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for intruders. I heard urgent footsteps, then shocked obscenities. Young Marius, the eleven-year-old, had brought Petronius Longus, some vigiles too. After an initial commotion came quieter murmurs. Petronius arrived behind me. I knew who it was. He stood in the doorway; his mouth moved as he cursed silently. He stared at me; then his gaze covered the destruction in near disbelief. He pulled Marius against him, comforting the boy. Marius gripped a splintered chair arm, like a spear to kill his enemies.
    “Maia!” Petro had seen plenty of horrors, but his voice rasped. “Maia Favonia—who did this?”
    My sister moved. She spoke, her voice hard. “I have no idea.”
    A lie. Maia knew who it was, and so did Petronius, and so did I.
    It took us time to gently persuade her to shift. By then, Petro’s men had brought transport. They realized we must get her away. So we sent Maia and all the children with a vigiles escort to my father’s house, out of town, on the Janiculan. There they would have space, peace, perhaps some safety. Well, at least Pa would give them decent beds.
    Either something else would happen, or nothing. Either this was a statement and a warning—or worse.
    Petronius and I cleared everything that night. We spent hours tearing the innards from the house, carrying out the smashed belongings and just burning them in the street. Maia had said wildly that she wanted nothing. Little could be salvaged, but we did keep a few items; I would store them, and let my sister see them later if she changed her mind. The house had been rented. I would terminate the lease. The family never needed to come back here.
    Everything material could be replaced. Maia’s spirit would revive. Restoring courage to the children might be more difficult. Bringing back peace of mind to Petronius and me would never happen.
    After we finished at the house, we plotted. We were at the vigiles’ patrol station. Neither of us wanted to start drinking in a caupona.
    “Could we have stopped this?” I wondered grimly.
    “I doubt it.”
    “So much for recriminations! Best to get to the strategy, then.”
    “There are two questions.” Petronius Longus spoke heavily, in a dull voice. He was a big, quiet man who never wasted effort. He could see straight to the heart of trouble. “One: What will he do now? Two: What shall we do to him?”
    “You can’t wipe out the Chief Spy.” I would have done that to Anacrites years ago, if it were feasible.
    “Unsafe. Yes.” Petro continued to talk and plan in a far-too-level voice. “We’ll be known to have a grudge. First suspects.”
    “There must have been local witnesses.”
    “You know the answer to that, Falco.”
    “Too scared to talk. So what? We lay a complaint against him?”
    “No proof.”
    “Visit him mob-handed?”
    “Dangerous.”
    “Suggest that he desists?”
    “He will deny responsibility.”
    “Also, he’ll know he’s had an effect.” For a moment we were silent. Then I said, “We’ll do nothing.”
    Petronius breathed slowly. He knew this was not capitulation. “No. Not yet.”
    “It may take a long time. We’ll keep her safe. Keep her out of his sight. Let him think he has won; let him forget about it.”
    “Then—”
    “Then one day there will be an opportunity.” It was a fact. I was not emotional.
    “True. There always is.” He smiled faintly. He was probably thinking the same as me.
    There had been a man in Britain, during the Rebellion, who betrayed the Second Augusta, our legion. What happened to that man afterwards was subject to a communal pact of silence. He died. Everyone knows that. The record says he fell on his own sword, as an officer does. Perhaps he did.
    I rose to leave. I held out my hand. Petronius grasped it without speaking.
    First thing next day, Helena went over to my father’s house to find out what she could do. Pa was hovering at home; he kept the children out of the way while Helena comforted my sister. Maia was still in