Euboule was a boot-faced, belligerent old bag of bones in layers of green and blue, with a heavy antique necklace that looked like real gold. I wondered how she had acquired it. The granulated links lay on a skinny chest. There was so little meat on her it seemed unlikely she had ever been full of milk for other women's babies, but no doubt her daughter was fully endowed now.

She stood up to my questioning like a hardened criminal. If I had not known she was a nurse and foster-mother, I would have thought she kept a chop-house with an upstairs brothel, or one of those back alley bath houses that are famous for perverted masseurs. She seemed ready for me; expecting to be tackled; determined not to give.

Taken with the expensive carpets, I knew what it meant: Euboule and Zeuko were being paid for their silence. Whether the income was current or only in the past, I could not tell. But at some point in their history this pair had been paid a great deal.

My sense of foreboding deepened. I went to my banker for a rundown of my own assets; I was unimpressed. At least when I warned him I was done for, Nothokleptes scarcely blinked; he had heard this so often in my bachelor days. He would learn how serious it was now. A new villa at Neapolis was out, that was for sure.

It was another dreadful day, with thunder in the storms. Lightning flashed around the Forum as I made my way to the Basilica. Honorius must have persuaded Marponius to hold up the trial. Nothing was going on. Tomorrow we would have to come clean, though. I nearly decided to ask for a meeting with Paccius, but held off and went home to find out what the lads had turned up for us.

The Camillus brothers joined us that evening. Honorius was supposed to come too, though he never appeared.

Justinus had done a thorough job with the steward. He had learned that his name was Celadus. Now we had a written transcript of the story about Saffia's quails, plus further details about how Rubirius Metellus had begun feeling ill shortly after he ate them. Celadus had seen Metellus go out into the garden, gasping that he needed air. The steward then confirmed the sequence I had previously worked out: Calpurnia found her husband helpless and dying; she herself fetched a quilt for him; then when he passed away she hid the body. Negrinus was away in Lanuvium. Celadus thought he had gone to explain to Julius Alexander that Metellus had decided not to kill himself. When Negrinus returned to Rome, Calpurnia brought the body into the house and faked the scene of suicide.

`After Calpurnia was accused of the crime – come to that, when her daughter was accused first – why didn't the steward declare what he knew about the quails?'

Justinus pulled a face. `Greed, Marcus.'

`Greed?'

`He was planning to blackmail Saffia.'

`Dear gods, everyone was at it! That explains why the family never produced this as a rebuttal. They guessed hemlock was to blame – but they had no idea where it came from.'

`If Celadus hadn't started drinking yesterday, he might never have coughed.' Justinus sympathised with the man in some ways. `He's a freedman, from a family who have lost all their money. He has no expectations, unless he creates them for himself. But Saffia's dead. And then he heard that you had done a stonking job in court, Marcus.'

I laughed bitterly. `So Celadus thinks his mistress is for the lions – and since silence no longer holds a profit for him, he finds he's loyal enough to save her!'

Still, it was only one man's word. We could behave like true informers: since it spoiled our case, we could hide this. The silver dish on which the quails arrived would have been long ago washed up. Nobody else knew it ever arrived from Saffia. If we chose to press on with the Calpurnia case then discrediting a freedman who had kept quiet for so long would be easy; we could discount Celadus and his evidence. But in this miserable week, I guessed that now we were looking for it, corroboration would be found. The steward's evidence would stand. Anyway, we all had consciences.

Aelianus, meanwhile, had contacted some other funeral comedians who were subcontracted to Tiasus. They could not say what the secretive Spindex had discovered about the Metelli, but they did know the name of the informer – and drinking partner – with whom Spindex had often worked. His source when he needed dirt on senators was called Bratta.

Well, that fitted. That was neat as a nut. At once I sent word to Petronius that Bratta was implicated in the Spindex killing; Petro issued my description and an arrest warrant. Not that I expected a result. The vigiles are ex-slaves, most of whom cannot read. The description would be recited to them, if we were lucky. They would nod wisely. Perhaps some would remember. Generally they have too much to do bashing in the heads of villains they met last night to worry about somebody who might have killed somebody else on a different night six months ago.

To gear them up, we had to prove a link. But Bratta was a professional. He had left no clues. Mind you, even if he had left evidence all over the clown's apartment, and if a witness on the spot had seen him strangling Spindex, Paccius Africanus would get him off.

`Anything else?' I asked Helena. She was our duty officer. I was too depressed to think.

`Only that my father wants to help with your impiety charge. After I talked to him, he went to see someone.'

`He's a gem – but I can't deal with that at present.'

`You can't dodge out of it, Marcus. Just as well Papa is trying to look after you!'

We were due in court on the Calpurnia case next morning. It was unavoidable. I had wanted to debate tactics with Honorius, but he had never showed up. I was about to find out why. Before the morning session started, I made an attempt to nudge things our way. It was doomed, but I had nothing to lose. I took myself for an early stroll at the Basilica Paulli, looking for Paccius and Silius. Ever optimistic, I was hoping to fix up some plea bargaining.

LIII

FOUND THE two elder statesmen sharing their usual friendly cake and tisane. Honorius was with them. Maybe he too wanted to sort out something helpful for Falco and Associates. Who was I fooling? Our colleague was here to protect his own interests.

Nobody seemed surprised to see me. Silius, that manoeuvring overfed blob, used his foot to hook over a seat from another table. Although not part of our case, he stayed on, looking a misery as usual. I seated myself. Paccius, ever restrained in society, moved their plate of almond fancies slightly; I declined. All their togas were piled in a heap together on another bench. I kept mine folded on my knees. I needed the warmth. It was a cold day and I was in company that chilled me.

Here we sat, among the fine Doric columns of black and red marble in the Porticus of Gaius and Lucius, named for the grandsons of Augustus, lost golden boys whose early deaths symbolised dashed hopes. We occupied a peaceful corner outside the shops, close to one of the staircases that took people up from this gracious porch-like frontage to the richly ornate upper gallery of the Basilica Paulli. This was sophisticated living. Or it should have been. But I was doing business with men who lacked all honour, faith and decency.

I gazed at Honorius. Never had his well-shaved handsome young visage seemed so objectionable. `I take it we have lost your fine presence from our team, Honorius?'

He knew I meant he had stuffed us.

`I am sorry, Falco.' If he was abashed, his regret was cursory. `It seems best to go back to Silius.'

The idealist had turned realist and I told him not to apologise. It was Metellus Negrinus who took Honorius on. I had known what he was from the start. Privately, my concern now was what he had told his two manipulating masters. He was bound to have told them something; it would be the price of their welcome home to the wanderer.