'I suppose this must be rather different from your master's house.' I sat in one chair, gingerly so as not to disturb my head, and indicated that Tiro should take the other. I clapped my hands and instandy regretted the noise. I bit back the pain and shouted,

'Bethesda! Where is that girl? She'll bring us food in a moment. That's why I answered the door myself — she's busy in the pantry. Bethesda!'

Tiro cleared his throat. 'Actually, sir, it's rather larger than my master's.'

I looked at him blankly, my stomach rumbling now in competition with my temples. 'What's that?' 'The house, sir. Bigger than my master's.' 'That surprises you?'

He looked down, fearing he had offended me. 'Do you know what I do for a living, young man?' 'Not exactly, sir.'

'But you know it's something not quite respectable — at least insofar as anything is worthy of respect in Rome these days. But not illegal—at least insofar as legality has any meaning in a city ruled by a dictator. So you're surprised to find me living in such spacious quarters, as ramshackle as they maybe. That's perfectly all right. I'm sometimes surprised myself And there you are, Bethesda. Set the tray here, between me and my unexpected but perfectly welcome young guest.'

Bethesda obeyed, but not without a sidelong glance and a quiet snort of disdain. A slave herself Bethesda did not approve of my keeping informal company with slaves, much less feeding them from my own pantry. When she had finished unloading the tray, she stood before us as if awaiting further instructions. This was merely a pose. It was obvious to me, if not to Tiro, that what she chiefly wanted was a closer look at my guest.

Bethesda stared at Tiro, who seemed unable to meet her gaze. The corners of her mouth drew back. Her upper Hp compressed and curled itself into a subtle arc. She sneered.