I can never remember if the nine days of formal mourning apply from when a person dies or from when you hear the news. Gordianus reckoned the latter; wretched for my hygiene, but it gave him longer to recuperate.

For nine days I roamed the foreshore, while my goat investigated driftwood and I lectured her on the finer things in life. I survived on goat's milk and wheatcakes off the altar. To sleep I snuggled in between my mule and the goat. I bathed in the sea, but I still smelt of animals and there was nowhere for a shave.

When people visited the Temple I kept out of the way. No one wants to find a shrine they are attending for religious reasons inhabited by a bearded derelict and a runaway goat.

After two days a deputy priest turned up to stand in for Gordianus. By then I had organized the acolytes into handball teams and was running a league on the beach. Once the lads were exhausted, I used to sit them down and read aloud from my Gallic Wars. Fresh air and Vercingetorix kept them out of trouble for most of the day though I preferred not to investigate their habits at night.

After dark when everywhere lay silent, I usually went into the Temple alone and sat before the goddess of Matrimonial Love, thinking about nothing while I munched her wheaten cakes. I requested no favours, and the Lady never destroyed my scepticism by appearing as a vision. She and I had no need to communicate. The goddess Hera must have known that Zeus her thunderous husband had failings in common with private informers; too much free time-and too many fancy women suggesting ways of using it.

Sometimes I stood at the sea's lisping edge with my feet in the water, thinking about Helena Justina who knew this too. Remembering that young porter at the Senator's house refusing me admission on a flimsy excuse, insight smote me; she was sensible and far-sighted. Helena Justina had left me!

I strode back into the Temple and stood angrily before the goddess of Matrimonial Love. The Queen of Olympus surveyed me with a face of stone.

On the tenth morning, when I was light-headed with starvation and solitude, one of the acolytes came down the shore to see me. This sinful little minnow was called Demosthenes-a typical altar boy, old beyond his years yet visibly unwashed behind the ears.

'Didius Falco, people are getting bad ideas about you and your goat!'

'Nonsense,' I rallied miserably. 'This goat is respectable!' Demosthenes gazed at me with fathomless eyes in a handsome, untrustworthy face. So did the goat.

The acolyte sniffed. 'Curtis Gordianus is at the Temple, Falco. He says you can use his private baths. Want me to scrape your back?' he suggested offensively. I told him accepting favours from him would only cause me problems with my goat.

I had learned to live with Croton's lack of amenities. I went straight to the Temple, tied my nanny in the portico, then marched up to Gordianus in the sanctum.

'Thanks for the chance of a bathe!' I cried. 'I admit that by now I'd sell myself into slavery to some one-eyed Nabataean camel-drover if he promised me an hour in a hot steam room first! Sir, we need to talk about your being here-'

'Domitian Caesar approved my travel leave-'

'I meant, whether Croton is safe for you. The Emperor will uphold your leave of absence.' He looked surprised.

'Imperial policy is to support Domitian Caesar's official acts.'

'What about his unofficial ones?' he laughed bitterly.

'Oh the policy is to tut at him fiercely-then smile and forget!'

We walked outside to the steps.

Gordianus moved slowly, drugged with exhaustion after his bereavement. He sat and sagged like sour dough in a crock, almost visibly shrinking, then gazed at the ocean as if he saw in its shifting lights and currents all the world's philosophies-saw them with a new understanding, but a deep new distaste.

'Yours is an unenviable job, Falco!'

'Oh it has its attractions: travel, exercise, meeting new people from all walks of life-' The goat strained at the end of her string so she could chew my tunic sleeve. I held her off with both hands; she bleated with a foolish look.

'Acts of violence and announcing misery!' Gordianus scoffed. I watched him over the goat's forelock, while I stroked her wide white ears; she knelt down and settled to munching at the end of my belt. 'Falco, what do you know about this mess?'

'Well; let's be discreet! There are many people-apart from supporters of the late, not-much-lamented Emperor Vitellius-who view the new Imperial dynasty less than wholeheartedly. But it's clear the Flavian circus is here to stay. The Senate fully ratified Vespasian. He is half-way to becoming a god, so all wise mortals are putting on a more reverent face… Are you willing to tell me what your brother intended saying to the Emperor?'

'He was speaking for both of us. We had, as you put it, put on a reverent face for the Flavians.'

'That's hard,' I sympathized, falling in with his low mood. 'So your brother's accident must seem a bitter blow-'

'His murder you mean!'

'Yes-so tell me, what could he have intended to say to the Emperor that someone wanted to prevent so badly?'

'Nothing!' snapped Gordianus impatiently. I believed him. Which meant one thing: it was something Longinus had only found out after he returned to Rome… While I was pondering, Gordianus frowned painfully. 'You must reckon we had only ourselves to blame.'

'Not entirely. Curtius Gordianus, you can die by misadventure in a thousand ways. A clerk in the Censor's office told me once that lead pipes, copper saucepans, mushrooms cooked for elderly men by young wives, swimming in the Tiber, and women's face creams are all deadly dangerous; but perhaps he was a pessimist-'

Gordianus rocked on the step restlessly. 'My brother's suffocation was deliberate, Falco. And a horrific way to die!'

I stated at once very quietly: 'Asphyxia is very swift. As far as anybody knows, it is not a painful death.'

After a moment I sighed. 'Perhaps I see far too many deaths.'

'So how do you stay humane?' he demanded.

'When I look at a corpse I remember, he must have parents somewhere; he may have had a wife. If I can, I find them. I tell them what happened. I try to be quick; most people want time to react alone. But some of them come back to me afterwards and ask for the details all over again. That's bad enough.'

'What's worse?'

'Thinking about the ones who want to ask, but never come.'

Gordianus still looked hunted. I could see that once he had drummed up the grit to oppose Vespasian, failure utterly deflated him.

'My brother and I,' he explained with a struggle, 'believed Flavius Vespasianus was a Sabine adventurer from an untalented family, who would bring the Empire into ruin and disrepute.'

I shook my head. 'I'm a staunch republican-but I won't run Vespasian down.'

'Because you work for him?'

'I work for the money.'

'Then opt out?'

'I do my duty!' I retorted. 'My name is on the tax roll, and I never fail to vote! More importantly, here I am, trying to reconcile you and Vespasian to give him breathing space to rebuild the ruins he inherited from Nero.'

'Is he capable?'

I hesitated. 'Probably.'

'Hah! Falco, to most of Rome he'll still be an adventurer.'

'Oh I believe he knows that!'

Gordianus went on staring out to sea. He had slumped like a sea anemone, a soft grey blob clinging to the stonework, weakening as the sun moved onto us.