`Certainly not. I did want to try that other house where a child is supposed to have been taken.'

`No luck yesterday?'

`I was told the woman was not at home.' `True, or a fable?'

`I couldn't tell. Since they were being polite they implied I could try another time, so I shall make sure I do.' She looked thoughtful. `Marcus, when the amulet was left there, I found myself thinking about the skip baby. Remember, he had a broken thread around his neck. Maybe it's a kidnap victim too. These people I haven't managed to see yet were supposed to have lost a baby. It was reported by the child's nurse. Maybe they will listen to me if I can tell them he's been found.'

Suddenly I experienced a huge pang of regret that she and I were not working together. I reached for her hands. `Would it help if I came with you?'

`I should say not.' Helena smiled at me. `With due respect,

Marcus, at the house in question an informer would be someone to eject. I'm trying to cross the private bastions of a very important magistrate.'

A thought struck me. `What's his name?'

Helena told me. My lawyers advise me not to mention it; I don't want a libel action. Besides, men like that get enough publicity.

I laughed throatily. `Well, if you can use the information, I last saw the most excellent personage in question having his fancy tickled by a high-class prostitute.'

She looked worried, and then perhaps offended. One of the reasons I had always loved her so dearly was that Helena Justina was absolutely straight. The idea of blackmailing a man who was entitled to wear the purple toga to show his distinction would never cross her mind.

`Which brothel was it, Marcus?'

`I promise I've only been in one you know about – Plato's Academy.'

`That's interesting,' said Helena. She was trying to make it significant.

I knew that game. I had been in the enquiry business longer than she had. I let her dream.

LI

MENTIONING PLATO'S HAD given me an idea.

Reluctant to work on my own if it proved unnecessary, I did take myself first to the Thirteenth district patrol house to see if Petro would acknowledge me. Neither he nor any of his team were there. When I tried to go in, a couple of fire-fighters appeared. They seemed not to know about my job tracing grafters, but someone had ordered them not to admit me. I tried to look unimpressed by their surly behaviour, though I confess it shook me.

I realised afterwards that Petronius and his men would be attending the funeral of Linus. The patrolmen must have thought it odd that I had not gone myself.

Had Petro and I not quarrelled I would have paid my own respects. It seemed better to avoid causing trouble, so I honoured the dead man privately. He was young and had seemed straightforward. He deserved a better fate.

I walked down to the Circus, made my way to Plato's, and with more skill than I had applied at the patrol house, I talked my way inside. An expert informer is not easily thrown. I even managed to get myself taken straight to see Lalage.

It was still early morning and not much seemed to be happening. The brothel was in a lethargic mood. Just a few local clients indulging on their way to their employment, and at the time I arrived, mostly leaving. The corridors were empty; it could have been a lodging house, except that at certain points stood mounds of wilting garlands or neatly stacked empty amphorae waiting to be taken out. There was some general cleaning with mops and sponges going on, but quietly. The night shift needed their sleep, presumably.

Lalage herself must have been snatching a rest between clients. Since a prostitute works on her back – well, often horizontally – Lalage's idea of a rest was not to relax on a reading couch with a Virgilian eclogue, but to climb up steps and replenish the oil in a large icon ceiling light.

`I know,' I grinned. `You can't trust slaves to do anything.'

`Slaves here have other duties, with my customers.' She swayed slightly, nearly going off balance as she tilted her jug against the last lamp. The effect was decorously erotic, though probably unintentional. I stepped closer and prepared to place a steadying hand on her backside, though when she managed to remain upright modesty stayed my helpful paw. `You're Falco, aren't you?'

`Fame at last.'

`Notoriety,' she answered. Something in her manner told me this might be the kind of notoriety I could do without.

`In the wrong quarters? I had a visit from the Miller and Little Icarus. Do you know that pair?'

`Nasty. I barred them.'

`I'm not surprised… I've seen your respectable clients…'She did not react. It would take a determined niggler to worry Lalage. `My two visitors came to threaten me. Obviously my name is being mentioned in rougher circles than I like.' I was trying to obtain some sign that she was in contact with the Balbinus gang; her response was completely negative.

I offered a wrist to lean on as she descended from her perch, oil flask on the drip. She stepped down, brushing against me with a firm body warm through a single layer of finely woven cloth. `And what does the notorious Marcus Didius want with me?'

`Marcus? That's informal! When I called with Petronius, I don't believe we got on first-name terms. Has someone well informed been talking, or might you and I be old friends?'

Lalage gave me the full benefit of those wonderful eyes. `Oh hardly!'

`I'm crushed! By the way, you can stop flashing the peepers. They're lovely, but it's too early in the morning for me – or not early enough. I like a roll in the sheets instead of breakfast, but I like it with a woman who has been in my arms all night.'

`I'll put that in our scroll of client's preferences.'

`I'm not enrolled as a client.'

`Want to negotiate terms?'

`Sorry, can't afford it. I'm saving up to go to philosophy school, 'Don't bother. You ramble on enough, without paying to be taught.'

She was still too close for comfort. I resisted manfully. We fought eye to eye; she must have known I was afraid she would manhandle me. The hairs on my neck were standing as stiff as a badger's bristles. It was hard to look tough when every nerve was screaming to me to protect my assets from assault – but the assault never came. For a brothel queen Lalage was surprisingly delicate.

`I want to negotiate a truce,' I croaked. She received the news with a chortle, but waved me to a couch with her. Breathing more freely, I perched on the far end. She tipped her head back, surveying me. She had a long, smooth neck, today unadorned by jewellery. Her eyelashes swept down and up again with the strength and fluid grace of trireme oars.

I sighed gently. `Stop acting up like Thais. Your name's Rillia Gratiana. Your parents used to keep a stationer's shop on the corner of Dogfish Court.'

. She did not deny it. Nor did she encourage me. Appealing to old memories would be no help. `I keep this brothel, Falco. I do it well. I run the girls, I control the clients, I organise salty entertainments; I keep the ledgers and I obtain the necessary licences; I pay the rent, and I pay the grocery bills; when I have to I even sweep the stairs and lance the doorman's boils. This is my life.'

`And the past is irrelevant?'

`Not at all. My parents gave me all my local knowledge and commercial acumen.'

`Do you still see them?'

`They died years ago.'

`Want to know how I know all about you?'

`Don't bother. You're an informer. Even if you tell me some sob story, I won't be impressed.'

`I thought a brothel was the place men told the truth about themselves?'

`Men never tell the truth, Falco.'

'Ah no, we don't know what truth is… So can I call on fellow feeling?'