"He thought you were the bandits who'd killed Clodius, and that Milo's men had simply rounded you up!"

"Ha! It's a joke of the gods, isn't it!"

"Did you ask him for help?"

"A lot of good that would have done. He practically saluted those two monster gladiators as we passed by. I felt like a trussed-up Gaul in some general's triumphal parade."

"Maybe you should have appealed to his daughter for help."

"His daughter?" Philemon looked at me blearily and shook his head. I took it I had offended him by suggesting he might have appealed to a woman for help.

Even fathers of errant daughters and husbands of imperious wives must go home some time; and so, before the first hour of the day, Eco and I departed from the shelter of the Salacious Tavern and made our way up the Palatine Hill. I remember very little of that walk, except that far too much of it was far too steep, like old Sextus Tedius labouring up the Appian Way, I kept having to sit and catch my breath. Growing older is a torment, and being drunk is a comfort only to a point, after which it becomes a torment, too.

With sunrise would come a new day. Everything would be put back as it was. Eco and Menenia and the twins would return to the house on the Esquiline. I would send home Pompey's guards with heartfelt thanks and a sigh of relief. Of course, some things could not be so easily undone…

At least the crisis of the last few months was over. I washed my hands of everyone concerned! Milo, Clodia, Fulvia, Cicero and their respective satellites could all join Clodius in Hades. An end had been put to that story for good.

So I thought, wending my way up the Palatine Hill. It was that hour of day when a man can still see only dimly, though dawn is near at hand; but in my befuddled state, I didn't even realize that I was still in the dark, or that a light would soon be breaking.

Part Four

Ring

"It can be fixed, of course," said the artisan. "But…" "But it will cost me," I said.

"That goes without saying. The materials, the labour – the highly trained labour, I remind you – these things involve considerable expense."

"Then why the hesitation?"

He shook his head. "I can't guarantee that the work will keep. In fact, to be honest with you, I don't think that the breaks in the statue can be repaired in a… fully satisfactory… manner."

"Satisfactory?"

"In a way that would be both artistically pleasing and structurally sound. You see, if you look here, at the point where the break began, you can see the traces of a tiny fissure that was there to start with-"

"You're saying that the statue had a flaw all along?"

"Oh, yes. Here, where the metal's so thin. See how the lip of the break shears in a different pattern? That shows there was already a thin spot with a hairline crack. You would never have noticed it from the outside, of course. It looked perfectly sound. But it was obviously cast with a flaw. Granted, no statue should be pushed from its pedestal, but given such an unfortunate event, this was the weakest point, and this is where the breakage inevitably occurred. Then it ran up along this thin spot, where the folds of the goddess's robes are thinnest, then across the top of her hips…"

After all the bloodshed I had seen in my life, it seemed foolish to be squeamish about a statue. But there was something gruesome about the scarred, chipped metal that showed along the rupture that had torn her in half, and something distasteful about examining her so intimately from the inside out. On the surface, she was so serenely perfect, gleaming, seemingly indestructible. On the hollow inner surface, she was all a mass of protruding plugs and rough spots and blisters. And all the time she had towered on her lofty pedestal overlooking my garden, radiating wisdom, there had been a terrible flaw inside her. A murderous mob had knocked her from her pedestal, and the flaw had torn her apart. Now the artisan was telling me that there was no satisfactory way to put her back together again.

"But I can't just leave her lying here in the garden like this, staring up at me every time I pass." "wisdom in two pieces, with weeds growing up around her!

"The statue could always be melted down. Of course you wouldn't recover more than a small fraction of the value…"

I shook my head. "Out of the question." The statue, like the house, was a legacy of my old patrician patron, Lucius Claudius. Cicero himself had envied her. Melt her down? Never! But what was to be done? I had slept for only a few hours after returning from the tavern, but the moment I awoke, to the exclusion of all other problems, my mind had settled on the Minerva. Nothing would really seem right until she was back on her pedestal.

The artisan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. There was said to be no man in Rome who knew more about casting bronze. He was a small bearded fellow, a Greek, the property of a foundry owner for whom I had once solved a problem involving a missing slave and a statue that seemed too heavy.

"You might be able to make a bust out of her," the Greek suggested.

"What!"

"If you made a clean cut, straight across below her breasts…"

It was clear that the fellow might be a skilled artisan, but he was no artist. Nor did he seem to have any religious respect for the statue at all. I suppose it was a hazard of his work, dealing so much with the malleability and tensile strength of various alloys, that he should lose touch with the mystery inside the metal.

"I simply want her put back into one piece again. Can it be done or not?"

"Oh, it can be done." The Greek turned aside for a moment I knew he was rolling his eyes at my Roman wilfulness. "But you'll be able to see the patch if you look for it, and it won't hold forever. A sharp knock, an earthquake -"

"Let's do it."

"As I said, it will be expensive." "Are you authorized to bid for your master?" I am.

"Then let's bargain."

The lowest figure the man would settle for was still too much for the household coffers to bear. But I would get the money somehow. I dismissed him and stepped from the garden into my study. What was next for the day? I felt surprisingly energetic for having whiled away so many drunken hours the night before, and peculiarly sanguine, considering the storm clouds that had burst in my own home. When such a bright mood comes to a man of my years, I think it is best to enjoy it without question.

Pompey's guards had already left, while I slept. Eco and Menenia were busy transporting their household back to the Esquiline; it was remarkable how many objects had gravitated from their house to mine during their stay. I would miss seeing the twins' toys – little painted ships and carved chariots and Egyptian board games with brightly coloured pebbles – but I would not miss tripping over them. Bethesda felt obliged to oversee the move. She had apparently said whatever she had to say to Diana the night before. Diana herself stayed out of sight. Davus had apparently decided that there was an urgent need for a lookout on the roof) and had stationed himself there, conveniently out of the way.

I clapped my hands. One of the slaves who was helping Eco stopped and looked into the room. "Do you know where my daughter is?" I said.

"In her room I think… Master." He looked uncomfortable.

They all knew about Diana by now, of course.

"Go and tell her I wish to see her."

"Yes, Master!"

My heart sank when she stepped into the room. She looked much too haggard for a girl of seventeen who was carrying a child. I felt many things – anger, apprehension, regret – but nothing as strong as the impulse to put my arms around her and simply stand that way for a moment, pressing her to me. It was Diana who broke the embrace and stepped away, averting her eyes.