he was good. He bounced outside into the street, seeing his big chance to advertise his hireable expertise to all the well-heeled inhabitants of that fine patrician quarter. Before a rapidly expanding crowd, Minas had already quoted Solon, Pericles, Thrasybulus the defeater of the Thirty Tyrants, Aristotle of course, and several extremely obscure Greek jurists, when aediles turned up to investigate the street disturbance. The aediles did nothing; they were so impressed by his luminary erudition and the interesting points he was making, they brought him half a barrel to stand on.

Anacrites did not find Albia. Officially, her whereabouts remained unknown.

As I read on in weary amazement, Lentullus crept up to me with his usual confiding manner. He burped shyly. 'Falco, I know where your girlie may have gone -'

I raised a finger. 'Stop! Don't say it! Don't even think about it, Lentullus, in case Anacrites can read your brain.' In fact not even the devious spy could untangle that ball of wool, but Lentullus sat down obediently by me on the bench, full of joy that we were sharing this Big Secret.

While he carefully kept quiet, I read the rest of Helena's letter. That was personal. You don't need to know.

Afterwards, I folded up the document and tucked it inside my tunic. We all sat a while longer, listening to the whispers of the dark ocean, each contemplating death and life, love and loathing, the long years of tragedy that had brought us here, and the hope that at last we were ending it.

A faint breeze had got up and morning was not far away, when we said our goodnights and for a few short hours all sought our beds.

LVIII.

A lot of things had happened in the past few days. I told Silvius what we could now deduce about Nobilis and his movements. Anacrites had ordered him to leave Rome; Nobilis must have obeyed, much at the same time as Justinus and I left. We could easily have encountered him on the road down here.

His killing of Demetria confirmed his arrival. He must have been doing that while we were in the marshes arresting Virtus. We knew Nobilis must have carried out the attack on his ex-wife alone, because both Pius and Probus had been in custody. With troops swarming everywhere, he was probably pinned down in the Antium area. We set up a search.

If he went into the Pontine Marshes, we had no hope. The wild bogs stretched for nearly thirty miles between Antium and Tarracina, and between ten and fifteen miles across. This great rectangle of terrain was impossible to monitor. Nobilis knew the marsh intimately, had roamed there since childhood, had lived there all his adult life. He could elude us forever.

Catching Nobilis quickly was now imperative. We had to hope that activity during the forest search had prevented him slipping away. The troop movements could have trapped him close to Antium itself, or forced him west. We searched the town - no luck. A polite house-to-house was set up among the handsome coastal villas. Of course we encountered resistance from their wealthy owners, who would rather put up with a depraved killer in their midst than let the military check their property. Each huge spread possessed innumerable outbuildings, any of which could be a hiding-place. Justinus and I spent half a day attempting to mediate with the rich and secluded; Silvius had reckoned us respectable (a senator's son and a man with his own auction house) so he assigned us the role of winning over the landed classes. For the most part, they saw it differently, though only one set the dogs on us.

We held a midday conference. Silvius had convinced himself that once Nobilis knew we had found the forest bodies, he would not just hunker down but would try to leave the area. Available roads were either north along the coast, taking the Via Severiana towards Ardea, Lavinium, and ultimately Ostia, or else the main road that skirted the northern edge of the marshes. That would take him over to the Via Appia, on the way to Rome. In Rome, could he still call on Anacrites for protection? Even if not, Nobilis could easily vanish into the city alleys as so many criminals had done. Ostia, if that was his choice, would give him access to ships bound for anywhere.

We pulled everyone off the property searches. It turned out to be the right choice. While we were still sitting around our lunch packs, coordinating our next moves, Lentullus edged up to Justinus and me. He asked if we wanted to know something funny about an ox cart that had just passed. The driver had seemed like any of the locals who pottered around. 'He looked all right - for a farmer, if that's what he is,' said Lentullus. Lentullus had come from a farm originally. 'And guess what - he had an ox that was just like Nero!'

'Spot!' Quintus and I roared at him, as we scrambled to our feet. Quintus and I roared at him, as we scrambled to our feet.

