Lindsey Davis - The Jupiter Myth

We walked steadily, shoulder to shoulder. We paid no great attention to whether we were followed or observed; we knew we would be tailed by the governor's men and we expected the gang to have lookouts too. We travelled at a pace that gave messengers time to nobble us. This happened as soon as we turned left on the Decumanus, heading for the bridge over the stream.

It was the dogman who stepped out in our way. With his group of skinny, mangy hunting curs careering around his legs, he was unmistakable. 'Is one of you Petronius?'

We stopped and Petro acknowledged his name courteously.

'Listen to this then.' His long-nosed hounds nuzzled us, gently slobbering on our tunics and bootstraps. 'I was told to tell you, "The meet has been changed. Go to the Shower of Gold". Does it make sense?'

'Oh yes.' Petronius was almost cheerful. He had bet me the first assignation was a bluff. Luckily I had agreed, so I lost no money. We had enough at stake.

The governor and his men would sit around outside Caesar's Baths, trying to hide behind bollards and drinking troughs. Petronius would be forced to abandon their support and walk into trouble at some other location.

We executed an infantry turn in two smart stages. Anyone watching should have been impressed by our precision marching. Now instead of heading northwest we were heading southeast. We walked back past the chair, dividing one each side, and nodded politely to Helena as she stared out at us anxiously.

'New venue. Don't worry. We expected it.'

We then passed a troubled fellow, the governor's tail, who was trying to make himself invisible in a doorway while he panicked about our change of plan.

'Shower of Gold next!' announced Petronius loudly, hoping the man would realise we were not just going back home for a forgotten neckerchief: someone ought to inform the governor that things were more complicated than he had hoped. There could be several of these redirection yet.

We reached the narrow side road where we had to turn off, then all too soon we halted at the entrance to the tavern's own filthy byway. It was unlit and lying silent. We could see the Shower of Gold halfway along, its door outlined by a faint gleam of lamplight. We stood there, observing. Nothing moved.

Now we were in a predicament we both dreaded: stuck at one end of a deserted alley, with dusk falling rapidly, in the certain knowledge that someone was waiting somewhere down that alley, intending to surprise and kill us. This was an ambush. It had to be. These situations always are.

It was a still evening, with a pervasive cloud cover. It felt cool. The storm had reduced the sultry temperature, but you could still go without a cloak and be comfortable. Dampness was taking over, however. Mist from the nearby river and marshes made our skin and hair sticky. In Britain in late August nightfall varies with the weather. Had it been fine, we would still have had plenty of light. But rain was hovering nearby. In the narrow entry we peered through murk at shadows which could be hiding any kind of trouble.

Petronius sucked his teeth and swore. 'Classic!'

The alley looked like a dead end. I could not remember.

I had only ever come and gone one way. 'I'm twitchy.'

'Me too.'

'It's your call.'

He thought for a moment. 'You'll have to wait here and cover this junction. If we both go in, there's no way out behind us.'

'Stay in sight as long as you can then.'

'They'll make me go inside the bar.'

'No, don't go in unless they send Maia out.' I knew he would ignore that if he believed she was inside.

We made no move.

Adjacent buildings lay in darkness. It was difficult to tell if they were houses or commercial premises. In the absence of sun terraces or balconies with windowboxes to laze on, the population had vanished like razor shells in sand. None of the scents I would expect in Rome were present. No resins, or fragrant herbs, or flower garlands, or subtle bath oils pervaded these chilly streets. They seemed to have neither public bakery ovens nor apartment griddles on the go. Peering at the roofline, all I could see were pantiles and ridge tiles. Windows were closely latched with dense wooden shutters. I glanced behind. Some distance away down the wider cart track I could see Helena's chair. Its discreetly armed bearers stood in position, motionless. Following instructions, Helena remained hidden behind drawn curtains.

'If they stuff you in the bloody well, remember – hold your breath until I come and pull you out.'

'Thanks for the advice, Falco. I never would have thought of that.'

This was a quiet city. No one else seemed to be in the vicinity. No late night cobblers or copper-beaters worked in their artisan booths. Pedestrians were missing. Where Rome would have had a cacophony of delivery carts after sunset, with their wheels trundling, their loads crashing and their drivers famously cursing, Londinium operated no curfew and lay still.

Silence. Silence and now a fine drift of miserable rain. Londinium, where Petronius and I as earnest young men had seen the worst of human grief. Once a desert of ashes and blood, now a city of small ambitions and great terror.

'Well, here we are again. Londinium. This bloody place.'

'Next time we'll know to stay away.'

'I'll just be happy if there is a next time for anything.'

'You optimist!' grinned Petronius. Then all at once some hidden device in his soul triggered him; he squared his wide shoulders, touched my elbow in an informal farewell, and set off.

He walked on light feet, constantly looking everywhere. He kept moving, but he made a gentle pace. Halfway to the bar, he crossed from left to right and paused, turning sideways to scrutinise the house walls opposite. I saw the pale gleam of his face as he glanced my way, then it changed and I knew he was staring down to the far end of the alley. I moved to the corner, intending to scan the other street side.

Something exploded from a ledge beside me. Brushing my face, I felt air, heard noise, knew abject fear. An old, squalid, horrible grey pigeon had flown up, disturbed, from a window ledge.

Petronius and I stayed motionless until our panic died.

I raised my arm. He signalled back. If they were going to rush us in the alley, it had to happen now. But nothing moved.

Petronius walked silently to right outside the bar. He paused again. He tried the door handle. It must have given. He pushed gently, so the door swung open. A dim light flowed out around him. Still nobody aimed a spear or threw a knife.

'Florius!' Petro had let out an enormous bellow. It must have been heard three streets away, but nobody dared peer out to see who was challenging the mobster. 'Florius, this is Petronius Longus. I'm coming in. I have a sword but I won't use it if you keep faith.'

Desperately nervous, I kept my eyes swiveling everywhere for trouhle. Now, I thought, now they will emerge from cover, trapping him. I waited for the thonk of an arrow or the streak of a shadow as some unseen watcher jumped. Nothing moved.

The door to the wine shop had begun to swing closed. Petronius pushed it open again with his foot. He looked back at me. He was going in. This could be the last I would ever see of him. Stuff that. Keeping close to the wall, I set off down the alley after him.

Petro had disappeared inside. Suddenly he was back again, outlined in the doorway, close enough to see me coming. 'There's no one here. Absolutely nobody. I bet Maia's never even been here. We've been set up like idiots -'

Hardly had he spoken when he knew how true that was. Like me, he must have heard that sound we knew so well from the old days: the well-oiled hiss of many sword blades, drawn from their scabbards simultaneously.

Neither of us supposed for a moment that this was a convenient rescue.