Three tiers of military cohorts kept law and order in the city; neither law nor order had much to do with the feud between them all. The Praetorian Guards despised the Urban Cohorts and they both hated the vigiles. But the Praetorians protected the Emperor and were commanded by Titus Caesar now; whenever those thrusting bullyboys strode from their camp and appeared in public, there could be no contest.

They burst into the exercise yard like dam water after a leak. There was no stopping them. Petronius did not try. Somehow Anacrites had learned we had the slavey; he had sent the Guards to snatch Syrus. They made it plain, it would be foolish to request a warrant.

‘Take the ungrateful bastard; I don’t want him. Our budget’s too tight for feeding runaways.’ Well, Syrus was a slave. Nobody was going to make an issue of it. ‘I heard the Fifth had found him,’ Petronius told the Guards’ leader helpfully. ‘My plan was to check the facts and send him up to the Palace with a note. You’re doing me a favour. He’s all yours.’

‘Oh he is!’ snarled the Guards’ leader. ‘Word of warning—don’t meddle!’

‘Are you speaking for Anacrites?’

‘None of your business who I’m speaking for—back off, soldier!’

I could not believe the spy had been so crude—and it went against the careful pretence of comradeship he had been laying on thick at his dinner party. But that was him, since his head wound. He was highly unpredictable. Capricious mood changes damaged his judgement. The one thing a spy needs is self-preservation—and that demands self-knowledge.

Syrus was hauled from the interrogation cell by the Emperor’s élite thugs while we stood around like puddings. Terror overtook him so his legs gave way; the Guards virtually carried him. His eyes rolled white and he shat himself. It had nothing to do with Sergius, who despite our teasing of Albia had barely touched him. Petronius was not preparing a witness statement; he had wanted answers, answers he could trust. Instead, as the Praetorians dragged the slave away, the poor creature knew his fate. He would be dead in a ditch within the hour. Anacrites, we were starting to suspect, either knew the answers already or he did not care.

Petronius cursed. He knew nobody would ever see that slave again. At least we still had the cameo. Petro retrieved it from a murky bucket of water where he had quickly dropped it when the Guards crashed in.

As for them giving us orders to back off, it was blatant intimidation. Nothing new for the Praetorians; not so new for the spy—but foolish. So stupid, in fact, that Petronius and I wondered if Anacrites had lost his grip.

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