We all mounted up; we had a mix of mules and donkeys. Checking our weapons, we piled in pursuit. If this was just some inept ox rustler, we would look stupid, but we knew where Nero had been stolen so none of us believed that.

The countryside was gently rolling; when he turned off down a dirt track, we were close enough behind to see him leave the highway. A bullock cart can put on a fast turn of speed, a fully grown ox less so -and Nero had always been a plodder. Nonetheless, it was two miles before we caught up. It was Petro's ox all right, but by then abandoned. No mistaking that dun-coloured hunk of beef, with his mournful low and his permanent stream of dribble. He was even hitched to our own cart, the one we had had to leave in the marshes after the ox was taken. There was no time to make jokes about salvage rights, but Petronius and his po-faced brother would be delighted.

Nobilis had left the cart and taken off on foot. I made Lentullus stay with the ox. His bad leg would have hampered him, and those two simple souls could look after one another while the rest of us, the hard men, tracked our killer. We stayed on mule-back as long as possible, but soon, like him, we had to leg it. He vanished down a deep ravine and there was no choice but to follow him in.

'I know this place,' said Silvius. 'It's where we first found bodies!'

Italy is a strange country geographically, so long and narrow, with its great spine, the ever-present Apennines. They were there in the distance, low-looking grey ridges far away but visible beyond the undulating foreground plain. Even in summer, towering clouds rise over those hills. You can see them as you approach Rome. After storms and in winter, rain pours off the Apennines. Trapped water causes the Pontine Marshes. Here close to Antium, groundwater lay very close to the surface but instead of forming marshes, rivers carved phenomenal channels through the alluvium, down which they sucked the surplus to the sea. For century after century it happened, creating strange caves, deep seasonal gullies, and incredible ravines. You would not know they were there. From above, the countryside seemed featureless. The presence of these gullies made farming harder, so only a short way past Antium was a near wilderness. In this dire place, Claudius Nobilis had struck down one of the deep ravines. There was nothing else to do: trusting our souls to the gods - - those of us who believed in gods - - we went in after him. A few who did not believe in a deity until then may have offered a swift apology for doubting and beseeched divine protection after all.

Why does it always happen to me? In the course of my work, I had been at the bottom of some ghastly holes. This was another appalling experience. Nobilis had scrambled into a fissure in the earth that became fifty feet deep in places, though never much more than six feet across. The sides rose perpendicularly. Soon we felt quite cut off from the world; we feared we would never manage to return. No place I had ever been in contained such a sense of menace. It felt like one of the approaches to Hades.

He kept going. Hours seemed to pass as we struggled slowly after him. The ravine's formation reminded me of straight-sided rock-cut corridors I had seen in Nabataea, places so narrow a claustrophobic man would have to turn back afraid. In high summer, it was dry. One of our men, who had local knowledge, told us that when the rains came, such a ravine would contain raging water to waist height. In summer its soggy bottom fed the sturdy roots of unyielding undergrowth. The going was almost impossible. Bright green frogs croaked everywhere; flies tormented us. Sweat poured off us as we strove forwards. As we trampled on, scratched and torn by ferocious scrub plants, we became rapidly exhausted.

The place nearly defeated us. We were not the first to come here. Generations of criminals must have used this hateful crevice. They used it to hide themselves, their loot, their weaponry. They left behind sordid litter. Bodies must have been dumped here too. They would never be found. The undergrowth would conceal them, the floods would carry them away.

Ahead of us, the killer also struggled. He knew the ravine of old, yet found no easier way through it than we did. If paths had ever existed, harsh foliage had reclaimed them. Its prickly growth was impenetrable. The atmosphere, the heat, the smell, drained us. Being in a group, we just about kept up our spirits, and were closing the gap between us and our quarry. Nobilis was alone. He was on his own forever now, and he knew it.

In the end he could go no further. With no way out, he turned on us. We never saw him coming but suddenly we heard him, as with a long, wild yell, he crashed out of hiding. With barely time to react, we bunched closer, bringing our swords up defensively. For an instant it did seem his intention was to break out past us. The ravine was too narrow, the tangled thicket too dense. His animal howl of defeat, despair and rage continued. We braced ourselves.

