It was an arthritic waggon pulled by an asthmatic horse, erratically steered by the oldest gardener in the world; I guessed they would not be going far.

We hid until we came to a stable, then the old man unhitched the horse and pottered off home. He left a guttering taper, despite the risk of fire, so either he was utterly drunk or the horse was afraid of the dark.

We were alone. We were safe. There was only one problem: when we looked outside we were in a public garden. It had eight-foot-high railings—and as he left the man had locked the gates.

“I’ll cry for my mother,” I murmured to Helena. “You climb out and fetch help.”

“If we can’t get out, no one else can get in…”

“I am not bedding down with a horse!”

“Oh Falco, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Where’s your sense?”

We bedded down with the horse.

XLVII

In the stall next to the horse was some straw which various ticks and fleas had decided was clean. I spread out my toga, framing an apology to Festus, though that glad spark would have found this a huge joke. In less respectable company, I might have giggled myself.

I unclipped my belt, threw my sandals aside, hurled myself back on the straw and watched Helena Justina straighten my shoes tidily alongside hers. She distanced herself with her back turned, pulling out her ivory hairpins in despair. She dropped the pins into her shoe while her hair untwined in one loosened tangle down her back. I decided against reaching out for a friendly tug. You have to know a woman very well before you pull her hair.

She sat hugging her knees. Without her mantle she was obviously cold.

“Here—our quaint national garment can make a cosy bedspread. Snuggle up and get warm. Hush! Who’s to know?” I dragged her back beside me, pinned her with one elbow and rapidly flung the long ends of my toga round us both. “My own theory is, warming up women was what the founding fathers had in mind when they invented this…”

The senator’s daughter had landed in my ceremonial cocoon with her head just below my chin. She was too chilled to resist. She shuddered once, then lay stiff as a post in a wattle fence. As soon as she realized she could only escape with a great deal of effort, she fell diplomatically asleep. She does hate fuss.

I lay awake; she could probably hear my brain creaking as I turned over the night’s events. I settled into what I now realized was my favourite position for thinking: leaning my cheek against a peaceful woman’s head. I had never discovered this before; Libyan dancing girls wriggle far too much.