Time To Depart

LV

AS I STRODE angrily home I felt edgy. For one thing I had ringing in my ears various sly protestations from Pa – mighty claims that he had meant no harm (oh that old story!), and bluster that he would never have accepted compensation illegally… To be descended from such a reprobate filled me with bile.

There was more to my sense of unease than that. Maybe I was growing jumpy. The knowledge that Balbinus was here and apparently flourishing, despite all the law's efforts, depressed me bitterly. What was the point in anything if criminals could do as they liked and go where they pleased, and laugh at verdicts so blatantly?

The city felt unfriendly. A cart raced around a corner, causing walkers and pigeons sipping at fountains to scatter; it must be breaking the curfew, for dusk had only just fallen and there had hardly been time for it to have reached here legitimately from one of the city gates. People pushed and shoved with more disregard than ever for those in their path. Untethered dogs were everywhere, showing their fangs. Sinister figures slunk along in porticoes, some with sacks over their shoulders, some carrying sticks that could be either weapons or hooks for stealing from windows and balconies. Groups of uncouth slaves stood blocking the pavement while they gossiped, oblivious to free citizens wanting to pass.

An irresponsible girl backed out of an open doorway, laughing. She banged into me, bruising my forearm and making me grab for my money in case it was a theft attempt. I roared at her. She raised a threatening fist. A man on a donkey shoved me aside, panniers of garden, weeds crushing me against a pillar that was hung dangerously with terracotta statuettes of goggle-eyed goddesses. A begger stopped blowing a raucous set of double pipes just long enough to cackle with mirth as a white-and-red-painted Minerva cracked me across the nose with her hard little skirt. At least being pressed back so hard had saved me from the bucket of slops that a householder then chose to fling out of a window from one of the dark apartments above.

Insanity was in Rome.

When I reached Fountain Court the familiar scents of stale flatfish, gutter water, smoke, chicken dung and dead amphorae seemed positively civilised. At the bakery, Cassius was lighting a lamp, meticulously trimming its wick and straightening the links on its hanging chain. I exchanged greetings with him, then walked up on that side of the street to say a few words to Ennianus, the basket-weaver who lived below my new apartment. He had supervised removal of the skip. I borrowed a flat broom and swept some loose rubbish up the gulley so it was outside a house whose occupants never spoke to us.

I was still talking to Ennianus when I spotted Lenia taking tunics down from a line across the laundry's frontage. I turned my back, hoping to avoid being hailed for a boring discussion of her wedding, now only ten days away. She must have missed me; her eyes were never good. Either that or she had finally given up any hope of cajoling me into sympathy. I had no energy to spare for people who ought to know better, who dragged aggravation down on themselves. Rome was too full of trouble for me to face her tonight.

There was more trouble than I realised. When Ennianus grinned and told me it was safe to face the street again, I saw two men walking past the barber's shop. I knew I recognised them, though at first I could not remember why.

`Who are those two, Ennianus?'

`Never seen them here before.'

I felt I had a grievance against them. So I broke off my chat with the basket-weaver and quietly followed them.

As they walked I applied my subtle knowledge of the world to deducing what I could about them. From behind, they were ordinary, empty-handed punters, about the same height as each other, and the same build. They wore brown sleeveless tunics, belted with old rope by the look of it, unexceptional boots, no hats or cloaks. They must be outdoor types.

They were walking with purpose, though not hurrying. These were not loafers just looking for fun in the city. They had a fixed destination, though they lost themselves on the way. They led me along on the Aventine summit towards the riverside, then discovered the crag and had to find a path down. They did not know Rome – or at least they were strangers on the Hill.

Eventually they hit the Clivus Publicus. They carried on downhill past the Temple of Ceres, then, when they reached the bottom near the Circus Maximus, they had to buy a drink at a streetside stall so they could ask directions from the proprietor. They next turned along the Circus and began walking its length; clearly they should have come down off the Hill in the other direction, towards the twin aqueducts and the Capena Gate.,

We were in an area which had featured frequently in my life the past few days: that part of the Eleventh region which bordered the Circus. At one end lay the Forum Boarium, where the body of Nonnius Albius had been left on the pavement in the stink of animal blood. Along the valley of the Circus ran a narrow finger of land where stood the lavish houses inhabited by Flaccida and Milvia. Then, at the other end, were the cluster of dingy, unattractive streets which included Plato's Academy.

By the time we had gone that far, I felt unsurprised that the brothel should be where my two men were heading. I was also certain they were rogues. I could prove it: I had recalled where I first saw them, though it was not in Rome. Their names – their working names anyway – were Gaius and Phlosis. They were the pair of fake boatmen at Ostia who had tried to relieve me of my father's glass before I brought it to Rome for that other great fraud to try stealing it from himself.

I watched them enter the brothel, greeting the girl on the door as if they knew her. They could have been clients, visitors to Rome who had had Plato's recommended by a friend. That was my assumption until I realised the girl had let them enter without money changing hands.

There was no doubt Lalage had customers who kept monthly accounts here. However, the kind of men who were so favoured would not be lowlifes from the waterfront, but trusted people like the Very Important Patrician who came with lictors in tow. Gaius and Phlosis were here in some other, very different, context. And from the doorkeeper's friendly attitude, even if they had got lost on the Hill, down here at Plato's the incompetent couple were regular visitors.

I wondered whether to follow them in. I was in the wrong condition for adventures tonight. I was tired. It had been a hectic week, packed with incident, and I knew my concentration was slipping. Besides, Plato's was a huge warren; nobody knew I had come here tonight, and if I went inside I had no idea what I would be going into.

The situation was far too dangerous. For once, discretion won.