Somebody—my mama—had bustled round earlier, so the spiders had temporarily hopped it under the rafters with the pigeons. I tried not to think about the rats.

I shifted my giggly armful sideways onto the bench.

“Go and wait on the balcony.”

“That man’s there. He stinks!”

The waiter; he would have to go. I sighed. Her ladyship gave me a maddening smile.

“M Didius Falco: half-asleep and cradling a winecup. Bit early, Falco, even for you?”

“Hot milk,” I croaked.

It sounded as if I was lying, so Helena leaned over the table to see: it was hot milk.

The senator’s daughter, amid her usual impolite aura of perfumed condescension, sat on the chair I keep for clients and stared at my squirming companion. I gave in.

“This is Marcia, my favourite little friend.” Marcia, my favourite friend, aged three, cuddled up possessively and glared over my arm in a gruff way that probably reminded Helena of me. I gripped the neck of her tunic, hoping to keep her under some kind of control.

Then to my horror the senator’s daughter held out her arms to Marcia and heaved her over the table with the confidence of a person who has always been good with children until then. I thought of that clean, well-behaved little maiden I had seen on her lap in Londinium, and cursed inwardly. Marcia flopped like a sack in her arms looking thoughtful, gazed up at her, deliberately dribbled, then blew bubbles with the spit.

“Behave,” I instructed feebly. “Wipe your face.”

Marcia wiped her face on the nearest material, which was the embroidered end of Helena Justina’s long white scarf.

“Is she yours?” Helena asked me in a guarded tone.

It was my own affair if I let myself be used as a morning nursery school, so I just said, “No.”

That was rude, even for me, so I condescended to add, “My niece.” Marcia was the child my brother Festus never knew about.

“She’s difficult because you spoil her,” Helena commented.

I told her somebody had to; she seemed satisfied with that.

Marcia began to examine Helena’s earrings, which had blue glass beads hung on gold links. If she pulled the beads off she would eat them before I could reach across the table and grab them back. Fortunately they seemed well-soldered together and firmly hooked on to her ladyship’s delicate ears. I myself would have gone for the ears, which lay close to her head and were pleading to be nibbled. Helena looked as if she guessed what I was thinking. Rather stiffly I enquired what I could do for her.

“Falco, my parents are dining tonight at the Palace; you’re wanted there too.”

“Trough with Vespasian?” I was outraged. “Certainly not; I’m a strict republican!”

“Oh Didius Falco, don’t make such a fuss!” Helena snapped.

Marcia stopped blowing bubbles.