Maia was making it plain she supported the men who were throwing rocks at me. So instead of having dinner with my dear ones in our private suite, I took one of my British bodyguards and sloped off on a pony to see Justinus instead. I wanted him to take me to see the famous dancer- but he knew she was not appearing that night.

"Day off, Falco. The owner of the wine bar plays it cleverly. He lets the lads grow keen, then as word spreads, he only offers performances at intervals."

"Saves paying the damn woman every night."

"He's even cleverer. The actual appearances are never publici sed until the last minute."

"So how do you know, Quintus?"

He grinned. "Private source: dear little Virginia."

"What a treasure. So while the curmudgeon who runs the bar is pretending he never knows when his artiste will agree to flirt her stuff, the luscious Virginia sells drinks to the crowds anyway? The keen ones still keep coming?"

"The owner claims that after a break, the dancer is fresh." Justinus grinned. I ignored his leer.

"What's her name?"

"Stupenda."

I winced. "Her stage name, presumably! Tell me, please, that she's just a busty teenager."

"Mature,"Justinus disagreed, shaking his head wisely. That was bad news. "Experienced! That's the fascination. You start out thinking "This is a raddled hag" -then you find she has enchanted you…"

"Oh Jupiter."

This was what Perella liked to do: station herself near her quarry, working as a dancer in some sour dive. There she would listen, watch, make herself known in the district until nobody thought twice about her presence. All the time she was planning her move. Eventually she would vanish from the dancing venue. Then she struck. I had seen the results. When Perella found her victims she took them out, fast and silently. A knife across the throat from behind was her favourite method. Without question, she had others.

Next came another disappointment: Justinus was not seeing the young painter that evening. "We felt we could benefit from a night off drinking water. "Justinus had the grace to look sheepish.

I told him how Aelianus, fleeing the dogs, had met his friend the night before.

"So you got my message about the British workmen?" He did not ask about his brother's welfare.

"Yes, thanks. The men are now making their mood all too obvious- I don't know whether to keep looking upwards in case a loose scaffold board falls as I walk underneath, or to keep my eyes pinned to the ground looking for big deep thatch-covered holes they have set up as man traps

"Olympus."

"The Britons' leader is called Mandumerus. He's a thickset, woad tattooed mental defective whom I would not like to meet in a narrow lane. I'm telling you that for a reason. He vanished from site this morning after I exposed the labour fraud so I want you to look out for him in the canabae, please. Send word at once if he turns up."

Justinus nodded. He seemed sober today. He was probably listening, though he looked rather vague.

"Don't approach Mandumerus on your own," I reiterated.

"No, Falco."

He fed me, courtesy of his uncle's placid house slaves. We both drank water with our dinner. Justinus needed to cure his hangover. I wanted a clear head too.

I collected my bodyguard, who had been eating where he could watch the street outside, and we picked our way carefully back to the palace along the mile or so of road. I felt glad that I had taken the precaution of covering up in a mantle and a large hat. Travelling a coastal road at night can be eerie enough. A buoyant wind wafted around us, smelling of seaweed and surf. Expecting any moment to pass groups of hefty, hostile labourers, my ears were alert for the slightest sound behind us or ahead. Even with a bodyguard I felt very exposed. For all I knew, this silent Briton in the red and yellow cloak who rode alongside might be Mandumerus' brother-in-law.

On the other hand, that might ensure his loyalty. Judging by how I felt about my own sisters' husbands, if he loathed Mandumerus he would look after me with due diligence.

We hit the palace again before I was expecting it. I had travelled this way enough times now for the road to shrink. Lights showed. I tensed. It was the same here as in Rome. Never relax when you seem to be in sight of safety. That can be the most dangerous moment.

I was jumpy. As we rode in under the dark scaffold that shrouded the King's quarters, a dangling rope brushed against me; I nearly fell off my mount. Its saddle was Roman, with high front pommels that you gripped with your thighs, and I managed to stay put. The bodyguard grinned. I returned his mirth manfully as we rode around to the courtyard garden. There I was preparing to swing down to ground level when we heard urgent running footsteps. Someone came ha ring around the outside of the building towards us.

If this was an attack, it was damned obvious. But an ill-executed ambush by idiots can be even more dangerous than a skilled operation.

Dim flares lit the courtyard. It was dark, so nobody was sitting out here. I was armed with a sword, which I drew quietly. The bodyguard grasped a long spear; he looked as if he knew what to do with it. Moving to a pool of light, we remained mounted. That gave us the best chance to manoeuvre. I hoped my companion did not realise I was keeping one eye on him in case he was planning a double-cross. With the rest of my attention I was watching to see who arrived.

One man, on foot.

Stark naked! White torso, deep brown arms and legs. Wild eyes. Oblivious to his daft predicament.

I relaxed somewhat, laughing. The bodyguard dismounted with a disbelieving grin. He hitched his horse and my pony to a column, bringing up one of the flares to shed more light. I skewed sideways and jumped down, then faced the ludicrously nude man. He was startled by my drawn sword as he arrived.

It was the clerk of works. Red-faced, he fell against the back of a garden bench, gasping so hard he looked ready to expire. His clothes were in a bundle, which he dropped. The bodyguard was casting a careful eye around the vicinity, so I was able to concentrate on helping Cyprianus calm down. I grabbed at his clothes bundle and pulled out a tunic.

Eventually he managed to stop wheezing. He got himself into the dingy blue tunic I was offering. As his head emerged through the neck hole, for a moment he just gazed at me. Whatever was wrong, it must have some magnitude.

He coughed again, bending low to brush grit off his feet and pull on boots. "You had better come, Falco." His voice rasped with distress.

"What is it? Or do I mean who?1

"Pomponius."

"Hurt?" Unlikely. Cyprianus would have run for help from the medical orderly, not rushed here for me.

"Dead."

"No doubt of that?"

A rueful expression crossed Cyprianus' face. "Afraid not, Falco. Absolutely no doubt."