"You're not by any chance armed, Placidus?"

"You're joking; I'm a procurator, Falco!—Are you?"

"I brought a sword to Hispalis; I didn't expect to get this close to the girl, so I left it at the mansio."

We were badly positioned. We had come to the only place where we could stop and wait, but the alley outside was so narrow and winding we could see little of it. The few people who passed all stared at us hard. We sat tight, trying not to look as if our chins were barbered, and trying not to speak when anyone could overhear our Roman accents.

There were several battered lock-ups facing the path. One contained a man whittling at crude pieces of furniture; the rest were closed up, their doors leaning at odd angles. They looked deserted, but could just as well be in fitful use; any artisans who worked in this area were sad men with no hope.

After a while the waiter's friend left and two giggling girls arrived. They sat on a bench and did not order anything, but ogled the waiter who now had time to enjoy the attention. He had extremely long eyelashes; Helena would have said it was from batting them at women. After a short time the girls suddenly scuttled off, then a wide-bodied, bandy-legged man who could have been their father turned up and looked the waiter over. He left too, with nothing said. The waiter cleaned his fingernails with the knife he had used to cut our pieces of bread.

A redhead was walking past outside; she gave the waiter a faint smile. I have a strong aversion to redheads, but this one was worth looking at. We were seated below her line of sight, so we could peruse the goods unobtrusively. She was a girl who made the best of herself: a well-fitted soft green tunic above thongy shoes, earrings of cascading crescents, a chalk-white face highlighted with purplish coloring, eyes lengthened and widened with charcoal, and elaborate plaits of copper-colored hair. Her eyes were particularly fine. She walked with a confident swagger, kicking the hem of her skirt so her jingling anklets showed. She looked as though for the right reward she might show off the ankles they decorated, plus the knees and all the rest.

She also looked unlike anyone I had ever seen—though her best feature was that set of rolling brown eyes which did seem familiar. I never forget a shape either, however differently it may be trussed and decorated when I see it a second time. When the girl vanished somewhere opposite I found myself quietly finishing my drink. I said unexcitedly to Placidus, "I'm going across to check on Selia again. You stay here and keep my seat warm."

Then I hooked my thumbs casually in my belt and strolled over to the lodging house.

FORTY-EIGHT

 

The fat woman had gone. Nobody was about.

The building occupied a long, narrow plot running away from the street. It was arranged on two floors either side of an open-roofed passageway, then widening into a small terminal courtyard with a well in it. This was sufficiently confined to keep out the sun at hot times of year. At intervals pots were hung on the walls, but the plants in them had died from neglect.

The girl lived on the upper level over the yard, where there was a rickety wooden balcony which I reached by an uneven flight of steps at the far end. Outside her door was a pulley arrangement to facilitate drawing up water. There were wet drip marks on the balcony rail. A shutter now stood open, one which I remembered had been firmly closed before.

I walked around the balcony the long way, that is on the opposite side from Selia's room. I trod easily, trying not to let the planking creak. When I came back to the part above the entrance passageway a bridge crossed the gap; I guessed nobody used it much for the whole thing sagged worryingly beneath my weight. I moved on gently to her room. She had killed, or tried to kill, two men, so she had thrown away her right to modesty: I went straight in and didn't knock.

The red wig lay on a table, the green tunic hung on a hook. The dancer was naked apart from a loincloth. As she turned to stare at me angrily, she made an appealing sight.

She had one foot on a stool and was anointing her body with what I took to be olive oil. When I stepped through the doorway she deliberately carried on doing it. The body that received the attention was well worth pampering. The spectacle nearly made me forget what I was there for.

"Well don't be formal! Treat my place as your own!" She threw back her head. Her neck was long. Her own hair, which was an ordinary brown, had been pinned in a flat coil, close against her head. Her body was hard to ignore.

I cast a rapid glance around the place: one room, with a narrow bed. Most of the clutter was on the table, and it was predominantly female stuff. Occasional eating implements were jumbled in among the hairpin pots, cream jars, combs and perfume vials.

"Don't be shy; I've seen nudity before. Besides, we're old friends."

"You're no friend of mine!"

"Oh come," I remonstrated sadly. "Don't you remember me?"

She did pause, with one palm held flat to the oil flask. "No."

"You should do. I'm the man who went home from the Society of Olive Oil Producers of Baetica safely in one piece— because I had acquired a large amphora of fish-pickle, with two slaves to carry it."

She put her foot down on the floor. Her hand still moved slowly upon her gleaming skin, and as she massaged in the oil it was extremely difficult not to stare. She appeared not to notice that she was transfixing me. But the care with which she oiled her breasts told me she knew all right.

I waited calmly. When she jumped for the meat knife that lay among the cosmetic pots I grabbed at her wrist. It would have been perfectly effective, had she not been so slippery.

FORTY-NINE

 

Luckily for me the wrist I had seized was much smaller than my own; somehow I had encircled it. I felt her bones twisting in my grip and the knife flashed wickedly, but her weapon hand stayed held fast. It wouldn't last. Her all-over lubrication made her impossible to restrain for long.

I kept her at arm's length as she kicked out. Dancers have legs to reckon with. She was strong, but I had the advantage. Barging her shin with mine, I forced her to move back against the wall, making sure the corner of the table bruised her thigh. I banged her arm on the wall to shake the knife free. Spitting, she kept her grip on it. I thought of heaving her off, to spin her round and thrash her back into the wall, but she was so well oiled I would lose my hold. I smashed her elbow on the wall again. She gasped, and struggled to break free.

Her free hand cast behind me, grabbing at a soapstone pot to brain me with. There was no choice. I try hard to avoid naked women who are not my own property, but I had to protect myself. I went in close, throwing my body hard against hers then turning in my shoulder so I could break her hold on the knife

two-handedly. This time I did it. The blade clanged to the floor. Instantly she went limp, then flexed herself violently. Her arm escaped from my grip.

I still had her pinned against the wall, but her writhing body was so slippery it was like trying to catch a live fish. I brought up one knee and stopped her reaching the knife again. She squirmed away from me, dropped to the floor, scuttled under the table, then stood up and tilted it. Vases and boxes crashed to the ground, in a hail of broken glass, colored powders, and thick scents. It didn't stop me, and dropping the heavy table lost her the second it took me to leap forwards and grab her by the only part I could circle with both hands: her throat.

"Keep still or I'll throttle you until your eyes pop out!" She thought about fighting. "Believe me!" I warned again, kicking out with one foot to free it from a tangle of cheap jewelry. To reinforce the message I was squeezing hard. She was choking. I was out of breath. She saw her situation was desperate. She stood still. I felt her jaw clench as she gritted her teeth, no doubt vowing to say nothing and bite me if she could.