to sit and were doing their best not to turn disrespectful backs on Fuscus, his guests or the entertainment he had so generously provided.
Ruso beckoned Tilla forward. Below them, the musicians’ horns blared, and a couple of tumblers performed cartwheels across the arena, while the maintenance slaves scurried to rake over the sand before the next event. Ruso slipped in front of Fuscus’ elegantly carved chair and perched himself on the balustrade, blocking the view of several of the dignitaries.
A familiar voice said, ‘Stand up, man! At least show some respect!’ and Ruso realized that one of the bald pates in the less prestigious seats belonged to his former father-in-law.
Probus was looking even less pleased to see him than usual. Ruso ignored both him and the guards, who were clearly waiting for instructions to throw these interlopers out. Leaning forward, he murmured to Fuscus, ‘This woman has some information you need to hear straight away, sir.’
The ‘sir’ had slipped out inadvertently, but Fuscus did not appear to be listening anyway. ‘My cousin the Senator’s men,’ he announced, waving the melon in the direction of Calvus and Stilo, ‘have completed their investigation. They’ve come here to give us all a summary of the report they’ll be delivering to Rome.’
Tilla’s ‘No, they will not!’ from behind was a surprise to everyone including Ruso, who had intended to approach the matter with more subtlety.
Fuscus, ignoring her, turned to Calvus and Stilo. ‘I’m listening.’
The row of dignified heads turned to face the far end of the balcony. Calvus squared his shoulders, waited to make sure everyone was paying attention and opened his mouth to speak just as Tilla cried, ‘He is not an investigator!’
‘Control that woman, Ruso!’ demanded Probus.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Stilo, exchanging a glance with Calvus. ‘Shut up and listen, Blondie.’
The dignified heads swivelled again, and a murmur of protest arose. Fuscus snapped his fingers, and more guards stepped forward.
‘You need to listen to her,’ urged Ruso, ducking away from the balustrade before the approaching guard could push him over it. ‘These two are impostors.’ Ignoring protests from Stilo, he pointed to Calvus. ‘He’s a middle-man who provided a rotten ship, and that’s the captain who — ’
‘Nonsense!’ cried Probus, leaping to his feet. ‘These men have carried out a full and fair investigation into a suspicious death, and it has nothing to do with ships.’
‘D’you lot want to hear who done it, or not?’ shouted Stilo over a growing cacophony of horns from the musicians’ enclosure. One or two of the dignitaries half rose from their seats, looking around for reassurance.
‘Shut up and listen, Ruso,’ ordered Fuscus.
One of the guards had positioned himself behind Tilla. Ruso motioned to her to be quiet.
Calvus had a restraining hand on Stilo’s shoulder. ‘Gentlemen, ladies — please excuse my friend. He’s not used to civilized company. I keep him to deal with the low and dangerous types I have to mix with in the course of my investigations.’
Fuscus glanced both ways along the row at his guests, assured himself that Tilla was under control and ordered the musicians to be toned down and a slave to refill the drinks before he said, ‘Carry on. We want to know the result of the investigation. We can’t have poisoners running loose around the town.’
Calvus bowed and began, ‘Magistrates, ladies …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I came to Gaul on the orders of the cousin of Magistrate Gabinius Fuscus, Senator Gabinius Valerius — ’
‘You are a liar!’ shouted Tilla, squealing as the guard grabbed her and flung her over his shoulder.
Before Ruso could intervene the other guard seized his arm and wrenched it up parallel with his spine. As he was dragged further away from Fuscus he was aware of Tilla yelling, ‘You are both liars!’ as she was carried away.
‘Mad bitch!’ shouted Stilo as the words ‘You murdered Justinus!’ echoed back up the steps.
‘She’s telling the truth,’ Ruso gasped as the guard forced his wrist up between his shoulder-blades. He hoped Tilla had not made a terrible mistake.
Fuscus drained his wine in one gulp. ‘You’d better have a good reason for this performance, Ruso.’
‘You need to know. They’re swindlers and murderers. They killed my brother-in-law. They might have killed Severus as well.’
Fuscus turned back to Calvus for an answer, but whatever denial Calvus was about to make was interrupted by Stilo’s ‘Your honours don’t want to listen to them lies. That barbarian’s protecting him.’
The row of dignified heads was now turning frantically in an effort to take in Calvus and Stilo at one end of the balcony, Ruso at the other end and Fuscus lumbering to his feet in the middle, calling for order as if this were an unruly council meeting. The roar of the crowd said something was happening in the arena, but nobody on the balcony was watching.
‘It was him what done it!’ announced Stilo, pointing at Ruso. ‘The doctor and the wife, in the kitchen with the honey. We know about the red hair and the pink shoes!’ He turned to Calvus for confirmation, but Calvus was gone. The commotion in the crowd beyond the balcony marked the point where he had leaped over the side and was now forcing his way along a row of bewildered spectators.
Stilo glanced down, thought better of it and made a lunge for the nearest serving-girl. Her tray crashed to the floor as he pulled her back against him, and a knife appeared at her throat.
Fuscus and a couple of the dignitaries clutched at the nearest women. The dignitaries appeared to be trying to protect their wives, Fuscus to use his as a shield. The guards backed away as Stilo dragged the terrified serving-girl back towards the exit.
‘Don’t just stand there!’ cried Fuscus, knocking the fan from the hand of the nearest slave. ‘Defend us!’
The grip on Ruso’s arm fell away. Stilo reached the exit, flung the girl into the arms of the approaching guard and clattered away down the steps.
The guard who had evicted Tilla from the balcony was returning up the steps as Ruso stumbled down. ‘You’re welcome to her, mate. Little cow nearly had my ear off.’
By the time Ruso reached the corridor neither Tilla nor Stilo was in sight, but the direction of one or both was marked by a series of complaining spectators who had been shoved aside. Forcing himself to ignore the stabbing pain in the side of his foot, Ruso followed the trail up the steps, swerved round a furious vendor and narrowly missed slipping on a scattering of pastries the man was trying to pick up. As he raced along the upper corridor he realized none of Fuscus’ men was with him. He was not even sure who he was chasing. All he knew was that if Stilo decided to take on Tilla, she was in serious trouble.
An usher was trying to block his path, shouting something and holding up one hand in a ‘stop’ sign. Ruso charged straight for him, yelling, ‘Where did they go?’ The man faltered, leaped aside and flapped the hand to send Ruso straight on.
Ahead, the curve of the gallery was almost empty. To his right, the open archways offered a fine view of the town, but it would be a brave man or woman who would risk the leap down to the sunlit street. To his left, on the inside of the curve, shadowy flights of steps rose and fell from the gallery every few paces.
‘Where did they go?’ he yelled to an old man squatting in the shade of a pillar.
The man pointed a skinny finger towards the next flight up. Ruso hopped towards it, grabbing at his injured foot. The brief massage made no difference: every step up was a fresh wave of pain.
‘Tilla!’ he shouted, knowing his voice would not reach her over the sound of the crowd. ‘Tilla, wait for me!’
Emerging into a narrower corridor, he gasped to the usher, ‘I’m looking for a blonde woman!’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘Which way?’
The usher, still grinning, pointed to his left.
‘Is there a man with her?’
‘No, he’s in front.’
The upper corridor was a lame man’s nightmare: barely a few yards level at a time before more steps down into a dip, a junction with another gloomy stairway that Tilla or Stilo might have descended, and more steps back up the other side. By the third or fourth dip Ruso was beginning to feel exhausted. All those weeks of limping about had left him seriously out of condition.
‘Tilla!’ he yelled, forcing himself to keep going. By the next dip he knew he was never going to catch up with
