She had to be a dancer. Her physique looked well fleshed but muscular. A shining swatch of hair, so black it had a deep blue sheen, was being held back from her brow in a simple twist which could be rapidly loosened for dramatic effect. She had both hands posed with a delicacy that spoke of practice with castanets.

"My mistake," I pretended to apologize. "I had been promised a Spanish dancer. I was hoping you were a bad girl from Gades."

"Well I'm a good girl from Hispalis," she countered, trying to sweep past me. Her accent was crisp and her Latin abrasive. But for the Baetican theme of the evening it might have been hard to place her origins.

Thanks to my trusty amphora I was keeping the doorway well blocked. If she squeezed through, we were going to be pleasantly intimate. I noted the look in her eye, suggesting that one wrong move in confined conditions and she was liable to bite my nose off.

"I'm Falco."

"Well get out of my way, Falco."

Either I had lost my charm, or she had sworn a vow to avoid handsome men with winsome smiles. Or could it be she was worried by my big jar of fermented fish entrails?

An oldish man with a cithara stepped from a room across the corridor. His hair was grizzled and his handsome features had dark, Mauretanian coloring. He took no interest in me. The woman acknowledged his nod and turned after him. I decided to stop and watch their performance.

"Sorry; private room!" she smirked, and closed the door smack in my face.

"Absolute nonsense! The Baetican Society has never encouraged plotting in smoky corners. We don't allow private parties here-"