The doors behind us opened with a clank. Baby Face emerged, smiling grimly. "The Great One will see you now."

I must have been rather nervous as Baby Face ushered us through the foyer, into the atrium and up a curving flight of stairs, because afterwards, when Bethesda asked me, I couldn't remember a thing about the furnishings and fixtures, though I could vividly recall that my mouth was as dry as vellum and my heart seemed to have swollen to twice its normal size.

We were led to a room of many windows at the southwest corner of the house. Curtains and shutters had been pulled back to allow an expansive view of the city. The column of smoke off to the south which we had glimpsed from the doorstep was at the centre of this view, and was joined by two more pillars of smoke, closer and off to the left, probably made by fires on the Esquiline Hill or down in the Subura. Pompey stood at the windows, his back to us. He was only a silhouette at first, a crown of unkempt curls above powerful shoulders and a robust, well-padded torso. As my eyes adapted to the light I saw that he wore a long, voluminous woollen robe of emerald green. His hands were joined together behind his back, his fingers tapping nervously against each other. He heard us enter and slowly turned around. Baby Face moved inconspicuously into a corner. I glimpsed the shadow of another guard on the balcony outside the windows.

Pompey was the same age as Cicero, which meant that he was a few years younger than me. I could have wished for as few wrinkles, though not for as many chins. It occurred to me that Pompey might be the sort of man who turns to food in a crisis. Commanding armies on the march kept him busy and fit. Holed up in his Pincian villa, he had taken on the weight of the world.

But there were no puns in my mind at that moment. This was not Fulvia or Clodia, mysterious and grimly determined but made vulnerable by their sex. Nor was it Cicero or Caelius, a known quantity with whom I could exchange careless banter. This was Pompey.

When he was young, poets had swooned for his beauty. With his luxuriant, wind-tossed locks of hair, his smooth brow and chiselled nose, people had called the boy general another Alexander even before his military prowess proved them right. Young Pompey's typical expression had been a placid, dreamy half smile, as if the contemplation of his own future greatness kept him perpetually cheerful but also a bit aloof. If his face had a flaw, it was a tendency to roundness and a fullness in his lips and cheeks that appeared either ripely sensual or pleasantly plump, depending on the angle and the light.

As he grew older his face seemed to flatten a bit and to grow even rounder. The chiselled nose became fleshy. The wild locks were shorn in deference to maturity. The smile became less sensual, more complacent. As his prestige and power grew, it was as if Pompey had less need of physical beauty, and so put aside the comely garment of his youth.

All this I had seen from a distance as Pompey built his career, orating in the courts of law, campaigning for office on the Held of Mars, cutting a great swathe through the Forum attended by his vast retinue of military and political lieutenants, each of those lieutenants in turn attended by his own coterie of followers seeking favours at second hand from the Great One. But what cannot be seen from a distance are a man's eyes, as I now saw Pompey's eyes staring into mine with a disconcerting intensity. For some reason I recalled a famous quote from his youth. When he was sent to drive the dictator Sulla's enemies out of Sicily, the people of the liberated city of Messana had complained that Pompey had no jurisdiction over them because of ancient agreements between themselves and Rome. Pompey had replied, "Stop quoting laws to us. We carry swords."

"Gordianus the Finder," he said, "and your adopted son Eco." He smiled to himself and nodded, as if pleased that he could remember such insignificant details without a slave to remind him. "We haven't met before, have we?"

"No, Great One."

"I didn't think so."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable for me, but apparently not for Pompey, who paced slowly before us, his hands still clasped behind his back. "You've had a busy day," he finally said.

"Pardon, Great One?"

"Clodia comes by to carry you off in her litter. You pay a call on Fulvia. I suppose Sempronia was there, as well. No sooner are you home than Cicero's freedman comes calling, and you and your son are off to confer with Cicero and Caelius. Milo wasn't there today, was he?"

I started to answer, then realized that Pompey was looking not at me but at Baby Face, who shook his head and answered, "No, Great One. Milo hasn't left his house all day."

Pompey nodded and returned his gaze to me. "But you've met with Milo before, under Cicero's roof"

It was not a question, but it seemed to require a response – an admission, rather than an answer. "Yes."

"It's been quite a while since I saw Titus Annius Milo. How is he looking these days?"

"Looking, Great One?"

"He's always been so proud of his powerful physique, naming himself after Milo, the legendary wrestler of Croton, and all that. Is he holding up?"

"He appears fit enough."

"And his state of mind?"

"I'm not privy to that, Great One."

"No? But you're a reader of signs, are you not? Surely you read something from his face, his voice."

"Milo is anxious, angry, uncertain. But you hardly need me to tell you that."

"No, I do not." His smile seemed without irony, merely a gesture of appreciation for not wasting his time. "What did Clodia want with you this morning?" When I hesitated, Pompey frowned. "Don't tell me it's none of my business. It is. Everything that happens in Rome nowadays is my business. What did Clodia want with you?"

"To take me to Fulvia. Only that."

"And what did Fulvia want?"

"Great One, surely words spoken in confidence by a grieving widow -"

"Finder, you make me impatient."

I considered how to answer. "A certain man has approached her. She's uncertain whether to trust him."

"Surely suitors haven't started knocking on her door already!"

"Not a suitor, exactly," I said, though in feet Antony had once been Fulvia's lover, if Caelius was to be believed.

Pompey looked profoundly uninterested. "Well, I won't press you for details; Fulvia's personal affairs are of no immediate importance to me. Did you agree to help her?"

"I haven't yet decided."

"Perhaps I could help. Who knows? I might possess whatever information you're seeking."

It seemed unlikely. Marc Antony was Caesar's man, not Pompey's. "Are you offering to help me, Great One?"

"Perhaps. I'm a reasonable man. If I can give something of value to you, then I imagine you'll be more willing to give me what I want."

"And what is it that you want from me, Great One?"

"I'll come to that in a moment. Do you have any questions for me?"

I thought carefully and saw no danger in asking. "What can you tell me about Marc Antony?"

"Caesar's lieutenant? I know that his father made a mess of clearing out the pirates before the Senate finally gave me the job. And that his stepfather got himself executed for treason at Cicero's behest. And I recall that young Antony went off soldiering in my old stamping grounds out east for a few years before he signed up with Caesar. What else is there to know?"

"Perhaps nothing."

"By Hercules, he's not the one courting Fulvia, is he? I don't see how. He's already married to his cousin Antonia, and that's not the sort of marriage it's easy to step out of. But if he is a suitor, Fulvia would do well to avoid him; that's my advice. Clodius may have been an extortionist and a rabble-rouser, but at least he knew how to bring home the silver; look at that house they ended up in. Young Antony's another matter. Like Caesar and the rest of that circle, always more and more in debt, always selling themselves for the next loan to see them through. They'll come to a bad end, the lot of them. I only hope they don't bankrupt the Republic along with them."