'Sorry.' I forced myself to unwrap the parcel from him. 'Whatever you want. Yes, there is some problem over a project Festus was involved with. No, I don't know what it was. Yes, I did try to extract details from Censorinus. No, he wouldn't tell me. And most certainly, no, I don't want to be involved if I can help it-but yes, as sure as the little goddess likes pomegranates, I'll get to the bottom of this mystery rather than let myself be sent to the public strangler for something my fabled brother failed to square!'

'I'm rather assuming,' said Petronius, smiling slightly, 'someone else killed the soldier at Flora's. I presume even you would have had more common sense than to quarrel with him so publically first.'

'True, but with Marponius on your back you'd better keep me on your list of suspects until I'm formally cleared.' Marponius would agree eventually with Petro's view of my innocence; he would appropriate Petro's verdict and claim it as his own. Until that happened life for me could be extremely difficult. 'If the dead man's grouse against Festus was legitimate, I might have had a motive for removing him.'

'Everyone who saw you fighting at Flora's was quick to admit that Censorinus never explained to you what his bugbear was.'

'Good of them! But he did walk part of the way along the sandy track. He was telling me that Festus had owed money to a gang of his old pals for some galley that foundered.'

'If I know you,' Petro argued loyally, 'they only had to prove it and you would have robbed your own savings coffer to put the golden Festus in the clear.' Petro never shrank from swimming against the tide of public opinion; my brother, whom so many people adored, had not been wildly popular with my old friend. They were different types.

Petro and I were different too, but in another, complementary way that made us friends.

'I do use a knife.'

'Neatly!'

Petronius had seen me use my knife.

I knew now that Petronius Longus must have stood up to the judge Marponius and insisted that the soldier's killing lacked my personal style. Even so, I could see they had no choice but to harry me until something else turned up.

'Just for routine,' Petronius asked me levelly, 'where is your knife at present?'

I produced it from my boot. I tried not to feel harassed. He examined it, carefully looking for blood. Of course he found none. We both knew that proved nothing; if I had killed someone I would have cleaned my weapon scrupulously after the event. Even if the occasion had been legitimate, that was my normal good housekeeping routine.

After a time he returned it, then warned me, 'You're liable to be stopped and searched on sight. I presume I can trust you not to carry an offensive blade inside the city boundary?' Going armed in Rome is illegal, a neat trick which means that the law-abiding have to walk down dark alleys undefended, just waiting to have their throats cut by wicked types who ignore the rules. I said nothing. Petro went on insultingly, 'And Falco, don't take your ugly hide beyond the city boundary-or any temporary amnesty is cancelled at your first step.'

'Oh that's rich!' I was highly annoyed with him. He could become extremely irritating when he exerted his official role.

'No, it's fair!' he retorted. 'It's not my fault if you start throwing punches at an off-duty legionary who next minute gets himself sliced up. Think yourself lucky I'm not measuring you for manacles. I'm freeing your reins, Falco, but I want a return. I need to know what this business with your brother was, and you stand more chance of discovering the details than anyone, including me.' That was probably right. And I was going to start digging in any case; I was now irresistibly curious about the statues scam.

'Petro, if the body is all we have to go on, I'd like to take a look at it. Is the carcass still at Flora's?'

Petronius looked prim. 'The body's off limits. And keep away from Flora's, if you don't mind.'

There were moments in this conversation when our old friendship started coming under too much strain. 'Oh cobnuts! Holding a public post goes to your head sometimes. Stop treating me like a tired husband whose nagging wife has just been found laid out lifeless on a public compost heap.'

'Then you stop giving me orders as if the whole bloody Aventine was yours under private lease!'

'Try being a mite less officious!'

'Just try growing up, Falco!'

Petronius rose to his feet. The lamp guttered nervously. I refused to make an apology; so did he. It didn't matter. Our friendship was too close to be blown apart by this condescending exchange of personal views.

At least I hoped it was. Because without his help, my witless implication in the murder of Censorinus could have fatal results for me.

He was stomping off in a huff, but turned back from the doorway.

'Sorry about your sister, by the way.'

With so much else on my mind, I had forgotten about Victorina. I had to think hard to realise what he was saying.

I opened my mouth to remark that he must be more sorry than I was, then stopped. I did pity her children, left to the mercy of their feeble father the plasterer. Besides, I had never been quite sure about relations between Victorina and Petronius. But one thing was certain: when women were involved, Lucius Petronius Longus had never been as shy as he appeared.

After he left I sat where I was. I had a lot to think about. It was the proverbial case with no easy solutions. In fact, as was normal for me, no solutions at all.

Helena Justina came to see what I was doing (or how much I was drinking). Perhaps she had heard me quarrelling with Petronius. Anyway, she must have guessed there was a problem and that the problem might be serious. At first she tried to pull me gently by the arm, attempting to lure me to bed, but when I resisted she gave way abruptly and sat down alongside.

I went on thinking, though not for long. Helena knew how to handle me. She said nothing. For several moments she simply stayed with me, holding my right hand between both of hers. Her stillness and silence were comforting. As normal, I was completely disarmed. I had been intending to keep the situation from her, but pretty soon I heard myself saying despondently, 'You had better know. I'm a suspect in a murder case.'

'Thank you for telling me,' Helena remarked politely.

Immediately my mother popped out from somewhere near at hand. She has always been shameless about listening in.

'You'll need something to keep your strength up then!' exclaimed Ma, banging a patera of broth on to the embers of her cooking bench.

Neither of them seemed the least surprised-or at all indignant-that I had been subjected to such a charge.

So much for loyalty.