Petro was nowhere in sight. It seemed wise.

With a spurt of anxiety I shoved my way to the front. `Great gods, what's this? Am I supposed to believe that Petronius Longus, notorious for caution, has suddenly decided to make his name in history as the Man Who Stopped Trade?'

`Shove off, Falco!' muttered Fusculus, who had been trying to

argue with four or five score merchants and workmen, many of them foreign and all of them spitting fire.

`Petro sent for me.' It was worth a try.

`Petro's not bloody here!' Fusculus told me through bitterly clenched teeth as he pushed back a furious Gallic wine merchant by the simple means of lifting one leg and applying his boot sole firmly to the man's belt buckle. The Fourth Cohort were slightly more sophisticated than others in Rome, but no one argued with them twice. `Petro's in shit. A Praetorian Guard dragged him off to the Palace to explain this mess.'

`I may as well get back to bed then!'

`You do that, Falco…'

The vigiles had their hands full. With so large a crowd, in such an ugly mood, I did not fancy helping them. Luckily they did not demean themselves by asking. I had a let-out anyway, for I heard my name roared by an unmistakable foghorn, and turned to be greeted by my papa. He clapped me in his arms affectionately. This was not his normal greeting, just showing off before a crowd of foreigners. I shook myself free angrily.

`Marcus! Let's get out of this stew – we've things to discuss!'

I had nothing to discuss with my father. I experienced the usual sense of dread.

He hauled me into a more-or-less quiet corner around the back of the old Galban granaries. Needless to say, the corner was in a wine bar. After my exhausting passage through the streets I did not object to that, though in an equal world since he had issued the summons, I would have preferred that he paid the bill. Somehow the chalked piece of tile landed on the table. in front of me.

`Oh thanks, Marcus. Your health!'

My father was a sturdy character of sixty-odd, with a greying thatch of marauding curls and what passed for a twinkle in his untrustworthy dark brown eyes. He went by the name of Geminus, though his real name was Favonius. There was no point in the change; that was typical. Not tall, he was still a commanding presence people who wanted to annoy me said we looked alike. In fact he was heavier and shiftier. His belly supported a money belt whose weight told its own story. His dark blue tunic was now old enough to be used when he was lifting furniture around warehouses, but the wrecked braid on it, still with traces of silver thread, gave a clue to the style he could' afford when relaxing socially. Women liked his grin. He liked most things about women. He had run away with a red-haired one when I was a child, after which he and I could hardly exchange a civil word.

`Your mad crony's caused a bit of a pickle!' One of the few paternal routines he still honoured was criticising my friends.

'He would have had his reasons,' I said coldly. I was trying to think of any possible reason for what Petronius had done. `This can't just be a reprisal because some stallholder forgot to pay his market dues.'

I have to admit, the thought had struck me that maybe Petro was so proud of himself for capturing Balbinus that he had become a power-crazed maniac. This had always been a Roman trait, at the first hint of success to dream of being deified. It seemed unlikely in Petro's case, however. He was so rational he was positively staid.

'Tertulla said you'd spoken to him,' I prodded.

'Oh you've seen Tertulla? That little mite needs looking after. You're her uncle. Can't you do something?'

`You're her grandfather! Why me?' I felt myself going hot. Trying to instil a sense of duty into Father, who had already abandoned one generation, was hopeless. 'Oh Jupiter! I'll see Galla about it sometime… What's the tale here, Pa?'

`Disaster.' My father enjoyed a spot of misery.

'Well, that's clear! Can we be more specific? Does this disaster involve a major defeat for the legions in a prestigious foreign war – or just the lupin crop failing in two villages in Samnium?'

'You're a sarcastic trout! It's this: a gang of robbers burst in last night and cleaned out half the Emporium.' Pa leaned back on his stool watching the effect on me. I tried to look suitably horrified, while still dwelling thoughtfully on my own fancy rhetoric. He scowled. 'Listen, you dozy bastard! They obviously knew exactly what they wanted – luxury items in every case. They must have been watching for weeks, until they knew they could snatch an exquisite haul – then they whipped in, snatched the goods to order, whipped out and vanished before anything was noticed.'

'So Petronius has shut the building while he investigates what happened?'

'I suppose so. But you know him; he wasn't saying. He just looked solemn and closed it.'

'So what did he say?'

'Stallholders and wharfingers would be let in one by one, with his man Martinus -'

`Another master of tact!' Martinus, with his high opinion of himself, was especially dour when dealing with the public.

'To make a list of what was missing.' Pa completed his sentence doggedly.

`Well that's fair,' I said. `Surely those idiots can see that their best chance of getting their property back will be if Petronius knows what to look for?'

`Too subtle,' replied Pa with the famous flashing grin that had laid barmaids on their backs from here to the Flaminian Gate. It only caused irritation in me.

`Too organised!' Petronius had my sympathies. Presumably he had come back from Ostia expecting a short stretch of peace after his Balbinus coup, only to be dragged from bed that very night to face one of the worst heists I could remember, in the most important building on his patch. Instead of enjoying a glorious rest as a community hero, he now faced working at full stretch for months. Probably with nothing to show at the end: it sounded as if this robbery had been scrupulously planned.

One aspect was still niggling me. `Just as a matter of interest, Pa – why did Petronius tell you to send for me?'

My father put on – his reliable look – always a depressing portent. 'Oh… he reckoned you might help me get back my glass.'

He had slipped it in as delicately as a fishmonger filleting a mullet.

'They stole your glass?' I could not accept this. 'The glass Helena bought for you? That I nursed all the way back from Syria?' I lost my temper. 'Pa, when I left it with you, you told me you were carting the whole lot straight back to the Saepta!' The Saepta Julia, up by the Plain of Mars, was the jewellery quarter where Pa had his office and warehouse. It was very well guarded.

'Stop roaring.'

'I will not! How could you be so damned careless?'

I knew exactly how. Traipsing to the Saepta with a wagon would have taken him an hour or two. Since he only lived two minutes from the Emporium he had gone home and put his feet up instead, leaving the glass that we had nursed so carefully to look after itself for the night.

Pa glanced over one shoulder and lowered his voice. `The Emporium should have been safe enough. It was just temporary.'

`Now it's temporarily lost!' There was something shifty about him. My lava eruption checked in midflow. `I thought you said this lift was planned? That they knew just what they were going for? How could anybody know that you had half a treasury in Syrian dinnerware, coincidentally brought home by me that very evening and locked up there for only one night?'

Pa looked offended. `They must have found it by chance.' `Oh donkey's balls!'

`There's no need to be coarse.'

I was doing worse than that: I was taking a stand. `Now listen, Pa, let's get something straight. This loss is your affair. I don't want to hear any nonsense like you'll not pay Helena because you never took delivery -'