I said nothing, but that was interesting. I don't only mean that their cook served a rather eggy type of lunch. Nobody breaks off from work, investigates his tray, eats the one thing he dislikes, then abandons the rest. Somebody else must have been in that lobby. Maybe the killer himself passed that way when he left. Coolly grabbing a handful of his victim's meal? That would take nerve. Or else he was brutally callous.

Mind you, if anybody spotted him on the way out, having a fistful of pastry and a mouthful of crumbs would have made him look casual.

Fusculus approached, followed by one of his men.

'This is Passus, Falco. You probably don't know him. Joined our team recently.'

Passus looked at me with suspicion. He was a short, shock-haired, neat type with a belt he was proud of and stubby hands. He had a quiet manner and was no raw recruit; I guessed he had been seconded from some other cohort. His air was competent but not too pushy. He was carrying a set of waxed tablets, with a bone stylus bending his right ear forward, for taking notes.

`Didius Falco,' I introduced myself politely. I had always respected the men Petro gathered around him. He was a good judge and they responded well to him. `Petronius Longus has called me in to assist on a consultancy basis.' Passus still said nothing, glancing sideways at Fusculus. He had been told, or had deduced, that I was an informer; he did not like it. `Yes, it stinks,' I agreed. `I'm no happier than you are. I have better things to do. But Petro knows I'm sound. I gather your squad is floundering in summer crime and needs to farm out the surplus.' I had had enough of justifying myself. `Either that, or my dear friend Lucius has his hands full with a new girlfriend.'

Fusculus jumped. Petro's love life fascinated his men. `He's after a new one?'

`Guesswork. He's said nix. You know how close he is. We'll only be sure when the next outraged husband comes to ask if we know why his turtledove is always tired… So, Passus, what's the story from the staff here?'

The new enquiry officer gave his report slightly stiffly at first, warming to the task: `Aurelius Chrysippus had been occupying himself in his normal business. There were morning visitors; I took names. But he had been seen alive – when he asked for his lunch – after the last one is thought to have left.'

`Thought?' I queried. `Are visitors not monitored?'

`The regime seems rather informal,' said Fusculus. `There is a door porter but he doubles up as a water-carrier. If he is not at his post, people come and go as if the house was an extension of the shop.'

`Casual.'

`Greeks!' Apparently Fusculus harboured some old Roman prejudice against our cultured neighbours.

`I thought they like to protect their womenfolk?'

`No, they're just all over other peoples' Women,' Fusculus sneered bitterly. A personal beef, no doubt of it. Find the female? I didn't even know that Fusculus had a girlfriend, let alone that he had had her pinched by some Piraeus skirt pirate.

`They have plenty of staff about.' Passus wanted to continue with his notes. `It was a normal day. Chrysippus did not seem out of sorts. The alarm was raised by slaves just after midday. Most of them fled, terrified.'

`Terrified of being blamed,' commented Fusculus. Well, the vigiles, with their usual light-handed tactics, were making sure the slaves' terror was justified.

`Any of them touch the body?'

`No, Falco.' Fusculus, as senior officer present, was quick to let me know the vigiles had checked that aspect. `They say they only looked in and then ran – well, it's pretty repellent.'

Passus took over again: `We listened to their stories, then we carried out a hands and clothing check. No bloodstains on most of their tunics. One did have that spilt stuff from the library all up his backside, but that was because his feet had slipped from under him on the oil in there and he landed in the stuff, it's clear he has not been in a fight. Those with blood on their footwear match those who admitted they went in to gawp.'

`Arms and legs?'

`Clean.'

`Untoward bruising? Signs of a tussle?'

`Nothing new. A few bangs and cuts. All readily explained as natural wear and tear.' In most households a survey of the slaves would produce a fair set of black eyes, cuts, burns, knocks and sores.

`What do they say about the way they are handled here?'

Routine. Smacked ears for making themselves unpopular, meagre servings in their food-bowls, hard beds, not enough women to go round.'

`So the slaves are affectionately-treated adjuncts to a normal family?'

`Model behaviour by the paterfamilias.'

`Did he extract sexual favours?'

`Probably. Nobody mentioned it.'

So far, this was not helping. `I am still unclear how the alarm spread to the street,' I said. That niggled me. `Who was it who ran out of the house making a noise?'

`I did!' announced a woman's voice.

We turned around and looked her up and down, which was what her rich dress and finely applied cosmetics intended us to do. Fusculus leaned one fist against his hip, considering this vision. Passus pursed his lips, not letting on whether he liked what he saw or thought the effect too flash.

'Ah! Now we're getting somewhere, boys!' I cried. It was a waggish response, which was possibly ill-mannered – but instinct told me to do it, even though this looked like the mistress of the house.

SHE was a good-looking piece. She knew all about it too. She did have a mouth so wide it looked as if it ran past her ears and met behind her head, but that was part of her style. The style was also extremely expensive. She wanted everyone to notice that.

The wide, red-dyed mouth was not smiling. The voice that had come from it was somehow slightly uncultured, yet I would have placed her social origins as Roman, and higher than those of Chrysippus. The dark eyes that went with the mouth and the voice were too close together for me, but men with less demanding tastes would have thought them appealing, and much had been made of them with plucked brows, deep outlines and startling tinted pastes. They had a hard expression, but so what? Women in the Thirteenth Sector were prone to that. According to the ones I knew, it was caused by men.

This was a young, confident female who had oodles of money and time on her hands. She thought that made her something special. For most people, it would have done. I was old-fashioned. I liked women with a dash of moral fibre; well, women whose flirting was honest, anyway.

`And who are you?' I kept it level, not admitting whether I was impressed by the externals. Fusculus and Passus were watching how I handled this. I could have managed better without their open curiosity, but I knew I had to show them my quality. I was up to it. Well, probably. Helena Justina would have recommended that I handle this beauty with tongs, from behind a fireproof shield.

`Vibia Merulla.'

`Lady of the house?'

`Correct. Chrysippus' wife.' Perhaps this was slightly too emphatic. `And dear light of his life?' I made it gallant, if she chose to take my wry tone that way.

`Certainly.' The wide mouth set in a straight line.

I saw no reason to doubt her, actually. He must have been

approaching sixty; she was in her late twenties. He was an unprepossessing squit and she was a spanking little artefact. It fitted. Married for a couple of years now, and both parties still pretending to like the situation, I would guess. Standing in their luxurious home and inspecting the ranks of jewelled necklaces that burdened a fine bosom, I could imagine what might have been in it for her, while that halfrevealed bust hinted at what had been in it for him.