"He won twelve crowns altogether, six at Olympia and six at Delphi. When Croton went to war with the Sybarites, for a helmet Milo wore all his laurel leaf crowns at once – enough to cushion a blow – and dressed like his hero Hercules in a lion's skin, carrying a dub. He led the people of Croton to victory. And when, in gratitude, they decided to erect a statue of him, Milo himself carried his own statue through the square and placed it on the pedestal.

"When Pythagoras the philosopher was living in Croton, he and Milo became great friends. Opposites attract: the thinker and the strongman. Lucky for Pythagoras, since Milo saved his life. There was an earthquake, and in the dining hall at the philosophers' school a pillar gave way. Milo held up the collapsing ceiling while Pythagoras and his students cleared out, then slipped out from under it and managed to save himself as well.

"Do you begin to see, Finder, how these legendary feats might bear some allegorical relation to the way in which our Milo conducts himself and sees his destiny? The legendary hero whose clenched fist cannot be opened against his will; who will not be shoved aside, no matter how slippery his footing; who carries a great burden, but does not complain; who can hold his breath until the veins in his forehead pop out; who is best friends with a famous wise man; who is willing to throw himself into the lurch to save his friends; who goes into battle wearing the mantle, or in this case, the name of his boyhood hero; who would gladly put his own statue upon a pedestal; who cannot be thrown down by anyone… but who might, all on his own and in full sight of the watching world, fall flat on his back."

I considered this as I sipped freshly poured Falernian from my cup. A late afternoon breeze had begun to stir the sky high above Rome, slanting the pillars of smoke and tattering their upper reaches.

"But what of the death of Milo of Croton, Great One?"

"How does the adage go? To possess great strength counts for nothing unless a man knows how to use it.' That was the undoing of Milo of Croton. He set out on a journey one day, on foot, and lost his way in a deep forest. Far from the road he came to a cleared place where some woodsmen had been working, but the day was late and the woodsmen were gone. He saw a huge log. There was a long crack along the whole length of the log, with several iron wedges driven into the gap. Apparently the woodsmen had intended to split the log in two, but the job was too big for them and they left it for another day. Milo thought, I shall split the log myself. Think how surprised they'll be to find that one man has done the job for them, using only his bare hands! How clever they'll think me! How grateful they'll be! Another famous feat of strength for Milo of Croton! So he pushed his fingers into the narrow breach until his palms were flat against the two- sides. He pushed them apart with all his might. The iron wedges loosened and fell out – and instantly the crack snapped shut. Milo's hands were trapped. His arms were bent. The log was too heavy for him to shift. He couldn't move.

"Darkness fell. There was a howling in the woods. Wild beasts crept out of the forest into the clearing. They could smell his fear, sense his helplessness. They only nipped at him at first, but when they saw that he couldn't defend himself, they clambered onto him, fangs flashing. They tore him apart. They devoured him alive.

"The next morning, the horrified woodsmen found what was left of Milo of Croton." Pompey sipped his wine. "Need I belabour certain obvious parallels to the peril in which our Milo finds himself?"

"No, Great One. You seem to know a great deal about both Milos."

"My Either used to tell me stories about Milo of Croton when I was a boy. As for Titus Annius Milo, he and I have been allies now and then."

"But not any longer?"

"Clodius and I were allies once, too," he said, deflecting the question, "just as Caesar and I were once allies, and still are, for all I know."

"I don't understand, Great One."

"Some things only the Fates seem to-fathom.- No matter. What about you, Finder? Who are your allies? Whom do you serve? You seem to be a man who moves through every camp but belongs to none."

"It would seem that way, Great One."

"That makes you a rather unusual fellow, Finder. A valuable man to know."

"I'm not sure how, Great One."

"I want you to do a bit of work for me."

I felt several things at once – excitement, wariness, a sinking sensation. "Perhaps, Great One. If I can."

"I want you to take a trip down the Appian Way, to the place where Clodius was killed. Take along your son, if you like. Have a look at the site. Talk to the local people. See what you can find out. If you're as good as your name, perhaps you'll discover a few things that others have overlooked."

"Why me, Great One? Surely there are other men you could send."

"There's no one who could move as freely as you seem to move between Fulvia's house and Cicero's. As I said, you're an unusual fellow."

"The Fates seem to have landed me in a curious spot."

"You're not the only one. We must all submit to the Fates." He drained his wine slowly, never taking his eyes off me. "Finder, let me explain something to you. As a general, I have been very nearly infallible. I've moved from triumph to triumph without a misstep, with hardly even a moment's hesitation. I have the instinct for it, you see. A peculiar genius, all my own. I could do it with my eyes shut. But politics – politics is another matter. I approach the Forum the same way I approach a battlefield. I marshal my forces, I lay out a plan – but things never seem to go exactly as I want. I'll think I'm headed straight for the prize, and suddenly I find that I don't know where in Hades I am, or how I got there. I lose all sense of direction.

"Julia always said I had bad advisors. Probably right. On a battlefield, your troops are here, the enemy is there, and a man either gives you the right information or else hell be dead the next day. But in this hazy murk, a dagger can be aimed at your heart and you never know it, and so-called advisors have a habit of telling you what they think you want to hear, never mind the facts. I wouldn't care to tell you how many times I've charged down a path using a map that led me straight into a brick wall. That mustn't happen now – not now! No false advice, no fawning lies, no blind spots. I must know the lay of the land, the disposition of the enemy, the precise movements of all the forces around me. First of all, and above all else, I want to know exactly what happened on the Appian Way. Do you understand?"

"I think so, Great One."

"Can I trust you, Finder?"

I looked at him for a long moment, wondering if I could trust Pompey.

"No need to answer," he finally said. "My general's instinct senses no deceit in you. So: will you do what I ask?"

Fulvia had already asked me to investigate the circumstances of her husband's death. Now Pompey was doing the same. I felt Eco's eyes on me. I took a deep breath.

"I'll go down the Appian Way. I'll find out whatever I can about Clodius's death."

Pompey nodded. "Good. I'm sure we can agree on terms; I've never asked a man to march for me without proper payment. As for lodging, you can stay at my villa while you're down there. It's not far from Clodius's place. Probably just a stone's throw from the spot where he was killed."

He took a sip of Falernian and gazed down at the city. "I shall be leaving Rome myself in a day or two. When I come back, I shall put an end to all this nonsense."

"Nonsense, Great One?"

By a wave of his hand he indicated the pillars of smoke. "This infernal disorder."

"But how, Great One?"

Pompey looked at me shrewdly. "I suppose there's no harm in telling you. Tomorrow, the Senate will convene in the portico at my theatre, out on the Field of Mars."