At least his tail flew out at a jaunty angle that I rather liked. He was so bad I was starting to wish I had bet on him out of loser's sympathy.

By the sixth lap, Ferox was challenging strongly in second place. Still.

Little Sweetheart had just realized the horse immediately in front of him now was the white sock who had jostled him at the start, so he redeemed himself by passing it; he got a bit close but fiddled through all right. This time Titus refrained from comment. Sixth place in a field of seven (following a collision, there was a loose horse, a daft ginger thing, now); nothing to raise a shout about. Especially with only a lap and a half to go.

The roar of the crowd was increasing. I saw the Sweetheart twitch his ears. Out at the front things were starting to happen. A muddy grey in third place had been running on his own for so long he nearly went to sleep. A spotted nag no one had given a thought to made a temporary challenge, causing Ferox to increase his stride, though he kept his favourite position at the big Mauretanian's shoulder. My palms were wet. Ferox was second: he would be second in every race he ever ran.

Everything I ever did in life seemed to go wrong. Nothing I ever wanted seemed attainable. Who said that?… Helena. Helena, when she thought that I had left her, and knew that she was going to have our child… I needed her so badly I almost spoke her name. (I might have done it, but Titus Caesar had always looked at Helena in a speculative way that worried me.)

The field was well strung out now. There was a good twenty lengths between first and last as they went past the judges for the sixth time. The spectators were cheering Ferox, all certain he would sprint for it on the final lap. As the front runners rounded the posts I knew in my bones he never would.

They were half-way down on the far side from the judges-little more than half a lap to go-when I and most of Rome discovered something new: my horse, Little Sweetheart, could run as if his mother had conceived him in a conjunction with the wind.

They were running towards us. He was wide, so even with the rest of the field in front of him I saw his mustard nose lift. When he started his run, it was unbelievable. The jockey never used his whip; he just sat tight while that fool of a horse decided it was time to go-and went. The crowd opened their hearts to him, though most were losing money with every stride. He was the permanent tailender, the endless no-hoper-yet he streaked past the field as though he was just going for a rollick in the sun.

Ferox came second. Little Sweetheart won. He was leading at the finish by three lengths.

Titus Caesar clapped me on the shoulders. 'Falco! What a wonderful race! You must be extremely proud!'

I told him I was feeling extremely poor.

•

It took me hours to get away.

Titus rewarded my jockey with a heavy purse of gold. I had a present too, but mine was a fish: Titus promised me a turbot.

'I know you're a trencherman-' He paused, with polite anxiety. 'But will your cook know what to do with it?'

'Oh, the cook can visit his auntie!' I assured him blithely. 'I always attend to my turbots for myself…'

In Caraway Sauce.

Two people made a killing. One was Titus Caesar, who could reliably expect that as the elder son of a great Emperor he would find himself a favourite with the gods. The other, for which I shall never forgive him, was my pernicious, devious, close-mouthed, horse-doctoring brother-in-law Famia.

They had a big family party, the rest of them. I had to endure it, knowing this would be the one night of my life when other people would be glad to buy my wine for me, but I needed a clear head. All I can remember of the ghastly entertainment is Famia carousing, and my three-year-old niece playing with Tullia's useless gift to me of the Pertinax betting tokens… Marcia, spreading the sad little bone disks all around her on the floor while people ineffectually told her to stop eating them.

•

As soon as I could I went to see Gordianus. He had little to add to what I already knew about events on the Quirinal yesterday-but I had news for him.

'Sir, a Transtiberina barmaid will be bringing you a document later this evening. It has to have an alteration made to it first.'

'What is it?'

'A marriage contract. Coming to you from the bridegroom. He thinks his bride has asked to inspect it, prior to the formalities. Tomorrow you and I have an appointment with Atius Pertinax.'

'How's that, Falco?'

'We are arranging his wedding,' I said.

The day we married Atius Pertinax was refreshingly clear, after rattling rainshowers in the night.

My first task was to nip down to the Cattle Market Forum to buy a sheep. The cheapest I could get which would be acceptable to the five gods of matrimony was a little mottled fellow, who looked perfect enough for the purposes of religion, though a puny sort of lamb if we had wanted a pot roast in red wine sauce. However, we would not be needing the gods to remember our sacrifice gratefully for long.

Next a rancid garlandseller at the Temple of Castor shucked off some tired wreaths onto me. My sister Maia loaned us her wedding veil. Maia had worked the looms at a cloakmaker's before she married; the weaver had had a soft spot for our Maia so her saffron veil was a distinctly superior length of cloth. Maia lent it out to poor girls on the Aventine; it had done duty at many an unstable coupling before it adorned the Pertinax bash. My mother would have baked us a must cake, but I left my mother out of this.

When I met up with Gordianus, leading my woolly contribution, he joked, 'I hope you see today as a rehearsal for a wedding of your own!'

The sheep, who was on my side, let out a sickly bleat.

•

We met Tullia in the Forum of Julius, on the steps of the Temple of Venus Genetrix.

'Will he come?' demanded the priest excitably.

'He was in the wineshop last night, looking for me. My mother gave him the message and collected the contract off him; she thought he believed her…'

'If he fails to show,' I said calmly, 'we all go home.'

'We could lose him,' grumbled Gordianus, worrying as usual, 'if he hears that his father has remarried anyway!'

'Aemilia Fausta promised me her marriage would not be publicly announced,' I reassured him. 'Don't worry until we have to. Let's go!'

Sunlight glanced on the golden roofs of the Capitol as we all left the Forum and turned north. It was a small bridal party, as we had promised Pertinax: the bride, the priest, the priest's assistant with his box of secret implements, and a very large flautist tweedling a tiny flute. The priest's assistant was in military boots, but was hardly the first callow youth who had followed his religious calling unsuitably shod.

We left the flautist (Milo) on guard outside. Admitting our meagre procession, the door porter peered closely at the assistant priest (me-heavily veiled for 'religious purposes'); I gave him the price of a good dinner and warned him to lose himself. As he left he announced that the bridegroom had already arrived. He could have been arrested at once but we still had to go through with the wedding; I had promised the bride.

Atius Pertinax, alias Barnabas, stood in the atrium. He had honoured the occasion by coming clean-shaven in a toga, but instead of a bridegroom's air of worried ecstasy he had his normal surly face. He looked slightly ill when he saw Gordianus, but probably the fact of his talking to Helena outside the house that day confirmed the explanation Gordianus grimly gave: 'I would prefer to have no part in your affairs, Pertinax-but I have known the lady many years and she begged me to officiate.'