'At least "the day I killed the soldier" should keep your grandchildren enthralled! And here's another excitement: this is going to be the night when you give me a proper shave.'

'You going out?'

'No. Staying in.'

He had rolled to his feet and was unpacking his gear, though mildly unimpressed by the bonanza I was offering. Wine at dinner had calmed him down to the point of utter silliness. 'Has a brush with death made you vow to dedicate your stubble to the gods in an alabaster pyx, Falco? I'm not sure they make vases big enough!' I let him sit me down and envelop me in a fine cambric wrap, but I ignored the joshing. 'What does sir prefer-depilatory liniment? I use a nice white vine paste. I never recommend my gentlemen to try the weird stuff like bat's blood-' He was enjoying himself more than I reckoned to tolerate.

'A razor will do.' Superstition made me hope he would change to a different blade from the one that he had used earlier.

'Sure? I can do you ground pumice or individual tweezing just as easily. My word, you've been neglecting yourself. It's probably best to try and burn this off with bitumen!' I think the last one was a joke.

'Whatever will have the smoothest result. And I want a haircut as well-but leave some curl. Just trim off the worst shagginess:' Xanthus put an engraved copper mirror into my hand, like somebody keeping a baby quiet with a rattle. I carried on describing what I wanted, even though I knew barbers never listen. A private informer needs to possess some stubbornness.

'Jupiter, Falco! Who are you trying to impress?'

'Mind your own business.'

'Oh!' Xanthus spat on his whetstone. ' Oh, I see!' Even he caught on eventually. His normal eagerness to please turned into the ribaldry I met everywhere on this subject: 'You'll have your work cut out there!' Quite often that was Helena Justina's line too, I remembered pessimistically. 'This calls for my Norican steel:'

I wanted the best, so was unable to quibble. But I felt pretty sure that the Norican steel was what he had used to cut my attacker's throat.

To his credit, he made the best of the unpromising material I had placed at his disposal. I had never been shaved so closely, nor with so little discomfort, and even the haircut just about fitted the style of subdued dishevelment with which I felt most at home. After years of delicately gauging the wishes of emperors, Xanthus could judge his client as nicely as you'd expect in a barber who would be sent to the public strangler if he snipped a wrong curl.

As it turned out, he might have spared himself the trouble. Still, I dare say it was not the first time he had spent hours preparing someone for an assignation that flopped.

With a stinging chin and in a fug of disconcerting unguents, I quietly admitted myself to what I knew was the best guest-bedroom. I kept telling myself that everything would be all right once I had cornered Helena on her own and treated her to my adoring attentions. I could hardly wait to see her. I had a fairly pressing need to reestablish normal relationships.

No such luck. There was a taper, but the large room lay half in darkness. I stood for a moment, adjusting to the dim light and trying to think up a suave line of conversation if my beloved was reclining on swansdown and reading a light ode or two while she waited impatiently for me: No point: there was no Helena. The high bed with its tortoiseshell frame, fringed coverlet and engagingly carved footstool stood empty. Instead, a small hunched figure lay snoring on a lower couch-presumably a slavegirl she had brought to look after her.

So much for me! No chance of a passionate reunion with a servant looking on! I could remember when she never let a slave stay in her room at night if I was in the vicinity.

I stepped back. Closing the door, my pent-up emotion gripped me. She must have known I would come. She must be keeping out of the way deliberately. Chatting with Justinus. Frightening that simple soul with her tales of broken wheels and brigands. Chewing over family business. Putting his career to rights. Anything that would avoid having to face me, angry at the way she had disappeared from Rome, yet badly wanting to go to bed with her.

I decided to take my outrageously barbered person out on the town and get as drunk as possible.

Indignation carried me as far as the front door. Then I remembered that Moguntiacum had small-town, small-minded habits. There was nowhere open for entertainment, except for the usual places too sordid to contemplate. Besides, the prospect of trying to work tomorrow with a head like a sack of oatmeal after a night gossiping inanely with some drab in a tavern when I had hoped to spend it with Helena, became too hard to bear. I sat in the tribune's garden for a while, feeling miserable, but Justinus was no devotee of landscape and it was a poor spot to sulk in. His dog found me and climbed alongside on the seat to chew at my tunic hem, but even the bench had damp moss on it and he soon jumped down and snuffled off into the darkness. I too slunk away to my room.

I had my back to the door. I had just pulled off my tunic (a clean one; too good for sleeping in) when someone came in.

'As nice a view of a nude wood sprite's back as I ever had the privilege to glimpse!'

Helena.

Having been attacked once that day, I spun round jumpily. Helena's warm appraising eyes were smiling as I lowered my handful of tunic in an attempt at decency. Her smile always had an irresistible effect on me.

'This is a private room, lady.'

'Good!' she said. I could feel my face colouring, but applied a scornful expression; it only encouraged her. 'Hello, Marcus.' I said nothing. 'I thought you wanted to see me?'

'What gave you that idea?'

'A strong scent of lotions in my room.' She sniffed. I cursed Xanthus. He had doused me in pomade until a bloodhound could have tracked me all the way from the Gallic Strait to Cappadocia.

Helena tipped her head to one side, watching me. She was leaning on the door behind her, as if to stop me escaping. My jaw set. 'How's Titus?'

'How should I know?'

'So what brings a stylish young lady to this wilderness?'

'Someone I follow about.' Helena had the knack of making her most illogical action sound like a rational response to some crazy slight from me.

'You left me!' I accused her, in a low tone.

'And how was Veii?' Her well-bred voice had a sarcastic note that dried my mouth like grape skins.

'Veii's a dump.' Suddenly, for no obvious reason, I felt tired.

'Are the widows attractive?' As I expected, it sounded like fighting talk. Now I knew why I felt defeated.

'Some of them think so.'

'I was talking to one,' Helena said crisply. 'She implied that your trip to Veii was a wild success.'

'The widow's a liar.'

Helena looked at me. She and I were friends for a good reason: we knew one another well enough to be able to pick a resounding fight, yet we both knew how to appeal for a truce. 'That's what I tell myself,' she answered quietly. 'But why, Marcus?'

'Jealous that I refused her and went home to you. What were you doing in Veii?'

'Trying to find you.'

Somewhere between us the quarrel died. 'You've found me now,' I said.

Helena Justina came across the room. She had a purposeful air I was not quite ready for, though I would be. 'What's on your mind, lady?'

'Nothing you won't like:' She tugged the tunic from my hand.

For pride's sake I tried to bluff it out: 'I warn you, I hate forward women-'

'Wrong. You like a girl who looks as if she knows exactly what you're thinking, and doesn't care:'

All the same, uncertainty flickered. She stepped back. I stepped after her.