"I've been talking to young Camillus." Anacrites had leaned across to whisper in my ear. I made a violent scratching movement as if I thought a beetle had landed on me. I just missed blinding him. He popped back onto his couch.

"Aelianus? That must have tried your patience," I said. Just the other side of Anacrites Helena's angry brother was making sure he avoided my eye.

"He seems a promising young character. It's clear that he doesn't care for you, Falco."

"He'll grow up." The spy should have learned by now there was no future in baiting me.

"Isn't he your brother-in-law or something?" It was casually offensive.

"Or something," I agreed calmly. "What's he doing here? Don't tell me he heard there would be top men from the bureaucracy, and he's trying to worm his way into a sinecure?"

"Well, he's just back from Baetica!" Anacrites loved being obscure.

I loathed the thought of Helena's hostile brat of a brother hobnobbing here with the spy. Maybe I was getting overexcited, but the scenario had a whiff of plots being hatched against me.

The girl from Hispalis was now well into her routine, so conversation ceased. She was showy, but not outstanding. Dancing girls are a thriving export from southern Spain; they all seem to train in the same terpsichoreal school, one where the movement-coach needs retiring. This wench could roll her eyes, and various other parts of her anatomy. She threw herself about the floor as

if she wanted to polish the whole mosaic with her wildly swinging hair. Once you've seen one snappy lass bent over backwards with her clackers in a frazzle, the attention may start wandering.