There was a large group. I didn't count them. About four or five from the pastry shop, followed by more streaming out of the library. I would have yelled for help, but out of the corner of my eye I noticed the pastry shop proprietor beetling off into the gymnasium.

`Stop right there!' It was worth a try. They did pause slightly.

`You Falco?'

`Certainly not.'

`He's lying.'

'Don't insult me. I'm Gambaronius Philodendronicus, a well-known gauze-pleater of these parts.'

`It's Falco!' Spot on.

This was clearly no genteel outing of philosophy students. These were rough. Street-stroppy. Unfamiliar faces with fighters' eyes, shedding menace like dandruff. I was stuck. I could run; they would catch me. I could make a stand; that was even more stupid. No weapons were visible, but they probably had them concealed under those dark clothes. They were built like men who could do a lot of harm without any help from equipment.

`What do you want?'

`You, if you're Falco.'

`Who sent you?'

`Florius.' They were smiling. It, wasn't pretty, or cheerful.

`Then you've' got the wrong man; you want Petronius Longus.' Naming him was my only chance. He was bigger than me, and there was a faint hope I could somehow warn him.

`We've seen Petronius already,' they sniggered. I went cold. After his night on watch at the Circus he would have been asleep alone at the office. When Petronius was dog-tired he slept like a stone. In the army we used to joke that wild bears could cat him from the feet up and he wouldn't notice until they were tickling him behind the ears.

I knew what kind of punishment squad this was. I had once seen a man who had been beaten up on the orders of Milvia's mother. He was dead when he was discovered. He must have hoped for an end to it long before he actually passed out. These heavies worked for that family; I had no reason to think Milvia's husband was any more scrupulous than her mother. Desperately I tried not to imagine Petro enduring an assault like that.

`Did you kill him?'

'That's for next time.' The terror tactic. Make it hurt, then give the victim days or weeks to think about death coming for him.

They were co-ordinated. The pack had spread; now they were creeping down on two sides to encircle me. I edged backwards slowly. The flight of steps from the gym was steep; I wanted them away from there. I glanced quickly behind me, ready for the off.

When they rushed me, I was looking at one, but I jumped another. Springing forward into the pack, I dived low, and hit him around the knees. It brought him down. I rolled over him and threw myself up a few steps. I got an arm around the neck of a different lump of muscle and bodily dragged him' with me back towards the gym, fighting to put him between me and some of the others. I clung on, using my feet to deter the rest as they weighed in. If they had had knives I would have been done for, but these lads were physical. They were stamping too. I was dodging furiously.

For a few moments I was heading for a short walk to Hades. I took some heavy blows and kicks, but then there was a racket from above us. Help at last.

I lost my man, but managed to squeeze his neck so hard I damn near killed him. As he crouched coughing at my feet I sent him down the steps with a flying kick. Someone behind me cheered raucously. Out came Glaucus, followed by a herd of his clients. Some had been weight-lifting; they were in loincloths with wristbands. Some had been at swordplay with Glaucus himself and were armed with-wooden practice swords -blunt, but good for vicious whacks. A couple' of generous souls had even left their baths. Naked and glistening with oil, they rushed out to help useless for grappling opponents, but themselves impossible to catch hold of. It added wildly to the confusion as we launched ourselves into a fierce streetfight

`I waste my time, Falco!' Glaucus snarled as we both worked over a couple of nut-headed thugs.

`Right! You haven't taught me anything useful-'

The clients at Glaucus' gym usually honed their bodies discreetly, hardly speaking to each other. We went there for exercise, cleanliness, and the fierce hands of the Cilician masseur, not chat. Now I saw a man who I happened to know was a rising barrister digging his fingers into someone's eyes as viciously as if he had been born in the Suburra slums., An engineer tried to break another thug's neck, clearly enjoying the experience. The prized masseur was keeping his hands out of trouble, but that did not prevent him from using his feet for wholly unacceptable purposes.

`How could you get- trapped right on the damned doorstep?' Glaucus grunted, fielding a punch then slamming in a rapid set, of four.

`They were holed up in your sweetmeat shop -'His man was out of it, so I threw him mine to hold while I battered him. `Must have had a complaint. I keep telling you the cinnamon mice are stale -'

`Behind!' I spun, in time to knee the next bastard as he leapt at me. `Talk less and watch your guard,' Glaucus advised.

I trapped a wrestler about to put a fatal lock on his neck. `Take your own orders,' I grinned. Glaucus screwed the grappler's nose around until it snapped. `Nice trick. Requires a calm temperament,' I smiled at the blood-stained victim. `And very strong hands.'

All down the street there was action. It was a friendly commercial alley. Pausing only to remove their goods from the danger zone, the shopkeepers had come out to help Glaucus, who was a popular neighbour. Passers-by who felt left out started throwing punches; if they were hopeless at that they lobbed apples instead. Dogs barked. Women hung out of upstairs windows, yelling a mixture, of encouragement and abuse, then emptied buckets of who knows-what on fighters heads for the fun of it. Washing was caught on the practice swords and came down, tangling around frantically tussling figures. Weightlifters were showing off their pectorals carrying horizontal human weights. A startled donkey skidded on the road, tipping wineskins off his back so that they burst and doused his furious driver, making a slippery patch on the paving which claimed several victims who crashed to the ground and were painfully trampled.

Then some idiot fetched the vigiles.

A whistle alerted us.

As the red tunics rushed into the alley, order reimposed itself in seconds. All they saw was a normal street scene. The Florius gang, with the skill of long practice, had melted away. Two feet stuck out from behind a barrel, of salt fish – evidently somebody sleeping it off. Something that looked like red tunic dye was being sluiced along with a bucket of water and swept down a drain by a girl who was loudly singing a rude song. Groups of men sized up fruit on stalls, making studied comparisons. Women leant out of windows adjusting pulleys on the drying lines above the alley. Dogs lay grinning on their backs and waggling their bodies madly as passers-by tickled their turns: I was pointing out to Glaucus how the gable on his bathhouse was capped by an excellent acroterion of truly classic design, while he thanked me for my generous praise of his fine Gorgon-featured antefix.

The sky was blue. The sun was hot. Two fellows walking up the steps of the gymnasium discussing the Senate had no clothes on for some reason, but otherwise there was nobody

the guardians of the law could arrest