`Dillius Braco?'

`Didius Falco.' My teeth met grittily.

`Are you sure?' he insisted. I did not answer, lest my response should be uncouth. `I hear you held a successful recital yesterday. Aurelius Chrysippus fancies we may be able to do something for you.'

‘Aurelius Chrysippus?’ It meant nothing, but even at that stage I had a dark feeling.

`I doubt it. I'm an informer. I thought you might want me to do something for you.'

`Olympus, no!'

'One thing you had better do is tell me who you are.'

`Euschemon. I run the Golden Horse scriptorium for Chrysippus.'

That would be some outfit where sweatshop scribes copied manuscripts – either for their owner's personal use, or in multiple sets for commercial sale. I would have perked up, but I had guessed that Chrysippus might be the Greek-bearded irritation who had taken over our recital. The wrong label he gave me in his introduction was about to stick. So much for fame. Your name becomes well known – in some incorrect version. It only happens to some of us. Don't tell me you've ever bought a copy of Julius Castor's Gallician Wars.

`Am I supposed to have heard of a scriptorium at the sign of the Golden Horse?'

`Oh, it's a top business,' he told me. `Astonished you don't know us. We have thirty scribes in full employment – Chrysippus heard your work last night, of course. He thought it might be good for a small edition.'

Somebody liked my work. Involuntarily my eyebrows raised. I invited him inside.

Helena was with Julia in the room where I interviewed clients. The child ceased her raving immediately, her interest caught by the stranger. Helena would normally have carried her into the bedroom, but since Julia was quiet she was left on her rug, absent-mindedly chewing her wooden stag while staring at Euschemon.