A dying light in Corduba

V

There was a dark first-floor apartment on the shady side of Fountain Court. At first glance the shady side looked superior, but that was only because the sun failed to light the decay that encased all these buildings like a mouldy crust. Shutters peeled. Doors sagged. People frequently lost heart and stopped paying their rent; before the landlord's muscle-bound assistants beat them up as a penalty, they quite often died in misery of their own accord.

Everyone who lived here was trying to leave: the basket- weaver with the street-level lock-up wanted to retire to the Campagna, the upstairs tenants came and went with a rapidity that said much about the facilities (that is, that there were none) while Helena and I, the weaver's subtenants, dreamed of escaping to a plush villa with piped water, a boundary of pine trees, and airy colonnades where people could hold refined conversations on philosophical subjects… Anything, in fact, would be better than a three- room, small-dimensioned let, where the spitting and swearing totters who lived in the upper storeys all had a right of way past our front door.

The front door had been stripped and planed down, ready for new paint. Inside, I squeezed down a corridor full of stored items. The first room off it had bare walls and no furniture. The second was the same, apart from an unbelievably obscene fresco painted straight opposite the entrance. Helena was spending much time doggedly scratching off the lewd copulating couples and the coarse satyrs in garish hyacinth wreaths and panpipes who lurked behind laurel bushes while they ogled the scene. Obliterating them was slow work and today all the wet sponges and scrapers lay abandoned in a corner. I could guess why.

I walked further down the corridor. Here its newly nailed floorboards were firm beneath my feet. I had spent hours getting them level. On the walls hung a series of small Greek plaques with Olympic scenes, Helena's choice. A niche seemed to be awaiting a pair of household gods. Outside the final room lay a red and white striped rug which I didn't recognise; on it slept a scruffy dog who got up and stalked off in disgust when I approached.

'Hello, Nux.'

Nux farted quietly, then turned round to survey her rear with mild surprise.

I tapped the lintel gently, and opened the door. Part of me hoped the usual occupant had gone out for a stroll.

There was no reprieve. She was there. I should have known. If she went out without me I had ordered her to take the guard dog. She was not in the habit of obeying my instructions, but she had become fond of the hound.

'Hello, brown eyes. Is this where Falco lives?'

'Apparently not.'

'Don't tell me he's run off to become a gladiator? What a swine.'

'The man is grown up. He can do as he likes.' Not if he had any sense.

Routinely, Falco's new office had been furnished as a bedroom. Informing is a sordid job and clients expect to be shocked by their surroundings. Besides, everyone knows that an informer spends half his time giving his accountant instructions how to cheat his clients, and any spare moments seducing his secretary.

Falco's secretary was lying against the pleasant scallop- shell bedhead reading a Greek novel. She doubled as Falco's accountant, which might explain her disillusioned manner. I did not attempt to seduce her. A tall, talented young woman, her expression hit me like a sudden gulp of snow-chilled wine. She was draped in white, with fine dark hair, loosely pinned up with ivory side combs. On a small table beside her lay a manicure set, a bowl of figs, and a shorthand copy of yesterday's Daily Gazette. With these she occupied her time while awaiting the master's return.

This had left her copious spare capacity for inventing whiplash retorts.

'How are you?' I enquired, tenderly checking up on her condition.

'Angry.' She enjoyed being frank.

'That's bad for the baby.'

'Leave the baby out of this. I hope to shield the baby from knowing it has a father who is a degenerate stop-out whose respect for his home life is as minimal as his courtesy to me.'

'Nice talking, Demosthenes! – Helena, my heart, you are angry!'

'Yes, and it's bad for you.'

'I do have an explanation.'

'Don't make me tired, Falco.'

'I've tried to produce something lucid and witty. Want to hear?'

'No. I'll be happy with your shrieks of grief as a posse of soldiers marches you away.'

'I made a stupid mistake, fruit. I had too much to drink and went home to the wrong house.'

'Lucid,' she smiled weakly. 'Though only witty in the sense that it's ludicrous… Whose house?' Suspicion dies slowly.

'Ours. Over the road. Whose did you think?' I jerked my head in the direction of my old apartment.

Helena had always taken the line that she hated half the things I did – yet chose to believe that I told her the truth. In fact I did. She was too shrewd for deceit. In sudden relief she dropped her face in her hands and burst into tears. It was involuntary, but the worst punishment she could have chosen to whack me with.

I reflected sadly on the fact I was still half drunk and bound to have the ghastly breath to prove it. Rubbing one hand over my chin, I met relentless stubble. Then I crossed the room and gathered my poor cumbersome darling into my arms, taking the opportunity to slide my own body alongside her on the bed.

I had reached the point of comforting Helena just in time. I needed to get horizontal. The ravages of the night before would have had me keeling over otherwise.

We were still there, collapsed in a comfortable mound, about an hour later. Helena had been holding me and staring at the ceiling. I was not asleep, just slowly recovering.

'I love you,' I gurgled eventually, to take her mind off whatever dark thoughts held her transfixed.

'You do know when to splash out on a romantic phrase!' She gripped me by the bristled chin and stared into my bleary eyes. A girl of great courage, even she went slightly pale. 'Falco, your raffish good looks are the worse for wear.'

'You're a charitable woman.'

'I'm a fool!' she frowned. Helena Justina knew she had let herself be lured into caring for an unsatisfactory lowlife who would only bring her sorrow. She had convinced herself she enjoyed the challenge. Her influence had already refined me, though I managed to conceal the evidence. 'Damn you, Marcus, I thought you had been carried away by the excitement of your orgy and were lying in the lap of a dancing girl.'

I grinned. If Helena cared enough for me to be upset there was always hope. 'There was a dancing girl at the party but I had nothing to do with her. She was got up as Diana in a fraction of a costume. Spent her time leaning backwards so you could look right down -'

'At your foodbowl, if you were sensible!'

'Exactly,' I assured my beloved.

She gave me a fierce hug; by accident I let out a revolting belch. 'Then I thought you had been set upon and were bleeding in a gutter somewhere.'

'Just as well it didn't happen. I was carrying a valuable quantity of top-quality liquamen, which I managed to pinch from the party as a gift for my lady love, whose pregnancy has given her insatiable cravings for the most expensive kind of sauce.'

'My unerring good taste! As a bribe, it's virtually enough,' she conceded. Always fair.

'It's a whole amphora.'

'That's the way to show your remorse!'

'I had to borrow two slaves to drag it home.' 'My hero. So is it from Baetica?'

'The label on the shoulder says Gades.'

'Sure it's not just cheap old Muria?'

'Do I look like a second-class tunnyfish salesman? Entrails of prime mackerel, I promise you.' I had not tested the garum but the boast seemed safe. Given the high standard of food at the dinner, the condiments were bound to be excellent. 'Am I forgiven, then?'

'For not knowing where you live?' she jibed pointedly. 'Yes, I'm suitably embarrassed.'

Helena Justina smiled. 'I'm afraid you will have to face quite a lot more embarrassment. You see, Marcus my darling – I was so worried by your non-appearance that I rushed out at first light to see petronius Longus.' Petronius, my best friend, was not above sarcasm when it came to my escapades. He worked as an enquiry officer in the local watch. Helena gurgled prettily. 'I was distraught, Marcus. I insisted he get the vigiles to look everywhere for you…'

Helena assumed the demure expression of a girl who intended to enjoy herself, knowing I was condemned to suffer in a very public manner. She did not need to continue. Everyone on the Aventine would have heard that I disappeared last night. And whatever lies about my drunken return I tried telling, the true story was bound to come out.