She glanced up. Her expression was friendly. I gave her a nod, then without speaking went to the baths.

When I returned, still moving slowly but now refreshed, shaved and cleanly clad, the play must have been finished. Helena had dressed up more with agate earrings and two arm bracelets, in order to greet the master of her household with the formal respect that was appropriate in a well-run Roman home (unusual meekness, which proved she was aware she had better look out after pinching my job). She kissed my cheek, with the formality I mentioned, then went back to melting honey in a pan to make us a hot drink. There were fresh bread rolls, olives, and chickpea paste on a platter.

For a moment I stood watching her. She pretended not to notice. I loved to make her shy. 'One day, lady, you shall have a villa crammed with Egyptian carpets and fine Athenian vases, where marble fountains soothe your precious ears, and a hundred slaves are hanging about just waiting to do the dirty work when your disreputable lover staggers home.'

'I'll be bored. Eat something, Falco.'

'Done The Birds?

Helena shrieked like a herring-gull, confirming it.

Exercising caution I sat, ate a small quantity, and with the experience of an ex-soldier and hardened man about town, waited to see what would happen. 'Where's Musa?' I asked, to fill in time while my disturbed guts wondered what unpleasant tricks to throw at me.

'Gone to visit a temple.'

'Oh why's that?' I queried innocently.

'He's a priest,' said Helena.

I hid a smile, allowing them their secret over Shullay. 'Oh, it's religion? I thought he might be pursuing Byrria.'

After their night of whatever it was (or wasn't), Helena and I had surreptitiously watched for signs of romantic involvement. When the pair next met in public all they exchanged were sombre nods. Either the girl was an ungrateful hag, or our Musa was exceedingly slow.

Helena recognised what I was thinking, and smiled. Compared with this, our own relationship was as old and solid as Mount Olympus. Behind the two of us were a couple of years of furious squabbling, taking care of each other in crazy situations, and falling into bed whenever possible. She could recognise my step from three streets away; I could tell from a room's atmosphere if Helena had entered it for only half a minute several hours before. We knew each other so closely we hardly needed to communicate.

Musa and Byrria were a long way from this. They needed some fast action. They would never be more than polite strangers unless they got stuck in to some serious insults, a few complaints about table manners and a bit of light flirting. Musa had come back to sleeping in our tent; that would never achieve much for him.

Actually neither he nor Byrria seemed the type to want the kind of mutual dependency Helena and I had. That did not stop us from speculating avidly.

'Nothing can come of it,' Helena decided.

'People say that about us.'

'People know nothing then.' While I toyed with my breakfast, she tucked into her lunch. 'You and I will have to try to look after them, Marcus.'

'You speak as if falling for someone were a penalty.'

She flashed me a smile of joyous sweetness. 'Oh that depends who you fall for!' Something in the pit of my stomach took a familiar lurch; this time it had nothing to do with last night's drink. I grabbed more bread and adopted a tough stance. Helena smiled. 'Oh Marcus, I know you're a hopeless romantic, but be practical. They come from different worlds.'

'One of them could change cultures.'

'Who? They both have work they are closely tied to. Musa is taking an extended holiday with us, but it can't last. His life is in Petra.'

'You've been talking to him?'

'Yes. What do you make of him, Marcus?'

'Nothing particular. I like him. I like his personality.' That was all, however. I regarded him as a normal, fairly unexciting foreign priest.

'I get the impression that in Petra he is thought of as a boy with promise.'

'Is that what he says? It won't be for long,' I chortled. 'Not if he returns to the mountain fastness with a vibrant Roman actress on his elbow.' No priest who did that would stand a chance of acceptance, even in Rome. Temples are havens of sordid behaviour, but they do have some standards.

Helena grimaced. 'What makes you think Byrria would abandon her career to hang on any man's elbow?'

I reached out and tucked in a loose strand of hair – a good opportunity to tickle her neck. 'If Musa really is interested -and that's a debatable issue in itself- he probably only wants one night in her bed.'

'I was assuming', Helena asserted pompously, 'that was all Byrria would be offering! She's just lonely and desperate, and he's intriguingly different from the other men who try to nobble her.'

'Hmm. Is that what you thought when you nobbled me? I was remembering the night we had first managed to recognise we wanted each other. 'I've no objection to being thought intriguing, but I did hope that falling into bed with me was more than a desperate act!'

'Afraid not.' Helena knew how to aggravate me if I pushed my luck. 'I told myself, Once, just to know what passion feel like: The trouble was, once led straight to once again!'

'So long as you never start feeling it's been once too often: I held out my arms to her. 'I haven't kissed you this morning,'

'No you haven't!' exclaimed Helena in a changed tone, as if being kissed by me was an interesting proposition. I made sure I kissed her in a way that would re-enforce that view.

After a while she interrupted me: 'You can look through what I've done to The Birds if you like, and see if you approve.' Helena was a tactful scribe.

'Your revising is good enough for me.' I preferred to embark on extra kissing.

'Well my work may be wasted. There's a big question marl hanging over whether it can be performed.'

'Why's that?'

Helena sighed. 'Our orchestra has gone on strike.'

Chapter XXXVII

'Hey, hey! Things must be bad if they have to send the scribbler to sort us!'

My arrival amidst the orchestra and stagehands caused a surge of mocking applause. They lived in an enclave at one end of our camp. Fifteen or twenty musicians, scene-shifters and their hangers-on were sitting about looking militant while they waited for people in the main company to notice their complaint. Babies toddled about with sticky faces. A couple of dogs scratched their fleas. The angry atmosphere was making my own skin prickle uneasily.

'What's up?' I tried playing the simple, friendly type.

'Whatever you've been told.'

'I've been told nothing. I've been drunk in my tent. Even Helena has stopped talking to me.'

Still pretending not to notice the ominous tension, I squatted in the circle and grinned at them like a harmless sightseer. They glared back while I surveyed who was here.

Our orchestra consisted of Afrania the flautist, whose instrument was the single-piped tibia; another girl who played panpipes; a gnarled, hook-nosed old chap whom I had seen clashing a pair of small hand-cymbals with an incongruous delicacy; and a pale young man who plucked the lyre when he felt like it. They were led by a tall, thin, balding character who sometimes boomed away on a big double wind instrument that had one pipe turned up at the end, whilst he beat time for the others on a foot clacker. This was a large group, compared with some theatre-company ensembles, but allowed for the fact that the participants also danced, sold trays of limp sweetmeats, and offered entertainment afterwards to members of the audience.

Attached to them were the hard-labour boys, a set of small, bandy-legged stagehands whose wives were all hefty boot-faced wenches you wouldn't push in front of in a baker's queue. In contrast to the musicians, whose origins were varied and whose quarters had an artistic abandon, the scenery-movers were a closely related group, like bargees or tinkers. They lived in spotless tidiness; they had all been born to the roving life. Whenever we arrived at a new venue, they were the first to organise themselves. Their tents were lined up in straight rows with elaborate sanitary arrangements at one end, and they shared a huge iron broth cauldron that was stirred by a strict rota of cooks. I could see the cauldron now, breathing out coils of gravy steam that reminded me of my stomach's queasiness.