“I shall return Sosia Camillina to her family when they ask me, and do your worst, Pertinax—I shall return her to no one else!”

I saw his eyes travel to the middle ranker in the corner. The man had a lean, sad, tolerant smile.

“Thank you,” this one said. “My name is Publius Camillus Meto. I am her father. Perhaps I can ask you now.”

I closed my eyes. It was quite true—nobody had actually told me the senator’s relationship to Sosia. This must be his younger brother, the man who lived in the frosty house next door. So my client was only her uncle. All the rights of ownership would lie with her papa.

In response to further questioning, as they say, I agreed to take her father and his pleasant friends to fetch her.

Back at the laundry Lenia popped out, intrigued by the uncoordinated tramping of large numbers of feet. Seeing me under arrest caused no surprise.

“Falco? Your mother says—Oh!”

“Out of the way, you filthy old bladder!” shouted the aedile Pertinax, flinging her to one side.

To spare him the indignity of being fruit-pressed to a pulp by a woman, I interceded gently: “Not the time, Lenia.”

After twenty years of wringing out heavily wet togas, she possessed deceptive strength. He could have been badly damaged. I wish that he had been. I wish I had held him down for Lenia while she did it. I wish I had damaged him myself.

By then the momentum of our arrival had carried us up the stairs. Their visit was brief. When we all burst into my apartment, Sosia Camillina was not there.

IX

Pertinax was furious. I felt depressed. Her father looked weary. I offered to help him find her: I saw him snap.

“Stay away from my daughter, Falco!” he cried angrily.

Understandable. He could probably guess my interest. Keeping layabouts away from a daughter like that must occupy a lot of his time. I murmured, in a responsible tone.

“So I’m off the case—”

“You were never on it, Falco!” the aedile Pertinax crowed.

I knew better than to argue with a touchy politician. Especially one with such a pained face and pointy nose.

Pertinax let his men rummage through my apartment for evidence. They found nothing: even the sardine plates had been washed, though not by me. Before they left, they rearranged my furniture into handy cordwood sticks. And when I protested, one of them smashed me in the face so hard he all but broke my nose.

If Atius Pertinax wanted me to think him a frowsty lout with the habits of a gutter rat, he was halfway home.

As soon as they had gone, Lenia rushed upstairs to see whether she could inform Smaractus that one of his tenants had expired. My wrecked belongings stopped her short.

“Juno! Your room—and your face, Falco!”