Anacrites was keeping his face expressionless. He sipped his wine. I had seen him quaff fine fifteen-year-old Alban, and I knew he could tell the difference. It amused me to watch his strange, light eyes flicker as he tried not to mind drinking this bitter brew in company he also despised. He asked,

'What makes you so certain the old man instructed me to go myself?'

'Anacrites, when he wants me, he tells me so in person.'

'Maybe he asked my opinion, and I warned him you were unreceptive to work from the Palace nowadays.'

'I've always been unreceptive.' I was reluctant to mention my recent kick in the teeth, though in fact Anacrites had been present when my request for promotion was turned down by Vespasian's son Domitian. I even suspected Anacrites was behind that act of imperial graciousness. He must have noticed my anger.

'I find your feelings perfectly understandable,' the Chief Spy said in what he must have hoped was a winning way, apparently unaware he was risking several broken ribs. 'You had a big investment in getting promoted. It must have been a bad shock being turned down. I suppose this spells the end of your relationship with the Camillus girl?'

'I'll handle my own feelings. And don't speculate about my girl'

'Sorry!' he murmured meekly. I felt my teeth grind. 'Look, Falco, I thought I might be able to do you a favour here. The Emperor put me in charge of this; I can commission whoever I want. After what happened the other day at the Palace, you may welcome an opportunity to get as far away from Rome as possible:'

Sometimes Anacrites sounded as though he had been listening at my doorlatch while I talked life over with Helena. As we lived on the sixth floor, it was unlikely any of his minions had flogged up to eavesdrop, but I took a firmer grip on my winecup while my eyes narrowed.