Nobilis flung himself straight at us. So this man, who had killed so many people with his own crude weapons, used us and our raised swords to kill himself.

LIX.

Once we dragged out our blades and the corpse fell to the ground, we stood in shock. Silvius recovered first and rolled him over. We gathered round, to inspect the remains. We had to see, once, the man we knew to be the killer.

He looked younger than Probus and the twins. There were likenesses. We could see he belonged to the Claudii. He was bigger, more unkempt, over-heavy. Dead as he was, he lay staring at the sky in a way that made us shiver. Camillus Justinus, a man of refinement, stooped down quickly to pull the eyes shut with one thumb and forefinger.

Just before he did so, Quintus looked up at me. 'That barman's wife in the Transtiberina may have seen Nobilis. She said he had peculiar eyes.' He spoke with the same throwaway manner Helena would use in company, tossing me something to think about, for discussion later. I said nothing, but I looked - - then I drew the same conclusions.

We left the body there. We were exhausted. Dragging it back up the ravine would have finished us. If his siblings wanted to collect Nobilis for burial, let them.

'Myself, I like to go to law,' said Silvius, back in Antium. 'A quick show trial, and a bloody execution. Deterrent to others. Suicide-by-cohort never works the same.'

Since the Urban was in a vengeful mood, he then let on that Claudius Probus was to remain in custody.

'What happened to his get-out clause?'

'Ah, Falco, I just remembered! I am not empowered to offer it. Immunity from prosecution is reserved to the Emperor - - and he, I gather, never intervenes in criminal cases . . . So it's thanks for the help, Probus - - but tough luck!'

The surviving twin, Virtus, was also in trouble, potentially. Despite his insistence that he kept aloof from his brothers' activities, Justinus had remembered something: 'When we picked him up at their shack in the marshes, I noticed his wife, Byrta, was wearing a good quality scarf in a dark red material. Silvius, if you can ever find any of the runaway slaves who belonged to Modestus and Primilla, you must show them that scarf. Primilla was wearing something like it when she left home.'

Piece by piece, we were linking the Claudii to their victims. We also had the unusual chain that Nobilis must have given to Demetria; I was confident that belonged with the cameo taken from the Rome courier on the Via Triumphalis. Petro would send the cameo for comparison; Silvius would take it to the Dioscurides workshop for absolute confirmation.

We asked both Probus and Virtus about their connection with Anacrites. Both blanked us. In my view, now Nobilis was dead, they were afraid they would bear the full burden as public scapegoats, but they believed the spy would extricate them. I thought they were wrong. 'No; he will distance himself now. I know him. He will sacrifice the Claudii to save his own career.'

'I thought they could put pressure on him?' said Silvius.

'We still don't know what - though Justinus and I have a theory we intend to check. I suggest you process Probus and Virtus here in Antium. Do it fast, Silvius. But if you can, please give me a couple of days, before you send word to Rome about Nobilis.'

'What's the plan, Falco? I can see you have one.'

'Let me keep it to myself. Silvius, you don't want to know.'

Silvius and the Urbans stayed in Latium to process the survivors' trial. I and mine set off for home. Lentullus was bringing Nero and the ox-cart for Petronius, which meant the usual maddening slow progress. It took us a day to reach Bovillae. Next morning, Justinus and I left Lentullus to drive in without us, while we rode on ahead up the Via Appia.

We passed through the necropolis where the corpse of Modestus had been found. After that came the Appian Gate, then a long straight run through garden suburbs until we hit the dark shade of two leaky aqueducts at the Capena Gate. I excused myself, and left Quintus to pass on greetings to his parents and his wife. We arranged that he and his brother would come to my house the next day, for a catch-up meeting.

I moved on, reached the southern end of the Circus Maximus, where I veered left. Since I had a mule to do the hard work, I pressed him up the hill. He carried me uncomplainingly to the crest of the Aventine, with its snooty ancient temples on the high crags, around which beetled the vibrant plebs of this place where I was born.

