I merely shrugged at him (or her). "Do you know what happened to the teenager who was being dragged off by that hag?"

"She's safe," a neat Greek-style blonde chipped in. She had a nose straight off an Athenian temple peristyle but sounded as common as a harbor whelk-picker.

"Don't frighten her; she's endured enough today. She was under my wife's protection-"

"Then you should have left her with your wife, you pervert!"

Now I was beginning to understand why they had grabbed me: this tough sisterhood had been defending Albia. That was fine-but it was unclear whether they saw me as a victimizer. "I never tried to make her a child prostitute. I wanted her to get out of it."

Maybe they realized that. (Maybe they didn't care.) The Greek put her foot up on a balustrade, revealing lengths of superb, well-pumiced leg through an unsewn skirt. The action, apparently unconscious, made me consciously gulp. "She's with us now." This would be tricky to explain to Helena.

"Well, think again, is my advice. Albia is not a slave. Turning a free citizen into a gladiator unlawfully is serious. You could all end up being butchered with the criminals." That was the morning event in an arena, where convicts were put to bloody punishment: slash and smash with no reprieve. Each winner goes straight into another fight and the last man is slaughtered by the ring-keeper on the sodden red sand. "Besides," I tried, "You've seen her-she's totally unsuitable. She has neither the build nor the body. I can tell you too, she has no speed, no fighting intelligence, no movement finesse-"

As I ladled on the flattery, from somewhere behind me came an ironic burst of clapping. A voice cried loudly, "Oh, why don't you just add that she had flat feet and bad eyesight and her boobs get in the way?"

Rome! The accent, the language, and the attitude plunged me straight back home. Familiarity socked me in the empty gullet. I even felt I knew the voice.

I turned. I had lasted long enough in the confrontations so far to be feeling quite relaxed. That was about to change.

"Amazonia," one of the girls to my left informed me. At least these tough maidens were polite. When they had finished battering thick wooden posts with practice swords, someone must sponge sweat off them and put them through an hour of gentle etiquette.

When my eyes found the newcomer, I was stunned. Wide-apart brown eyes gazed at me playfully. Amazonia wore white like the others, setting off dark and sultry skin. Her hair was pulled up on top of her head, then fastened in a two-foot-long snaky ponytail; flowerbuds decorated the fastening. I was expecting some haughty and humorless group leader, who had plans to humiliate me. I found a little treasure with a flexible body, a warm heart, and a deeply friendly nature. Was this instinctive male recognition of a good bedmate? No. I already knew this woman. Dear gods, at one time in my dubious past I knew her rather well.

She had changed her career since I last saw her, but not much else, I guessed. There were extra fine lines around the eyes and an air of hardened maturity, but everything else was just as I remembered, and as I remembered it was all in the right place. A flash of her eyes said that she remembered everything too. She was a Tripolitanian ropedancer. Believe me, she was the best ropedancer you have ever seen, a shining circus acrobat-and equally good at other things. There was no way I would ever be able to explain this chance meeting to Helena.

If the so-called Amazonia was surprised to see me, I doubted it. She must have been listening for a while. Maybe she had known exactly what pitiful captive she was coming to inspect. "Thank you for looking after him. Everyone-this is Marcus! He's not as gormless as he looks. Well, not quite. Marcus and I are old, old friends."

I fought back feebly. "Who thought up the nom de guerre? Amazonia? Hello, Chloris."

She did blush. Someone else tittered, though quietly. I could sense their respect. She was clearly their leader-well, I would expect that; there was a time she could have led me through the flowery meadows all the way to Elysium.

"It's been a long time, Marcus darling," the girl I knew as Chloris greeted me, with a rapacious smile.

Then I felt the deep-down fear of a man who has just met an old girlfriend who he thought was just a memory-and who finds that she's still after him.

XXV

Well, well! This is such a treat!" She beamed. "Missed me?"

"Why; did I know you or something?" she joked.

"Never noticed that I'd gone," I riposted stalwartly.

"Oh, I left you, Marcus darling." If she wanted to think that, fair enough. "The person I was really leaving was your evil old mother."

"Now then, my mother's a wonderful woman, and she was extremely fond of you."

Chloris gazed at me. "I don't think so," she said, sounding dangerous. Here we go, I thought.

I had been led off to a private bower, strewn with very expensive animal skins. Mostly well crushed, I regret to say. Chloris had always liked plenty of places to loll. Whenever she dropped to a reclining position, her intention was not restful. This room had seen plenty of the action she loved, if I was any judge.

It was stunningly painted with much drama: dark red walls, punctuated with black details. If you dared to look closely, the illustrations featured violent myths where unhappy people were torn asunder or tied to wheels. These pictures were mostly tiny. I did not disturb myself too much by looking at the wildly plunging bulls and maddened victims; it was rash to take your eyes off Chloris. "What's happened to the teenager?"

"Run off again." At least Chloris was never a girl to engage in subterfuge. That was the trouble in the old days: she had always liked Ma to know exactly what was going on. My mother was shocked, since I wisely never told her anything.

"You let the girl leave?" I showed my annoyance. "Look, if any of you spot her again, will you haul her in, please? She's an urchin in trouble. Name's Albia. I don't want any harm to befall her."

"She will probably run straight back to the brothel, little idiot." Chloris was unfortunately right, I guessed. "What's your interest, Falco? Is she a witness in your case?"

"The drowned man?" I had not thought of it, though it was possible. Albia had scavenged around the Shower of Gold; she might well know something. "I never even asked her. No, my wife took her in."

"Your wife?" Chloris shrieked. "What-some poor bag finally moved in with you? Do I know her?" she demanded suspiciously.

"No." I was certain of that.

"What's she called?"

"Helena Justina."

"Helena is Greek. Is she a slave?"

"Only if her noble papa has been telling very big lies for twenty years. He's a senator. I went respectable."

I knew what kind of raucous reaction that would cause.

When Chloris stopped laughing, she wiped the tears from her eyes. Then she went off again, helplessly. "Oh, I just can't believe it!"

"Believe it," I ordered levelly.

My tone stopped the hysteria. "Don't go pompous on me, Marcus love."

I gave her a grin. It was fake. Just like a lot of things had been in our relationship. It would be tactless to say I was married now because once she had dumped me I had at last found my true love. Chloris, a demonstrative girl, would probably throw up.

"What about you? What's all this?" I asked.

"I knew how to use a sword." In her circus act Chloris had had them as balancers, when she was not waving parasols or feather fans. Males in the audience had liked the frisson of the swords, though most preferred the fans because it looked as if she wore nothing underneath. I happened to know-because she had told me-she wore leather undergarments to prevent rope burns anywhere sensitive. Her motto was: keep your equipment in good order. I expected she still followed that. "I wanted a change when I ditched you, darling. I took up fighting professionally. I knew the organizers already; they soon took me seriously. I'm good!"