My host had not yet finished bopping upstarts on the nob. "Anacrites! And who amongst our refined membership has deserved your attentions?"

"Yes, it's a working supper for me—" Anacrites had a light, cultured voice, about as unreliable as a dish of overripe figs. I felt bilious as soon as he spoke. "I'm here to watch you, Laeta!" To do him justice, he had no fear of upsetting the secretariats. He also knew when to thrust his knife in quickly.

Their warfare was pretty open: the legitimate administrator, who dealt in manipulation and guile, and the tyrant of the security forces, who used blackmail, bullying and secrecy. The same force drove them; both wanted to be the dunghill king. So far there was not much difference between the power of a well-honed damning report on first-quality papyrus from Laeta, and a snide denunciation whispered by the spy in the ear of the Emperor. But one day this conflict was bound to reach a head.

"I'm quaking!" Laeta insulted Anacrites by using nothing worse than sarcasm. "—Do you know Didius Falco?"

"Of course."

"He should do," I growled. Now it was my turn to attack the spy: "Anacrites may be disorganized, but even he rarely forgets occasions when he sends agents into hostile territory, then deliberately writes to let the local ruler know to look out for them. I owe this man a great deal, Laeta. But for my own ingenuity he might have had me tied out on a rock in the Nabataean desert for all the crows of Petra to pick clean my bones. And in the case of unwelcome visitors I don't believe the cruel Nabataeans bother to kill you first."

"Falco exaggerates," Anacrites smirked. "It was a regrettable accident."

"Or a tactical ploy," I returned coolly. "If I was at fault, I apologize."

"Don't bother," I told him. "For one thing you're lying, and for another, it's a pleasure to continue hating your guts."

"Falco is a wonderful agent," Anacrites said to Laeta. "He knows almost everything there is to know about tricky foreign missions—and he learned it all from me."

"That's right," I agreed mildly. "Campania, two years ago. You taught me all the mistakes and bungles. All the ways to upset local sensitivities, trample the evidence and fail to come home with the goods. You showed me that—then I went out and did the job properly. The Emperor still thanks me for learning to avoid your mistakes that summer!"

Laeta took a turn: "I'm sure we all profit from your mutual past relationship!" He was letting Anacrites know I was working for him now. "The entertainment is starting," Laeta smiled in my direction. The general noise in the room had dropped in response to signs of impending action from the dancer. Laeta patted me on the shoulder—a gesture I found highly annoying, though I made sure Anacrites did not see me react. "Stay and enjoy yourself, Falco; I'd like to hear your opinion in due course...." It was obvious he was not talking about the musicians. He wanted Anacrites to think something was going on. Well, that suited me.

Only two vacant couches remained, at each end of the side rows on opposite sides of the room. I had decided my preference, but just at that moment someone beat me to it. It was a man I found hard to place—a fellow in a subdued oatmeal tunic, about my age. He dropped onto the couch as if it had been his place previously and was soon leaning on his elbows to watch the dancer, with his muscular legs sprawled behind him. He had an old scar down one forearm and bunioned feet that had done their share of tramping pavements. He spoke to no one but appeared sociable enough as he tossed grapes into his mouth and grinned at the girl who was about to perform.

I grabbed a wine refill to brace myself, then took the final couch—the one which was already partially occupied by my amphora of fish-pickle, alongside Anacrites.

FOUR

 

There were two musicians, both with that deep black North African skin. One played the cithara, fairly badly. The other was younger and with more menacing, slanted eyes; he had a hand drum. He pattered on it in a colorful manner while the girl from Hispalis prepared to thrill us with the traditional gypsy display. I gave Anacrites a pleasant smile that was bound to annoy him as we waited to marvel at the suppleness of her hips. "Diana looks hot stuff. Have you seen her before?"

"I don't believe so ... What's our Falco been up to then?" I hated people who addressed me in that whimsical way.

"State secret." I had just spent a winter delivering subpoenas for the lowest class of barrister and helping out as an unpaid porter at my father's auction house. Still, it was fun pretending that the Palace harbored a rival spy network, one run by Claudius Laeta over which Anacrites had no control.

"Falco, if you're working for Laeta, my advice is watch your back!"

I let him see me chuckle then I turned back to the dancer. She was giving us a few teasing poses with her golden bow and arrow: standing tiptoe on one foot with the other kicked up behind her while she pretended to shoot at diners, so she could lean back and show off her half-bared chest. Since this was Rome, it was nothing to cause a riot. Well, not unless any respectable equestrian went home and described her little Greek costume too graphically to his suspicious wife.

"I've been talking to young Camillus." Anacrites had leaned across to whisper in my ear. I made a violent scratching movement as if I thought a beetle had landed on me. I just missed blinding him. He popped back onto his couch.

"Aelianus? That must have tried your patience," I said. Just the other side of Anacrites Helena's angry brother was making sure he avoided my eye.

"He seems a promising young character. It's clear that he doesn't care for you, Falco."

"He'll grow up." The spy should have learned by now there was no future in baiting me.

"Isn't he your brother-in-law or something?" It was casually offensive.

"Or something," I agreed calmly. "What's he doing here? Don't tell me he heard there would be top men from the bureaucracy, and he's trying to worm his way into a sinecure?"

"Well, he's just back from Baetica!" Anacrites loved being obscure.

I loathed the thought of Helena's hostile brat of a brother hobnobbing here with the spy. Maybe I was getting overexcited, but the scenario had a whiff of plots being hatched against me.

 

The girl from Hispalis was now well into her routine, so conversation ceased. She was showy, but not outstanding. Dancing girls are a thriving export from southern Spain; they all seem to train in the same terpsichoreal school, one where the movement-coach needs retiring. This wench could roll her eyes, and various other parts of her anatomy. She threw herself about the floor as

if she wanted to polish the whole mosaic with her wildly swinging hair. Once you've seen one snappy lass bent over backwards with her clackers in a frazzle, the attention may start wandering.

I was looking around. The room contained a disparate group. The world-weary, middle-class-looking pair of Baeticans on the other row of couches were as unreceptive as me to the girl's efforts; they still muttered among themselves. Quinctius Attractus, who had claimed to be paying for this, leaned on his elbow looking full of himself for the benefit of the more patrician pair of visitors either side of him. They watched politely, though the elder in particular looked as if he would normally be too aesthetic to indulge in this kind of show. All the Baeticans looked so polite it had to be forced, and I wondered why they thought they had been favored here. Anacrites, the professional state meddler, appeared perfectly at home, though I could not believe Quinctius Attractus had intended him to join the group. Then there was Aelianus, too young to be a member of the dining club in his own right. Who had brought him? And who was the man in the oatmeal tunic at the end of the opposite row from me, who enjoyed himself in that seemingly sociable manner—yet actually spoke to nobody?