She was monstrous. She was arrogant and rude – but she was right.

`Gaius and I are prepared to adopt him.'

This time Helena and I could not look at each other. We had had him for two weeks now. We did not want to let him go.

`What about Ajax?' I quavered weakly.

`Oh don't be ridiculous, brother! Ajax is just a dog.' Poor old Ajax. Yesterday this would have been blasphemy. `Besides, Ajax loves children.'

`For lunch,' I muttered, while Helena pretended not to hear.

Junia and Gaius were assuming that once their sensible suggestion had been voiced we must have gratefully agreed to it. Of course we had. The child would be given every possible advantage. Apart from the comfortable home that my brother-in-law's customs salary ensured, whatever I thought of my sister I knew that she and Gaius would dote on the babe. Both would make every effort to help him communicate.

`Is his parentage known?' Gaius found his voice now.

I opened my mouth to supply the glorious details. `No,' said Helena at once. `We tried, but it has been impossible to find out.' I took her hand. She was right. She and I could always break the news if necessary. Otherwise, better for him and everyone if there was no chance of recrimination, no danger of false hope.

`I expect you've grown very fond of him,' said Junia in a kindly tone. This strange softening upset me more than anything. `You'll be very welcome to see him again, any time you like.'

Helena managed to disguise the hysterical giggle in her voice. `Thank you very much. Have you decided on a name for him?'

`Oh yes.' For some reason Junia had gone red again. `It seems only right in view of who found him – we're going to call him Marcus.'

`Marcus Baebius Junillus,' confirmed my brother-in-law, gazing proudly at his new son.

LXVI

IN CASE THE sight of me veiled as a priest failed to cause a sufficient sensation, I had decided to attend Lenia's wedding in my Palmyrene suit. Frankly, there were not many other occasions in Rome where a decent man could appear in purple and gold silk trousers, a tunic embroidered all over with ribbons and florets, cloth slippers appliqued with tulips, and a flat-topped braided hat. To complete the picture, Helena had even found me a filigree scabbard containing a ceremonial sword, a curiosity we had bought from a travelling caravan in Arabia.

`I wanted an auspex,' complained Lenia. `Not King Vologaeses of the bloody Parthians.'

`In Palmyra this is modest streetwear, Lenia.' `Well in Rome it stinks!'

The ceremony began a little late. When the bridegroom's friends delivered him, they were staggering and yodelling; unnerved by his coming ordeal, he was so drunk we could not stand him up. As the ritual demands, a short verbal exchange took place between the bride and groom.

`You bastard! I'll never forgive you for this -' `What's the matter with the woman?'

`You've ruined my day!'

Lenia then retired to sob in a back room while the guests helped themselves to amphorae (of which there were many racks). While Smaractus was sobered up by his mother and mine, we all started gaily catching up. Members of the public had learned that there was a free-for-all, and found excuses to call at the laundry. Members of the wedding party, who were not paying the bill for refreshments, greeted them with loud cries of friendship and invited them in.

When Petronius arrived things were humming along warmly. It was late afternoon, and there were hours to go yet. After he and his family had finished laughing at my dramatic attire, Helena suggested we all went out for a meal in a decent chophouse to give us strength for the long night ahead. Nobody missed us. On our return, there was still nothing much happening, so Petronius jumped up on a table and called for quiet.

`Friends – Romans -' This address failed to please him for some reason, but he was in a merry mood. As well as the wine we had drunk with our dinner, he had brought a special alabastron of his own. He and I had already sampled it. `The bride is present.’

Lenia had been elsewhere in fact, still weeping, but she heard the new commotion and rushed straight out, suspicious that her wedding was being sabotaged.

`The groom,' proclaimed Petro, `is practising for his nuptials and having a short lie-down!' Everyone roared with delight, knowing that Smaractus was now unconscious in a laundry basket; he must have found himself more wine and was completely out of it. Petro adopted an oratorical stance. `I have consulted among those with legal knowledge – my friend Marcus Didius, who has frequently appeared in court, my colleague Tiberius Fusculus, who once trod on a judicial praetor's toe -'

There were impatient cries. `Get on with it!'

`We are agreed that for a marriage to be legal the bridegroom need not be present in person. He may signify consent through a letter or a messenger. Let's see if we can find someone who can tell us Smaractus consents!'

It was his mother who betrayed him. Annoyed by his continuing indisposition she jumped up and shouted, `I'll answer! He consents!' She was a fierce little body about as high as my elbow, as round as a tub of oysters, with a face like a squashed sponge and flashing black eyes.

`What about you?' Petronius asked Lenia.

Fired by her previous success, my landlord's mother screamed out hiliariously, `I'll answer for her too. She consents as well!'

So much for the exchange of vows. Petro swayed and fell off the table, to be caught safely by merrymaking strangers. A hubbub arose again, and it was clear we were in for much longer delays before I could impose enough order to begin the sacrifice and augury. Being in no hurry, I went out and across the street to inspect what was happening in my new rooms.

A group of patrolmen were sitting in the apartment discussing whether rats were more dangerous than women. I concealed my irritation, added a few philosophical comments, then offered to show them where the nearest fountain was. They picked up their buckets fairly agreeably (the fee they had negotiated with me was, to put it mildly, adequate) and followed me down to the street. I told them the way, but I stayed in Fountain Court. I had seen someone I knew.

He was standing down by the barber's, an unmistakable, untidy lump. He had a bundle of scrolls, and was writing notes against one of them. When I came up, I could see the same intense concentration on his face and the same little squiggly lettering that I had seen once when I interrupted him outside the Pantheon making detailed comments on racehorses. It was Florius. Across the street, detailed to tail him everywhere in case he was contacted by his father-in-law, stood Martinus; he had stationed himself by the baker's, pretending he could not decide which loaf to choose. He looked an idiot.

`The barber's is closed, Florius. We have a wedding locally. He wore himself out this morning snipping the guests.' `Hello, Falco!'

`You remember me.'

`You gave me advice.'

`Did you follow it?'

He blushed. `Yes. I'm being friendly to my wife.' I tried not to speculate what form his friendliness might take. Poor little Milvia.

`I'm sure your attentions will be happily received. Let me tell you something else: whatever trouble it causes, don't let your mother-in-law come to stay in your house.'

He opened his mouth, then said nothing. He understood exactly what I meant about Flaccida.

I was curious. At the same time, I was beginning to feel I knew what he would answer when I asked, `So what brings you here to Fountain Court?'

He gestured to the scrolls he was holding under his elbow. `The same as when I saw you at that brothel the other day. I have decided I ought to go around and take a look at all the properties which Milvia and I were given as her dowry.'