Shadows in Bronze by Lindsey Davis

thoughtfully recommended what to buy), I would never have made the attempt. In fact, I must have inadvertently used some ripe old Greek obscenity.

    The stallholder was a dwarf broad bean who had been left on life's vine until he turned leathery in the pod. He let out a yowl that attracted attention from three streets away. A tight crowd assembled, penning me against the stall. Elbowing forwards came some local layabouts whose idea of a good market day was beating up an unarmed priest. Under my tunic I had a safe-conduct signed by Vespasian, but down here they probably had not even heard yet that Nero had stabbed himself. Besides, my passport was in Latin which seemed unlikely to fill these shanty town bullies with respect.

    I could not move because of the crowd. I assumed a haughty expression and pulled my religious veiling more securely over my head. I apologized to the herbseller in my best formal Greek. He jabbered more wildly. Stumpy Crotonese joined in. This was clearly the sort of friendly southern marketplace where peasants with shiny expressions and two left ears were just looking for a chance to set upon a stranger and accuse him of stealing his own cloak.

    The rumpus was growing uglier. If I jumped over the stall they would grab me from behind, a cheap thrill I preferred to avoid. I kicked up one heel behind me to investigate the stall; it was just a trestle covered with cloth, so I dropped to the ground, gathered up my priestly garments, and scuttled under like a reclusive rat.

    I came out between two piles of conical baskets, with my nose against the stallholder's knees. He seemed deaf to reason, so I bit him on the shin. He hopped back, shrieking; I scrambled out.

    I now had one rickety table between me and a premature funeral. One glance at the multitude convinced me I really needed my little phallus amulet against the evil eye. (A gift from my sister Maia; so embarrassing I had left it at home.) The crowd swayed; the table lurched, then I crashed my hip so it toppled over towards the Crotonese. As they all jumped back I held up both hands in prayer.

    'O Hermes Trismegistos -' (I'll pause here to mention that since I had been bound to tell my mother I was leaving Rome, the only divinity who might be watching my progress was Hermes the Thrice Great in his role as the patron of travellers, who must have been having his ear bent painfully by my ma.) 'Aid me, wing-footed one!' (If things were quiet on Mount Olympus he might be pleased to have an errand here.) 'Offer the protection of your sacred caduceus to a fellow messenger?'

    I stopped. I hoped curiosity might encourage the bystanders to leave me alive. If not, it would take more than a loan of a winged sandal to hop free of this predicament.

    No sign of young Hermes and his snaky staff. But there was a puzzled lull, another surge, then out of the surge leapt a bronzed, barefooted man in a curly-brimmed hat who vaulted the trestle straight at me. I was unarmed of course; I was a priest. He was flourishing a monstrous knife.

    Yet I was safe. In a trice this apparition had his weapon at the liquorice merchant's throat. The blade was twinkling sharp - the sort sailors keep for slicing through dangerous tangles of rope on shipboard or murdering each other while they enjoy a drink ashore. He was more or less sober, but gave the impression that cutting out the lives of people who looked at him too closely was the way he relaxed.

    He bawled at the crowd, 'One step closer, and I stick the herbalist!'

    Then to me: 'Stranger - run for your life!'

XIV

    Clutching swathes of my religious get-up, I hared past the courthouse without stopping to enquire if the magistrate would hear my case. Before the third dark alley I heard my rescuer's bare feet pattering behind.

    'Thanks!' I gasped out. 'Well met. You seem a handy type!'

    'What had you done?'

    'I've no idea.'

    'Usual story!' he exclaimed.

    We took the road out of town and soon afterwards were sitting in an