As I walked towards home the streets became more clamorous, with traders’ cries, hoofbeats and harness bells. A small black dog, his fur clinging in spiked clumps, barked madly at me as I passed a baker’s shop. When I turned back to swear at him, my head bonked against a sequence of jugs that had been hung on a rope by a potter whose idea of advertisement was to show his work could take a bashing; luckily my head was also strong. In the Ostia Road I was buffeted by bodkinsellers and footmen in crimson livery, but I managed to get my own back by squashing the toes of several slaves. Three streets from home I glimpsed my mother buying artichokes with the purse-lipped look that means she is thinking about me. I ducked behind some barrels of winkles and then backtracked to avoid finding out whether this was true. She did not appear to have seen me. Things were going well: friends with a senator, open-ended contract, and best of all, Sosia.

I was brought up sharp from this reverie by two bullyboys whose greeting made me grunt with pain.

“Whoops!” (cried I). “Look lads, it’s all been a mistake. Tell Smaractus my rent’s with his accountant—” I failed to recognize either, but Smaractus rarely keeps his gladiators long. If they can’t run away they inevitably die in the ring. If they don’t make it that far they perish from starvation, since Smaractus’ idea of a training diet is a handful of pale yellow lentils in lashings of old bathwater. I assumed these were my landlord’s latest bruisers from the gym.

My assumption was awry. By now my head was being gripped under the first bullyboy’s elbow. The second put his face down to grin at me; I had a sideways view of the cheek-guards of the latest design of helmet and a familiar scarlet neckerchief under his chin. These beggars were army. I considered coming the old soldier but in view of my legion’s record, a dropout from the Second Augusta was unlikely to impress. “Guilty conscience?” (cried the sideways face). “Something else to worry you—Didius Falco, you’re under arrest!”

Arrest by the boys in red felt familiar, like being tickled for cash by Smaractus. The biggest of these two big lads was attempting to squeeze out my tonsils with the racy efficiency of a cook’s boy podding peas with his thumb. I would have asked him to stop but I was speechless with admiration for his technique…

VIII