This was one client whose contract would need to be enforced by tying her to my wrist with a long piece of string.

III

After the hum of the Forum and the hurly-burly of the Roman squares, the Falco apartment was blessedly still, though faint noises rose from the street below and occasional birdsong could be heard across the acres of red tiled roofs. I lived right at the top. We arrived, as did all comers, wearily gasping for breath. The girl stopped to read my ceramic fingerplate. A fingerplate was unnecessary since no one climbs six flights unless they know who lives upstairs, but I had taken pity on a travelling salesman who flogged up to persuade me it would help business to advertise. Nothing helps my business, but never mind.

“M Didius Falco. M for Marcus. Shall I call you Marcus?”

“No,” I said.

We went in.

“More steps, less rent,” I explained wryly. “I lived on the roof until the pigeons complained I was lowering the tone of their pantiles…”

I lived halfway to the sky. The girl was entranced. Used only to desirable spreads at ground floor level, with their own gardens and access to the aqueducts, she probably missed the disadvantages of my eagle’s nest. I dreaded that the foundations would collapse and six layers of habitation collapse in a puff of plaster dust, or that one blazing night I would sleep through the fire watchers’ alarm and fry in my own fat.

She made a beeline for the balcony. I gave her a moment and then went out to join her, genuinely proud of my view. The view, at least, was fabulous. Our block stood high enough on the Aventine to see over its neighbours towards the Probus Bridge. You could spy for miles, out across the river and the Transtiberina Sector to the Ianiculan Mount and the west coast countryside. It was best at night. Once the delivery carts stopped their racket, sounds became so intense you could hear the water lapping on the Tiber’s banks, and the Emperor’s sentries grounding their spears behind you on Palatine Hill.

She breathed deeply of the warm air, rich in city smells—cookshops and chandleries, and the aromatic waft from the stone pines in the public gardens on Pincian Hill.

“Oh I wish I lived somewhere like this—” She must have seen my face. “Condemned as a pampered brat! You suppose I don’t realize you have no water, no winter heat and no proper oven so you have to carry in your meals from a hot pie shop—” She was right, I had supposed that. Dropping her voice, she sprang on me, “Who are you?”

“You read it: Didius Falco,” I said, watching her. “I’m a private informer.”

She considered this. For a moment she was uncertain, then she became quite excited: “You work for the Emperor!”