While I waited for Petro to show, I wondered glumly if the stricken young teacher half dead of fright at Antium could also have left his job and become a wine waiter. If so, in this city with hundreds of thousands of street bars, we would never find him.

I could tell by the jaunty way Petro approached that he had made progress. During the night shift, he said, the new facts I brought from Antium turned into excellent leads.

We told Apollonius to go into the back room and stay there, reading a long scroll of Socrates.

‘What if customers come?’

‘We’ll serve them for you.’

‘You can’t do that!’

‘My sister owns the joint.’ Wrong. I owned the joint now; Junia just managed it for me. A terrifying thought.

‘You mean you’ll send my customers packing!’

‘Relax. We’ll call you.’

One or two latecomers did try to buy stuff. We told them we were hygiene inspectors and had to close the bar down. Then indeed we sent them packing.

49

Even after his shift, Petronius was buoyant. ‘Let’s start with the gem-buyer. Marcus, my boy, you’ve done well.’

‘Persicus?’

‘Persicus! He meant nothing to me, but Fusculus recognised the name.’

‘Fusculus is a lad.’

‘He’s a sparkler. Too good, I’m afraid. Rubella will probably transfer him to another cohort for “career development”.’

‘How does he know about Persicus? We were not aware of him before, surely?’

‘We could have been. He never showed on a statement, but while the Seventh Cohort were formally telling Rubella and me about that murdered courier, a couple of troops waited outside; talking to Fusculus, they gave up extra details. Their written reports are as skimpy as a whore’s nightgown. I suspect their clerk can’t even write—one of their centurions’ halfwit cousins, who got the job as a favour . . .’ He calmed down when I grinned. ‘But their enquiry chief asked the right questions. The carter was forced to supply details of the courier’s package, in case it was relevant—or the Seventh even found it.’

‘Have they?’

‘Don’t make me weep! The carter said the parcel was a load of cushion stuffing, sent by a client to his country estate.’

‘The client was Arrius Persicus?’

‘Correct. This is the good bit. He’s alive and well and has never mentioned losing any fabulous cameo.’

I guffawed. ‘In case his wife finds out he has a girlfriend! Shouldn’t cushion stuffing go the other way? Wool, feathers, straw—they all come from the country into Rome.’