Shadows in Bronze by Lindsey Davis

travertine. The wall sconces were gilt; all shaped like dames; all lit. I was brought up in dark houses where the rafters grazed my curls; looming spaces in elegant colour schemes have made me feel uneasy ever since. I lay on the couch as if I was nervous my body would leave an unpleasant mark on its silk.

    The Emperor leaned on one great elbow, scrunching apples. His square, tanned face had that crag of a nose and jolly uptilted chin you see on the coins, with the laughter lines around his eyes. What the average denarius fails to reveal is that Vespasian Augustus had discovered one good source of light relief in me.

    'Well, Falco?' He frowned at his fruit. It looked a four- cornered, floury job probably from his own Sabine estate; he never paid for anything he could grow himself.

    'Caesar, I'd hate the bog savages to get a good name, but for a really sweet apple Britain beats the world!'

    Vespasian had a military career in Britain, which had taken a distinctly glorious turn. My British career was twenty years later, and not glorious at all. Someone like Anacrites was bound to have told him that.

    For a moment the old man paused, as if my mentioning the small, crisp russets of Britain that explode on the tongue with such unexpected sweetness had struck old chords. If I had not hated Britain so badly, I might have felt a homesick pang myself.

    'What happened at the Temple?'

    'Bad news I'm afraid, sir. Curtius Longinus is dead. Luckily for him, cremation is the fashion for Roman funerals nowadays.' The Emperor groaned and pounded his reading couch with a great fist. 'Sir, there's a contract bonus for naming your opponents. Does that include finding the maniac who's flittering them?'

    'No,' he said. He knew that was a serious blow to me.
    'All the Empire admires Caesar's graciousness!'
    'Don't be sarcastic,' he growled menacingly.

    In some ways we two were ill-assorted. Vespasian Caesar was an up-country senator from a down-market family, but a traditional aristocrat. I was an outspoken, introverted rough-neck with an Aventine accent and no sense of respect. The fact we could work together successfully was a typical Roman paradox.

    While he absorbed my news with an angry frown I took advantage of the lull to report the full story.

    'Sir, the missing freedman I told you about had heard Longinus was in Rome. I'm certain they met. It looks as if the freedman caused the fire. Did Anacrites managed to track him down in the Transtiberina?'

    'No. The freedman had packed his bags and broken camp. When he lit this fire he must have already been prepared to do a flit. That's clear premeditation. What's he playing at, Falco?'

    ‘Either a crazy campaign of vengeance for his patron's death in jail - or some more dangerous development.'

    ‘You mean, either Barnabas blamed Longinus for having Pertinax killed - or Longinus had to be silenced before he saw me tomorrow because of something he might say? Did Curtius Longinus cause the death of Pertinax?'

    'No, sir. The man I dropped in the Great Sewer for you this morning probably arranged that.'

    'So what could Longinus have had to tell me?'

    ‘I don't know. Perhaps his brother can enlighten us.'

    The big man brooded glumly. ‘Falco, why do I gain the impression that the moment we bury one conspiracy, a new one crawls to light?'

    'I suspect because one has.'

    'I'm not the type to waste my time running in fear of assassins.'

    ‘No, sir.'

    He grunted. 'I need you for something, Falco,' he offered. ‘This reflects very badly on my administration - I want people to know I send for them in good faith! It's unsafe to invite the other Curtius brother to Rome, but someone had better get down there fast to warn him. There's not much involved. Carry him my condolences. Remember he is a Senator, they are an old family, of good standing. Just tell him what happened, put him on his guard, then ask him to write to me-'

    ‘A messenger boy! Caesar, you asked me to work here! Yet I