pared to leave too. I should have gone after him. He was suffering. But explaining my presence would be too difficult. I had never wanted him to join up with my sister, nor her with him, but I was troubled by the scene I had just overheard.

As I stood undecided, a third party intervened.

"Please!" A sudden muffled whisper almost evaded me. "Please, Falco!" I was in no mood for intrusions. Still, hearing your name somewhere you don't expect it always makes you react.

I stepped into the road and looked up. Above me, at a window in this dump that was called the Old Neighbour, I saw Albia's white face. She did not need to explain she was in bad trouble. And she was appealing for me to get her out of it.

Now I myself was trapped. I had never heard Albia speak before. She was clearly terrified. I had brought her out onto these streets today. Helena Justina had promised her refuge, yet I had put the girl back in danger. There was nothing for it. I had to enter this dark, no doubt unfriendly house and fetch her. The old Didius affliction had kicked in again. Albia was my responsibility.

XXIII

The moment I set foot across the threshold, I knew what the house was. The entrance corridor was still empty. A small shabby side table, holding the door open, impeded my path. Somewhere to leave your hat-if you wanted it stolen. On it a cracked and filthy dish dared to request gratuities. There were none. Not even the usual broken quadrans to give people the right idea. Only some joker's present of a rusty nail.

The front of the house must have been designed as a shop, but the Roman-style folding doors on the frontage were jammed closed and seized up. I glanced in through an archway. It was untenanted and used only for storage of rubble and old horse bedding. Whatever went on here would go on upstairs. Cautiously I moved down the interior passage toward a shadowy stair flight going up into darkness. Underfoot was a pressed-earth floor. I knocked into a piece of broken furniture. Part of a cupboard. I was treading slowly, so I had time to steady it at the cost of a wood splinter in my right palm. I managed to muffle the noise. Above, there must be at least a couple of rooms. That would be standard for a live-in shop. Though I listened, I could gain no sense of how many occupants might be there.

The stairs were wooden. As I climbed, they swayed and creaked as if the house was unsound. Dirt made this ramshackle property seem old, though it could not predate the Rebellion. Good going: derelict after ten years. The roofspace must be low; heat had been absorbed all day through the building fabric, so I moved upward into a stifling, airless atmosphere. The first loft-like space formed an antechamber, definitely used for the purposes I feared. Though the pallets on the floor were unoccupied, a faint sexual smell told its story. I tripped over a lamp, unlit of course. Anyone who wanted to inspect his bedmate would have to pay for extras. I bet no one bothered. The only light filtered up from the stairs; there were no windows.

I could hardly breathe. Commerce here must be rapid. To call it a brothel would be linguistic outrage. This was a doss to which rank street-whores brought their undiscriminating marks. It was a toss-up which party in the grim couplings would be the rougher character, and who cheated whom the most. I knew there would be violence. I could believe there had been deaths. I had to pray there was no pimp asleep now, with his arms around an amphora and a large knife to hand. He would see me before I was aware of him.

By feel, I discovered two doorways. I worked out which one gave onto the room with the window where I had glimpsed Albia. The door had been wedged on the outside, locking her in. I was not surprised.

Quietly I removed the heavy wooden stave that held the door closed. Even more gently, I pushed my way in. Light filtered through the window, but I could hardly see where she was. She had cowered in a tiny ball, even though she knew I was coming. I assumed she trusted me, yet terror had her paralyzed.

I gave a low whistle. "Come on. You're safe. Be quick." It was like freeing a trapped sparrow. First the creature froze, then it made a desperate bolt for the light. "Shh!"

The girl had fled right past, barging her way between me and the doorpost. She had already spirited herself down the stairs. I let her go. As I turned to follow, the other door burst open. There was suddenly more light, a frightfully smoldering lamp, held aloft by a three-foot-high old baggage with ferocious bad breath and a vicious snarl. I think it was female, but I felt like a hero who had woken some foul mythical beast. "What do you want?"

"I came for a girl," I answered honestly. I pulled the door closed behind me, as if Albia might still be inside. "I saw her looking through the window."

"Not that one."

"I like them young."

"Not her!"

"Why not?"

"She's not trained." Well, that was a relief, mainly. "I can handle her."

"I said no!"

The old woman was ghastly. A huge round face with features slammed on as if by a bad potter after he'd had too much to drink with his lunch. Flabby white arms, tremulous fat in the body, oily gray hair. Her flat dirty feet were bare. On a cord at her waist hung a bulging purse. She was wrapped in layers of grimy rags, their stiffened cloth twisted like cheese wrappings all around her body. This swaddling seemed to have trapped in the dirt, flea droppings, and smells. She was marinated in filth. And the evil madam oozed with redolence of her foul trade.

"Why not?" I insisted. "What's so special about that one?"

"The Collector only brought her in today."

"Who's the Collector? I'm sure he's reasonable. Can I speak to him?"

"Gods, where were you spawned? He won't see you. Get out," she ordered.

Pretending to be a polite innocent, I replaced the heavy wedge that had held the door. "Can I come back later?"

"No!" yelled the human fungus.

Knowing I still had to find the girl, I refrained from any retort and left quietly.

Albia was in fact waiting. As I came out half suffocated into the pleasant air, she whimpered. She had not been visibly beaten, though they had stripped her; she shivered in a torn undergarment, yet was clutching the blue dress the Hilaris children had found for her, now folded into a tight parcel that she gripped to her bony chest. Her only possession in the world. Her first decent experience. Maybe the sole reason why she did trust me.

I nodded at her to come with me. We moved to the porch of the bathhouse, where I paused to clear my lungs; I needed to cough heavily or I would retch.

"You stink, my girl." I had been in the brothel for only a moment, but I felt I stank myself. I could wait. There was a decent baths back at the residence, but I needed to make Albia presentable before I returned her to Helena's care. I had to do it for my own sake. "We're going home. It's over now Better get cleaned up first."

Petronius was lounging beside the attendant's booth. Since he was on watch, I ignored him; that was the rule.

It was men's hour at a one-sex-at-a-time baths. There was no way I could send Albia through, and I was certainly not taking her. I persuaded the attendant to give me sponges and a bucket of warm water, then we put the girl in the changing room to wash herself. There were no customers in there at the lockers and at least it saved me having to worry about her slipping through a back entrance.

"If she steals any clothes-"

"She won't." She had her prized blue dress.

A bench ran around the vestibule where tickets were sold. Two young women were seated there, massaging almond oil into their fingernails. They were respectably dressed, with shiny, well-turned-up hair and good postures, yet they gave the impression they were prostitutes. Girlfriends often sit around in pairs, dressed alike, of course, so maybe I slandered them. They seemed to be hanging around on spec, but did not make a pitch even while I was idly awaiting Albia. After watching my negotiations in silence, they both stood up and left.