He had to have the last word. I could have allowed it because it meant so much to him—but we were in my house, so I patted back the ball. ‘Your confidence sounds dangerously close to hubris! You just said it, Anacrites: presumption offends the gods.’

He left. I went off to breakfast with a lighter step.

Helena and I amused ourselves over the bread rolls discussing reasons why Anacrites could be so worked up about the jewel. After all, he had money nowadays. If some night-moth complained she had lost part of her necklace during their frolics, he could afford to buy her a new one to shut her up.

Some wrangles are meaningless and soon forgotten. Anacrites and I often exchanged insults; we meant them to bite and we meant every word, though it never stuck for long. But the clash we had that morning insidiously stayed with me. I continued to believe that cameo was significant—and I wanted to know why Anacrites had panicked.

36

The Heracleides company was run by one man who lived over a stable block. It was a large stable. Up in his elegant apartment he certainly did not tread on hay. His personalised loft had been floored with highly polished boards; a team of slaves must skate around with dusters on their feet each morning. Instead of mangers, there were sumptuous cushioned couches with dramatic flared legs like whole elephant tusks. He went in for ivory—always the snobbish side of flash. And the flared leg is much beloved by stagy folk (I was thinking like Pa.)

Heracleides ran his outfit from a line of stabled wagons that contained his staff’s cooking and serving equipment. Where these staff lurked by day was not immediately obvious. Heracleides, I already knew, believed in distance supervision. He flattered clients with promises of individual attention, yet stayed away from their big night. According to him, his highly trained personnel had been with him for decades; they were safe to leave alone and his presence was unnecessary. At a venue, he would not so much as place a violet in a vase. I guessed his only interest was in counting the profits.

Younger than I expected, he was a pampered specimen—too much time at the baths, probably baths which offered stodgy saffron cakes and erotic massage. His tunic had a fringed hem; a narrow gold fillet bound his suntanned brow. You know the type: all high-stepping insincerity. Not safe to buy a rock oyster from, let alone a three-course dinner with entertainment and flowers.

Trying to impress me, he paraded his business ethic: love of fine detail, competitive rates and a long list of very famous customers. I wasn’t fooled. I understood him straight away. He was a chancer.

I took a flared-leg chair, which needless to say had its back at the wrong angle for the average spine. One of the fancy legs was loose too.