Quinctius Attractus condescended to come to his public rooms to meet me. I remembered the heavy build and weathered country countenance from two nights ago; today I was being given the full urban look—the statesman putting an invisible peg on his nose so he could follow the old Roman tradition and be nobly at home to the unwashed.

Our interview was hardly private. In every archway lurked a toga-twitcher just itching to dart out and pluck straight a pleat. They kept him perfect. His boot-thongs were aligned. His sparse curls gleamed, rigid with pomade. If a finger-ring slipped sideways a lithe slave nipped forwards to straighten it. Every time he walked three paces his purple-striped garments all had to be realigned on his wide shoulders and fat arms.

If I hated this parade when he first came to receive me, I felt utter frustration once he started to talk. It was all condescension and empty guff. He was the type who liked to lean back slightly, gazing above his companion's head, while intoning nonsense. He reminded me of a barrister who had just lost a case, coming out into the Forum knowing he will have to face a tricky interview. I said I had come to discuss the Oil Producers' dinner—and he seemed to be expecting it.

"The Society—oh, it's just a meeting place for friends—"

"Some of the friends met very nasty accidents afterwards, senator.

"Really? Well, Anacrites will vouch for us all—"

"Afraid not, sir. Anacrites has been badly hurt."

"That so?" One of his flapping footmen found it necessary to rush up and straighten a thread of fringe on a heavily decorated tunic sleeve.

"He was attacked the night of the dinner. He may not survive."

"I'm shocked." Checking the fall of his toga, he looked as if he had just heard about a minor skirmish between locals in some remote area. Then he noticed me watching and his fleshy jowls set for a ritual senatorial platitude: "Terrible. A sound man."

I swallowed it whole, then tried to fix the slithery senator to a firm base: "Were you aware that Anacrites was the Chief Spy?"

"Oh certainly. Bound to. You can't have a man like that attending private functions unless everybody knows what his position is. Men would wonder. Men wouldn't know when it was safe to speak freely. Be a shambles."

"Oh? Does the Society of Baetican Olive Oil Producers often discuss sensitive issues, then?" He stared at my effrontery. I hadn't finished yet: "You're telling me the Chief of Intelligence was openly invited to join your group, in order to suborn him? I'm willing to bet you allowed Anacrites membership without the indignity of subscription fees!" A nice life, for a spy who was gregarious.

"How formal is this?" Attractus demanded suddenly. I knew the type. He had assumed that his rank gave him immunity from questioning. Now I was being nasty, and he couldn't believe it was happening. "You say you're from the Palace—do you have some kind of docket?"

"I don't need one. My commission is from the highest quarters. Responsible people will cooperate."

Just as suddenly he changed attitude again: "Ask away then!" he boomed—still not seriously expecting I would dare.

"Thank you." I controlled my temper. "Senator, at the last assembly of the Society for the Olive Oil Producers of Baetica you dined in a private room with a mixed group, including several Baeticans. I need to identify your visitors, sir." Our eyes met. "For elimination purposes."

The old lie proved sufficient, as it usually does. "Business acquaintances," he guffed with an offhand air. "See my secretary if you must have names."

"Thanks. I have the names; we were introduced," I reminded him. "I need to know more about them."

"I can vouch for them." More vouching! I was used to the fine notion that the slightest trade connection made for complete blood-brotherhood. I knew how much faith to place in it too.

"They were your guests that evening. Was there any special reason for entertaining those particular men that particular night?"

"Routine hospitality. It is appropriate," mouthed Quinctius sarcastically, "that when senior men from Baetica visit Rome they should be made welcome."

"You have strong personal connections with that province?"

"I own land there. I have a wide range of interests, in fact. My son has just been appointed quaestor to the province too."

"That's a fine honor, sir. You must be proud of him." I didn't mean the compliment, and he didn't bother acknowledging it. "So you take the lead in encouraging local business interests in Rome? You're a proxenos." The handy Greek term might impress some people, but not Attractus. I was referring to the useful arrangements all overseas traders make to have their interests represented on foreign soil by some local with influence—a local who, in the good old Greek tradition, expects them to grease his palm.

"I do what I can." I wondered what form that took. I also won-

dered what the Baeticans were expected to provide in return. Simple gifts like the rich produce of their country—or something more complex? Cash in hand, perhaps?

"That's commendable, sir. Going back to the dinner, Anacrites was also present. And a couple of others, including myself."

"That may be so. There were spare couches. I had intended to take my son and a friend of his, but that kind of occasion can be too stiff for the young so they were excused."

"One guest was Camillus Aelianus, the son of Vespasian's friend Verus."

"Oh yes. Back from Corduba. Straightforward lad; knows what he's doing." Quinctius was just the sort to approve of that pompous young bigot.

"Perhaps you remember one other man. I need to identify what he was doing there—reclining on the right-hand end couch, opposite Anacrites—quiet fellow; hardly spoke. Did you know him?"

"Never even noticed him." Thirty years in politics made it impossible for me to tell whether Quinctius Attractus was honest. (After thirty years in politics, almost certainly he was not.) "What's his significance?"

"Nothing anymore: the man is dead." If he had anything to do with killing Valentinus, he was good; he showed complete indifference. "And finally, may I ask if you knew the entertainers, sir? There was a girl who danced, with a pair of Libyan-style accompanists—I believe you paid their fee. Did you know them personally?"

"Certainly not! I don't mingle with tarts and lyre-players." I smiled. "I meant, did you book them for the dinner specially, sir?"

"No," he said, still contemptuous. "There are people to do that. I pay for the musicians; I don't need to know where they come from."

"Or know their names?"

He growled. I thanked him for his patience. Still playing the big man in Baetica, he asked me to report any developments. I promised to keep him informed, though I had no intention of it. Then, since he had mentioned that I might, I went to see his secretary.

Correspondence and record-keeping at the house of Quinctius Attractus was conducted by a typical Greek scribe in a tunic almost as neat as his master's. In a clean little office, he catalogued the senator's life in curious detail. A cynic might wonder whether this implied that the senator feared he might one day be called to account. If so, he must be very worried indeed. Any tribunal investigating Quinctius was going to expire under the weight of written evidence.

"The name's Falco." The scribe made no move to note me down but he looked as if he would later list me under "Visitors: Uninvited, Category: Dubious." I'm inquiring about the senator's guests at the last dinner for the oily Baeticans?"

"You mean the Society of Olive Oil Producers?" he corrected humorlessly. "I have details, certainly."

"His honor says you will tell me."

"I shall have to confirm that."

"You do so then."