"Misery, frankly." He was a bowed, brown, shaven-headed man, whose apparent gloom hid real enthusiasm. "We don't get to stand at ease with the sun on our faces, like in Corinth or New Carthage- we're battering back nature wherever it raises its head. Scything it down, slashing it through, scratching it with hooks and flattening it with spades as it scuttles across the soil. The soil is horrible, of course," he added with a grin.

I was intrigued by his geographical references. "What's your name, and where are you from?"

"I'm Timagenes. Learned my stuff on an imperial estate near Baiae."

"You're not just a trowel-wielder," I commented.

"Certainly not! I am in charge of the people who supervise the trowel-wielders' gang leaders." He was half mocking his status yet it mattered. "I can spot a slug- but basically, I'm the man who devises the glamorous effects."

"And they will be glorious," Helena complimented him.

"Pomponius has been describing your scheme for us."

"Poniponius is a deluded snot," replied Timagenes helpfully. "He's all set on ruining my creative vision- but I'll get him!"

There seemed to be no hard malice in his words, yet for him to be so open was instructive.

"Another feud?" I enquired mildly.

"Not at all." Timagenes sounded quite comfortable. "I hate him. I hate his liver, lungs and lights."

"And hope he has no luck with girls?" I was remembering Lupus, the overseer, describing angry curses laid at shrines by his labourers.

"That would be too cruel." Timagenes smiled. "Actually, there's no girl around here who would look at him. Girls are not stupid," he opined with a polite salute to Helena. "We all suspect he prefers boys but the boys in Noviomagus have better taste too."

"What has Pomponius done to upset you?" Helena asked.

"Far too obscene to mention!" Timagenes bent down and gripped a small blue flower. "A periwinkle. These do well in Britain. They peg their dark mats into dank spidery places, with strong glossy leaves that you hardly notice, until suddenly at the end of April they push up their sturdy blue stars. Now that's gardening out here. The startling discovery of some bright, defiant thing '

The poetic foliage-forager pulled at the blossom, yanking so violently he presented Helena with a stringy rope two feet or more in length. There were very few flowers, and white roots dangled in unpleasant clumps. She took the offering gingerly.

"So what did Pomponius do to you?" I insisted laconically.

Ignoring the question, Timagenes only turned up his face to sniff the air, then answered, "Summer is here. Smell it on the wind! Now we're in real trouble…"

Whether he meant horticulturally or in some wider sense, we could not tell.

XVI

As helena and I later made our way back to the Noviomagus road and our transport, we came across a slow wagon trailing up to the site.

"Stop laughing, Marcus!" Luckily, there was nobody around to spy on our meeting. It would have been rude of me to guffaw at strangers the way I did now. But one of this mournful party was only disguised as a stranger. His grumpy scowl was all too familiar.

The scene was bright. Summer had come, as Timagenes observed. A fiercely cold morning with a lacerating wind had now developed into an afternoon of incredible mildness. The sun broke through the racing clouds as if it had never been away. It gave notice that even this-

far north, without any noticeable transition, there would be extra hours of light lengthening both ends of the day.

This spirit of renewal was wasted on the miserable young man we |

had met. "Don't even speak to me, Falco!"

"Hail, Sextius!" I greeted his companion instead. "I trust our dear Aulus is proving useful to you. He has some truculence, but we think well of him generally."

The man who sold moving statues hopped down to gossip. Helena's brother turned away with even greater bitterness. Still in his role as an assistant, he began foddering a lanky horse who pulled the cart of stoneware samples. Helena tried to kiss his cheek in sisterly affection; he shook her off angrily. Since we had kept all his luggage, he was wearing the same tunic as when we left him in Gaul. Its white wool had acquired a dark, greasy patina which some ruffians would take years to apply to their working gear. He looked cold and glum.

"Is that a suntan or are you utterly filthy?"

"Oh don't worry about me, Falco."

"I don't, lad, I don't. You are a repository of republican virtue.

Nobility, courage, steadfastness. Let's face it, you're the kind of virtuous cur who really likes suffering-'

He kicked the wheel of the cart. It lurched, causing a sound of crashing stone.

"Oil" protested Sextius, horrified.

As the statue factor clambered up to investigate, Aulus turned to me grimly. "This had better be worth it! I can't tell you what a time I've had…" He did lower his voice. If he offended Sextius, Sextius could easily shed him, which would not help me. "I'm bruised and bashed, and sick to the teeth of hearing about wonderful Heron of Alexandria's inventions. Now we have to slog here, find some completely uninterested buyer, then try to fib him into believing he needs a set of dancing nymphs worked by hot air, whose costumes fall off-'

"Whoa!" I stopped him, grinning. "I had a crazy great-uncle who adored mechanical toys. This is a new variation on an old favourite. When did the famous dancing nymphs shed their dresses?"

"A modern twist, Falco." Aelianus was displaying a prim streak. Hating popular taste, though he clearly understood it, he growled, "We give our buyers what they want. The more pornographic the better."

"Don't tell me you devised the striptease?" I chortled admiringly. "Great Jupiter, you're really taking to this. My uncle Scaro would love you, boy! Next thing you'll have one of Philon of Tyre's dip-in-me all-ways inkwells." Scaro had told me enough about Greek inventors to see me through this banter.

"Gimbals!" snarled Aulus. Thus proving that he had heard all about Philon's magic octagon, the executive toy every scribe wants as his next Saturnalia present. "Don't interrupt when I'm raving," Aulus carried on. Tm sick of this. Why me? Why not my devious brother?"

"Justinus is younger than you and he's delicate," Helena reproved. "Anyway, I promised dear little Claudia that I would look after him."

"Quintus is quite hardy and no one promised Claudia anything; she thought her darling bridegroom would be going home from Ostia. I always get the short measure. I already know I'll be eating rancid broth, and sleeping at the side of the cart, under an awning alongside the horse."

"There are canabae," I told him, with a grain of pity.

Sextius overheard me as he jumped down again beside us. "That's for me!" he cried. "Lucky I've got you, lad. I'm not taking this stuff anywhere it might get pinched, young Aulus. You'll have to stop with the cart and mind the goods. I'm going to find myself a drink and maybe a tasty wench tonight."

Aelianus was about to spit with frustration. Then we all pulled up. A voice which at least Helena and I recognised was calling my name excitedly. "Man from Rome!"

We turned to greet him as one, like a set of well-oiled but slightly guilty automata. "Verovolcus! Does your sophisticated king like moving statues?"

"Greek athletes he likes, Falco."

"I think that means classical art, not oily boyfriends," I explained to Sextius. "I don't know what's on offer, Verovolcus. I just met these interesting salesmen for the first time. They are trying to find out the procedure for getting an appointment to show off their wares '

"They have to see Plancus."

"The assistant architect? But he's an idiot," I wheedled.