'Transtib and Circus Ham,' said Fusculus. 'What a hotchpotch – the immigrant quarter over the river, and all the public monuments around the Field of Mars. Includes,' he said, gently tapping his pug nose, 'the Saepta Julia.' 'Right! Justinus was last seen at the Saepta.' 'You have a fit then. The Seventh are indignant that a man was lifted from their patch. You know we're all taking strop from the bloody Praetorians? Pushing their way in all over the shop -' 'Hunting my barbarian.' 'So that's why they're at it!' He gave me a look. I didn't react. I was used to taking blame for other people's messes. 'Well, they hijacked a mark who could be Justinus two days ago, as you say, in the Saepta. The Seventh think the Guards must have been following him. They let him carry out his business and he seemed to be heading homeward. They jumped him just by the exit next to the Pantheon, and had him away like a flea up a barmaid's skirt.' 'Was he doing something the Palace grandees objected to?' 'Nothing at all, I heard.' 'No official explanation then?' 'Nobody asked them. Would you do it?' I tried to look like a hero. 'If I suspected a miscarriage of justice, I might politely enquire.'

'Nuts, Falco! The Guards dragged him off, no questions asked. The Seventh keep a finger-man permanently at the Saepta, and he saw it all. Happened in the proverbial flash. Most people noticed nothing. For the Guards,' admitted Fusculus grudgingly, 'it was professional… Mind you, your fellow dropped his arm-purse in the scuffle. Now I know who he was, I wonder if he dropped it non-accidentally.' 'A signal? Who has it?' 'The Seventh's nark. Name of Victor. You'll find him most days lurking in the Saepta, not looking inconspicuous… Or just ask anybody there to point to him. They all know Victor. As an undercover operative, he's rubbish. Bloody Seventh! Incompetent whosits.'

Fusculus was enjoying himself, insulting his rivals. I felt more benign towards them. The Seventh Cohort (Transtiberina and Circus Flaminius) might not meet the exclusive professional standards of the glorious Fourth (Aventine and Piscina Publica), but so far they were the only people who had given me a lead. 'Were all those words ones I need to learn to be a Roman?' Albia asked, as we walked home. She had waited a while before she spoke, aware that I was glumly lost in thought. The streets were dark and fairly quiet now; I was watching out for trouble, as I always did, but that only accounted for half of my preoccupied air. 'Definitely not, Albia. You don't want people thinking you are eccentric. ' There was a pause. 'Is Fusculus eccentric?' 'Not him. Rock-solid character.' 'What about you?' 'I'm a total grozzle.' Another pause. 'Oh no, Marcus Didius. I'd say you're a woozIer!' Albia decided forcefully. '… So are they real words?' 'Words are real if other people think they understand their meaning. ' 'What do those words mean then, Marcus Didius?' 'Albia, I have no idea.' We walked along in silence for a while. The Aventine is packed with temples. We had come past the great dominating bulk of Diana on the Aventine, high on the main part of the hill, and were heading down via Minerva, Liberty and Juno the Queen. As we then jumped down the Stairs of Cassius with Flora, Luna and Ceres away on our right, we were almost on the Embankment, by the Probus Bridge. Nearly home. Before it was too late, Albia asked her real question: 'So will you have to ask the Praetorian Guard why they arrested Quintus?' 'I shall ask, certainly. But not the Guard.' The girl waited. When she got tired of that she demanded, 'Ask who, then?' 'The man who gave them their orders. But I won't tell you who. You don't need to know.'

For another short moment Albia was silent. She was a bright young woman, my foster-daughter from Britain. There were many things I had never explained or discussed with her, yet she had picked them up from fragments of conversation, almost from facts that Helena and I had left unsaid.

We walked maybe another five paces, sauntering to accommodate the pace of Nux, who had to sniff every inch of the pavement. Finally, Albia stated quietly, 'Anacrites!'

Then Nux stopped dead; she looked up at us both, with her ears right back, and growled faintly. Even my dog loathed to hear the name of the Chief Spy.

XIX

I suppose it is possible that someone, some well-meaning woman with an exceptionally soft heart, for instance, might wish that the Fates could provide Anacrites with a happy life. A freedman now, he must have been born in slavery – though to me, the concept of normal birth and Anacrites was a contradiction. I'd say he was dragged howling from the belly of a sea monster, one of those horrors and portents that are regularly catalogued in the Daily Gazette for the delighted terror of the squeamish. It was just too upsetting to think that around about the time when that maniac emperor Caligula was sleeping with his sisters, some poor little pasty-faced seamstress in the imperial household had been forced to endure birth pangs, only to find she had inflicted Anacrites on the suffering world. Now his mother had gone wherever old palace retainers go, remembered only perhaps by a bleak memorial slab. Jupiter knows who his father was. Such records are rarely kept for slaves.

He could have been happy. If contentment had been in his nature – instead of the restless, seething envy that kept him fidgeting – Anacrites could have relaxed and enjoyed his achievements. He now held a respected high office under an emperor who seemed likely to last; he was flourishing. People will shower presents on a Chief Spy (being bribed by members of the public is one way a spy can identify who has something to hide). He owned a villa on the Bay of Neapolis that I knew of; and probably more real estate elsewhere. I had once heard that he had a lavish place on the Palatine, an old republican mansion that came with his job, though he never invited anybody there. That might have to be handed back one day, but he must have invested personally in property in Rome. How much movable treasure he had salted away was anybody's guess. I was sure it existed. He had advised my mother on investing her savings, so he knew about banking – though he did not know enough, for he had nearly afflicted her with fatal losses when the Golden Horse Bank crashed so spectacularly two years ago. Ma had escaped disaster, although that was through her own nous and bloody-mindedness, not a result of tips from him; perversely, she still believed he was a financial marvel. Or so she said. I sometimes wondered if she saw through him after all.

Anyway. A good Roman has a generous nature, so I concede that he may have had a fan club. It did not include me.

What I knew of Anacrites was that he couldn't run a harvest picnic, yet some idiot had placed him in full charge of spying in Rome. He also meddled in global intelligence. He and I had once worked together successfully, on a tax-collecting exercise in connection with the Great Census. Apart from that, he had several times deliberately put me in a position where I was nearly killed. He had terrorised my sister. He had attached himself to Ma and clung on, like a repulsive parasitic leech with a mouthful of needle teeth. When Helena was being charitable, she said he was jealous of me for my talent and for the life I led; when she was honest, she admitted he was dangerous.

He also had a secret that could damn him. I kept his secret, so far avoiding blackmail. Sifting the dirt is informers' work – but we don't always sell our nuggets straight away. I was saving up for a real emergency. Now Anacrites had Justinus, but I would aim for a solution without cashing in my precious information. One day Anacrites and I were going head to head; I knew that as well as I knew I was right-handed. The fatal day had not yet come. When it did, I would need everything I had on him.