I gazed down at my toe, surprised to see that it wasn't bleeding. There are gods in my garden, rustic and wild and unkempt like the garden itself. They had punished me for teasing a naive young slave. I deserved it. 'Loyalty becomes you, Tiro. Just how old is your master?'

'Cicero is twenty-six.'

'And you?'

'Twenty-three.'

'A bit older than I would have guessed, both of you. Then I'm not ten years older than you, Tiro, but only seven. Still, seven years can make a great difference,' I said, contemplating the passion of young men out to change the world. A wave of nostalgia passed through me as gently as the faint breeze that rustled through the willow above our heads. I glanced down into the pond and saw the two of us reflected in a patch of dear water sparkling in the sunlight. I was taller than Tiro, broader in the shoulders and heavier in the middle; my jaw was more prominent, my nose flatter and more hooked, and my eyes, far from being lavender, were a staid Roman brown. All we seemed to have in common were the same unruly black curls; mine were beginning to show strands of grey.

'You mentioned Quintus Hortensius,' Tiro said. 'How did you know that it was he who recommended you to Cicero?'

I laughed softly. 'I didn't know. Not for certain. That was a guess, but a good one. The look of amazement on your face immediately confirmed that I was right. Once I knew for a fact that Hortensius was involved, everything became clear to me.

'Let me explain. One of Hortensius's men was here, perhaps ten days ago, sounding me out about a case. The one who always comes to me when Hortensius needs my help - just thinking of the creature makes me shudder. Where do men like Hortensius find such abominable specimens? Why do they all end up in Rome, cutting one another's throats? But of course you wouldn't know about that side of the legal profession. Not yet.