‘I thought I might lash out on a Trojan hog,’ Anacrites confided in Albia, as if they had been close friends for years. He was a man with poor social skills trying to sound big in front of a young girl he thought would be easily impressed; she of course stared at him as if he was crazy. Then she flounced off, slamming the door behind her so hard the pantiles on our roof must be in danger.

As soon as Anacrites had gone, Albia reappeared. ‘What is a Trojan hog?’

Helena was dousing lamps as we made our way to bed. ‘Exhibit cookery. Only a show-off would serve it. On the principle of the Trojan horse, it carries a secret cargo. A whole pig is cooked then slashed open suddenly at table, so the contents spew out everywhere; the guests think they are being bombarded with raw entrails. The innards are usually sausages.’

Albia considered. ‘Sounds brilliant. We had better go to that!’

I groaned.

25

Petronius and I walked into the Palace next evening side by side. We were silent, our tread measured, both outwardly impassive. Anacrites had played this trick on us before. It didn’t work then—trust him to repeat the same manoeuvre.

As we neared his office, one of the pair I called the Melitan Brothers came out. When the man drew level, we made space for him to pass us. Afterwards we both stopped, pivoted on our boot heels and stared after him. He managed to keep looking ahead all the way to the end of the corridor, but could not help glancing back from the corner. Petro and I just stood there, watching him. He nipped away out of sight, ducking his head anxiously.

We strode into Anacrites’ room without knocking. As Petronius opened the door, he said loudly, ‘Standards are slacker than ever. He looks too foreign to be scuttling about like a rat, so near the Emperor—if I had a Palatine remit, I’d make him prove citizenship—or he’d find himself in a neck-collar.’

‘Who’s your runt?’ I demanded of Anacrites. He had been lounging in his usual pose, with his boots—a rather fine pair of russet calfskins—on his desk. He swung rapidly upright, knocking over an inkwell, while his clerk sniggered.

‘One of my men—’ Petronius guffawed at that, while I winced, miming pity. Anacrites mopped ink, thoroughly flustered. ‘Thank you, Phileros!’ That was a hint for the clerk, a puffy, overweight Delian slave, to make himself scarce so the spy could talk to us confidentially.

I pretended to think it was an order to fetch refreshments. ‘Mine’s an almond tart, Petronius likes raisin cakes. No cinnamon.’

Petro smacked his chops. ‘I’m ready for that! I’ll just have mulsum with it, not warmed too much, double honey. Falco takes wine and water, served in two beakers if they run to it.’