The night came alive now. The streets clogged; queues; noise; spills and traffic jams. I put my foot on the back of a slow waggon, wriggled up then pulled Helena aboard. We cuddled a marble headstone for half a block, transferred to a manure cart, realized what it was, then stepped off hastily to share with some nets of cabbages instead.

I was trying to work south, where I knew the streets. The cabbage-carter stopped to exchange abuse with a competitor who had scraped into his cart, so we scrambled down.

“Mind your feet!”

I nipped backwards from a passing wheel. “Thanks. In here—” We took advantage of a sideless dray. “Try to look like an amphora of robust Latian wine—”

I collapsed in mild hysterics as her sober ladyship obediently imitated a winejar, with her hands on her hips like handles and a face like a cracked chalk bung.

Six ox carts later the shadows were still gaining. It was quicker to walk. We slithered down again; my party sandals landed in something warm a donkey had left behind. I was still carrying mother’s sack of swag from Titus, and worrying about not being able to concentrate on protecting Helena. I had been frightened of losing her: no chance of that! While I was exclaiming, she seized my free hand ready to run. In the light from a tavern, her eyes flashed. I had let myself enjoy the delusion that Helena Justina was a staid piece. That was nonsense. She was determined not to be beaten, yet chortling at herself as she caught my startled look. Equally exhilarated, I laughed and ran faster myself.

The waggons had carried us out of the Forum, across the Via Aurelia and further south. We dashed round the Circus Maximus at the starting gate end and scuttled east until we were level with the central Obelisk. When we approached the Twelfth Sector I drew to a halt, bolting into the shelter of an alley, as we both struggled for breath. I backed her ladyship against a windowless wall, flung one arm across in front of her, and stared about, frantically listening. After a time I let my arm drop and lowered my bag of gold silently to the ground. There was nothing but the low throb of general noise beyond the buildings round about. Where we were seemed suddenly peaceful. We stood in a discrete pool of quietness: me, the senator’s daughter, the silhouette of an owl on a roof-tree, and the smell of old beanskins from a nearby rubbish dump. It might have seemed quite romantic to anyone with a passion for broad beans.

“Lost them!” I whispered. “Enjoying your trip out?”

She laughed, almost soundlessly in the back of her throat. “Beats sitting by a fountain watching slavegirls sewing fringes onto frocks!”

I was about to do something—well say something, anyway,—when into the space where my words would have gone, some other villain spoke.