Maybe Laeta had sent me to Baetica to be the man who turned the mark into a line drawn right through the name.

"What happens now, Falco?"

"That's easy," chortled Helena sleepily from her place beside the fire. "Marcus has the kind of job he likes: he has to find a girl."

"In order to disgrace one or both of the Quinctii," I explained quietly, "I have to link them to Selia, the dancing girl from Hispalis I mentioned to you before. She helped get a man killed in Rome—and someone almost certainly hired her."

For once it was Optatus who laughed. "I told you before! You won't find many of those girls in Baetica; they all sail off to make their fortunes in Rome!"

Well that was good. It should be easier to identify the one who had sneaked back to Spain.

"Mind you..." mused Optatus, as if he had had a thought he rather liked, "I ought to be able to introduce you to someone else—Quinctius Quadratus." I raised an eyebrow at the suggestion. He smiled. "Falco, you need to meet people and sample some entertainment in Corduba. I know where to find it."

"One of the boys, eh?" I tried hard to believe it, though it was difficult to see him as a ringleader at a bachelors' night out. In there with the best of them," he claimed. So what disreputable scheme do you have in store for us?"

"I've heard that Annaeus Maximus is going to visit his Gades estate. The last time he left Corduba—when he went to Rome to see Quinctius Attractus—his sons held a party where so much damage was caused they were forbidden to invite their friends home again."

"I saw them in passing the other night. Nice lads!"

Optatus grinned. "I've also heard that the minute Maximus leaves for Gades, Spunky, Dotty and Ferret will be defying their parents and holding open house again!"

Every parent's nightmare. Once I would have been delighted. Now I found myself wondering whether poor Annaeus Maximus could somehow be warned to take his cellar keys to Gades. I knew why I felt so dispirited: one day there would be out-of-control young persons throwing up in my own Attic vase collection. One day it would be my polished sandalwood table that some little drunken idiot decided to dance upon while wearing her sharpest-heeled shoes.

Then as I glanced at Helena (who was regarding me rather quizzically) I felt able to view coming events at the Annaeus house with greater complacency: after all, my own children would be brought up well. With model parents, they would love us and be loyal. They would heed our prohibitions and follow our advice. My children would be different.

THIRTY-FOUR

This job was taking longer than I wanted—like most of my work. At least it was civilized. I was more accustomed to being compelled to get drunk during long waits in seedy wine bars, and joining in the occasional fight with a bunch of roughs in the kind of location you don't let your mother know about.

Next day it was back to Corduba, determined this time to force a meeting with Cyzacus, the bargee I had seen being dined out by Quinctius Attractus back in Rome. Helena Justina came with me. She pretended my constant trips had made her suspect I was keeping a light woman somewhere, but it turned out that when we had driven in together on the Parilia Helena had discovered a manufacturer of purple dye, the expensive juice extracted from murex shells that is used for top-rank uniforms. While I had been chatting to the proconsul she had ordered a quantity of cloth. Now she said she wanted my company—though it was also a chance to pick up her bargain.

Sweetheart, I hate to be pedantic but nobody in either of our families is an army commander, let alone a candidate for emperor!" I wondered if she was making wild plans for our baby. Political ambition in Helena was a terrifying prospect. Helena Justina was the kind of girl whose wild plans came into effect.

"Bought here, the stuff is so reasonable, Marcus. And I know just who wants it!" I would never match her in deviousness: Helena intended to offer the purple material at cost to the Emperor's mistress when we went home. She reckoned that if all the stories of frugality (otherwise called meanness) in Vespasian's household were true, the lady Caenis would leap at this chance to kit out Vespasian, Titus Caesar, and the sprog Domitian in really cheap imperial uniforms. In return, there might be a chance that Vespasian's darling, strongly encouraged by my darling, would put in a good word for me to him. "It's more likely to work than smarming around your friend Laeta," Helena sneered.

She was probably right. The wheels of empire turn on barter. After all, that was why I was spending the end of April flogging around Corduba.

I had managed to persuade Helena to meet the midwife I had interviewed. She screwed out of me what had happened during my own introduction. "So that's what upset you!" she muttered darkly, grabbing my hand in a rather fierce manner. She must have noticed I came back from town yesterday in a bad mood. Her promise to have a look at the woman herself lacked conviction, I thought.

I was now very familiar with the sluggish River Baetis, its sudden petering out at the sixteen-arch bridge, and the lazy wheeling of marsh birds above the wooden wharf with its collection of rough and ready sheds. At last there were signs of activity, though the riverside was not exactly heaving with life.

Marmarides parked our carriage in a tree-shaded area where stakes had been set up for tethering wagons and mules. It was a beautiful morning. We all walked slowly to the water's edge. Nux trotted happily alongside, thinking she was in charge of the party. We passed a large character who was crouching down talking quietly to a clutch of choice African fowl as he put together a new henhouse. Far out, a man was crouched in a small raft with a fishing line, with the air of having found a good excuse to sleep in the sun.

A barge which had been motionless at the wharf for three days to my knowledge now had its covers off; looking down into it we could see rows of the distinctive globular amphorae in which oil was transported long distances. They were packed several deep, each balanced between the necks of the previous layer, with reeds stuffed among them to prevent movement. The weight must have been enormous, and the sturdy barge had sagged low in the water.

Cyzacus' office—a shed with a stool set outside it—was open today. Not much else had improved.

Presumably once harvest time started in September the action here would be hectic. In spring, nothing much happened for days on end, unless a convoy of copper, gold or silver happened to come down from the mines in the Mariana mountains. Left in charge during this dead period was a run-down, rasping runt with one leg shorter than the other and a wine jug clamped under his arm. Nux barked at him once loudly, then when he turned and stared at her she lost interest and confined herself to blinking at clouds of midges.

"Cyzacus here?" No chance, legate!"

"When's he due?"

"You tell me." Does he ever show his face?" Hardly ever."

"Who runs the business?"

"I reckon it runs itself."

He was well trained. Most useless lags who pretend to be watchmen feel compelled to tell you at length how pitiful the management is and how draconian are their own employment terms. Life was one long holiday for this reprobate, and he didn't intend to complain.

"When was the last time you saw Cyzacus down on the wharf?"

"Couldn't tell you, legate."

"So if I wanted to ask someone to arrange to ship a large load down to Hispalis, say, I wouldn't ask for him?"

"You could ask. It wouldn't do you any good."

I could tell Helena was losing her temper. Marmarides, who nursed the fond idea that what he called agenting was tough work with interesting highlights, was beginning to look openly bored. Being an informer is hard enough, without subordinates who expect thrills and quaking suspects.