‘Merely ceremonial. Falco would have been impatient with it . . .’ I leaned on my elbow and glared at him sternly. Anacrites was just too good to show it made him uncomfortable. ‘Vespasian endowed various public buildings, in honour of Caenis. An amphitheatre at Pola, for instance, needed restoration—’

‘He paid for it?’

‘He loved her, Marcus,’ Helena called reprovingly. ‘Go on, Anacrites.’

‘I was sent to represent him at the inauguration. So, Falco, it was nothing sinister!’

I laughed off this weak attempt to make me appear paranoid. ‘My dear fellow, any time you have the chance to cut civic ribbons in a two-bit foreign town, you do it. I am surprised you could be spared for such matters.’

He flushed slightly. ‘Pola is a major city, Colonia Pietas Iulia Pola Pollentia Herculanea. I was owed leave. I was honoured to go. It suited me too,’ he let slip.

‘Oh?’ I was on it at once.

‘I have connections there.’

‘Connections?’ I patted his shoulder. ‘Can we be learning personal secrets?’

Anacrites shifted. ‘It is very beautiful along the coast.’

‘Full of pirates, lurking in the rocky creeks, according to my Uncle Fulvius. He watched their movements for the fleet,’ I told the spy, trying to make him think this undercover work had been for some mysterious higher agency. Fulvius was in Egypt now, or I would never have mentioned it. No rose suspended from a ceiling was protection enough; had Fulvius still been engaged as a ‘military corn factor’ (a ridiculous myth, because no corn factor is ever what he seems) he would not have thanked me for interesting Anacrites. ‘So what was the real draw, Anacrites?’

‘Oh . . . an opportunity to get my hands on some Pucinum wine!’ The man was indefatigably slippery.

To his obvious relief the servers cleared the starter tables and brought in the main course. While this was organised, the tumblers tumbled off for a break and a professional singer swanned up to delight us. He must be all the rage; I recognised this caroller from Laeta’s office. Immediately I wondered if he was Laeta’s plant, observing Anacrites at play. The thought kept me happy until the new foodbowls were laid.

Time for business. (Anything to avoid listening to this singer.) ‘So Anacrites, how are you getting on with the Modestus killing?’

‘Don’t ask, Falco!’

‘I just did. Now listen, happy host, I am your guest of honour. While I stretch out on my elbow here in the best place, the consul’s spot, my every whim is yours to fulfil—so come clean! What’s the situation?’

‘There has been another death.’ The spy had a wide-eyed honest look that made me want to screw bits off my bread roll and stuff him like a trigon ball. ‘It bears similarities to the Modestus killing . . .’

‘But?’