I knew they would batter me, but they had urgent business first. I lost my cloak, tunic, purse and belt before I had time to curl up and struggle. I kicked out – and that made them kick me. But my assailants were so intent on robbing me, it saved me from more serious damage. Those who did stamp or hit were hampered by others, struggling to drag the clothes off me and fighting one another for these treasures. Somebody pulled up my left arm in the air, wrenching painfully at the plain gold ring Helena bought me when I was raised to the middle classes. I clenched my fist and landed a left hook on a face. People swarmed on my legs, trying to unstrap my boots. I bucked hopelessly and twisted like a netted fish.

Abruptly the situation changed. Shouts came out of what was now darkness, over where the road must be. The whole crowd let go of me and ran, not to escape, but downhill towards the newcomers. Shrieking, they swooped off in one excited flock, like sightseers who heard a parade coming. Whoever had shouted could be heard hurriedly riding away.

The moment I was left alone, I dragged myself upright and hobbled away from the clearing on trembling legs, with my unfastened boots flapping. There was no chance of catching up with Clemens and Sentius, or whoever had been on the road. But I hoped somehow to escape. If the runaways caught me again, I faced a fatal beating.

I was alone now in this wild place. I stumbled to the road. There were no mausoleums near me. When I heard the vagrants swarming back towards me, I had only one option. I flattened myself in a shallow drainage ditch. My heart was pounding. Although it was now dark, with the complete blackness that envelops open country, I still felt convinced they would be able to see me here. Like wild creatures, they could probably sense their prey at night.

Any moment they would find me and attack me. I would die in this ditch. I thought of my children. I thought briefly of Helena, though she was always with me anyway. I hid in the ditch, wondering how long death would take.

XXVI

I was so certain of discovery, I nearly leapt to my feet and prepared to go down fighting. But the vagrants astonished me. They shuffled past on the road, in ones and twos, obviously now all hobbling into Rome. It was their normal nightly migration. I had been sure I faced trauma and terror, but they had the attention span of sparrows. Starvation and drink had frayed their brains. Once I moved out of their vision, they had forgotten me.

For a long while, I lay still. One last follower came along, running in odd starts, then pausing and muttering to himself His language was vile. He was full of hate; it was unclear why. Obscenities poured from him fluidly and so profusely they became meaningless. It was the man with the flute. He began to play his only note, over and over. I waited with my eyes closed, feeling that his monotonous serenade was aimed directly at me. I supposed I could deal with a single opponent if I had to fight him, but the energy he put into cursing, and then blowing, was fierce.

I thought of that other flautist: the terrified young boy who discovered the body at the Quadrumatus house, the musician who would never raise his tibia to his lips again. Slaves don't only run from beatings. The flautist was well treated there, yet a fright like that could yet make him flee from home as the vagrants here had done; he was too fragile to last in this environment. I hoped he stayed whimpering in his cell. Silence descended. Chilled and light-headed, after a terrible day with neither food nor drink, I ventured to sit up and with clumsy fingers strapped my boots properly. I felt stiff when I stood upright, but I was otherwise mobile and tree. Tentatively, I set off walking. Soon I stopped taking care, but walked at a steady pace along the Via Appia. Occasionally I misplaced the road in the dark and meandered off the edge of the paving, but on the whole I found the solid surface and by now the winter stars were faint above me, telling me the way to Rome.

Eventually I thought I saw firelight. I would have made a detour to avoid a confrontation, but two things stopped me. By the light of the flames, I could see that whoever was having a picnic had set up their cauldron right next to the donkey I had left behind; he was still tethered exactly where I had positioned him as a marker for Clemens and Sentius. At this time of night on an open road any presence worried me. But I could hear women's voices, so I took a risk.

Any thought of controlling the situation collapsed as I reached the bonfire party. One of the figures seated on the ground reached out, threw something on the blaze, then the flames shot up several feet higher, turning a curious metallic shade of green. Dear gods. I had now stumbled across a pair of practising witches.

Too late. They had spied me and were calling out a cheery greeting; escape was impossible. I didn't believe in witches, but I knew how they operated. If I ran for it, they would change shape at once and soar after me on huge black wings, talons at the ready… I despised such lore, but by this stage I was so light-headed I was not prepared to test the truth of it.

Well done, Falco. Up to your best standard. I just hoped the worst the old mothers were up to out here was collecting herbs. Somehow I thought otherwise. Cuddled between them, this quaintly dressed couple had what was quite obviously a bucket of old bones. The spell-mixing hags were wizened and wrinkled, though after the violence of the runaways they seemed less threatening. I apologised for disturbing them; I admitted I was unsure of coven etiquette. The old women were at once sociable and welcoming. 'Sit down! Have a bite.'

Although I was starving, nothing would make me accept a ladleful from their battered cauldron. Human ears and the testicles of unhygienic animals were not my favourite cuisine. But I sat down with them – rather abruptly; I was about to collapse. 'I'm fine, thanks. The name's Falco, by the way. I'm a private informer. What do I call you ladies?'

'Our real names, or our professional ones?' Without waiting for an answer they owned up to Dora and Delia. I didn't ask whether those decent Greek appellations were their working pseudonyms. 'We are witches,' one boasted proudly. 'He's not an idiot, Delia. He can tell that by our equipment.' The enormous battered spoon with which they were stirring their thick black mixture was tied with a fillet of purple ribbon. Lying on the ground in the firelight I could see feathers and odd wisps of wool. A wooden figure boded ill for someone. A tiny model clay puppy, with a squelchy substance stuffed in each hollow eye socket, seemed destined for the magic broth. They had a metal disk, which bore symbols I preferred not to have deciphered. Dora was clutching a square bag made of old sacking, in which I had no doubt she kept offensive ingredients. I forced myself to look impressed. 'Shouldn't there be three of you?' 'Daphne couldn't come out. She had to mind her grandchildren.' 'And what's in the pot?' I quavered.

'Dung and little piggies' do-dahs mainly. Marinaded for seven nights. Beetles and blood. A pinch of lizard never does any harm. We like to use a lot of mandrake root. You have to grind it very fresh. Pulling it up by moonlight can be a bit of a fiddle, but once you get the knack, it's worth it on results.' 'Scorpion? Mare's urine? Toads?' I quavered. 'Oh yes. You can get a good smear up with toad-spawn.' The Emperor Augustus, that spoilsport busybody, had tried to eliminate witchcraft. Unusually, his method was to persuade court poets to portray witches behaving horrendously. Legislation by literature. Organisation by ode. Those imperial creeps, Horace and Virgil, both rushed to suck up to their emperor. Horace wrote a revolting poem about a boy who was buried up to his neck in the ground by filthy witches, beside a bowl of food he could not reach, and starved to death so his enlarged liver could be used in a love potion. 'Got a girlfriend? We can knock you up a quick philtre while our main brew simmers,' Dora offered. 'I don't go in for love potions. Why lure lovers by secret spells? I prefer women who fling themselves upon me out of heartfelt lust…' 'Get a lot of that, do you?' sneered Delia, though her sarcasm was mild. Something moved close by and I started.