After the hum of the Forum and the hurly-burly of the Roman squares, the Falco apartment was blessedly still, though faint noises rose from the street below and occasional birdsong could be heard across the acres of red tiled roofs. I lived right at the top. We arrived, as did all comers, wearily gasping for breath. The girl stopped to read my ceramic fingerplate. A fingerplate was unnecessary since no one climbs six flights unless they know who lives upstairs, but I had taken pity on a travelling salesman who flogged up to persuade me it would help business to advertise. Nothing helps my business, but never mind.
“M Didius Falco. M for Marcus. Shall I call you Marcus?”
“No,” I said.
We went in.
“More steps, less rent,” I explained wryly. “I lived on the roof until the pigeons complained I was lowering the tone of their pantiles…”
I lived halfway to the sky. The girl was entranced. Used only to desirable spreads at ground floor level, with their own gardens and access to the aqueducts, she probably missed the disadvantages of my eagle’s nest. I dreaded that the foundations would collapse and six layers of habitation collapse in a puff of plaster dust, or that one blazing night I would sleep through the fire watchers’ alarm and fry in my own fat.
She made a beeline for the balcony. I gave her a moment and then went out to join her, genuinely proud of my view. The view, at least, was fabulous. Our block stood high enough on the Aventine to see over its neighbours towards the Probus Bridge. You could spy for miles, out across the river and the Transtiberina Sector to the Ianiculan Mount and the west coast countryside. It was best at night. Once the delivery carts stopped their racket, sounds became so intense you could hear the water lapping on the Tiber’s banks, and the Emperor’s sentries grounding their spears behind you on Palatine Hill.
She breathed deeply of the warm air, rich in city smells—cookshops and chandleries, and the aromatic waft from the stone pines in the public gardens on Pincian Hill.
“Oh I wish I lived somewhere like this—” She must have seen my face. “Condemned as a pampered brat! You suppose I don’t realize you have no water, no winter heat and no proper oven so you have to carry in your meals from a hot pie shop—” She was right, I had supposed that. Dropping her voice, she sprang on me, “Who are you?”
“You read it: Didius Falco,” I said, watching her. “I’m a private informer.”
She considered this. For a moment she was uncertain, then she became quite excited: “You work for the Emperor!”
“Vespasian hates informers. I operate for sad middle-aged men who think their wicked wives are sleeping with charioteers, and even sadder ones who know their wives are sleeping with their nephews. Sometimes for women.”
“What do you do for the women—or is it indiscreet to ask?”
I laughed. “Whatever they pay for!”
I left it at that.
I went inside and tidied away various items I preferred her not to see, then I set about preparing my evening meal. After a time she followed me in and inspected the bleak hole Smaractus rented me. For the price it was an insult—but I rarely paid his price.
There was an outer room in which a dog might just turn round, if he was a thin dog with his tail between his legs. A wonky table, a slanty bench, a shelf of pots, a bank of bricks I used as a cooking stove, a gridiron, winejars (empty), rubbish basket (full). One way out to the balcony for when you got tired of stamping on the cockroaches indoors, plus a second opening behind a curtain in bright, welcoming stripes—this led to the bedroom. Sensing it perhaps, she did not ask.
“In case you’re used to all-night banquets that run through seven courses from eggs in fish pickle sauce to frozen sorbets dug out of snow pits, I warn you on Tuesdays my cook goes to see his granny.” I had no cook, no slaves at all. My new client was beginning to look unhappy.
“Please don’t trouble. I can eat when you take me home—”
“You’re going nowhere yet,” I said. “Not until I know what I’m taking you back to. Now eat!”
We had fresh sardines. I would have liked to provide something more exciting, but sardines were what the woman who took it upon herself to leave my meals had left. I made a cold sweet sauce to liven up the fish: honey, with a dash of this, a sprinkle of that, the normal sort of thing. The girl watched me do it as if she had never seen anybody grinding lovage and rosemary in a mortar in her life. Perhaps she never had.
I finished first, then leaned my elbows on the edge of the table while I gazed at the young lady with a frank and trustworthy face.
“Now, tell your Uncle Didius all about it. What’s your name?”
“Helena.” I was so busy looking frank, I missed the flush on her own face that ought to have told me the seed pearl in this oyster was a fake.
“Know those barbarians, Helena?”
“No.”
“So they grabbed you where?”
“In our house.”
I whistled slowly. That was a surprise.
Remembering made her indignant, which made her more talkative. They had snatched her in broad daylight.
“They clanged the bell as bold as brass, barged past the porter, burst through the house, pulled me out to a carrying chair and raced down the street! When we got to the Forum the crowds slowed them, so I jumped out and ran away.”
They had threatened her enough to keep her quiet, though clearly not enough to quash her spirit.
“Any idea where they were taking you?”
She said not.
“Now don’t be worried!” I reassured her. “Tell me, how old are you?”
She was sixteen. O Jupiter!
“Married?”
“Do I look like a person who is married?” She looked like a person who soon should be!
“Papa any plans? Perhaps he has his eye on some well-bred army officer, home from Syria or Spain?”
She seemed interested in the concept, but shook her head. I could see one good reason for kidnapping this beauty. I improved on my trustworthy look. “Any of papa’s friends been ogling you too keenly? Has your mother introduced you to any spruce young sons of her childhood friends?”
“I haven’t a mother,” she interrupted calmly.
There was a pause while I wondered at her odd way of putting it. Most people would say “My mother’s dead,” or whatever. I worked out that her noble mama was in excellent health, probably found in bed with a footman and divorced in disgrace.
“Excuse me—professional question—any special admirer your family knows nothing about?”
Suddenly she burst into giggles. “Oh do stop being so silly! There’s nobody like that!”
“You’re a very attractive young lady!” I insisted, adding quickly, “Though of course you’re safe with me.”
“I see!” she remarked. This time those huge brown eyes suddenly danced in high spirits. I realized with astonishment that I was being teased.
Some of it was bluff. She had been badly frightened and now she was trying to be brave. The braver she was, the sweeter she looked. Her beautiful eyes were gazing into mine, brimming with mischief and causing serious troubles of my own…
Just in time, footfalls dragged to a halt outside, then my door was battered with that casual arrogance that could only mean a visit from the law.