"Am I being stubborn over this, sweetheart?" I reached for the nut bowl but she swung around on her stool and avoided me. "There is a lion that has been somehow spirited away from his cage, apparently without a roar-or if he did roar, without anybody hearing him even though his devoted keeper and a gaggle of gladiators were just strides away. He's been killed somewhere else-why?-then returned to his billet and locked in."

"To make it look as if he never left?"

"Seems so. Doesn't it make you curious?"

"Certainly, Marcus."

"The keeper is lying, and has probably been ordered to do so."

"That's odd too."

"And the gladiators have clammed up."

Helena was watching me, her dark brown eyes as thoughtful about the mystery as they were about evaluating what it meant to me. "This is troubling you, my darling."

"I hate secrets."

"And?" She could tell there was more to it.

"Well, perhaps I'm getting overexcited."

"You!" She was teasing. "How, Marcus?"

"I wonder whether it is pure coincidence that this happened when I'm conducting enquiries there."

"What could be behind it?" prompted Helena levelly.

"The dead lion is the one who had been booked to execute Thurius. Since it was me who apprehended Thurius-" I told her my real suspicion; it was one I could never mention to Anacrites: "I wondered whether somebody may have it in for me."

Helena could well have laughed or scoffed. I would not have blamed her. Instead, she listened calmly and as I expected she made no attempt to patronize me. She simply told me that I was an idiot, and on reflection I agreed.

"Can we have some dinner now?"

"Later," she said firmly. "First, you're going to be a good Roman like Cato the Elder, and you're going to see the baby bathed."

Twelve

WE HAD NO domestic water supply. Like most of Rome we inhabited an apartment where the nearest fountain was around a corner in another street. For our daily ablutions we went to the public baths. They were plentiful, sociable, and in many cases free. The more luxurious parts of the Aventine boasted large detached mansions with their own private bathhouses, but in our slum we had a long walk with our strigil and oil flask. Our street was called Fountain Court, but that was an administrative joke.

Across the road, in the huge gloomy block where I had once lived myself, stood Lenia's laundry, which did possess a deep, rather fitful well. Its murky water was usually available in winter, and big cauldrons were always on the fires in the backyard. Because I was supposed to be helping Lenia arrange her divorce I felt able to cadge what remained of her warm water after the laundry closed for the night. She had been married a whole year now-having lived with her husband for all of a fortnight-so in accordance with local custom it was well time she shed her spouse.

Lenia was married to Smaractus, the most stinking, greedy, heartless and degenerate Aventine landlord. Their union, which all her friends had been denouncing from the moment she proposed it, had been cobbled together out of their mutual hopes of defrauding each other of property. The wedding night had ended with the nuptial bed on fire, the husband in jail accused of arson, Lenia in acrimonious hysterics, and everyone else drunk out of their minds. An occasion to remember-as the wedding guests now insisted on reminding the unhappy pair. They did not thank us for it.

Their curious start should have provided years of nostalgic stories to retell happily around the fire at Saturnalia. Well, perhaps not around the fire, since Smaractus had been rather badly frightened by his adventure in the flaming bed. Around a festive table, with the lamp wicks all trimmed neatly, perhaps. But from their night being rescued by the vigiles they had descended into a hell from which nobody could save them. Smaractus came home from jail in a foul temper; Lenia pretended she had had no idea he was so violent and unpleasant; he accused her of setting fire to the bed deliberately with a view to grabbing a big inheritance if she killed him; she said she wished she had done it, even if there was no inheritance. Smaractus made a few feeble attempts to claim rights in the laundry (the one freehold he had omitted to acquire in our district), then he stole what he could carry and fled back to his own grimy apartment. Now they were getting divorced. They had been talking about it for the past twelve months without any progress, but that was typical of the Aventine.

Lenia had been in her office where black winter mold, encouraged by the laundry steam, had encased the walls in a sinister patina. Hearing us, she swayed to the door. She seemed subdued, which meant either she had not yet drunk enough to liven her up this evening, or she had tippled so much she had poisoned herself. Her unusual red hair, product of violent substances unknown to most cosmetics vendors, hung either side of her white, bleary-eyed face in frizzled hanks as she dithered at the doorway.

While Helena slipped past me to avail herself of the still-warm tubs, I planted myself in Lenia's path with a well-placed verbal tackle. "Hello! I see your hot-blooded lover's here."

"Falco, when the bastard comes down, trip him up and make him talk about my settlement."

"Call me when you hear him coming, and I'll make another attempt to reason with him."

"Reason? Don't make me laugh, Falco! Just you put a noose around his throat and pull it tight; I'll hold the agreement so he can sign it. Then you can finish strangling him."

She meant it too.

Smaractus must be collecting rent from his hapless tenants. We could tell that from the angry shouting upstairs and also because the two dwindling stars of his backup team, Rodan and Asiacus, were flat out with a wineskin in Lenia's front portico. Smaractus ran what he called a gladiators' school, and these punch-drunk specimens were part of it. He took them around for protection; I mean, to protect the rest of the populace from what these idiots might get up to if Smaractus left them unattended. There was no need to drag Rodan and Asiacus up all the six stories of leasehold hovels, because Smaractus himself was perfectly capable of forcing his debtors to turn out their purses if he caught them in.

He didn't scare me though. Nor did his thugs.

Giving Julia her bath was my job (hence the jibes about Cato the Elder and the late hour I had slunk home).

"I want her to grow up knowing who her father is," said Helena.

"Is that to ensure she will be rude and defiant to the right person?"

"Yes. And so you will know it is all your own fault. I don't want you ever to say ‘Her mother brought her up and ruined her'!"

"She's a bright child. She should manage to ruin herself."

It took me at least twice as long to clean up the baby as it took Helena to rinse out her little tunics in another cauldron. Helena disappeared, perhaps to console Lenia, though I hoped she had gone to prepare my dinner back at home. I was left to make my usual failed attempt to interest Julia in the floating ship I had whittled for her, while she played instead with her favorite toy, the cheese grater. We had to bring it or there was screaming. She had perfected how to smack it down on the water apparently aimlessly, though with a true knack of soaking her papa.

The cheese grater had a curious history. I had swiped it at Pa's warehouse, thinking it looked like an ordinary product of a house clearance. When Pa noticed it at our apartment one day, he told me it had in fact come from an Etruscan tomb. Whether he was himself the tomb robber remained vague, as usual. He reckoned it might be five hundred years old. Still, it worked all right.