After life on the coast, I felt assailed by the busy racket. More shops and workshops were crammed together on this one hill out of seven than traded in the whole of Antium. The crowds were loud - singing, shouting, whistling and catcalling. The pace was fast. The tone was coarse. I drew in a deep breath, grinning with joy to be home again. In that breath I tasted a strange brew of garlic, sawdust, fresh fish, raw meat, marble dust, new rope, old jars and, from the dark doorways of ill-kept apartment blocks, the reek of uncollected sewage in flabbergasting quantities. My mule was jostled, insulted, barked at and cursed. Two hens flew up in our faces as we wove a passage through garland girls and water carriers, ducked out of the way as a burglar dropped down off a fire porch with his clanking swag, turned off a narrow road into one that was barely passable. At the end of that that lay the disguised entrance of the sour alleyway called Fountain Court. lay the disguised entrance of the sour alleyway called Fountain Court.

A pang of nostalgia hit me like last night's undigested Chicken Frontinian. The street was not much wider than the ravine where Nobilis killed himself. The sunny side was shady and the shady side was glum. A deplorable smell rose and wavered around like a bad genie outside the funeral parlour, while a fierce fight about a bill was spilling on to the pavement by the barber's. To call it a pavement was ridiculous. The customer who was threatening to kill Appius, the barber, was sliding on molten mud. To call it mud as it oozed in through gaps in his sandal straps was optimistic. I rode by without making eye contact, though my sympathy was with the barber. Anyone so stupid as to patronise a tonsure-teaser who had the sad comb-over Appius gave himself should expect to get fleeced. Even a quadrans quadrans was too much to pay. was too much to pay.

I dismounted stiffly at the Eagle Laundry and tied up the mule among the wet flapping sheets in what passed for a colonnade. Lenia, the laundress emerged nosily: a familiar figure, all frenzied red hair and drinker's cough, tottering on high cork heels, unsteady after her afternoon bevvy. She winked heavily. She knew why I was here. I gave her a wave that passed for debonair, and as she snorted easy insults, I set off up the worn stone stairs. My rule was, three flights then take a breather; two more then pause a second time; take the last flight at a run before you collapsed among the woodlice and worse things that littered your path.

The doorpost of my old apartment still had the painted tile that advertised my name for clients. An old nail, carefully bent about ten years ago, was still hidden in a pot on the landing; as a spare latch-lifter it still worked. I put the nail back, pushed open the door very gently in case someone jumped me; I went in, feeling an odd patter of the heart.

It looked empty. There were two rooms. In the first stood a small wooden table, partly eaten away as if it were fossilised; two stools of different heights, one missing a leg; a cooking-bench; a shelf that once held pots and bowls but was now bare of fripperies. In the second room was just a narrow bed, made up neatly.

I called out that it was me. I heard pigeons flutter on the roof.

There was a folding door from the main room to a tiny balcony. I jerked the door with a special hitch that was needed to move it. Then I stepped out through the opening into the old, incongruously glamorous view over Rome, now bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. For a moment I soaked up that familiar scene, out over the northern Aventine to the Vaticanus Hill beyond the river.

Albia was basking on the small stone bench. Coming from Britain, she adored the sun. The building was so badly maintained by its landlord Smaractus that one day the whole balcony would fall off, taking the bench and anyone who was sitting on it. For the moment it held. It had held for the six or seven years that I lived here, in view of which it was easiest to continue to have blind faith than to try and make the unbearable Smaractus carry out repairs. The kind of builders he used would only weaken it fatally.

My fosterling wore an old blue dress, tight plaits, a simple bead necklace. She sat with her fingers linked, pretending to be happy, calm, and unafraid. There was no chance she was afraid of me. I was her father, just a joke. But she must know her situation. Someone else had terrified her.

'I thought I would find you here.' She made no answer. 'You had better stay until I have a chance to straighten things out with Anacrites. Are you all right, Albia? Do you have food money?'