"The governor's in conference. There's a flap on. I signed the sheet; you can tell me."

Crixus reluctantly backed off. "There may have been a sighting."

"Details?"

"A man who resembled the description was observed by a patrol."

"Where and when?"

"On the ferry deck by the customs house. A couple of hours ago." "What? And you are only just here to report?"

He feigned a crestfallen look. It was sketchy and brazenly fake. This man wore his uniform smartly, but in manner he was like the worst kind of dreary recruit who can't be bothered. If he had succeeded in seeing Frontinus, I daresay things would have been different. Double standards are a bad sign in the military. "The info sheet made no mention of urgency."

"You knew its status!" It was too late now.

The centurion and I were fencing quite toughly. I wanted to extract what he knew, while instinctively withholding as much as possible about Petro or myself. For some deep reason I did not want Crixus to learn that Petro and I were close, that I was an informer, or that he worked for the vigiles.

"Finish your report," I said quietly. In my time in the legions I had never been an officer, but plenty of them had pushed me around; I knew how to sound like one. One who could be a right bastard if crossed.

"A patrol spotted a man who fitted the details. As I say, he was at the ferry landing."

"Crossing over?"

"Just talking."

"To whom?"

"I really couldn't say, sir. We were only to be interested in him." In the ten years since I left the army, the art of dumb insolence had not died.

"Right."

"So who is this person?" asked Crixus, with an air of innocent curiosity.

"Same as everyone who comes here. A businessman. You don't need to know more."

"Only I don't think he can be the right man, sir. When we asked, he denied that his name was Petronius."

I was furious and let the centurion see it. "You asked, when the sheet said don't approach'?"

"Only way we could attempt to discover if he was the subject, sir." This idiot was so self-righteous I barely refrained from hitting him.

"It's the right man," I growled. "Petronius Longus loathes nosy questions from stiffs in red tunics. He generally claims to be a feather-fan seller called Ninius Basilius."

"That's rather peculiar, sir. He told us he was a bean-importer called Ixymithius."

Thanks, Petro! I sighed. I had plucked a known alias of his from my memory-the wrong one. Any minute now, Crixus would decide it was a fact of note that the subject worked under cover using several false identities. Then the centurion would be even more nosy. If I knew Petro, he was just being rebellious; he had instinctively stiffened up when a strutting patrol apprehended him. On principle, he would lie to them. At least it was better than questioning their parentage, telling them to go to Hades in a dung cart, then being thrown in a cell.

"You're going the long way round to admitting that he gave you the slip," I warned. "The governor will not be pleased. I don't know why you're playing silly beggars over this. The poor man has to be told some bad news from home, that's all. Frontinus has a past acquaintance with him; he wants to do it personally."

"Oh well, next time we'll know he's the one. We'll pass the message to him, never fear."

Not now. Not if Petro saw them coming again.

XVII

King Togidubnus' long-term friendship with Vespasian went right back to when Rome first invaded Britain; Togi had played host to the legion that the young Vespasian had spectacularly led. That was over forty years ago. I had seen the King much more recently, and when we had our meeting the next morning we were comfortable together.

To look at, he was clearly an elderly northerner, his mottled skin now papery and pale, his hair faded from a reddish tribal shade into a dusty gray. On any formal occasion he dressed like Roman nobility. I had not deduced whether any rank conferred on him actually entitled him to the broad purple stripe on his toga, but he called himself a "legate of Augustus" and he wore that stripe with all the confidence of a senatorial bore who could list several centuries of florid ancestors. Most likely, Togidubnus had been selected young, brought to Rome, educated among the various hopeful hostages and promising princelings, then replaced on a throne to be a bulwark in his home province. After thirty years the Atrebates seemed only a little less backward than any other British tribe in the Romanized area, while they and their king were unquestionably loyal.

All except the dead Verovolcus. He had killed a Roman architect. Mind you, hating architects is legitimate. And the one Verovolcus took against had held opinions on spatial integrity that would make anybody spew.

???

"We meet again, in sorry circumstances, Falco."

I adjusted my pace to fit the King's sober grandeur. "My pleasure at renewing our acquaintance, sir, is only marred by the grim cause."

He sat. I stood. He was playing the high-ranked Roman; he could have been Caesar enthroned in his tent, receiving rebellious Celts. I was entirely subordinate. Anyone who works for clients expects to be treated like a tradesman. Even a slave who employed me as an informer would take a high-handed attitude. The King was not even hiring me; nobody thought that necessary. I was doing this job as a duty, for the good of the Empire and as a favor to family. Those are the worst terms ever. They don't pay. And they don't give you any rights.

I ran through what I knew and what I had done about it. "To sum up, the most likely scenario is this: Verovolcus came to Londinium, perhaps intending to hide up here. He went into a bad location by chance and paid a tragic penalty."

The King considered it for a moment. "That explanation would suffice."

I had expected furious demands for retribution. Instead the Togidubnus response could have come straight from one of the deviously slick offices on the Palatine. He was trying to contain the damage.

"It would suffice for the Daily Gazette!" I said harshly. Rome's official Forum publication loves scandal in the lowbrow columns that follow its routine lists of Senate decrees and calendars of games, but the Acta Diuma is produced by official clerks. The Gazette rarely exposes uncomfortable truths in politics. Its wildest revelations involve lurid sex in the aristocracy- and then only if they are known to be shy of suing.

One bushy gray eyebrow flicked upward. "But you have doubts, Falco?"

"I would certainly like to investigate further…"

"Before you commit yourself? That's good."

"Let's say, whoever dunked Verovolcus in the well, we don't want a repeat."

"And we do want justice!" insisted the King. In fact, "justice" would have put Verovolcus in the amphitheater here, as lunch for starved wild beasts.

"We want the truth," I said piously.

"My retainers are making more inquiries."

The King was glaring defiantly but I merely replied, "The more that district is shaken up, the more we show that violence won't be tolerated."

"What do you know about the district, Falco?"

"It's a grim area at the back of the unloading and storage wharves. It's full of small enterprises, mainly run by migrants, for the benefit of sailors on shore leave and transient import/export men. It has all the disadvantages of such districts in any port."

"A colorful enclave?"

"If that means a hangout for tricksters and thieves."

The King was silent for a while. "Frontinus and Hilaris are telling me that what happened to Verovolcus was probably provoked by him, Falco. They say that the perpetrators would otherwise have only robbed him."

"His torque is missing," I agreed, letting caution sound in my voice.